Open Your Eyes

by Paula Daly

  Most didn’t really know why they’d signed up in the first place. One admitted thinking that creative writing was something akin to graphic design. He thought he’d be working on different types of lettering and was hoping to relive some of the vandalism days of his youth. Another thought it would come in useful when filling out forms – something he’d always struggled with, as he’d left formal education at the age of thirteen.

  This was a running theme: their disconnection with the education system. Their experience of finding learning difficult, boring, humiliating. Education had always been something to rail against, and you had to wonder how much that had affected their ability to cope with the normal day-to-day challenges of adult life.

  I found adult life hard. And I was a person who’d had every privilege. The average person found life hard: working at a job they didn’t like, bringing children up responsibly, keeping an eye on their weight, their alcohol consumption, avoiding getting into debt, managing their relationships, caring for elderly parents, keeping the house maintained. Most people needed a little something just to get them through the day. Leon and I relied on alcohol. Frankie and Oona on cocaine, apparently. Erica pushed away her troubles with frequent trips to Waterfields bakers in Huyton to buy cream doughnuts and vanilla slices. My mother swallowed opiates.

  As I walked around the room, it wasn’t so difficult to see how, without the best of starts, one could end up here without very much effort at all. When you listened to their stories it was clear that being born into poverty meant you couldn’t make a mistake. Make one and there was no back-up, no one to help you out. Life could slide away from you astonishingly fast and you could end up here.

  No one, it turned out, wanted to write about their crimes. ‘This is where we come to forget our crimes! This is one of the only places we don’t have to relive them,’ they chorused.

  I was quietly relieved.

  Moving about and observing what the men were working on, I was struck by how autobiographical it was: letters written to parents, expressing their sorrow at the way they’d let them down. Parents who were long since dead. There were stories from their youth, moments that changed the course of their lives forever. There was a raw intensity to the work that you just didn’t see in the usual creative writing class. Truths that professional writers would have sold their own mothers to have come up with.

  Reading their work was both thrilling and heartbreaking. I honestly felt that I had little to offer in the way of teaching – aside from some guidance in spelling and grammar. And I was just about to announce to the class as much, tell them how impressed I was with what I was reading, when the man seated at my desk beckoned me over. The man who’d joined the class late.

  Leaning over his left shoulder, my eyes came to rest on the letter he was composing for his son’s birthday.

  On the page he’d written one sentence:

  ‘Are you Leon Campbell’s wife?’

  20

  My first reaction was to smile, nod, say the thing I usually said when asked that same question: That’s right. Do you read Leon’s books? Are you a fan of crime fiction?

  But as I examined the man’s face it was instantly clear that we were not about to chat about Leon’s tough-guy cop DS Clement. Or how, rightly or wrongly, the city of Liverpool was portrayed in the books. Or where Leon got his ideas from. Or if there was a TV drama in the pipeline. And who would play Clement? Idris Elba? Wouldn’t that be nice.

  ‘Yes, Leon is my husband,’ I told him.

  A cold draught hit the skin of my arms and turned them to gooseflesh.

  ‘What did you say your son’s name was again?’ I said. ‘Why don’t you write that down and we’ll get started on the letter? Have you thought about what you want to say?’

  ‘Le-on … Camp-bell,’ he said, enunciating each syllable.

  His voice was like thick treacle and my stomach folded in on itself in response. I watched him carefully.

  His jaw had begun to tighten. The small group of muscles in his cheek contracting, standing proud of the flesh.

  He kept his eyes front.

  Then he said, ‘Leon Campbell,’ again.

  I waited for him to elaborate. It was starting to dawn that it was no fluke this person had opted to join the class midway through the term. And that the earlier argument over seating was perhaps not just childish behaviour. The other prisoners didn’t want to be near him. They didn’t trust him. He was trouble.

  ‘Do you know Leon?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ He turned his Liverpool cap the other way round, so he was wearing it back to front.

  I fingered the alarm in my pocket. Took a small step back. ‘Do you want help with this letter for your son?’ I asked carefully.

  He laughed. ‘There is no son.’

  ‘Then you’re scaring me.’

  ‘No need to be scared of me, love.’

  The ‘love’ was uttered sarcastically and nasty-sounding. The way middle-aged women of Liverpool would do when arguing: ‘Don’t be coming round this way again, love.’ ‘P’raps you’ll keep better hold of your husband next time … love.’

  ‘What do you want?’ I whispered.

  He turned his head. He looked at me for a long time. ‘Who do you think you are?’ he said. He held my gaze. ‘You’ve a couple o’ kids yourself, haven’t you?’

  I swallowed. My breath quickened.

  And when I didn’t reply he got up. He turned around slowly, straddling his seat, facing me. Then he sat down again, placing his elbows on the back of the chair. ‘Two little ’uns,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about that.’ There was a quiver in my voice and he noticed it.

  Smiling, he said, ‘I told you there’s no need to be frightened of me, love.’ Then he addressed the entire room. ‘I’m just telling Miss here that there’s no need to be scared of me. Isn’t that right, fellas?’

  No one answered.

  In fact, as I glanced to my left, it was as if the others were going to great pains to maintain eye contact with the desks in front of them. As if they couldn’t look anywhere else but there.

  ‘It’s the quiet ones you want to watch out for,’ he added, laughing a little. ‘Still waters and all that … Take Roger over there. Never speaks. Never makes a sound. Do you, Roger?’

  The older prisoner lifted his head. He was writing about his childhood in Maghull. His father worked at Aintree, the racecourse. He was a groundsman of some sort, and Roger would accompany him to the course on the day of the National each year, spellbound by the spectacle.

  Roger averted his eyes quickly. He did not want to be involved.

  ‘Do you want to know what Roger did?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘You won’t like it.’

  I started edging away. I maintained eye contact. I did not want to turn my back.

  ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Where d’you think you’re going?’

  ‘I have other students,’ I replied, shakily. ‘There are others here who require my help … not just you.’

  In a silly, sing-song, lady’s voice, he mirrored, ‘Others here who require my help. Others here who require my help … not just you.

  ‘Don’t waste your breath,’ he said. ‘That’d be my advice … You’re not going to get this lot to learn anything. They’re all soft in the head.’ He tapped his index finger to his temple by way of illustration.

  He was enjoying himself immensely.

  He seemed to be gaining sustenance directly from my fear. He was one of those who thrived on chaos, on causing disruption. The most dangerous type of prisoner. I should have sent him out at the start. I should have read the cues from the others and called the prison officer back and asked that he be removed.

  ‘You look frightened, miss. Are you frightened now?’

  ‘I already told you I was.’

  ‘Aw, you don’t have to be. What can I do to you? One press of that alarm in your pocket and the room’ll be runni
ng with people. I couldn’t get to you even if I wanted. And I don’t. I’m a nice guy. We’re all nice guys here. Didn’t they tell you that?’

  ‘What do you want?’ I whispered.

  Sweat had begun to bead on my skin. I couldn’t tell if he was playing me for the fun of it or if he had a real agenda. Was I the fly, and he was pulling off my wings, my legs, one by one?

  We were around three feet away from one another and I took another step to increase the distance.

  ‘Careful walking backwards there, miss. You never know what’s behind you in a place like this. Have to have eyes in the back of your head.’

  I wished he’d stop.

  I’d been told to use the alarm in an emergency. I’d asked if the alarm was silent and the prison officer had looked perplexed.

  ‘What use would that be?’ he’d said, and it was then I’d realized that what I’d thought was a high-tech piece of kit, sending silent radio signals to officers in a control room somewhere, was nothing more than a high-volume rape alarm, designed to attract the attentions of a concerned passer-by.

  ‘We’ve never had any trouble with civilians,’ the prison officer had told me.

  The man in front of me looked at his hands now and began drumming his fingers on the back of the chair, tapping out a rhythm.

  Then he stopped and raised his head. ‘Fuck off,’ he whispered. ‘Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off.’ Over and over.

  ‘Leave her alone, Toonen,’ someone said.

  So that was his name. Toonen. Did I recognize it? Had Leon mentioned it?

  Almost lazily, Toonen looked over to his right. ‘Or what?’ The other voice didn’t answer, and I didn’t dare take my eyes off Toonen. ‘I’m not doing nothin’,’ he said. ‘She knows that. Don’t you, miss?’

  I nodded vigorously.

  If I pressed the alarm how long would it take for help to get here? Five seconds? Thirty seconds? Three minutes?

  My mind volleyed through what he could do to me in three minutes. I needed to get nearer to the door.

  ‘Don’t you move,’ he mouthed silently.

  I shook my head to say I wasn’t planning to.

  ‘You can go soon,’ he said.

  Then he started drumming his fingers again. ‘How’s Leon doing now?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘Really? ’Cause I heard he was not in good shape. Heard he lost his mind. That he’s some kind of vegetable. That’s what people are sayin’.’

  ‘He’s doing OK.’

  ‘Can he still get it up?’

  I didn’t answer.

  He rose from his chair. ‘Aw, come on, miss, don’t be shy with me.’

  I took another step back.

  He closed the gap between us. He said, ‘Can he still make you squeal?’

  I pressed the alarm in my pocket.

  I pressed it again.

  And again.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Toonen asked. ‘You seem a bit panicked.’

  By now I had my back against the door and he was almost upon me.

  I pressed it again. Nothing.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me.’

  He moved in. His face was inches from mine. ‘I have a message for you.’ His breath was inside my nose, inside my mouth. It was sour and foul. ‘You make sure you listen to what I have to say.’

  He paused.

  Now we were forehead to forehead.

  With one hand he reached up around my throat and began to apply pressure. With the other, he stroked the outer side of my right breast. Lightly, carefully, as though it was his intent to try to turn me on.

  No one in the room moved. They were aware what was happening but not one person moved.

  He leaned in to my left ear. ‘You stay away from playing Miss Marple, Jane.’

  I tried to tell him I didn’t know what he meant but he squeezed my throat harder. It started to burn.

  ‘You stop all this nonsense. No more trying to find out who hurt Leon.’

  He squeezed my throat harder still until I gagged. Then he began clawing at my breast. I was paralysed to get away.

  ‘The people who hurt your husband really don’t want to hurt you too. Or those little kids … Now, nod your head for me, sweetheart, tell me you understand. Tell me you’ll stay out of this.’

  I tried to nod.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘That’s right. There’s a good girl.’

  21

  I bolted out of there. I could still feel his hand around my neck, his breath inside my mouth.

  I was gagging and retching as I ran. I gulped for air. My breathing had stalled. No oxygen reached my brain and I felt my legs would dissolve beneath me. I could go no further. I was bent at the waist, heaving, wheezing, my lungs begging, when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  Panic coursed through me.

  ‘Easy,’ said the voice.

  I looked up.

  A prison officer. He told me to calm down. His manner was firm. ‘You need to calm down or you won’t breathe.’

  I tried. But it was as if Toonen had compressed my larynx to the point that it wouldn’t open. Fleetingly, I wondered if he’d snapped my hyoid – the small bone shattered in strangulation victims.

  I put my fingers to it. The skin was hot to the touch.

  ‘Breathe,’ he said. ‘Can you stand?’

  I tried to straighten. He put his arm around my shoulder and held me up. I still hadn’t seen his face clearly; my vision was blurred.

  ‘I’m going to take you into that room,’ he said, pointing. There was a door, a few feet away on the right. ‘You’ll be safe there. D’you think you can walk?’

  I nodded.

  Slowly, slowly, he guided me and, once inside, he asked me if I was OK. He was a bearded, blond, great big bear of a man with flushed cheeks. A Viking. I tried to speak. I was still breathing hard.

  ‘Apart from your neck, are you injured?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’ My voice came out cracked and strangled-sounding.

  The room was an office-type space. Except that the desks were without computers. It must have been some sort of break room. There was a kettle in one corner and a sink unit. A row of mugs upside down on the drainer.

  ‘Sit down for a minute.’

  ‘My bag’s still in there.’

  He nodded grimly.

  Moments later, he returned with the bag and handed it to me. I opened it and the contents appeared untouched.

  ‘It was Toonen,’ I told him. ‘He forced me up against the door.’

  ‘Ryan Toonen. Troublemaker,’ he said.

  ‘He knew things about my husband. He knew things about me … he threatened me.’

  The prison officer made a cup of sugary tea that turned my stomach, but he insisted I drink it; then he told me I’d need to make a statement. ‘You’ll have to do so before you’ll be granted permission to leave,’ he explained. He was apologetic. Told me he was very sorry this had happened, but that it was unusual. In fact, he said, he’d never known this to happen to a civilian, never mind a woman, in the whole time he’d been at Walton.

  He escorted me to another wing where I gave an account to a jaded female officer who documented the incident in full. She was probably quite a looker two marriages ago, and when I told her I was worried there would be repercussions from people Ryan Toonen knew on the outside, she gave a shrug and said, ‘Toonen’s a lot of hot air.’

  ‘But he knew my husband,’ I argued. ‘He knew me.’

  ‘So talk to the police,’ she said tonelessly before asking me to sign and date the statement and telling me I could go.

  Were they watching the house? The people who attacked Leon? Were they watching me? The kids?

  Did Leon owe them money? Would they keep coming until they got what they needed?

  I felt sick at the thought.

  I didn’t remember driving home.

  Didn’t remember making my way across the city, stopping at red lights, changing lanes. I wasn’t awar
e of where I was going until I found myself signalling to turn into my street.

  I pulled up to the kerb. Lawrence, Rose and Glyn Williams were in their front garden. They were taking down the hanging baskets from either side of the front door. Glyn was up a ladder and, on seeing my car, he smiled my way. He went to raise his hand, but then he dropped it again suddenly when Lawrence appeared to castigate him.

  I turned away. And it was only then that I realized I’d not switched my mobile back from silent.

  I reached into my bag and looked at the screen and my heart stopped.

  Twenty-six missed calls.

  Twenty-six missed calls from Frankie Ridonikis.

  22

  I found Frankie in the lounge nursing a glass of Scotch. Christ knew where he’d found it because I didn’t know we had any. It wasn’t something either Leon or I drank, so it must have been at the back of the cupboard, along with the half-bottle of Advocaat that came out at Christmas.

  Frankie was ashen. ‘I’m so sorry, Jane.’

  He stared straight ahead as he continued to sip his Scotch as though he was too rattled to do a lot else.

  I went into the kitchen and poured myself a finger of Scotch. Downed it. And placed my hands flat on the counter top while I tried to get a handle on my breathing. My throat still throbbed from where Ryan Toonen had held me fast. I looked at the bottle of Scotch, contemplated having another, and instead went back to the lounge. I needed to collect the kids from school and nursery shortly.

  ‘There was a scuffle,’ Frankie admitted.

  ‘What do you mean, scuffle?’ Frankie Ridonikis was not a big man. Nor was he a fighter. Though he was wiry, and sometimes wiry people can surprise you with their strength. From the look of Frankie, though, I’d say he must have come off worst; he didn’t appear beaten up but, rather, roughed up. As if Leon had zipped Frankie inside his gym bag and swung him around his head a few times – the way psychopathic adolescents liked to do with cats.