The Dead Ex

by Jane Corry

  She shook her head. ‘I can only help if you are totally honest with me. Tell me. I want to hear it from your own mouth. You weren’t just a prison officer, were you?’

  ‘All right.’ I want to curl up with embarrassment. How low can you fall?

  ‘I used to be,’ I say slowly, ‘a prison governor.’

  26

  Helen

  27 November 2017

  It’s my first day in the office. The place is massive; big and white and modern. There are even security guards on the door. I’m both terrified and excited! According to my research, Tanya started off in a junior role just like this.

  Mind you, I have an intuitive feeling that Perdita, David’s glossy-lipped assistant, might be after her position. She flushes every time someone mentions his name. Like now.

  ‘You mustn’t, under any circumstances, bother Mr Goudman. Your job is to follow me around and take photographs – providing the subject matter is not confidential. Is that quite clear, Helen?’

  She emphasizes my name as though I’m not paying attention. But I am. Very much. It has taken me a long time to get in here, and I intend to get as much as possible out of it. Including the boss himself. Posh Perdita might not know it, but she has a rival.

  We are walking down a wide corridor with bare walls on either side. No chance of that in my Deptford council block. Any space – no matter how small – is immediately taken up with brightly coloured graffiti.

  ‘Frankly,’ murmurs Perdita, tossing her flame-red hair, ‘I don’t know why you’re here at all. Still, David does pride himself on his community work.’

  The last sentence carries an ironic tone. Clearly my new boss hasn’t told her about being ‘shamed’ into giving me a break thanks to the journalist.

  ‘When am I having my meeting with Mr Goudman?’ I ask as we turn another corner.

  I receive a cool look. ‘Ah, that. I’m afraid he won’t be able to see you personally after all. He’s busy all week.’

  ‘But he promised to give me some one-to-one time for career advice! And besides, the Standard is doing a piece on us.’

  She consults her iPad. ‘The journalist is coming in on Friday to interview you. Mr Goudman will email him a quote.’ She opens a door. ‘This is the design department. You can take some pictures here, if you like.’

  I am still reeling from this bad news. Somehow I have to engineer a face-to-face with the man I’ve been pursuing for so long. He’s got to appear sometime. But meanwhile, I must pretend I’m only here for the job.

  A woman is sketching on the desk. It looks like the design for a house.

  ‘This is Helen,’ says Perdita with another hair toss. ‘She’s a work-experience photographic student.’

  She speaks in a heavily sarcastic tone, as though I have made it up.

  ‘Mind if I photograph you?’ I ask nervously.

  ‘Sure. Go ahead.’

  I concentrate on her right hand and the way it cradles the pencil. ‘You have an eye.’ That’s what my tutor told me.

  ‘What will you do with your pictures?’ asks the woman.

  ‘They’re going in my portfolio. But they could hang on the walls in the corridors here.’

  There’s an ‘in your dreams’ sound from the PA. ‘That’s news to me.’

  It will be news for David too. I was going to suggest it to him, hoping it will show initiative. But if he’s too busy to see me, how is that going to happen?

  By my third day, I’m getting panicky. There’s still no sign of David. I don’t even know where his office is. I am running out of time. And to make it worse, Perdita is watching me like a hawk. Either she doesn’t trust me or she has something to hide. I’ve expressed an interest in photographing the company’s ‘healthy snack bar’ that David has recently installed, and we are on our way there when Perdita’s phone sings out. She speaks sharply into it and then rings off, clearly annoyed. ‘I’ve got to sort something out. Wait a sec, can you?’

  She indicates a room at the side. It’s very white with more bare walls. Minimalist. Water cooler in the corner. I sit for a while and examine the shots I’ve taken, deleting the ones that don’t work and editing the ones that do. Then I get itchy feet. I stand up. Walk around. Look out of the window. Take some pictures of the street outside and a couple walking arm in arm. Wander down the corridor.

  I can always pretend I was looking for the Ladies.

  That’s when I see it. A door. With DAVID GOUDMAN written on it. My skin breaks out into excited goosebumps.

  There are voices inside.

  ‘You’re wrong. I’ve told you.’

  It’s that same deep voice I’d heard at the launch.

  ‘Don’t play games with me, David. You promised we’d have tonight together.’ That was definitely Perdita!

  There’s a sigh. ‘I was looking forward to it too. But Tanya wants us to go out to dinner with some of her friends now.’

  ‘Why can’t you just make an excuse?’

  ‘Because my wife knows all the tricks, and it won’t help us in the long run. Look, darling, if I was free, I’d be with you in a shot. You know that. We’ve got to be patient.’

  ‘What do you think I’ve been doing? It’s nearly a year now.’

  ‘Sweetheart, some things are worth waiting for. Don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think any more, David. And that’s the truth.’

  ‘Then come here and I’ll show you.’

  There’s silence for a minute. Then a sigh. ‘Gorgeous as you are, I’ve got to get back to work. Did you get me out of seeing the work-experience girl?’

  ‘I told her you were busy.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘So when am I going to see you next?’

  ‘As soon as I can, sweetheart. Just leave it with me. Don’t look like that. I’ll do my best. Promise.’

  ‘But …’

  One of the secretaries walks round the corner at that moment with a tall blonde woman with long hair and bronze skin, suggesting frequent visits to the tanning salon. ‘I really don’t need you to accompany me,’ the woman is saying crossly. ‘I’m perfectly capable of finding my husband’s own office. I used to work here, you know.’

  Tanya! Quickly, I make out that I am checking something on my phone and then head back to the water cooler.

  It takes a while for Perdita to return, and when she does, she doesn’t seem so haughty any more. Her eyes are red. Her pale freckled skin is blotchy.

  ‘You know what?’ she sniffs. ‘I’m going to make sure you get your slot with Mr Goudman. How about tomorrow at 5.30 p.m.?’

  27

  Vicki

  My solicitor is sitting back arms folded. ‘If we’re going to work together, Vicki, I need total honesty. No holding things back. Do you understand?

  ‘Sorry.’ The tablets are beginning to kick in. I’m feeling sleepy. It’s also been a long day.

  ‘You need to be careful. Not many former prison governors are accused of murder. They’re going to charge you. The likelihood is that you’ll go to a remand prison until the trial for your own safety.’

  I shiver, remembering the claustrophobia. The constant noise, which never quite leaves you. The shouting. The loudspeaker announcements. The alarm bell. Slamming doors. The click of electronic locks.

  In those days, I was in charge.

  Now I’ll be on the other side of the bars.

  ‘The women will tear me to bits,’ I whisper. ‘You’ve got to help me.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  Then she goes, leaving me alone with my memories.

  ‘You mean to tell me that you’ve got a degree only for you to end up behind bars, looking after the likes of Billy Jones?’ my dad had said all those years ago when I told him what I wanted to do after uni.

  Billy had been three years older than me at school and had got life for knifing an innocent father of four when he was high on heroin.

  ‘It’s a good career, Dad. They run this sp
ecial graduate training programme. I’m not going to be a prison officer all my life. It’s where you start. Then you work your way up.’

  ‘To what? The bleeding prison governor?’

  He laughed hoarsely at his own joke and then took another swig from his third bottle of stout that evening. ‘I was so proud of you, lass. A first in History. I’ve told the whole bleeding street. Now what am I going to say?’

  This wasn’t fair. ‘You’re the one who’s always telling me to stick up for myself. To not be scared of standing out in a crowd.’

  Dad slammed the bottle down on the table so the foam ran over his thick, rough hands. ‘You’re not old enough to remember the strikes, lass. The police were bastards. And so were the screws to the poor sods who got put away. Memories run deep. Including mine. I can’t stand by and see you becoming one of them. You’ll get lynched by folk round here, and so will I.’

  After Dad’s outburst, I’d nearly decided not to do it. But a week later I’d found myself in the interview. For some reason, I’d assumed the ‘assessment’ would take place in a prison. In fact it was held in a large government building in central London. Be prepared to engage in role play and to complete written papers in English and maths, the letter had warned.

  ‘Heard they bring in special actors,’ said one of the other interviewees, as we sat in the corridor waiting our turn. ‘I know someone who applied last year, and they freaked out when an actor pretended to assault him.’

  ‘At my old school,’ I couldn’t resist saying, ‘you had to learn to fight back.’

  They all stared at me.

  ‘It’s the written bit I’m dreading,’ said someone else. ‘I haven’t done maths since GCSE.’

  ‘You don’t even get to work as a prison officer to begin with. There’s six months’ training first. You have to …’

  ‘Vicki Smith.’

  I leapt up as my name was called out by a woman with a clipboard and followed her into a room. There were three men on one side of the table. The woman joined them.

  Which one was the actor? Or did that come later in the day? And what about the written test?

  One of the men leaned forward. ‘Tell us about yourself, Vicki.’

  ‘What would you like to know?’ I asked hesitantly.

  ‘What kind of person are you? How would you describe your personality?’

  If in doubt, be honest. That’s what Dad always said.

  ‘Well, I’m not stupid.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I got a first in History.’

  ‘Do you think that’s a measure of intelligence?’

  ‘In some ways.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I want to help others.’

  Was it her imagination, or was there a brief roll of the eyes there?

  ‘I’ve been helping an immigrant woman to learn English and … and I went with her to a prison when her nephew was arrested.’

  The woman on the panel looked interested. ‘Why?’

  ‘She needed someone.’

  ‘Did you help her?’

  I thought of poor Mrs Prasad, who was inconsolable after the trial. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then you didn’t do much good, did you?’

  ‘Maybe not. But it was better than not trying at all.’

  ‘What’s your biggest achievement, Vicki?’ This was the first man again. ‘Apart, of course, from your first-class degree?’

  The last three words were uttered with sarcastic emphasis.

  ‘Getting Billy Jones arrested.’

  Why the heck had I said that?

  ‘Who was Billy Jones?’ asked the woman.

  ‘He was a boy at school who got into drugs and killed a man. The police issued a photofit. No one back home would shop him. So I did, providing they didn’t reveal me as the source.’

  ‘That must have taken some courage,’ said one of the men.

  ‘I didn’t tell anyone.’ I was feeling sick now. ‘Where I come from, people stick together. My father, like everyone else, knew he was bad news. But they also thought it would bring shame on the town if they identified him.’

  ‘So why did you?’

  ‘Because it was the right thing to do.’

  ‘Weren’t you scared of being found out?’

  ‘Of course! If the rest of the gang knew, they’d have killed me. But it was better than staying quiet and feeling bad about it for the rest of my life. That man who died had a wife and four kids.’

  The first man was sitting back in his chair and looking at her.

  ‘You’re an attractive woman. How do you think that would go down in a male jail?’

  I felt a wave of irritation. ‘My dad’s a union man. My mum died when I was young and I’ve learned to stand up for myself. And by the way, I don’t think you should ask questions like that in this day and age. It’s sexist.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The woman was writing furiously on the pad in front of her. ‘I think we’ve got all we need now.’

  Six weeks later, after working a stint at McDonald’s to pay the bedsit rent, I came back to an official envelope.

  I’d been accepted into the prison service.

  It’s the day of my ‘directions hearing’.

  I’d had my share of these as a young prison officer when I’d accompanied defendants to court. Each time I’d been struck by how quick they were. The lawyers outline the case and the judge makes a decision to grant or deny bail, almost as though the choice were between a cheese and pickle or ham and mustard sandwich.

  This judge is a woman. Is she going to incarcerate me in a jail or allow me to go home under certain conditions? She observes me with interest as I give my ‘not guilty’ plea.

  Oh God. What have I done? Desperately, I try to concentrate on the barrister that Penny has chosen to represent me in court – so confident with her navy suit and well-cut hair. ‘The defendant used to be a prison governor.’

  The judge eyes me with a new interest.

  ‘Is that so?’

  I feel myself flushing with shame. I’ve already sensed an undercurrent of glee amongst the officers who escorted me here that ‘one of the top brass’ is ‘for it’. There’s a great deal of hidden jealousy in my old profession, especially when it comes to promotion.

  ‘If Mrs Goudman goes to prison,’ continues my barrister, ‘it is possible that her life might be endangered because of her previous position. It’s even feasible that she might encounter criminals whom she once supervised.’

  The judge does not seem moved by this. ‘But if she is convicted, this will happen anyway.’

  It is all too true. I can see it now. This is an incestuous world. Prisoners are frequently locked up, released and then locked up again. Staff move around. People you knew ten years ago turn up again. There really is no escape – for either employees or the convicted. And that’s why it doesn’t do to hold grudges. Someone, somewhere will track you down.

  ‘My client is also epileptic, which can be triggered by stress. She would be safer at home.’

  I feel myself redden as the judge’s eyes take on a new interest.

  ‘Is that the case? Yet surely she is on medication.’

  ‘She is but it doesn’t always control her condition.’

  No one mentions that I sometimes don’t take the stuff.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘She can have seizures at any time. Her memory has also been affected and she sometimes has no recollection of certain events.’

  The judge frowns. ‘Then I rule that bail is denied. The defendant would be better off in prison, where her medical state can be constantly monitored.’

  My worst fears have been realized. I am being thrown to the dogs! Many defendants are terrified because they don’t know what lies ahead. But I know all too well.

  I will be eaten alive in prison. Inmates love it when another has a vulnerability such as mine. I once had a man with a terrible stutter who was constantly bullied. Jail can bring
out the basest of natures: partly because the bullies are scared too. So they hide their fear by tormenting others. A former prison guv is a top prize. They will make mincemeat of me.

  I also know the score from a practical point of view. In a minute I’ll be escorted down to the cell below the courtroom, where I’ll be allowed a few more words with my solicitor, and then into the van. Women’s prisons are divided into open, restricted and closed. I will be sent to one of the last two, where security is tight. Then I will wait there until I am tried in court. The judge didn’t set a specific date but I know from experience that it will be at least three months, although sometimes someone decides there’s a backlog and bumps things along. The barrister, meanwhile, will be preparing my case. I will be allowed legal visits once the paperwork is sorted.

  Yet when I get to the court cell, my solicitor tells me that a woman wants to see me.

  I’m not expecting this, though it’s true that a defendant who is not granted bail or who has just been convicted is often allowed to see a close relative before being taken away.

  But I don’t have anyone. Not any more.

  ‘Who?’ I ask.

  ‘Nicole Goudman.’

  David’s daughter?

  ‘OK.’

  Penny hesitates. ‘You’re sure?’

  I nod.

  I hear the voice before she comes into sight. Shrill. Well-educated. Spoilt. Those had been my first impressions when David had introduced us. Now it’s hysterical. I brace myself.

  ‘What have you done to my father, you cold-hearted bitch?’

  Once more I am struck by the similarity between her and David. The same dark hair. The same brown eyes. Those high cheekbones. That charm (when it’s there) and that breathless arrogance (when it’s not). No guessing which mode she is in at the moment.

  ‘You’ve killed him. Just like you killed my stepmother.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I haven’t. I didn’t.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ Tears are streaming down her face. ‘You were obsessed with him. Always ringing him. Following him. Dad told me. Said you were a nutter. I told the police you were dangerous all along. WHERE HAVE YOU PUT HIM?’

  She is lunging in my direction now, lashing out. For a minute, I let her. After all, look what happened when I defended myself against Tanya’s outburst. But then my survival instinct kicks in. I go for her right arm and twist it back so she can’t get me.