The Dead Ex

by Jane Corry

  ‘Help!’

  Officers are flying at me from all directions. My own arms are now behind my back. I am handcuffed. Then I am led away, with Nicole still screaming, to a courthouse cell. A stark concrete floor. Stained mattress. No window.

  ‘The prison van will be here shortly,’ says one of the officers sharply. ‘So don’t get too comfy.’

  I squat in the corner. Somehow I’ve got to survive.

  I remember those early days of my training. When they taught us exactly how to do that. Once more my mind goes back.

  Attacks on staff were ‘not unknown’, apparently. It was why the self-defence course had been included in our training.

  ‘Nice work, Smith,’ one of the officers had said when I’d twisted a colleague’s arm behind his back. I was surprised to find how good that felt – even though my ‘victim’ was yelling in agony. At least it meant I could defend myself.

  Then there was the survival week on Dartmoor, to show ‘your mettle’, as one officer had put it. We’d been sent out there with basic equipment (torch, tent and thermals) to see how we got on. I was selected as the leader of the group: encouraging everyone on, even when we walked for two whole days without finding the next spot on our map. Rations were running low, and the rain was teeming down. I found us shelter near Haytor. When we finally reached our destination, one of the other trainees threw in the towel and said he’d had enough. I didn’t admit that part of me felt the same.

  We were also taught how to put on handcuffs and deal with a hostage situation. (Stay calm. Reason with your captor. Don’t do anything which might endanger your safety.) Another crucial part of the training was to ‘put yourself in the minds of your prisoners’. So I spent a night in a cell on a hard narrow bed with a pot underneath.

  By the end, only twelve of us were left out of a group of fifty. I felt a sense of exhilaration which surpassed my graduation. But if I expected congratulations from Dad, I was mistaken.

  ‘Can’t believe you’re still going ahead with this,’ he said gruffly on the phone. ‘Thought you’d have seen sense by now. And how are you going to find a decent man to marry in one of those places?’

  I decided not to repeat the warning we’d already been given. ‘The divorce rate amongst staff is high due to stress and the unsociable hours,’ one of the instructors had said.

  So what? Marriage seemed far too big a commitment to think about. The right man would come along at some point. What I wanted now was an adventure.

  ‘Where are you going to live, any road?’ Dad had continued. ‘Some kind of Nissen hut?’

  ‘There’s a modern staff accommodation block in the prison grounds,’ I’d reassured him. ‘I’ll be fine. I promise.’

  ‘Reckon you’ll rue the day you stepped foot in that place,’ he snorted. ‘Mark my words.’

  The only saving grace is that Dad isn’t here to see he was right.

  28

  Helen

  30 November 2017

  ‘Lift your chin to the right more,’ I instruct. ‘No. Not so much. That’s better. And your eyes need to be looking up more.’

  Is this really David Goudman I’m talking to? Speaking to him as if he’s my equal instead of my boss? When Posh Perdita said she’d get me a slot, I didn’t actually believe her. But she was as good as her word. And here we are. In his office. Just David and me.

  ‘Think of something nice,’ I urge. ‘What do you like to do when you’re not working?’

  He shoots me one of his looks. I’ve already learned that there are several. This one is mixed. It tells me that he is interested, which is encouraging. Not that I’m flattering myself. I’ve already heard the odd office remark which indicates that David Goudman ‘can’t keep his hands off anything with breasts’. But the same look also tells me to keep the hell out of his space. This is a man of contradictions. He would eat me up if he knew why I was really here. Or he might praise me for my initiative.

  ‘Very curious, aren’t you?’

  I shrug. ‘It’s part of a photographer’s job to know the subject.’

  My eyes deliberately turn to a picture on his desk. It shows a pretty young woman with long dark hair, leaning confidently against a doorway, oozing with confidence.

  ‘Is that your wife?’ I ask, even though I know it’s not.

  ‘That’s a bit of a presumption.’ His face returns to me. Sharp and keen. ‘Actually, that’s my daughter.’

  I hold my breath. ‘By your previous wife?’

  Instantly I know I’ve gone too far. His mouth tightens. Eyes harden. ‘Thought you were a photographer. Not a journalist.’

  ‘I am,’ I say quickly. ‘But our tutor says that we need to know about our subjects in order to capture their souls.’

  He puts his head to one side as if considering this. ‘What an intriguing concept.’

  I click. This is exactly the expression I’ve been looking for.

  ‘Let me see that,’ he demands.

  ‘My tutor says it’s not always a good idea –’

  ‘To hell with your tutor.’

  He holds out his hand for my camera. I have a distinct feeling that if I don’t give it to him, he will snatch it from me.

  ‘You need to press this button,’ I explain. ‘Then you can go through the frames.’

  We are standing so close that I can smell him. It’s a combination of lemon and something stronger. An intriguing mixture, rather like the tweed jacket and the jeans he’s wearing along with the formal shiny brogues.

  His hands brush mine. It feels deliberate on his part.

  ‘You’re good for someone so young,’ he says slowly. ‘We might actually consider using these for our next brochure.’

  ‘You’d be welcome to buy them from me. They’d look good on your blank office walls.’

  He shoots me another look. I am about to apologize and say that of course I will allow him to use them free of charge. But he gets in first.

  ‘Ambitious, aren’t you?’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  Something happens then. It’s hard to describe. But there is a definite reaction there. Nothing visible. Nothing audible. The kind that only someone like me, who has had to learn to read others, might notice.

  ‘Actually,’ he says, rubbing his chin. It’s as if he has an itch and is massaging it into submission. ‘I’d like to know more about you, Helen. May I take you out for dinner tonight?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  But inside I am jumping up and down with excitement. Isn’t this just what I wanted?

  ‘Is that it?’ He puts his head to one side, as if flirting. ‘Aren’t you even going to give me an excuse, like a previous engagement or washing your hair?’

  ‘No.’ I pick up my camera.

  ‘You don’t care for my company.’

  ‘That’s not true either.’ I glance at the picture of the daughter. ‘I … it just doesn’t feel very professional.’

  ‘Then take it as part of your induction, if you like. I’ll meet you here in the foyer at, say, seven. OK?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  I am twenty minutes late on purpose. Treat them mean. Keep them keen. It’s a piece of advice I was given years ago.

  And it’s worth it. David looks relieved to see me even though there is a touch of annoyance there too.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say smoothly. ‘I decided I’d go home to change.’

  David takes in my short black skirt and boxy denim jacket. I sense his approval.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Deptford.’

  He does one of those sideways nods as if recognizing it’s what politicians might call ‘an area of diversification’ but doesn’t say anything.

  ‘The car’s outside,’ he says, gently touching my elbow. Dirty old man. Doesn’t he care I am at least twenty-five years younger?

  I’d expected a chauffeur but instead, he leads me to a two-seater red sports car parked round the corner. ‘I’ve never been in one of these b
efore,’ I say. ‘Wow, the seats are low.’

  He seems to find this funny. ‘Just what I thought when I bought my first.’

  This man must be loaded. But it’s not his money I’m after. He drives carefully, constantly checking his rear-view mirror, almost as if he’s expecting someone to be following him. I think of the security guards back at the office. Is this man scared of something?

  I try to make conversation but he cuts me short. ‘I like to concentrate on the road.’

  We pass Pimlico Tube station and then the Tate Britain. The river runs alongside us. It looks prettier in the dark, lit up like this. I usually walk in London or take buses but David drives through each street with a sureness that can only come from experience. This man knows what he is doing. That’s reassuring in one way but scary in another. We pull up on a corner. A man in uniform is waiting for us. David opens the passenger door for me (how gallant!) and then tosses him the car keys.

  He touches my arm briefly, indicating a red brick house that, as we get closer, turns out to be a restaurant even though it doesn’t have any shiny signs outside. ‘Do you like steak?’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t eat meat, although I’m happy with fish.’

  ‘That’s OK. This place has a comprehensive gourmet menu. I used to take my …’

  Then he stops. I have the distinct feeling he was going to say ‘wife’. But the sentence lies unfinished in the air between us, and my intuition tells me to leave it there.

  Slowly, slowly, I warn myself as we go inside and someone takes my coat. I’ve waited a long time for this. I can’t afford any false moves.

  29

  Vicki

  4 April 2018

  The officer in the van doesn’t tell me which prison we are going to until we’ve been on the road for over an hour. I suspect from the frantic flurry of calls that I have caused a certain number of admin issues. As a former prison governor, I can’t be taken to a jail where I’ve worked before or where I might know one of the inmates. They might have a grudge. Even try to kill me.

  Eventually I’m informed that we are going to a brand-new prison which has recently opened in the West Country. How ironic that I am being taken back to the very area I have just left.

  I’m stiff when they finally let us out. I want to stretch my legs so am quite relieved when I am marched through a wide courtyard and into a modern-looking room with ‘SAFETY FIRST’ posters on the walls. After being frisked, I am allowed to get back into my own clothes. Only if I am convicted will I have to wear prison uniform.

  This particular prison is made up of what they call ‘houses’ – rather like a posh school. I’ve seen a few like this. There’s a huge hub at the centre of each with different corridors leading off like spokes from a cartwheel. In the middle of the hub is a glass office, or ‘watchtower’ as it’s known, where the officers monitor activity.

  Usually prisons are noisy with constant shouting. But right now, it’s silent. Everyone is looking at me. Staff and inmates. I see it all on their faces. Shock. Disbelief. Pleasure. Evil intent. Even though I’ve never worked here, prisons inhabit a small world. Word has clearly got round about my arrival. A prison governor – past or present – equals the enemy.

  Then, like a play when an actor suddenly remembers his lines, the noise starts up again. A very pale-faced woman in prison green – indicating garden duty – yells at another woman who is pushing a massive kitchen trolley. ‘Get out of the fucking way. Look where you’re going.’

  Someone else starts arguing with an officer about visiting privileges. A young woman with scraped-back hair and a weary expression begins to sweep the floor around my feet as if I am not there. I am escorted towards a double gate that forms the entrance to one of the houses. I can see through it. It’s the type with iron bars going vertically down. On the other side is a table. Women are eating lunch. There’s a smell of vinegar. They appraise me. One is chewing with her mouth open. Another holds her knife and fork very precisely, as if to say, ‘I may be here but I’m not one of you lot.’ She catches my eye for a second and then looks away dismissively. Clearly I fall into the last category for her.

  I’m led up a flight of stairs but have to stop halfway.

  ‘Move it,’ snaps the guard.

  ‘I can’t.’ I grip the handrail. ‘I feel dizzy.’

  ‘How convenient,’ says the other.

  Are they testing me? Don’t they know what happened at my last place?

  My cell is by the stairs, on the right. It has bars on the window and overlooks the mother-and-baby unit. Another deliberate act? Hard to know. I force my face to stay straight, as if this means nothing to me. But inside I am quivering.

  There’s a shower in the corner and a loo. A narrow bed takes up one side, and there is a long shelf which looks like it acts as a desk/dressing table. Lino rather than concrete. By some prison standards, this would be a palace.

  ‘You’re just in time for tea,’ says one of the officers. His voice has a sarcastic edge, as though I have dropped in to pay a courtesy visit.

  I sit on the bed. It’s hard. ‘Not hungry,’ I say.

  He shrugs. ‘Suit yourself.’ His eyes become even colder. ‘Is it true you used to be a prison guv?’

  I ignore the question. Instead, I remind him that I’ll need my meds soon.

  ‘You’ll get them when they do their rounds.’

  ‘Don’t cause any trouble,’ my solicitor had warned. ‘It won’t help at the trial.’ So I nod and take out the picture which they’ve allowed me to keep and place it gently on the table. Then I try to breathe calmly. I wasn’t allowed – unsurprisingly – to bring in my lavender essence or any of the other oils that might calm me down. I’ve had to leave those behind in the flat. Including the equipment that I use to make my own special combinations.

  A loudspeaker announces that lockdown is about to take place. Immediately, there’s a click, indicating that the door has been electronically secured.

  That’s when I finally let myself cry. I cry for David because, despite everything, I really don’t want him to be dead. I cry for Tanya, even though part of me still hates her. But there’s one person I can’t cry for. It hurts too much.

  30

  Helen

  Talk about a posh restaurant! Some of the women are in long, backless dresses, making my short skirt look like a serviette. The men, like David, are in striped shirts and chinos. Waiters are bobbing and bowing all around us. But the best bit is the view, looking out towards all the buildings along the Embankment.

  I’m itching to take a picture but instead I feel bound, out of politeness, to read the menu. ‘When I say I’m vegetarian,’ I say, ‘it means I usually eat baked beans for dinner.’

  ‘I remember those days.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Why do you look surprised?’

  ‘Because you seem like a man who has been used to luxury all his life.’

  He gives a half-laugh. ‘I come from a tough background. My dad was a labourer till he joined the army. I had a spell in the forces myself for a few years, but shooting people wasn’t for me. So I went back to Civvy Street. Tell me, how old are you?’

  I am pretty sure he’s pretending not to know. ‘Didn’t you read my CV?’

  ‘No. Not the first or the second. You rather put me on the spot, if you remember, by telling me that I’d ignored your email in front of that journalist.’

  ‘At least you’re honest.’

  ‘Only sometimes.’ His eyes go hard again. ‘I suspect that you’re the same, Helen.’

  I don’t know what to say. Luckily, the waiter comes to take our order.

  David senses my hesitation. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but would you like me to choose for you? I don’t know why they have to use such fancy descriptions. No one knows what they mean – they just pretend to.’

  Usually I’d have taken offence at this. But he says it in such a gentlemanly way, blaming the menu rather than my own inadequacy, that
I agree.

  While we wait, he makes small talk. It’s very different from that terse conversation in the office about the picture on his desk. ‘So, what got you interested in photography in the first place?’ he asks, topping up my glass.

  That was easy. ‘An art teacher at school.’ I smile at the memory. ‘I was hopeless at anything academic so I used to skive in the art block. I wasn’t that good at drawing or painting but then Miss Hughes joined. She’d actually had stuff published in a magazine. I was so overawed.’

  He is smiling as if he understands.

  ‘Then I found that taking photographs helped me get into another world.’

  David nods. ‘And maybe disguise your shyness?’

  ‘You said I asked too many questions before.’

  ‘That’s a sign of shyness too. You create a veneer to disguise what you see as failings. It’s all right, Helen. I get it. A lot of people are the same. I find it rather endearing, actually.’ He takes a sip from his glass. ‘Now I’m going to ask the same question you put to me earlier. What do you like doing in your spare time?’

  ‘Walking. I love London. There’s so much to see and photograph.’

  ‘You grew up here?’

  ‘No. I was brought up in the country but …’

  A cheese soufflé arrives with a fancy sauce which melts in my mouth even though nerves have dulled my appetite. He has chosen the same dish. I wonder if he did that to put me at my ease. Is this a game on his part or is David Goudman genuinely nicer than I’d given him credit for?

  Then his phone goes. He makes an ‘excuse me’ sign and turns to one side. His voice is hard. ‘Just sort it, will you.’

  Then he turns back to me. ‘So sorry.’

  I was wrong just now. I mustn’t underestimate this man. He is a pro. And what’s more, I’m pretty sure he knows I’m out for something. Hopefully, he just thinks it’s his money.