The Dead Ex

by Jane Corry

I try to speak but my words freeze in my mouth.

  Then she falls to the ground. Her arms and legs begin to writhe as though she is trying to swim on dry land. Froth is coming out of her mouth. What is going on?

  ‘Dear Lord,’ says the woman, whose dog is tugging her towards the body. ‘The poor thing is having a seizure. Quick. Ring for an ambulance.’

  But if I do that, the police could trace me. I haven’t done anything wrong. Yet. But even so I’d rather not be around when the cops come.

  ‘Sorry,’ I lie. ‘I’m out of battery.’

  ‘Sit.’

  For a minute, I think she’s speaking to me but it’s to the dog. She gets out her own phone. ‘Ambulance. On the seafront. By the Lido.’

  I take a quick glance at Vicki Goudman writhing on the ground underneath a bench. Part of me feels this is no more than she deserves. The other part feels sorry for her. And then I run.

  49

  Vicki

  11 July 2018

  ‘Legal for Vicki Goudman,’ comes the announcement.

  ‘Again? Has your solicitor got the hots for you?’ snorts my cellmate.

  ‘She’s preparing my case,’ I reply. ‘My trial starts tomorrow.’

  ‘Mine doesn’t seem to care. Reckon she thinks I’m guilty.’

  Penny is already waiting in the legal visits room. She has a man with her. ‘This is Giles Romer,’ she says with a vibrant expression on her face. ‘He’s going to be your barrister.’

  ‘Your solicitor has told me about your attack, Vicki.’ He speaks as though he already knows me. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’

  I look away. This isn’t something I can discuss with a stranger. It was hard enough talking to Penny.

  ‘We need to know more, Vicki,’ she says gently.

  ‘I’ve had enough.’

  ‘You’re not helping your case. Your baby might be the thing that throws your case into a whole new light.’

  Patrick …

  After losing my son I was almost mad with grief. One minute I’d been pregnant, a child fluttering inside me. Now there was nothing. How was I meant to go on? I’d hoped for comfort from my husband but David would barely speak to me. I knew he blamed me. So I found myself confiding in my old friend Patrick instead.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he told me in the privacy of my office, ‘it can help to give your baby a name. Think of him as a person.’

  Your name, I thought instinctively. A good, solid, loyal name. And strangely, it did help. A psychologist might also explain my choice by suggesting that I still had feelings for Patrick. Either way, I kept my baby’s name to myself.

  I’d been so busy grieving for my son that I’d scarcely given a second thought to my own injuries, which included a broken arm on top of the bruising to my head. I’d also been deeply distressed by the D and C, which was apparently necessary after a miscarriage, especially one which was so late. ‘We need to scrape your womb to make sure it’s clean,’ a nurse had told me. ‘Then you can be ready to start again.’

  But the very thought of having another baby seemed disloyal to little Patrick. Besides, with David’s hostility towards me, it didn’t look as though there was any possibility of that. He still maintained he had told me to transfer to a ‘less dangerous prison’. In fact, David was so adamant that I almost believed him. Perhaps the blow on my head had affected my memory. I even forgot Valentine’s Day, although David, in an attempt perhaps to make up for his behaviour, gave me a beautiful pair of crystal drop earrings. But his kindness was short-lived and he went back to being snappy with me.

  Perhaps it wasn’t surprising. I wasn’t myself: constantly anxious and jumping at every noise. Post-traumatic stress, said the doctor, prescribing tranquillizers. I was even rude to poor Jackie and Frances, who came to visit with chocolates and flowers. ‘I’m sure that one day you’ll get over it,’ said Frances awkwardly.

  ‘How do you know?’ I’d retorted. ‘Neither of you are mothers. You don’t know what it’s like to be pregnant and then lose it.’ The hurt on their faces was all too clear.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, turning my head away as hot, silent tears dripped onto my pillow. Jackie had squeezed my hand in comfort. It was more than I deserved.

  Then came the first seizure. The last thing I could remember was an argument with David in the Kingston house and then waking up on the sitting-room carpet, feeling as though I’d had a deep sleep. Yet, at the same time, I was weirdly disorientated. When I pulled myself up, using a chair, I fell over again.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he had snapped. ‘Get a grip on yourself, Vicki.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘There’s no need to go nuts just because I said I was going away again.’

  ‘Where? When?’ I rubbed my arms and legs as I spoke. The muscles felt really achy. Only later did I find out this can be part of the ‘condition’.

  ‘I think I need to see the doctor.’

  ‘A psychiatrist, more like.’

  How could he be so cruel?

  The doctor sent me off for an MRI scan, which revealed I’d had a seizure. ‘This can happen after a head injury. With any luck it’s a one-off, but we’ll keep an eye on it. Let’s see you again in a month’s time.’

  But before the appointment came up, I had another; this time in the prison staff room. Patrick had driven me straight to the hospital. ‘You need to test her for epilepsy,’ he’d told the duty doctor.

  ‘What?’ I demanded.

  ‘I’ve seen it before,’ he said quietly.

  Only later did I discover that my experience was quite usual. After an accident, it can take weeks or sometimes months before an epileptic attack actually happens. Diagnosis can take even longer. Mine was finally confirmed after a series of tests including EEG (electro encephalogram), which measures the brain’s electrical activity, sleep deprivation, and an MRI (magnetic resonance imaging) scan to find out if there is a lesion or other abnormality in the brain tissue, which could be responsible for the seizures. Alcohol is also, I was told, a fairly common trigger. Then there were further scans. By the time the results came through, I’d had two more ‘turns’. To my deep embarrassment, one had taken place during a staff risk assessment concerning a new prisoner who’d been self-harming.

  But if it wasn’t for the witnesses, I could swear that nothing had happened.

  ‘I don’t remember anything about them,’ I told the doctor. ‘But I have noticed a sort of burning-rubber smell just beforehand. I also got very thirsty on the last occasion.’

  He looked as though I’d said something exciting. ‘They can be forewarnings as a result of unusual brain activity. Not every epileptic gets them, so this is good news because it will give you a chance to be prepared. Always make sure you are somewhere safe. It’s also best not to sleep alone.’

  I thought of David’s frequent absences from home and my own demanding schedule, which meant I spent six nights out of seven in prison staff quarters.

  ‘Some fatalities,’ added the doctor, ‘occur either because of accidents such as falling and hitting the head, or from drowning or from SUDEP – sudden unexplained death in epilepsy.’

  ‘Fatalities?’ I repeated, shocked. ‘I didn’t realize it was that serious.’

  ‘Try not to worry. Hopefully we can control it with the right medication and the correct dosage.’

  It took another three seizures before they finally found a drug that worked better than the others. The downside, they said, was that this particular medication might affect my memory recall. The other side effects, when I looked them up, were equally alarming, with several online ‘personal accounts’ of degeneration of the brain. ‘Ignore them,’ said Patrick crisply.

  But the worst of it was that doubts were now being cast on my ability to do my job. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I insisted when the chair of the board suggested I took more time off.

  Then I had yet another – despite the meds – on the mother-and-baby unit, which apparently
made the children scream with terror, even though I could remember none of it.

  They upped my dosage. The girls began to give me a wide berth when they passed me on the corridor or on the wings. Staff looked at me differently. A further seizure happened a month later when I was showing a visitor from the Home Office around. That was the clincher.

  ‘We have to be sensible,’ said the chair when they called me in for a full board meeting. ‘You’ll get a good pension. I’m sorry, but we need to consider our duty of care to the inmates. What if you hurt someone when lashing out?’

  ‘This only happened because one of them hurt me!’

  Zelda had been found guilty and given another sentence on top of her existing one. But her punishment couldn’t bring back my child. I felt in my pocket for the three-month ultrasound pregnancy scan picture, which I still carried everywhere along with my grief.

  ‘That bit about me naming my baby Patrick probably sounds mad to you,’ I now say to my solicitor. ‘But over the years it really helped me.’

  Her eyes are milky with sympathy. ‘I might well have done the same.’

  The barrister is still writing. ‘If you can tell the jury what you’ve just told us, Vicki,’ he says, looking up, ‘there won’t be a dry eye in the house. How did you and David end?’

  I’ve gone over this again and again in my head. ‘My husband came home late one night to the house in Kingston. He was drunk. Then he …’

  I stop, fighting back the tears.

  The barrister waits. So does Penny. There’s no getting out of this.

  ‘He said that he’d fallen in love with Tanya.’ I raise my face angrily. ‘Not that he fancied her, but that he was in love with her.’

  I can still feel the shock waves when he told me.

  ‘I never really loved you,’ he’d roared. ‘Anyway, I’ve no use for you now.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  His face was close to mine. At times, it could be ugly rather than handsome. ‘Do you know why I proposed?’ he spat. ‘Because I liked the idea of being with a woman in authority. Someone who had status. A baby would have sealed it. Made us a proper family whom the world would take notice of. But that’s all gone now, and so has us.’

  ‘You can’t mean that,’ I’d howled.

  ‘Trust me. I do.’

  Then he’d packed a case and walked out of the house, slamming the door behind him. Despite everything, I still kept hoping that it was the drink coupled with grief over the baby that had made him say such cruel words. Surely this also explained why he’d allowed himself to be lured into Tanya’s arms. Illogically, I blamed her rather than him. But he never came back.

  ‘He claimed he didn’t have any money when we were thrashing out the divorce settlement. Tanya bought me out instead.’ I wince at the humiliation. ‘It’s how they stayed in the Kingston house. She liked it, apparently.’

  Talk about rubbing my nose in it, I almost added.

  ‘I had my pay-off from the prison too. To start with, I rented a flat in London while I decided what to do next. But I was bored. How could I stay at home all day, waiting for a seizure which might or might not come? I’d been used to a busy life.’

  My solicitor nods as though she understands this.

  ‘That’s when I got my idea. It would be difficult to work for someone else, because an employer might be nervous about my condition. But I could work for myself.’

  They both listen keenly.

  ‘I’d helped to launch a “beauty and relaxation” salon at one of my previous prisons. Women could train there, which gave them a chance of getting a job after release. I’d been particularly impressed by the aromatherapy treatment, which helped to soothe me. I thought this would reduce my tension – and also help others. So I did my training and then moved to Dorset.’

  ‘But you didn’t stay there,’ says the barrister, checking his file.

  ‘No. I had to keep moving around because every time I had a seizure, clients got scared of me.’

  He nods. ‘This should go down well with the jury. They’ll be sympathetic.’

  ‘Did you have any contact with David?’ asks Penny.

  I could lie. But I’ve had enough of that. I always seem to get found out anyway. So I take a deep breath.

  ‘I would leave messages on David’s answerphone to tell him where I was living – just in case he wanted to get hold of me. I kept hoping … despite everything.’

  ‘Not good,’ the barrister murmurs. ‘It could be seen as you stalking him.’

  Then his face changes. ‘We’ve also got something to tell you.’

  He glances at my solicitor. She looks nervous. I have a bad feeling about this.

  ‘The thing is, we’ve done some digging.’ He gives a half-laugh. ‘Lawyers have to be a bit like detectives at times, you know.’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘You told Penny on the last visit that Zelda Darling was still in prison. In fact, when we checked this, we discovered she was released soon after Christmas.’

  I go cold as I work out the dates. ‘So that means …’

  ‘That’s right,’ says my solicitor. ‘She was let out early, just before your ex-husband went missing.’ She gives a short laugh. ‘For good behaviour.’

  Part Three

  * * *

  50

  Helen

  It’s been a long time. But Vicki Goudman is going to pay.

  My footsteps are heavy as I make my way back from the Tube station to the flat. What is Mum going to say when she discovers I have finally found her nemesis?

  I still remember that awful day when I visited her and the guards cut our visit short because another prisoner tried to throw coffee at me. It wasn’t even Mum’s fault. She was always getting into trouble for everything, she told me, because this prison governor had it in for her. Vicki Goudman. A power-hungry bitch who went after anyone who stood up to her.

  Then the accident happened. It was months after her sentence was extended before they let me see Mum again. Until then I had no idea what had happened, or why I couldn’t see her. I hardly recognized her. She was broken. A real mess. Her hair was matted, her eyes were all glazed and she struggled to get her words out. But when she did, the first thing she said was about Vicki.

  ‘I didn’t bloody hit that bitch. It isn’t fair. Someone planted that snooker ball and sock in my cell to get at me. I had a lot of enemies in that place. Or maybe the guv set the whole thing up, hoping it would get me moved on to another prison. She always had it in for me.’

  ‘Why would she try to get herself hurt?’

  Mum had shrugged. ‘Perhaps it went wrong. I don’t know. But if the blame hadn’t been pinned on me, I’d have been freed years ago. She has to pay. And you have to help me.’

  My mind returns to the day I’d collected Mum from prison, just after Christmas. She’d looked so frail, standing there, clutching the plastic bag of clothes which she’d been wearing at the time of her arrest all those years ago in the park.

  ‘The sun hurts my eyes,’ she’d complained as I guided her to the bus stop. ‘I’m not used to it.’

  With every step, she kept stopping to look around, as if she’d never seen a tree before, or a kid on a mobile phone. ‘You’re so lucky to have had all this freedom.’

  The fact that I’d been sent to a young offenders’ unit for a year after setting fire to Dee and Robert’s shed (something I don’t even want to think about), and then passed from one foster family to another, didn’t seem to concern her. There was the elderly couple who could hardly walk and expected me to look after them instead of the other way round. Then there was a woman who just left food for me on the table and told me to help myself when I felt like it. Once she went away for a fortnight to Florida. Actually I didn’t mind that too much because I was left to my own devices. But Social Services found out when they made a spot check and I was put in a youth hostel which reeked of urine and had shit smeared on the walls. The oth
ers used to take the piss out of my name. ‘Come on, Darling. Give us one, won’t you? Isn’t that what scarlet women do?’

  ‘Bloody stupid name anyway,’ said Mum when I told her. ‘Stands out too much. You ought to change it by deed poll. Otherwise someone might link us and that won’t do you any favours – especially if you’re going to find the bitch responsible for extending my sentence.’

  So I chose Helen Evans. It felt normal. Law-abiding. Safe. And I made up a family. Two parents who wanted me to make my way in life. A brother and a sister.

  But Vicki Goudman was nowhere – nothing online apart from a single picture, nothing in the papers. It was as if she had disappeared.

  Then one day I had an idea. I might not be able to find her. But I could find her husband. He might know where she was.

  From then on it was simple. I did my research. Found David Goudman. Discovered that he and the guv had split up. Even so, as Mum said, he might know where Vicki was so it was still worth pursuing the lead. He was a self-made man, so I told him a story about my life that I thought would appeal. Got the job. Seduced him.

  Treat them mean. Keep them keen. My mum’s advice was spot on when I told her that I’d found him. ‘That’s what I should have done with your father.’ Then she stopped.

  I held my breath. Whenever I’d asked Mum more about my dad in the past, she’d just said it was a long time ago and that she didn’t want to talk about it.

  ‘What happened, Mum?’

  She sighed. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Yes it does. I’m a grown woman. You owe it to me to say.’

  Something seemed to give in Mum’s face. ‘I’ve been thinking that myself for a while. Maybe you’re right.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I met your father on the beach when I was in Trinidad just before going to uni. Then we bumped into each other in a bar later on. It was as simple as that. We didn’t even ask each other’s names. It was only a couple of months later, when I’d moved on with my friends to another place, that I realized I was pregnant. How naive of me.’ She laughs. ‘A girl from a small Welsh village who’d never thought about contraception. I considered going back to look for him, but I didn’t even know his name. If I’d been in the UK, I’d have probably got an abortion – sorry, love. But it was too late, and I had no money. When I asked my parents for help, they went mad. Called me every name under the sun. Whore, slut … It was horrible. They told me I’d made my own bed and had to lie on it. By then, I felt you were a part of me. So I got a room at a London hostel. Had you at the local hospital. I tried to make it on the benefits I got, but it wasn’t enough, so I began dealing. We needed the money, love. Even council flats don’t come cheap.’