‘Dom, I—’
‘No. Let me finish. The police questioned Lyd and me for hours, did you know that? We were in separate rooms full of bloody strangers in a police station while they asked if Dad had ever touched me, hurt me? Can you imagine? My head was totally fucked. One minute I was at a barbecue with my mates and the next my whole world had turned to rat shit and there’s this bloke asking me if Dad had ever…’
Dominic breathed deeply, to slow his heart and stop the tears of frustration that threatened to fall. He wasn’t done.
‘Dad never laid a finger on me or Lydi; he would never have. He was a brilliant dad, whether you like it or not. He was brilliant and I loved him. He was smart, funny, clever and I used to hope that one day I’d get married and have kids and be just like him! How funny is that? Imagine wanting to be just like him…’
‘Dominic, I can only imagine—’
He didn’t allow her a response, wouldn’t stop until he had exorcised it all.
‘We weren’t allowed anything from the house, nothing. Did you know that? They took my computer, my photos, my phone, clothes, everything. Everything I had ever owned or known was wiped out. My home became a crime scene and the crime that had been committed wasn’t burglary or assault, it was murder. My father was stabbed – not by some nameless attacker, but by my mum. By you! I lost my school, my friends, my possessions, my home, my parents, everything! I lost my whole fucking life. Can you imagine that? And worse still, it wasn’t some stranger that did that to me, it was my own fucking mother! You took it all from me, from us!’
His tears fell freely now and Kate felt a strange sense of relief, his tears cathartic.
She reached across the table top – a matter of inches, but to mother and son it represented miles and years. Kate took her son’s large hand and encased it inside both of her own. She felt the flex of his fingertips as they curled to sit against hers; a small act of enormous significance.
They sat in silence until his tears abated and his breathing had steadied. They had all the time in the world.
When he next spoke his voice was calmer, quieter.
‘You did that to us, Mum. I’m not only blaming you; it was you and Dad. You were both liars and you made our whole existence, our whole childhood, into one big lie.’
Kate remembered Lydia’s painful words, across the miles via a telephone wire. ‘My whole life and the people I trusted, it was all pretend.’
Dominic wasn’t done.
‘I think of all the times we sat at the breakfast table, Dad making jokes and chatting and you smiling while you cooked bloody bacon; and yet only an hour before… Who was the best liar, Mum? I’m not sure. I know Dad started it, he was a shit to you. But you finished it and I can’t decide which is worse. It’s okay for you, you have become Kate Gavier. I can’t do that, I can’t become Kate Gavier. I am stuck being Dominic Brooker. I give people my name and I watch them mulling it over, trying to work out why it’s familiar… and then their eyes widen as they place me. Ah yes, Brooker. Spawn of bastard Mark and psycho Kathryn. And you ask if I have a girlfriend? What do you think? How would the “meet the parents” conversation go? It’s a fucking non-starter.’
‘I’m sorry, Dom.’ It was an inadequate, automatic response.
‘And then you disappeared. Firstly prison and then here, to immerse yourself in other people’s problems so that you wouldn’t have to deal with ours. Like we didn’t count any more, like we didn’t count enough.’
‘Dom, you have always counted; you have been the one thing that does count. You are the reason I keep going. I love you and Lydia more than you can imagine, more than you will ever know. I haven’t been hiding from you! I’ve been waiting for you. Every minute of every day and with every breath in my body, I think of all the possible ways I might be able to see you or be near you or contact you without causing you more distress—’
He cut her short again.
‘I think about that night, Mum. I think about it a lot. I wish I didn’t. We were in the room next door; we were only in the fucking room next door! Just metres away from what was happening. And you were cheerful. I remember, you sounded very cheerful. That’s what I told the police and yet all the time Dad was on the bed… I bet he wanted me to help him, I bet he felt frightened and alone. I wonder if he called out to me, Mum. Did he want me to help him? I can’t believe I slept soundly next door, Mum, with my head full of the barbecue and Emily Grant, while you…’
‘Oh, darling. Oh, Dom. You mustn’t do that. There’s no point; it will just destroy you.’
‘Ya think?’
His sarcasm warbled through his contorted mouth.
‘I never sleep deeply now, not once since it happened. I lie with one ear cocked in case someone needs my help, in case Dad might need my help…’
Kate rubbed at her closed eyes.
‘I am sorry, Dom. I am truly, truly sorry for all the hurt that I have caused you both and one day we will talk about fear and being alone and the reasons why, but not today. Not today, Dom. It’s important that you know that I always, always put you first. I—’
Kate never finished her sentence.
The kitchen door slammed against the wall, causing them both to jump and jerk their heads in the direction of the bang.
Rodney Morris stood with one arm outstretched, flat-palmed against the open door. His body was not used to the speed with which his adrenalin had propelled him up from the beach. He panted and sweated, his face scarlet. His other hand was crooked against his chest and in the space between he held what appeared to be clothing. Keys dangled from his finger.
Kate let her son’s hand fall onto the table top as she rose from her chair.
‘Rodney! What’s the matter? What’s going on?’
Slowly he raised his head until his tear-filled eyes were level with hers.
‘Tanya…’ he stammered.
He passed Kate the opened cream envelope that had been tightly scrunched inside his palm.
Kate put her arm around him and steered him into a chair, the bad blood between them evaporating in the face of his obvious distress.
She pulled the sheet of paper from the envelope and hurriedly scanned Tanya’s words.
‘Where is she now, Rodney?’ she screamed. ‘Is it too late?’
Rodney rocked slowly in his chair and rambled incoherently.
‘Oh no! Oh please God, no!’ Kate howled, bordering on hysterical.
‘Beautiful… so young…’ mumbled Rodney through his tears.
Kate read and reread Tanya’s note, transfixed by the ten lines, trying to absorb their meaning. Her breath came in gulps. The pain in her chest was hard and instant. She looked up and sought the face of her son, seeking comfort and reassurance, but he was gone.
Ten years ago
During her trial, Kathryn felt as if she were living underwater. Day and night were indistinguishable; hours were bunched together and blurred, punctuated with catnaps and the occasional intake of flavourless food that tasted wooden in her mouth. Words were somehow distorted, colours muted and sound muffled. She felt something akin to weightlessness. Of the throng of people that peered in her direction, only Lydia and Dominic stood out, distinct and recognisable. Their faces pinched through grief, expressions blank, numbed by their ordeal.
As she listened to the droning voices dissecting and analysing the most minute aspects of her life, it felt as if they were talking about a stranger. She felt disconnected from the proceedings, unable to fully grasp the process. People she recognised sometimes stood in the dock; she was vaguely aware of Judith sneering at her as she placed her fat hand on a Bible.
To Kathryn, the facts were straightforward. Mark had hurt her for a long time and one day, under extreme provocation, she had enough and killed him. No more, no less. Whilst she wouldn’t go so far as to call what she did justified, she knew that extreme scrutiny and debate would not change the situation. It was what it was. The twelve men and women of the jury pronounced
her condemned, just as she had known they would. The sentence however was fair. Eight years, of which she would serve five with good behaviour. Kate felt some justification, these strangers selected at random had conceded that his acts against her were monstrous and for that, at least, she was grateful.
Kate – not Kathryn any longer – lay on the hard prison bed and tried to familiarise herself with her new home. She was relieved that her sentence had finally begun. Like a marathon race, the sooner she started, the sooner she would finish.
Marlham Women’s Prison was centred around an atrium encircled by metal walkways with Plexiglas sides and decks with rows of cells on each floor. It was ugly and noisy: even the lightest touch to a railing sent up a loud clang, like a sneeze in a silent church. It had been built originally as a sanatorium but now sprawled under a mass of fiddly red-brick extensions.
The cells were far more homely than the communal areas suggested. Not chintz and soft lighting, admittedly, but nor was it all shiny magnolia bricks and metal bars, as Porridge had led Kate to expect. It was more like a youth hostel, functional and sparse.
A tiny rectangular window sat high on the outside wall. The safety glass was frosted and there was no mechanism for opening it, but it still had four metal bars across it for good measure. Kate tried not to imagine the world beyond the window; it was easier. In her mind, there was her old life and a new future life waiting for her. This was the period of transition in between – limbo-like and necessary.
She wished she could tell the kids that she was all right and that it wasn’t as horrendous as they might have imagined. She had a cell to herself and was quite comfortable and warm. It could have been a lot worse. Unlike most new inmates, Kate wasn’t longing for her mattress at home. Quite the opposite. She felt cosy and safe in her new environment, enjoying the solace of a single bed.
Her musings were interrupted by a burly guard who came to her cell and unlocked the door that had only minutes before been locked; Kate didn’t yet understand the protocol.
‘Up you jump!’ The instruction was delivered as a friendly request more than an order.
Kate slipped off the bed and popped her feet into the open-backed, rubber-soled slippers that she had been issued with.
The guard strode ahead of her, using a combination of key and swipe card to gain access from one corridor to another. They criss-crossed several walkways until she found herself in a grey, cold, clinical bathroom. There was a single dull light bulb contained in what looked like a small cage. The sink was cracked with rust-coloured water marks running towards the plug hole. The atmosphere was damp, fungal.
‘You can shower, Kate.’
Kate smiled at her. ‘Thank you, I’d like that. How long have I got?’
The warder’s tone was pleasant. ‘Take as long as you need, my love.’
‘Really?’
The woman nodded. ‘There’s not much going on tonight. You take your time.’
Kate replayed the guard’s words over and over. ‘Take as long as you need, my love.’
She couldn’t believe it; those eight words were like music.
Kate stepped into one of four identical cubicles, noting the peculiar dairy-like smell of changing rooms and communal bathing. As she let the water pour over her head and body she laughed into its cascade. This quickly turned to crying. Her tears, however, were of relief, not sadness. She had already vowed never to shed a tear for Mark or for what she’d done to him. Never. Leisurely, she soaped her skin and shampooed her hair – twice! She stood in the small square confines long after she had finished washing and let the water pummel her skin just for the sheer joy of being able to.
Then she closed her eyes and catalogued this brand-new sensation. This was what it felt like to take a shower without a hammering heart, without setting a mental timer, without listing the chores to be done inside her head while her shaking hand fumbled for shampoo or soap under a too hot current.
She giggled. For the first time in over eighteen years, with a warder standing on the other side of the door and about to retire to a cell where she would be locked in for the night, she knew that she had been liberated from her own private hell.
‘Better?’ the guard asked as Kate stepped from the bathroom.
‘Oh yes, much.’
The tears came an hour later. The sobs from Kate’s cell could be heard along the corridor. There were several shouts of ‘Shut the fuck up!’ and a couple of more empathetic responses.
The guard on duty lingered at the end of the walkway. It wasn’t unusual for this to happen once the drama of the trial had faded and the realisation dawned on new prisoners that this was it for the next few years. She waited. Kate’s distress was evident. The warder was a good judge of character and after just a few hours in her company could tell that Kate was not here to make trouble.
‘Lights out, ladies!’ The warder flicked the switches on the outside walls. ‘And let’s try and keep the noise down please!’
She heard the unmistakable sound of a pillow rustling and guessed that Kate was trying to muffle her sobs.
An hour later she did the rounds to check all lights were out and everyone was where she’d left them. She found Kate sitting on the edge of her bed. Her hair hung forward over her face.
‘How you doing?’ the guard whispered.
‘Okay, thank you.’
Kate smiled at the shadowy figure. Her voice stuttered between dry sobs; her breathing had lost its natural rhythm. She sounded like a toddler that couldn’t speak after a tantrum.
‘Actually…’
‘Yes, Kate?’
It was not unusual at this time of night for the inmates to initiate conversation or make a request.
‘I was wondering if you could help me with something.’
‘What’s that?’
The guard’s tone was suddenly stern, prepared for a verbal assault or a ridiculous demand. Both were the norm on night rounds.
Kate raised her left hand and held it up to the small grille at the top of the door.
‘I need to take off my wedding ring. My solicitor said I should keep it on during my trial, but that’s over now. I hate wearing it, I really do, but I can’t seem to get it off. I’ve been sitting here trying and I can’t get the bloody thing off. I don’t want to spend another night with it on my finger, not one more night.’
Kate was desperate to remove the symbol of her misery. When the band of gold had been placed on her finger, she had been young, hopeful and full of passion for life. The middle-aged woman who now pulled and pushed at the third knuckle of her left hand had joints and fingers that were swollen through hard work and abuse. She felt as if a time-thief had come along in the dead of night and erased decades from her life. It was a cruel trick, the cruellest.
Her tears fell thick and fast.
‘I really don’t want this on my finger any more. Please….’
It was the first and last time that the warder would see such a display from Kate, and she felt moved to help her. A few minutes later she returned with a bowl of warm water and a bar of soap. Unlocking the door, she handed them over to the mild-mannered lady who was in such distress.
‘Thank you so much. I’m very grateful.’ Kate smiled through her tears.
She vigorously soaped and wiggled and pulled until her finger bled. This only made her more determined; she reapplied the soap and tried again. On the third attempt, and ignoring the agonising swelling that made the job that much harder, Kate succeeded. She plopped the ring into the bowl of water along with the soap and studied the groove that still marked her finger.
‘How long do you think it will take for this to disappear?’ she asked when the guard made her next round.
‘I don’t know. I’d guess a few months.’
Kate nodded; she could wait a few months.
‘What would you like me to do with this?’ The guard had fished out the shiny gold ring and held it between her thumb and forefinger.
Kate flapped h
er hand in the direction of the window. ‘Oh, I don’t care. Anything! Throw it away please.’
She nodded before returning her attention to her finger, flexing it and admiring her naked hand. She might have been referring to the soap, so nonchalant was she about its disposal.
Kate slipped between the stiff, starched sheets and knew that she was finally free. That was her final thought as she drifted off into a deep, sound sleep. It was a whole new quality of sleep and one that she had forgotten was possible.
When she woke in the morning with the sun filtering through the prison bars and streaking her grey blanket, she had a smile on her face and peace in her heart. She had done it: she had escaped and was at peace. Kate grinned. It felt utterly wonderful.
Today
The house was eerily silent. Natasha and Kate sat at either end of the sofa in front of the fire. Both had neither appetite nor energy. It had been a gruelling day, a gruelling month. The two women had been preoccupied by their grief, exhausted in their distress, and organising the funeral had been all consuming. Now it was time for quiet reflection, time to catch the many breaths that had stuck in their throats since the day Tanya took her life.
Kate replayed the funeral in her head, as if by making it familiar she could dispel some of the horror. Dark, thumping organ music had reverberated through Penmarin’s small church as she and Natasha arrived – much too sombre a piece for a young girl like Tanya, Kate thought; it should have been something light and ethereal.
The pews were packed. Janeece and husband Nick were already in situ and Kate recognised people that she was on nodding terms with from the pub, as well as various local shopkeepers and suppliers to Prospect House. The back rows were taken with a few of Tanya’s friends and acquaintances from London. At least one of them could have been the ex-boyfriend, a curly-haired youth with deep blue eyes. Kate smiled at him, trying to make him feel comfortable in this alien environment on the saddest of days. She was glad for Tanya that they had made the journey, which was neither cheap nor convenient without a car. The boy smiled back awkwardly in her direction, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, the only black thing in his wardrobe. He continued to glance furtively at Kate – how much did she know? Enough to know that a sweet girl had taken the rap for him and had deserved better.
What Have I Done? Page 28