by P. R. Black
‘You took this to mean that you were the product of a one-night stand, and I was always proud of how well you dealt with this idea. Nothing fazed you at school, though I knew some people could be cruel. I always felt dreadful that you were an only child, that you never formed strong bonds with friends, that I couldn’t even give you aunts and uncles and grandparents. It was always just you and me.
‘But the truth is that your father is still alive. I know who he is, and where he is. I never told you when you were old enough to know, for a very good reason. Now I feel you should be told the truth. At the age of twenty-five, you deserve to know.’
Freya smirked. ‘Typical,’ she said aloud. ‘Milking the drama all the way.’
‘Your father is a man called Gareth Solomon. He is currently held in a category-A prison for murder, and there is no chance of him being released any time soon.’
The world began to constrict around her. Her heartbeat had surely never been so loud, bone-deep percussion in her ears.
‘This name may not be a familiar name to you. He is more commonly known as the Woodcutter. I will spare you the details of what he was convicted of, but you will find a lot of this online. You may not want to read it all. Certainly, I took the shame of him and his deeds to my grave.’
Now Freya felt the horror. Freya had felt nervous about her father’s identity before, but there was also excitement. Mary had told her that she would answer her ‘question’, and when it came to Freya and her mother, there was only one question outstanding. This had been exciting. Even if there was some scandal attached to the question of her paternity, or a secret that might have wrecked a happy family somewhere down the line, at least she would have known, at last, who her father was. But the picture had become horribly dark in a matter of seconds. The excitement had given way to dread. You didn’t get a nickname like that for no good reason. Even if it was a moniker given to a sportsman for things he did on the field of play, it didn’t augur well.
‘He was a killer? My father is a fucking murderer?’
Hands shaking, she took up the letter again.
‘I can’t say that your father and I were in love. He was a regular at the pub I worked at before I went to the Tap. I did know him. He was handsome and I was lonely. It’s one of those things that can happen. He was strange, but I won’t admit to feeling anything negative about him. I did not divine that he was evil – I had no second sight or clairvoyance to call on. You’re twenty-five, Freya, so you’ll remember when you were twenty-one. I was young and I made a mistake. I wanted a child, though – you must understand that. You were wanted, you were loved, and that was and always will be true. He did not know about my pregnancy, because he moved on before I started to show. I heard news of his arrest when you were eight months old.
‘Now you know the truth, you have to decide what you want to do with it. I kept this news from you and I did consider keeping it a secret. But then I wondered what might happen if you became curious. All the breakthroughs we have these days with DNA profiling and gene mapping, as well as family tree tracing might have given you an opening to find out about your father. Imagine how you would have felt, not knowing the circumstances, and knowing the Woodcutter was your father? But all the same, it was knowledge I wanted to hide from you, while I was alive. I hope you can understand; whether you do or not, I hope you can forgive me. I am truly sorry. But you are my daughter. He had no hand in your upbringing. I made no contact with him. It is unlikely he knows you exist. It is my hope that you never encounter him, given the crimes he committed. But you should know that he did not trick me, and that I did like him and I made the choice to be with him, long ago.
‘My love to you, now and forever. Mary.’
Freya took up her phone, immediately. Who was he? The Woodcutter? She knew that name, somehow. A quick search on her phone brought the answer.
Images appeared in Freya’s phone. Nineties hairstyles. Nineties make-up; bright red lipstick slashed across smiling faces. Not just women; a man was in there, too. All young. Trapped in analogue photography, coarse grain, faded colours. One or two school photos, a permanent fixture on a grandparent’s mantelpiece. Unchanging but no longer an embarrassment.
Then the headlines. All of the same disturbing, dissonant tone. WOODCUTTER… MANIAC… CAGED… HOW MANY?
And his face, of course. A mugshot. No downwards-tilted chin, no sardonic expression, nothing like Alex from A Clockwork Orange. Just a frank, direct stare. Unabashed. Right into Freya’s eyes.
And they were her eyes. Deep and black, not like Mary’s. They caught the light in an unnaturally bright circle.
‘God… I’ll have to think… God…’
Then she actually did faint. It wasn’t like a light being switched off, or a cartoon sock on the jaw. The world tilted; she might have forgotten to breathe.
4
The visit took a while to set up. First of all, there was the funeral to get through.
Freya thought there was a decent turn-out, mainly faces from the pub, some of whom Freya recognised. The priest made a fantastic job of pretending to know Mary, or care. He read out Freya’s edited highlights of her mother’s life as if he knew what he was talking about. She guessed that these guys had plenty of practice at this.
What touched Freya the most – finally dislodging the tears, and then the loud, embarrassing sobs, soaked up into the bosom of a worn old barfly who tried to smother her afterwards – was the practised dignity of the pall-bearers.
Among her mother’s papers was Freya’s birth certificate, and there, in the box outlining who her father was, confirmation of sorts. At least, confirmation enough to be able to approach the authorities without seeming like a crank.
Freya was told to put her request in writing when she emailed, then called the prison authorities; two of these missives, printed off at the local library, went unanswered. The third one was answered by the governor, who professed scepticism. Freya grew impatient, and repeated all that she knew.
‘I have been told that your prisoner, Gareth Solomon, is my father. My mother’s name was Mary Bain. She had a brief relationship with him. She wanted to keep his identity from me. Can you at least speak to him and let him know I want to make contact?’
Somebody, somewhere must have made the connection. After a fresh delay, the arrangement was made. First there was an interview with the governor of the prison, a surprisingly dainty little woman who put Freya in mind of a bird of prey – intense, focused, but easily startled. She made Freya uncomfortable; it was clear to the younger woman why and how she had become a governor.
‘You understand what this man has done?’ she said, never once breaking eye contact with Freya. ‘You understand why he is locked up in here?’
‘I’ve studied the cases,’ Freya said.
‘What – online? Wikipedia and such?’
‘Sure. It’s very detailed.’
‘You still don’t know the half of it.’
‘I’m aware of what he’s done.’
‘And he is definitely the man named on the birth certificate?’
‘You’ll have to check with him, won’t you?’
‘He’s said very little on the matter. I believe that’s at the instruction of his lawyer.’
Freya took a breath. ‘Well… there it is, in black and white. My mother swears it’s him.’
‘That hardly constitutes absolute proof, Freya.’
‘Fine. Let’s be sure about it – I can have it proven, or disproven, with a DNA test.’
‘I can tell you that Gareth Solomon won’t agree to it.’
‘Then look into my eyes,’ Freya said. ‘Closer than you already have. Look deep into them. You see his eyes, don’t you? You must see the resemblance. I take it you’ve met him in person?’
The governor angled her head, and ground her teeth. ‘There is a strong resemblance. But that in itself…’
‘Mention my name to him. Mention my mother’s name – Mary Bain. It’s all in the
letter. There’s every chance he’ll remember. Even if he doesn’t tell you as much. I want to meet him.’
The governor folded her hands, and sat up straight. ‘Silly question corner. Why do you want to do this?’
‘Silly answer – he’s my father. I’ve a right to know who he is. I’ve a right to speak to him. I deserve contact. I’ve grown up with this mystery hanging over me. I… hated my mother for it, for a long time. I thought she was playing games. I used to wonder – was it one of the men in the pub? Was it someone she had loved? Was it a one-night stand? Now I know she was just protecting me.’ Freya’s voice broke. The governor offered her a tissue.
‘I am truly sorry, Freya,’ she said, in a kinder tone.
‘I think it’s time I made contact,’ Freya said, finally. ‘Wouldn’t you do the same?’
‘He’s a multiple murderer.’
‘That’s never been proven, actually. He’s been convicted of one murder. You’ve never been able to prove the rest. There isn’t enough evidence. There aren’t even any bodies.’
The governor steepled her fingers. ‘He’s been sentenced for one murder, that’s true. But the judge took into account the probability that he committed more. That’s why he’ll never be let out. There’s not a Home Secretary born who would consider that. Do you know what he did, Freya? Really? He took girls – and a boy, too – roughly the same age as you, and…’
‘As I said,’ Freya said, growing irritated, ‘I’ve done my research. Are you going to let me see my father? Or at least ask him if he’ll agree to talk to me?’
The governor sighed. Freya never did find out her name. Apparently, it was the convention to keep it a secret, lest she should be targeted in some way on the outside. ‘I’ll look into it,’ the woman said.
And she was as good as her word. After a number of delays, the event was set up. Freya arrived outside the prison in a taxi. It was one of those functional but intimidating Victorian buildings, complete with turret corners. It was an intricate, but forbidding building, like black teeth gnashing together. If Freya had been asked to draw a Category-A prison as a child, then it might have looked something like this building, complete with its high, jagged fence and searchlights. Inside, though, it was bright and modern. She had half been expecting catcalls and a sudden storm of flung piss, filtered through wire mesh strung tight overhead, but there was no sign of any inmates at the front desk, not any battery-hen-style cages for some of the country’s most dangerous men.
They were expecting her; the governor came through, in a smart outfit that looked like velvet from a distance, and stark white earrings that resembled adhesive hooks for a cloakroom.
They were accompanied by two enormous men as they proceeded through a set of gates, once Freya had filled in the paperwork and her ID lanyard was hung about her neck.
‘A word about your father,’ the governor said, walking a step or two in front of Freya, and not looking back as she spoke. ‘This isn’t exactly going to be like The Silence of the Lambs. He won’t be in a cage. He will be behind glass, but you’ll be able to speak to him freely. An officer will be present. It should go without saying that you won’t be able to pass anything to him, and if he says anything that we decide is untoward, then the interview will be terminated and you’ll be asked to leave – no ifs or buts.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘That’s the practical, hands-on stuff. Now a word about his conduct. How much do you know about the Woodcutter cases?’
‘I’ve looked through most of them. I read Mick Harvie’s book, too.’
‘Mick Harvie.’ The governor’s delivery of these words was comical, as if uttering the name of a mortal enemy.
‘You’ve met him?’
‘Unfortunately. Mick Harvie wrote a very sensationalist piece of work, Miss Bain. I wouldn’t rely on his reporting as fact.’
‘He does seem convinced that there were up to a dozen victims of the Woodcutter.’
‘I would say that’s on the extreme side, when it comes to how many he’s suspected of killing.’
‘How many would you say, then?’
The governor blinked before answering. ‘I think your father killed six people, for certain. One or two others, we’re not sure about. A few possibilities, but there’s just not enough evidence to link him to those disappearances. Once a body turns up, we’ll know.’
‘But he was only convicted of one murder. And that was on circumstantial grounds, wasn’t it?’
The governor stopped, as they approached a huge, no-messing steel door with a vast iron wheel in the middle. ‘Have you been speaking to your father’s lawyer? Cheryl Levison?’
‘No. Never heard of her. What’s his lawyer got to do with it?’
‘Your father is consistently trying to engineer appeals against his conviction. Including one going through the system as we speak.’
‘As is his right, surely?’
‘Of course.’ The governor sighed. ‘Listen, Miss Bain. You’re going to speak to a very unusual person. Whatever you’ve heard about him, or whatever you might think of him based on your interview, let me give you some advice: take everything he says with a whole truckload of salt. Gareth Solomon is a liar. It’s part of his make-up; maybe circumstances made him that way. Maybe it’s an ability he was born with. Maybe it’s a talent he has that he’s gotten down to a fine art. Nobody knows. But one thing I can tell you is that he’s one of the most manipulative, persuasive people you’ll ever meet. You might have read some stories in the press about his fan mail. You’re not the only female visitor he’s had. To say nothing of the letters we receive, on a weekly basis. He has the gift of the gab, you might say. So be warned – you should be on your guard, and you should tell him very little about yourself.’
‘He’s not a threat to me. Is he?’
‘He might not be a threat, exactly, but he will seize on any detail and try to control you. That’s part of his make-up. He’s a manipulator, as well as a killer. You should imagine a Venn diagram of psychopathy and sociopathy. Gareth Solomon is in the area that overlaps with both.’
‘I’ll handle him.’
‘You don’t sound very sure of yourself.’ Here, the governor smiled at last. ‘Can I ask what age you are?’
‘I told you – twenty-five.’
‘I would have thought you were younger. You’re old enough to be wise at twenty-five, that’s for sure. Let’s see how wise you can be, when faced with a man like Gareth Solomon.’
Freya smiled. ‘Now, would you be trying to manipulate me, here, governor?’
‘For your own good.’ The prim little woman nodded to the guard, who opened the doorway. It swung open – slowly – onto a long, strip-lit corridor. A guard stood on the other side. He was standing to attention like a soldier with a bulging-eyed focus and determination.
The governor went on: ‘Welcome to A wing. There are three serial killers housed here in total, including your father. They’re all household names, you might say. I’ve heard that there is a bit of competition between them all, to see who’s the most deranged. Your father is the winner, by all accounts.’
Perhaps it was having other killers mentioned in the same breath as him that finally soured Freya’s adrenaline; now, in the narrowing corridor, there was dread. The figure she was about to meet was a shadow, even though she knew his face well by now. He might as well have appeared at the head of the corridor, and ran at them.
A voice that might have been her mother’s said: Just stop. Stop this. You don’t have to do it. You don’t have to know any more. Leave him to rot.
But that’s not good enough. I have to know. I’ve spent my whole life not knowing. And I’ve come this far. You didn’t raise a coward, did you?
She took a deep breath, and quickened her pace.
Freya followed the governor up the corridor. There were no cell doors, here – she saw one room that seemed to have a squash court in it, empty except for a ball in the centre of the floor. Two prison offi
cers sat at a canteen, bursting into sudden laughter at a comment one of them made; and finally, they came to another set of double doors, with an immense wheel in the door and yet another bulky prison officer.
‘You’ll be the only two people in the room, other than the guards. Please bear in mind all that I said, Miss Bain. Let him know nothing about you. And good luck.’
They shared an awkward handshake, before the governor nodded to the prison officer on the door. He was young and meaty with a crop of acne coming into flower on his chin, with blond eyelashes that cried out for eyeliner. But he was tall and strong, seemingly twice the size of Freya.
‘Follow me, miss,’ he said.
They entered into a tranquil room that reminded Freya of the oratory at her sixth form college, a place of sunlight filtered through long, thin drapes, with pine furniture and an oatmeal carpet. The end of the room was dominated by a long, thick plexiglass partition stretching all the way from the ceiling down to a desk, with black speaker units attached. On the other side of this plexiglass was another prison officer.
‘I’ll be sitting beside you,’ said her own escort. ‘I’ll be quite close, so that can be off-putting. But it’s for your own safety.’
‘I understand.’
‘Please sit down.’
Once Freya did as she was told, the prison officers shared a nod.
A door on the other side opened, and then Freya was face to face with her father, for the first time.
5
Freya had expected him to be taller. She had towered over her mother since taking a stretch in early adolescence, and had always assumed this quality had come from her father’s side. However, he was bang average; five nine, no more.