Matt wanted to be there, but Claire was adamant this was something she had to do on her own.
To make her own decision, for better or worse.
Even now she was tempted to get up and walk away. She had a nightmare scenario in the back of her mind. That Bristow would come out to meet her, look her in the eye, and say Yes, I killed your daughter. I enjoyed it.
She saw two wardens escorting a man up the corridor towards her. Could this be him?
“Fucking ChoMo!” The shout came from a prisoner out of sight, triggering a burst of similar cries from others.
“ChoMo!”
“Pervert!”
“Short Eye motherfucker!”
“Hang him!”
“We'll have you tonight, you sick bastard!”
Claire shuddered at the outbursts, but Bristow appeared indifferent. Two wardens shouted out for silence, but the cries continued. A third prison officer appeared from nowhere, distinguished by his white shirt.
“One more outburst from anyone and visiting ends. Is that clear?”
The noise reluctantly subsided, the white shirt evidently conveying authority.
The man appeared in the doorway, looking out across the room through ill-fitting glasses that pinched his nose and flattened his ears. His arm was still in a sling, taking the weight of the plaster cast that extended over the broken fingers of his left hand.
The wardens led him through to where Claire sat.
She watched in morbid fascination as the man accused of murdering her daughter slowly approached, avoiding eye.
Bristow reached the table and a warden looked to Claire for confirmation she felt comfortable. She nodded. The wardens backed off and stood in the doorway.
Claire looked up at Bristow with an expressionless face, fighting to control a hundred competing emotions. She could see his features clearly now. There were layers of bruising, newer, fresh bruises over others nearly healed. He hovered at the table for a moment, then pulled out the chair with his good hand.
“May I?”
Claire nodded, numbed, and he sat down. It was the first time she'd heard his voice. It was softer than she expected. He'd only spoken two words, but already his manner belied his history.
The warden looked to her. “Do you want us to stay?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“Your call. We’ll be just outside.”
The wardens stepped out and pulled the door shut.
Claire had thought about her first words all the way here, but still had no idea how to begin. What possible small-talk could open a meeting like this?
“Mrs Meadows... I...” Bristow struggled to speak. She guessed it must be a difficult moment for him, too. She waited, breath bated, as he selected the right words.
“I did not kill your daughter, Mrs Meadows.”
61
The blunt statement took Claire by surprise, throwing her off-guard.
“I... I don't know what to believe just now.”
“I swear to you, I never knew her.”
“But you would say that, even...”
“Even if... I understand, Mrs Meadows. I know this must be very difficult for you. But whoever killed your daughter is still out there somewhere. He's killed again. Of that there can be no doubt now. How many more will it take before they will admit they are wrong?”
Claire looked into his eyes, searching for... Some sign that he was lying, perhaps? Some glazed indifference that suggested this was all an act?
But all she saw was sadness. Sadness and compassion. She struggled to control tears forming in her own eyes as she looked deep into his. This was not the depraved brute of a man she expected to meet.
“Mrs Meadows, I know nothing I say can bring Rebecca back. But I want you to know how deeply sorry I am. Sorry that she's gone. Sorry for what happened to her. For what you've had to go through.”
Claire nodded, no words forming to acknowledge him.
He continued, “I've done many things in my life that I regret. Many things. But I've never hurt a child. Never.”
It was said with such sincerity Claire struggled to get her next words out. “They say you're a pedophile.”
Bristow was silent for a moment. He looked at her, unsure how to respond. Finally, “That was a long time ago.”
“Then you admit it?” She could feel her chest tightening, her throat desiccate.
“That I'm a pedophile? Yes, it's true. I'm sorry. It's not something I’m proud of. But it’s something I have to live with, every day of my life.”
Claire wrung her hands together. She had to ask. “But why? Why children?”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a leather pouch with a few strands of tobacco inside. “You don't mind if I...”
She shook her head.
“Thank you. It's another vice, I know, but it helps, at times like this.” With the one trembling hand he manipulated a cigarette paper and tobacco into an impossibly thin cigarette.
He reached into his pocket again and withdrew a sliver of wood that functioned as a match. Matt had told her prisoners could dissect a single house match into a dozen separate, functioning matches. That some men were so desperate for a smoke they lit used tea-bags. That one had even set fire to a broom handle and inhaled the fumes.
She watched the man before her with intense eyes, waiting for his response. Comforted by the cigarette, at last it came.
“Mrs Meadows, I don't ask that you try to understand. Especially after what you've been through. All I ask is that you believe me. I didn't kill your daughter, Mrs Meadows. I'm as appalled as anyone here by what happened to her.”
She stared into his eyes, looking for a trace of enjoyment. A sign that he was lying, that he was getting kicks out of her pain and sorrow. But all she saw was the pain and sorrow reflected.
62
“I know what you must think of me. Yes, I'm a pedophile. A child molester. A pervert. What I've done in the past is obscene. Depraved. Disgusting. I admit that. But I've never set out to hurt a child. You must believe me.”
Claire found herself wanting to believe him, this small, frightened, articulate man sat before her. Yet he'd just admitted to abusing children.
He dragged long and hard on the dwindling roll-up, blowing the smoke away in a long plume. “Mrs Meadows, I don't know what more I can say. Yes, I'm what you must think of as a sick pervert. Yes, I had a relationship with a child... Children... Many years ago. I don't deny that. It's the way I am. It's in my nature. But I'm not capable of murder. I've never harmed any child. Not in that way. The children I... My young friends... They meant as much to me as your daughter did to you, believe me.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending.
He said quietly, “Three young children have lost their lives. Everyone knows I had nothing to do with the second and third. How could I? I was incarcerated here at the time of their disappearance. The real killer is still out there somewhere. Still killing.”
Claire could feel the tears fighting for release. She struggled to maintain her composure. “They say you confessed?”
Bristow looked at her nervously, dragging on the remains of the cigarette. “I'm not a strong person, Mrs Meadows. You can see that just by looking at me. I've never been a strong person. When the pain becomes too great you'll do anything to stop it.” He held out his injured arm. “Do anything. Say anything. Sign anything.”
“You're saying the Police did that to you?”
The stub of the cigarette was burning his fingers. He sucked a final time before conceding defeat, stubbing the dog-end into the foil ashtray, unwrapping the remnant and tipping the isolated strands of unburned tobacco back into his pouch. He peered at her through the thick lenses, blinking.
“Mrs Meadows, all I ask is for you to believe me. To believe me when I say I never touched your daughter.”
She found herself wanting to. Wanting to so much. She said, “Give me one reason... Just one reason why I can.”
>
Bristow considered the request. “I'm a pedophile, Mrs Meadows. I'm sorry if that turns your stomach, but it’s true. I don't like it, believe me. I'd give my right arm to have a normal sex drive, to be satisfied with a normal adult relationship. But the good Lord saw fit to make me different. To make me lust after children. That's the way I am. And I have to live with the consequences.”
Claire held her breath, waiting for him to continue.
“To answer your question, yes, there is one over-riding reason why you can believe I didn't kill Rebecca. Yes, I'm a pedophile. Yes, I'm a filthy pervert. A depraved child-molester. A ChoMo. Call me what you will.”
He paused. “But I'm also homosexual. That's why you must believe I never touched your daughter.”
He looked calmly into her eyes.
“Mrs Meadows, I prefer little boys.”
63
Only two weeks had passed since his last visit, but already the changing season had begun to make its mark, the plush greenery of the Foundation's grounds slowly adopting more somber autumnal hues to mark fall.
He hesitated at the door, savoring a cigarette, waiting for the taxi to depart before pressing the button.
“I have an appointment, to see Dr Reynolds.”
The words hurt. After the last visit he had insisted on seeing Dr Quinlan personally, but making that appointment had proven impossible. It seemed Quinlan spent most of his time on the lecture circuit. He left it a few days, then opted for Reynolds again. The desires were stronger, he was sure of it. Maybe he was just more conscious of it, but it felt like they were stronger.
He couldn't take that risk. For the sake of the Dynamite Twins, Reynolds would have to do.
The secretary, who he remembered as answering to Molly, took him through, confirmed refreshments would follow, and advising that Dr Reynolds would join him shortly. She was just finishing with another client.
He wondered what the other client might be there for. What sordid secret life was he forced to lead? What obscene fantasies was he doing battle with?
He found himself at the bookshelf, browsing disinterestedly when Dr Quinlan's name caught his eye on the spine. He picked the book out and read off the title. Pedophilia: A New Perspective. He smiled to himself. No question of Dr Quinlan's expertise in such matters. He flicked through the pages with a shudder, then replaced the book, selecting another. Perversion or Paraphilia? A Positive Attitude to Sexual Deviancy. It was reassuring to know Dr Quinlan was such an authority.
He brushed back his hair with a cheap plastic comb, standing in front of the large mirror inset into the wall, adopting a selection of poses. He could do with a haircut.
Ruth Reynolds was thinking the same thing. She watched him thoughtfully through the two-way glass, her forefinger resting across pursed lips. A few more minutes and she'd go in. But this was instructive.
The door opened and Molly brought in a tray of coffee and cookies, with a foil ashtray beneath a serviette. She placed them carefully on the table. “Dr Reynolds is on her way now.”
He would have preferred a beer, but it didn't seem polite to say so. Maybe Reynolds would offer him one when she arrived. Ruth, he reminded himself. Ruth. Normally he preferred the informality of first name terms, but it didn't come easily with Reynolds.
Over salutations and small-talk they took the same seats as previously. Randall gulped the coffee down before even he'd finished his first cigarette. Maybe it would encourage her to offer something stronger. Right now he could do with a brandy. Two brandies. But he'd happily settle for a cold Bud.
“Molly said you were with another client?”
“As I stressed last time, you're not the only one with a problem, Greg,” Reynolds smiled robotically. “Without giving too much away, we've had a large number of enquiries recently. We always do after a public scare like this. There are a lot of men out there feeling the same as you do. Fighting the same impossible battle to control their thoughts and desires. Only a very few have the courage to do what you've done. To seek help.”
“Is this how it starts? Like me? Just looking, fantasizing?” He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.
Reynolds considered the question thoughtfully. “To be honest, Greg, we just don't know. It's possible. You yourself admit the progressive nature of your predicament. That the desires grow stronger with time. But I can assure you that, with therapy, the problem can be treated, if we catch it at an early enough stage.”
“Have you discussed my case with Dr Quinlan?”
“Not yet. He's been busy with other matters. As a leading authority in this field his services are in wide demand, especially just now.”
“I was looking at some of his books.” He gestured to the bookshelf. “I'd never have thought so much could be written about such an obscure subject. Mind you, I never really thought about this kind of thing at all until recently. “
“It's only when people encounter problems like this directly that they tend to become involved. Because of their own feelings, or because someone close to them has a problem. You still haven't told your wife, I presume?”
“I daren’t.”
“Sometimes it helps to have your partner on board, Greg. A problem shared...”
“She wouldn't understand.”
“Perhaps not. But fighting a problem alone can be harder still. Obviously you have the full support of Dr Quinlan and I, and you can call on us at any time, but when all is said and done we can't be there for you twenty-four hours a day. It helps to have someone to confide in at home. To be there to support you when the urge is strong and your will-power weak.”
“I couldn't. I don't know how Elizabeth would react. She might...”
“Take the children away?”
He nodded, unable to bring himself to voice the fear that haunted him.
“Let’s talk about you and Elizabeth first, if that's okay.”
It wasn't okay, but what choice did he have? He thought of Tamara and Natalie. That night in the bath. There could be no turning back. “I guess.”
“Would a beer help?”
“I thought you'd never ask.” He grinned at her, hoping he hadn't appeared rude, but she didn't reciprocate the smile. She was already churning the questions as she went to the drinks cabinet. This time there was a four-pack on ice inside, ready for him. Maybe she wasn't such a harridan after all.
“Greg, if we're to help you we need to know you at a very personal level. It's imperative that you answer honestly and openly. No secrets. Nothing held back. Now, how would you rate your sex-life?”
64
“My sex life?”
“With your wife Elizabeth, I mean.”
He popped the can and gulped down a few mouthfuls. Tact wasn't her strong point. He elected to play along. If she planned to embarrass him again she'd have to try harder than that. He'd been psyching himself for this all week.
“Pretty good, I guess.” He lit another cigarette.
“On a scale of one to ten?”
A brief pause. “Nine. I enjoy it. Elizabeth enjoys it. That's what counts.”
“How do you know? Does she tell you so?”
“Yes. But I can tell anyway. You know how it is.”
“No, Greg, only you know how it is. That's why I'm asking.” She sipped on her gin. “What do you do, exactly?”
“Accountancy.”
“With your wife, I mean.”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “Make love, of course. You know, the usual stuff.”
“Don't be embarrassed, Greg. Everyone does it, and everyone does it differently. I'm just trying to establish a background picture.”
“Sure.” He dragged on his cigarette. “We fuck. You know, in out, in out.”
“Is there much foreplay?”
“Sometimes. It varies.”
“I see. And you both enjoy it equally?”
“Sure.”
“You don't think perhaps your wife just says she does, to keep you happy?”
“
No!” The bitch! He'd never given it a second thought before. He knew he'd be wondering from now on. Every time.
“How old were you when you lost your virginity?”
He shrugged. “Sixteen. Fifteen, maybe. It was a long time ago. Yeah, fifteen.”
“You don't seem very sure. Most men remember it down to the last detail. It's a big event in their life, the first time. Part of their coming-of-age experience.”
He cast his mind back, trying to remember something over and done within a few minutes behind the school bleachers years ago.
“I was fifteen.”
“How old was she?”
He couldn't even remember her name. “Same age as me.”
“Fifteen?”
“Fourteen, maybe. Yeah, fourteen. We were just kids.” He realized what he'd said. “I mean she wasn't a little girl or anything. We were nearly adults.”
“Nearly adults? At fourteen?”
He glared at her.
“Were you attracted to younger girls at that time?”
“Not children, no. Younger as in thirteen, yeah, sure. When you're fifteen yourself that's pretty normal, isn't it?”
“It's not my job to say what's normal, Greg. Just to try and understand. Was it a bad experience?”
“What?”
“Your first time?”
Randall searched his memory. “It was all a bit of a rush. Lots of fumbling. You know how it is at that age.”
“Premature ejaculation?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I said so, didn't I?”
“What was her name?”
“I don't remember.” The name came to him from no-where. “Caroline.”
“Did you like her?”
“Of course, or I wouldn't have...”
“Let's go back further, Greg. To before Caroline.”
“Before? But she was the first.”
“Greg, you don't just suddenly have sex. It's something that develops. Maybe kissing, wandering hands. That sort of thing. Do you remember your puberty?”
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