SHADOWS OF REGRET: If your life was ruined, would you seek redemption or take revenge?

by Ross Greenwood

  I battled with the gas fire, having to ignite it three times to get it to stay lit, and allowed myself a smile, and some peace perhaps. My pyjamas began to burn my skin, so I left the warmth and built individual piles with the presents. Mine towered over theirs. Perhaps it was a good day to recall Billy’s cheeky face. For the first time since I arrived, I felt like I belonged.

  I sat in the glow of the fire for hours. Gwyn woke and had a cigarette. Her coughing seemed to increase afterwards, so I wasn’t sure why she persisted with that habit. She had emphysema. I read it on the leaflets she brought back from the hospital. At least they'd stopped smoking those funny-smelling cigarettes as they gave me a headache.

  Jack said Gwyn’s health stopped them having children. I thought that was for the best as, since I started living with them, she did little except smoke, watch television and drink fizzy pop. They got together at school nearly thirty years ago but oddly had different surnames.

  Jack was my dad’s elder brother. He told me my dad called him ‘Idle Jack’, and they only ever saw each other at Christmas and birthdays. Mum didn’t like him much, said he was a bad influence. That’s weird, because he was such good fun, almost like a clown. Sometimes happy, occasionally grumpy, but never scary.

  Jack came downstairs as the doorbell rang. He swaggered past me.

  ‘Maybe it’s Santa Claus, bringing the rest of the presents.’

  He’d changed, from being the kind of huge six-foot-tall tramp that ate a pound of sausages at a time and played computer games all night, into a man who went to work each day. He was slimmer, cleaner, smarter and happier. Turns out he was a talented electrician. Having said that, he seemed greyer of late, like he was exhausted. He took my hand, and we opened the door together.

  ‘Hey, Bethany, we weren’t expecting you today.’

  ‘I was driving by, had some presents, and wanted to drop them off.’

  It was my social worker. She had been brilliant. To start with, she’d worried that it would be more me looking after them. I somehow felt she was responsible for my uncle’s transformation, too.

  ‘Here you are, Katie. I heard you like dollies.’

  I thanked her and gave her a curtsey which made her laugh.

  ‘You can go off and open that one. Show Gwyn.’

  They always tried to get rid of me. I vacated the room but left the door ajar and listened.

  ‘You didn’t have to come around.’

  ‘I wanted to. You’re doing great.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel like it. There aren’t enough hours in the day to do a job, run this place, look after those two. I’m knackered by eight most nights.’

  ‘That little girl is a credit to you. You know what the alternative is.’

  ‘She’ll never go to a children’s home while I have anything to do with it.’

  ‘I’ve just been at one. The kids are safe, and there’s love in those places nowadays. It isn't the seventies, but it is clunky. They aren’t nurtured. I suppose there isn’t the time. It’s sad. We know children in care are more likely to end up homeless and in prison. You supporting her through this trauma is priceless. You’re a good man.’

  ‘I'm a bad man. Come here. Thanks for the gifts.’

  She sounded upset and made a lot of strange noises. I remembered my other presents and returned to Gwyn. She was struggling back from the toilet with her stick. Despite her poor health, she remained content most of the time. Yet, on this day, of all days, she was sad.

  ‘Let’s open some, Gwyn.’

  ‘Let me have a rest, pet. What do you think that big'un is?’

  I looked at the bike knowingly. ‘I’m sure it’s a hippo.’

  ‘That’s right. It is. A pink hippo. If you ride it to school, try not to squash anyone.’

  ‘Can I open it now?’

  ‘Of course.’

  It felt like unwrapping an orange, so thoroughly had Jack covered it. Each piece was a joy to remove. I uncovered a red unisex cycle. The one I’d pointed at in a book a while back. Afterwards, I left it leaning against the sofa, and took my new dolly to Gwyn’s lap where I sat with a contented smile.

  6

  Cambridge

  The train pulls into Cambridge station and I’m the last to get off. I follow the crowd out of the exit and hate the hustle as they barge and tut. Who should I ask for directions? Everyone looks so stressed. Life has moved on and no one told me. People rush, staring at small computers and mobile phones, as though they are waiting for instructions, or orders. I step away from it all and put my things down next to a man with a sign asking for spare change for food.

  ‘Just got out?’ he asks.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘The box and the bag. That’s what I leave prison with. Your face is the real giveaway, though. This world makes you run, not walk. It’s quite a shock after being inside.’

  A woman with a pushchair throws some coins into his bowl with a wink and tells him to get a Happy Meal. Her daughter sticks her tongue out and giggles. She leans out of the buggy to look at me as they disappear into the station.

  ‘Not everyone’s crazy. Where are you heading?’

  ‘Brookfield Avenue.’

  ‘The probation hostel?’

  ‘Well, they called it an approved premises.’

  Yet again, he frowns as he considers what I may have done.

  ‘It’s down there. Follow that road, and after a while take the fourth on your right. Got any change?’

  ‘That lady just gave you the equivalent of six hours’ wages in the prison sewing room. Perhaps you should give me some money.’

  The emotion leaves his face like a sink draining. He stares at the coins he’s received today and pulls his baseball cap over his eyes.

  I smile. Now, this behaviour is familiar. I’m tempted to kick his bowl as I walk by, but it’s only a fleeting thought.

  I follow his directions and, although my things are heavy and unwieldy, I can’t help feeling excited. Everything looks vivid. Vehicles, houses, people, even the pavement’s unevenness is distracting. I turn into Brookfield Avenue and I’m surprised that the street is normal, nice in fact. I arrive at a suburban detached house and presume there’s been a mistake. The curtain twitches and I know there hasn’t.

  ‘Welcome, Katie. My name’s Sally.’ A big lady smiles warmly at me from the open door. ‘Come in, I’ve got the kettle on.’

  I edge into my new home.

  She ushers me into a bright kitchen and points at a seat. I wasn’t expecting this normality. The tea she puts in front of me is too milky, but I spoon three sugars in and wait.

  ‘Katie. This is an independent approved premises. I don’t know what they told you, so I’ll start from the beginning. If you have questions, please interrupt.’ I blink, so she continues. ‘Places like this are a half-way house between prison and home. Their purpose is to help rehabilitate and resettle some of our most serious offenders, and to make sure we protect the public in the offenders’ early months in the community.

  ‘The public are not generally aware of the locations, but the neighbours are. We accept some of the highest risk individuals when they are released from prison, so you have a responsibility to ensure no one has reason to resent us being in their neighbourhoods.

  ‘Here, you will receive a structured re-entry back into normal life. You’ve been allocated a probation officer who’ll be here at three this afternoon. I understand you haven’t decided where to live yet. Tim Thorn is from this area. He will manage your re-integration. You need to maintain an honest and professional relationship with him.

  ‘I am your key worker here, and I will offer support and advice during your residency. I may be able to help with jobs, benefits and housing. You’ll probably be here for three months; certainly no longer than six months. I’ll help to involve you in purposeful activities and programmes including education, training and employment; accommodation; drugs and alcohol rehabilitation; life skills; practical skills; and thinki
ng skills.

  ‘Reintegration and resettlement are our primary goals. This establishment accommodates up to four females. There is one other woman here already, and in a month we are expecting two more. We have decorators in over the next few weeks and an overhaul of the heating, so there may be some disruption.

  ‘You can lock yourself in your room but we also have a key. We don’t expect to have to use it. The front door is bolted at all times and is the only way in or out. There will always be two members of staff present. You’ll meet the rest of the team soon. There is a communal fridge and we encourage you ladies to eat together, but it’s your call. You have a lot of decisions; we’ll help you make the right ones. Any questions?’

  ‘Around a million.’

  She laughs in a manner that says she’s heard it all before but still enjoys it.

  ‘Your probation officer will state your restrictions. No alcohol is allowed here and obviously no drugs. If your offence is linked to alcohol, you’ll be prohibited from having any at all and will be tested to confirm you are obeying the rules. There is a curfew at eleven o’clock, and you will need to sign in at pre-determined points throughout the day. At the start, that may be as many as five times daily. You’ll be given more and more rope, so to speak, as the months go by, until we believe you are ready to leave.

  ‘There can be troubled individuals here, so treat each other with respect. Violence is not tolerated and will result in an immediate recall to prison. Let me show you to your room.’

  I follow her up creaky stairs to a landing with four doors.

  ‘That’s the bathroom for you and the other two on this floor to share when they arrive. The room upstairs has a girl called Tammy in it. She has her own shower.’

  More stairs go up to a small dark landing, which I assume is the attic. I hear light footsteps patter across the ceiling and what might be laughter. I’m glad I’m not up there.

  ‘This is your room.’

  It’s bare and clean. An open window lets in freezing air. I wonder who slept in that thin bed before me. A single wardrobe leans in the corner near a wooden table and a rickety chair. There’s nothing else except a hard-wearing carpet.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon make it your own.’

  ‘What did Tammy do?’

  ‘We don’t gossip about people’s crimes here. However, Tammy spent time inside for arson. In this case, for obvious reasons, it’s pertinent that you are aware.’

  ‘Do you know what I did?’

  ‘Yes, they told me what you were convicted of. I’ll discuss that with you and anything else later. I’ll be downstairs when you are ready for a chat. Relax, have a shower, sleep, do what you like, you’re free.’

  The door closes behind her and I feel very alone. Despite sometimes reading a dictionary during endless long hours inside, I’m not entirely sure what pertinent means. It seems I’m to be monitored more closely than in prison. My eyes stray to the sounds above me. I consider if I’ve left one prison to come to another.

  7

  Imprisoned Still

  I lie on the bed without sleeping and stare out the window; it’s strange to look through one with no bars. There is an entire world beyond, but I choose to stay in my room. As dark thoughts bubble, I plod downstairs and find Sally doing a crossword.

  ‘Come in, sit down. Do you want a drink, maybe some juice?’

  ‘Sure. I’m hungry, too. Is there a shop nearby?’

  ‘We have the basics here. There’s a mini-supermarket around the corner on the right. I’ll cook you some beans first if you like.’

  She plonks a tumbler of orange on the table and I take a sip. It’s chilled and tastes amazing. There are no fridges in prison cells, so I’m used to it lukewarm. The glass clunks against my teeth and I recall the blue rubber beakers I left behind.

  As my lunch arrives, a long-forgotten memory surfaces of beans on toast being slid in front of me by someone busy. The cutlery is heavy, not plastic, and scrapes on the porcelain. I eat slowly, savouring the sensations.

  Sally smiles. She knows.

  Afterwards, I sit and watch television in the lounge. There are a crazy number of channels. They disorientate me as, judging by the wide range of clothes and hairstyles, they could be current shows or from years ago. I hop through them until the doorbell sounds.

  ‘Tim’s arrived. You can chat in here.’

  ‘Hi, Katie. Tim Thorn, probation.’ He takes a chair opposite and appraises me.

  I do the same. He’s good-looking, mid-thirties with a full head of black hair. His clothes look expensive although they could just be new.

  He grins and something long dormant stirs inside me.

  He talks about my licence. I have to see him every three days to start with. He’ll come here next time, but after that I must sign in at his office in town. There are many guidelines, more than inside. I can drink but any drunkenness would be frowned upon. I expect him to tell me breaking wind would result in my return to custody. Most of the girls I met inside wouldn’t last an hour. I have only one question.

  ‘What happens if I get recalled?’

  ‘If you break any of the rules or the law, the police will arrest you. Depending on the time of the day, they may take you to the police station, or they’ll just drive you back to prison. You received a life sentence, Katie. You’ll always be vulnerable to this happening.

  ‘If you return to prison, you must sit before another parole board to get out again. Even failing to keep your appointments with me will lead to six months locked up. Over a year is likely for missing an appointment without a good reason, many years for serious breaches. I hold a lot of power over you, Katie. Remember that. Do as I say, and there won’t be any problems.’

  I hate the way he says that. I fear the look in his eyes. When he’s gone, I feel trapped and ask Sally if it’s okay to go out. She laughs and tells me requesting permission isn’t necessary anymore. I fail to smile as my mind raises dreadful suspicions.

  The walk to the small supermarket lifts my spirits. I expect people to stare at me, but of course they don’t. Food crams the shelves as I pace up and down the aisles. The astronomical prices start my heart pounding. Two pounds for a tiny individual slice of cheesecake. I’d have to buff the wing for a day to earn that. It won’t leave my thoughts, and I keep circling back. I need to have it.

  The shopkeeper gives me nervous glances. I’m not surprised. I pick the little box up and wave at him. This is going to be my first purchase. I disregard the cigarette prices behind him. The girls inside always complained about them. There are few things I can control, so that habit will remain in my cell. I hand over the money to a relieved man. Back at the house, Sally lets me in with a questioning expression.

  ‘All okay?’

  ‘Yes, good.’

  The dilemma hits me in the kitchen as I select a suitable spoon. Inside, I’d rarely share a treat like this. After staring at it for a few seconds, I find a surprisingly sharp knife, cut it in half, and leave one piece on a plate for Sally. I shout through to her in the office that it’s there and run up the stairs. There’s still no sign of the arsonist, Tammy, from above.

  The cake, to my amazement, tastes better than I expected, leaving me wide-eyed and lip-smacking. I wonder if I’ve eaten cheesecake before today. It is lucky I left half downstairs, or I’d have been sick.

  I empty my box and bag out and put my things away. The insignificant trip to the shop was mentally exhausting, and the nerves of the past few days catch up with me. The narrow mattress is way too soft, like lying on a jelly. The duvet cover smells clean and fresh, but I struggle to settle. I remind myself that it’s just a different pillow to lay my head on. I’m used to that. There have been so many, and there’ll be more.

  The last place I could call a proper home was with Jack and Gwyn. I became happy and secure there. They created an environment where I could be a child, but that was a long, long time ago.

  8

  The Third Memory - A
ge Eight

  The church was dark and the faces bleak; they matched my future.

  ‘We meet here today to honour and pay tribute to the life of Jack Blake, and to express our love and admiration for him. Also, to try to bring comfort to those of his family and friends who are here and have been deeply hurt by his sudden death.’

  Mourners were scattered around the crematorium chapel pews. Only Bethany, the social worker, sat beside me on the front bench, though. Gwyn shrank in her wheelchair next to me. Bethany was devastated which felt strange as she only knew him through work. She sobbed enough for everyone.

  A stunned Gwyn stared forward. It was devastating news for her, too. Worse in fact. My future had the possibility of hope, hers only pain. A strangled cough or cry from her, I can’t recall which, broke down my walls and, hand-in-hand, we shed our worried tears together.

  The house was empty without Jack. Before, his large presence lingered even when he wasn’t there. We had a week to cope while they conducted the autopsy. Heart failure caused his death. An electrician fell off the scaffolding but a dead man hit the concrete below.

  It was soon clear we wouldn’t be able to manage. I was too young and clueless to be the woman of the house. Gwyn too poorly and frail. Even though I’d grown up having to look after myself, it became obvious how much Jack had done. With him gone, the washing machine belched water over the floor and we struggled to control the central heating.

  Everyone left quickly after the service. Bethany drove us to our house in silence and pushed Gwyn into the lounge.

  ‘Let’s take a walk, Katie.’

  We shuffled along the path in the warm sunshine. Bethany cried again. A deserted playground beckoned, so we sat next to each other on a swing.

  ‘We’ve found a place for you in a children’s home in Peterborough. I didn’t want you to go into emergency foster care. Sadly, it’s plain to see that you can’t stay with Gwyn.’

  ‘Is that the care system?’