My Husband's Wife

by Jane Corry

  His face hardens. ‘Didn’t prove. Just argued successfully. I’ve already told you. I didn’t touch her. She must’ve fallen in. The bruises must be from that.’

  ‘So why didn’t she get out again if the bath was so hot?’

  ‘Because … she … was … too … drunk.’

  He says each word slowly, with a long space in between, as though I need it spelling out.

  ‘If she’d let me run the bath for her, it wouldn’t have happened,’ he says again. He seems obsessed with this point. And something about his obsession makes me believe him. About this part anyway.

  ‘And don’t think I don’t feel guilty, because I do.’

  My skin begins to prickle.

  ‘I shouldn’t have left her there for so long. I should have checked on Sarah earlier. I was always so careful with her. But this one time …’

  Joe Thomas is clearly a control freak. But that doesn’t make him a murderer any more than the rest of us. Don’t I have to wash the floor every morning now before work, as part of my daily ritual? Daniel had to fold his bed sheets in at the corners, just so. My boss always hangs his coat in a certain way by the door of his office. Joe Thomas likes to position his scrap of paper dead centre on the desk between us. (He would like a proper pad, he’s already told me. But supplies are short in prison.)

  ‘You need to do things your way,’ I say softly, ‘because then things won’t go wrong.’

  He glares. ‘So?’

  ‘It’s OK. I understand.’

  He stares at me as if willing me to look away. If I do, he will think I’ve just said this to make him confide in me.

  But something’s still niggling.

  ‘If the boiler was faulty, why didn’t you find out the next time you turned it on?’

  ‘I’d been arrested by then, hadn’t I?’

  Stupid me.

  ‘And the people who moved in after you? Didn’t they realize the water was boiling?’

  He shrugs. ‘They re-kitted the bathroom – boiler and all, apparently. You would, wouldn’t you, if someone had died there?’

  ‘So when did you realize there may have been a manufacturing problem?’

  ‘A few weeks ago, someone sent me these figures in the post, along with a single word – “boiler”.’

  ‘Who sent them?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’m not bad at figures. I did my research in the prison library and reckoned this was the answer.’ His eyes shine. ‘They’ve got to believe me this time. I’m not the one who’s responsible for Sarah’s death.’ His voice shakes as he looks at me.

  I consider this. Anonymous tip-offs, we were told in law school, were sometimes given to both lawyers and criminals. Usually by people who had a grudge against someone else or who wanted to push a particular issue. Is it feasible that someone in the boiler industry wants justice?

  I stand up.

  ‘Where are you going?’ His plea is almost childlike; vulnerable. It reminds me of the Italian child with her thick black curls and eyebrows that belong, surely, to a teenager rather than a nine-year-old.

  ‘I need to find a brief. A barrister who will take on our case.’

  A slow smile breaks out over Joe Thomas’s face. ‘So you think we have one, do you?’

  I have my hand on the handle. A prison officer is waiting outside, staring through the glass pane set in the middle of the door. His narrowing eyes indicate extreme disapproval at my plan to relieve the prison of one more inmate.

  ‘We might,’ I say cautiously, ‘providing what you’re saying checks out. But no more games. We need to work on this together. Promise?’

  Promise, said Daniel, towards the end.

  Promise? I said to Carla, when I asked her not to steal again.

  ‘Promise,’ Joe Thomas now says.

  We go out of the room. The officer looks at his watch. ‘Can you sign yourself out,’ he says curtly. ‘I need to be somewhere else.’

  I find myself walking down the corridor towards the office, side by side with my client.

  We pass a large man in an orange tracksuit. ‘Still on for this afternoon?’ he says to Joe.

  ‘Three p.m. on the dot,’ he says. ‘In the community lounge. Looking forward to it.’ Then Joe turns to me. ‘Table football.’

  When I first came here, the officer had described Joe as arrogant, but that exchange had sounded quite friendly. It gives me the courage to bring up something that’s been worrying me.

  ‘How did you know on my first visit that I’d just got married?’

  He shrugs. ‘I always read The Times every day from cover to cover. I have a photographic memory, Lily. Macdonald is an army name. It comes up every now and then.’

  Even though I’d first introduced myself to Joe (according to my boss’s instructions) as Lily Macdonald, I feel the urgent need to put some distance between us here. Tell him to refer to me from now on as Mrs Macdonald in a bid to stop him getting personal. Despite the thoughts that are coming into my head.

  Luckily, unlike sugar, Sellotape, crisps and sharp implements, I can hide them all.

  I have to.

  10

  Carla

  THEEF.

  They had spelled it wrong. Carla knew that because she had skipped ahead to the ‘T’s in the Children’s Dictionary.

  If she screamed loud enough, Carla told herself, Charlie would be made whole again. Just like Jesus was, even after they’d put the nails in. The priest had told them about it at Mass last Easter. (She and Mamma didn’t go to church very often, although Mamma prayed all the time. Mamma said there were some things that even God couldn’t understand.)

  THEEF.

  If she continued to scream, those horrid red letters would disappear and Charlie’s poor ripped body would suddenly become whole like our blessed Lord’s. That missing black eye would be back where it belonged, and he would wink at her. Did you think I would leave you? he would say.

  And then she’d hold him to her and his soft green fur would make her feel good again.

  But the screaming wasn’t working. Not like it did in the flat when she wanted something and Mamma would give in because the walls were thin or because the man with the shiny car was coming round any minute.

  ‘What on earth is going on?’

  A tall, thin, wiry woman marched into the classroom. Carla didn’t like this teacher. She had a habit of pulling off her spectacles and looking at you as if she knew – really knew – what you were thinking. ‘Is that what you’re crying about?’ The teacher – who had a thin bony nose – pointed to Charlie’s remains. ‘This old thing?’

  Carla’s gulps spilled out over each other. ‘It’s not an old thing. It’s Charlie. My caterpillar. Someone’s stabbed him. Look.’

  ‘Stabbed? What a melodramatic word!’ The glasses were coming off. They stared at her from the teacher’s hand. Two pairs of glass eyes made of blue metal.

  ‘Now stop crying.’

  ‘Charlie. CHARLIE!’

  Too late. The horrible teacher had yanked him out of her hands and walked away. Then the school bell sounded and a tide of children poured into the classroom, including a girl who’d been friendly with Kevin, the boy who used to own Charlie.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ Carla hissed, waving the felt-tip note in front of her.

  The girl looked at it briefly. ‘Thief,’ she said loudly. ‘That’s what you are. We know what you did.’

  ‘Thief, thief,’ said someone else.

  Then they were all doing it. ‘Thief, thief. Carla Spagoletti is a thief!’

  The chanting made her head scream inside.

  ‘What’s all that noise?’ The bony-nosed teacher was back.

  ‘What have you done with my Charlie?’ sobbed Carla.

  ‘If you’re talking about that broken old pencil case, it’s in the dustbins outside. I’m sure your mother will buy you another. Now behave yourself, young lady, or I will give you detention.’

  Charlie wasn’t really dead. I
nstead, he was mixed up with eggshells and Brussels sprout peelings and teabags. Carla had to dig deep into the bin to find him, and by the time she did, her uniform was stained and smelly.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she whispered. ‘It will be all right.’ Then carefully, very carefully, she held him in her arms while waiting around the corner for Mamma. (If she’d stayed at the school gates, someone would have wanted to know what she was doing there.)

  It didn’t matter that Charlie wasn’t speaking. She only had to wait for three days and then he would be all right again. It would be the same for all of them. The priest had said so.

  But now, the more she shifted from one foot to another, the more Carla began to wonder if she and Mamma had missed each other. All the other children had gone home. Even the teachers.

  The sky was dark. It would nearly be winter in the valley at home. The cold months there, Mamma often said wistfully, were wonderful! There was always a fire with loved ones sitting round it. Their sing-songs and their arms warmed you up, sent fire through your belly. Not like here where the greedy electric meter gobbled up coins.

  Start walking. At first, Charlie’s voice was so soft that she hardly heard it. Then it got louder.

  ‘I knew you’d get better,’ she said, gently stroking his poor torn, stained fur.

  But which way should she go? Maybe right at the crossroads. Now where was she? Perhaps she ought to go left now. Usually, when Mamma met her, they danced along the pavements so fast that it was hard to keep track of the lefts and the rights and the lefts again. They would chatter too about their day. (‘There is this new perfume, my little one. My manageress, she has lent me a brand-new bottle to try it out. Smell it! What do you think?’)

  And she would tell Mamma about hers while crossing her fingers. (‘I got top marks in maths again.’)

  They’d passed a park now. Was it a different one from the park near their home? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe if they went on, she might spot the shop where she and Mamma sometimes stopped to look at the magazines. ‘You must buy if you want to look,’ the man at the counter would tell them. But so far, there was no sign of the man or his shop. Carla felt her chest tighten and her palms sweat. Where were they?

  Look, whispered Charlie weakly. Over there.

  A shiny car! The same blue shiny car that sometimes parked outside their flat on a Tuesday or Thursday evening and sometimes on a Sunday.

  But today was Monday.

  It is Larry, whispered Charlie again. See the hat?

  But the woman sitting next to him was not Mamma. Her hair was even blonder than Lily’s – yellowy white – and her lipstick was bright red.

  Now Larry was pressing the lady’s lips hard. The teacher had shown them a film about that. If someone stopped breathing, you had to make your own breath mix with theirs to give them life.

  Feverishly, Carla knocked on the window of the car. ‘Are you all right?’

  Instantly, the yellow-white-haired woman and Larry sprang apart. There was red on his mouth too. Carla felt her heart pounding.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he shouted.

  It was a loud shout that came through the window even though it was closed. It hurt her ears.

  ‘I’m lost.’ Carla didn’t mean to cry, but now that she was safe, she could admit she’d been scared walking down those roads, in the dark. ‘Charlie made me late and Mamma wasn’t at the gate. I think she may have gone home. Or else she is late from work again …’

  ‘What’s she saying, Larry love?’

  Only then did Carla realize she had lapsed into the mother language.

  ‘Wait there.’

  For a minute, Carla thought that Larry was speaking to her. But then she saw he was addressing the red-mouthed lady. Suddenly, she found herself being marched away from the car towards the corner of the road. ‘What did you see? Tell me.’

  His voice sounded different from Tuesdays and Thursdays and the sometimes-Sundays. It was hard, like old skin on your foot which you had to smooth off every evening, just as Mamma did with a grey stone in the shower. (‘Only the English take baths, my little one. So dirty!’)

  Carla’s mouth was so dry that it took time for the words to come out. ‘I saw you pushing your mouth against that woman’s. Your lips are all red, like hers.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ His grip on her arm was getting tighter.

  Carla felt herself getting more scared. ‘Like the stuff on your collar,’ she whispered.

  He glanced down and wiped away the red smear. His breath was so close that she could smell the whisky in his mouth. Sometimes, Mamma did not eat dinner so that they could afford to buy Larry’s whisky. It was important. A man needed to feel welcomed. Whisky and dancing. And in return, the rent would be paid. The electric meter would be sorted. Larry had paid the phone bill again. It is worth it, cara mia. Trust me.

  ‘Hah!’ Then his face came close to hers. She could see the hairs in his nose. ‘Very clever,’ he said, marching her fast along the pavement. ‘If you’re so clever, Carla, why don’t you tell me what little present I can buy you. So we don’t have to tell your mother about today.’

  Remember, whispered Charlie. Remember the film?

  Of course. She and Mamma had watched a story on television the other night. It had been late and she hadn’t been able to sleep. So she’d crept out of bed and snuggled up with Mamma on the sofa. The film had been about a young boy who had seen a couple stealing from a shop. The couple had given him money for not saying anything.

  This is the same, whispered Charlie. It’s called blackmail.

  ‘Is this blackmail?’ she asked now.

  Larry’s face began to break out in tiny beads of water. ‘Don’t play games. What do you want?’

  That was easy. She held out Charlie. ‘Make him better.’

  He frowned. ‘What is it?’

  ‘My caterpillar. Someone hurt him.’

  The grip on her arm started again. ‘I will buy you anything you want if you keep your mouth shut.’

  Anything? Carla felt a tingle of excitement.

  ‘This is what we will do.’ The grip was marching her back to the car. ‘I will take you home. And on the way, we will stop off at a toy shop. I will tell your mother that I found you wandering the streets after school and bought you a present. In return, you won’t mention anything else. And I mean anything … You don’t want to upset your mother, do you?’

  Carla shook her head firmly. Side to side. So that her curls hit her face in agreement.

  He opened the car door. ‘Out.’ This last word was directed at the yellow-white-haired woman in the front seat.

  ‘But, Larry, what –’

  ‘I said out.’

  Larry reversed so hard that his car hit a stone pillar by the side of the road. Then he cursed all the way home as if it was Carla’s fault instead of his own impatience.

  ‘You found her. You found my precious one,’ her mother wailed when they got home. ‘I was so worried. She was not there at the school gate so I thought she had gone ahead and …’

  Quietly, Carla left her mother to embrace Larry, and crept into her room. In her bag was a new Charlie to replace the old.

  The priest had been wrong. It didn’t take three days for someone to come to life again.

  It took three hours.

  My head hurts.

  My thoughts are confused.

  Sometimes I think I am fifteen years younger.

  Sometimes I think I am not here at all, but looking down at everything that is still happening.

  Perhaps there really is such a thing as resurrection.

  But not as we’re taught in church.

  Maybe it’s the chance to do it all again. Right this time.

  Or maybe this is just the rambling of a dying soul.

  Never to return again.

  11

  Lily

  BOILING BATH KILLER LAUNCHES APPEAL FROM PRISON

  Joe Thomas, who was sentenced to life in 1998,
is to appeal against his conviction for murder. Thomas claims that his girlfriend Sarah Evans died as the result of a faulty boiler.

  Miss Evans’s parents described themselves as ‘shocked’ when they heard the news. ‘That man took our little girl away from us,’ said Geoff Evans, a 54-year-old teacher from Essex. ‘He deserves to rot in hell.’

  Mrs Evans, 53, is currently undergoing chemotherapy for breast cancer.

  My boss sucks in his breath as he scans the story on page two of today’s Times. ‘So! They’re baying for your blood already. You’re sure about your brief?’

  ‘Absolutely. Tony Gordon has agreed to do it pro bono like us. Says it could be a case of national importance.’

  My boss makes a ‘well, what do you know?’ face.

  ‘I don’t want a woman,’ Joe had said firmly. ‘No disrespect meant. Juries might like to watch a woman strut around and imagine what’s under her dress. But it’s a man’s argument that will sway them.’

  I swallowed my response to that.

  ‘I’ve seen him in court a few times,’ I assured my client. ‘Tony can play the crowds.’

  It helps too that he’s handsome – in some ways, he reminds me of Richard Burton – with a gift for making female jurors feel as though they’re the only ones in the room, and for making male jurors feel privileged to be entrusted with the life of the man in the dock.

  With any luck, he’ll pull the rabbit out of the hat. First, apparently, we have to make an application to the CCRC, the Criminal Cases Review Commission, for leave to appeal. If it thinks there are grounds, it will refer the case to the Court of Appeal. If the latter allows the appeal, says Tony, we’ll seek a re-trial. Meanwhile, he’s confident enough to ‘do quite a lot of spadework’ first to save time. The courts are rushing cases through at the moment. We need to be prepared.

  I return to my desk to continue my briefing notes for Tony. I’m meant to share the room with another newly qualified solicitor, or NQ as we’re known for short. But my colleague, a young man fresh from Oxford, is ill with stress.

  It’s common in law. So easy to make a mistake. To let clients down. To let the firm down. And all the time we have the constant fear of being sued hanging over us for inadvertently making a mistake. It reminds me of something that one of my tutors once said to us in the first year. ‘Believe it or not, the law isn’t always just. Some will get away with it. Some will go to prison for crimes they didn’t commit. And a certain percentage of those “innocents” will have got away with other crimes before. So you could say it balances out in the end.’