by Sarah Till
I nod.
'Are you sexually active?'
I shake my head. I can't tell her about Jer. It wouldn't be right, to break a confidence. Another secret.
'No.'
'So you don't have casual sex. Or you haven't been sexually abused on your travels?'
I stare at her.
'Travels? I live in Tintagel.'
'Yes. I know that, but one of the witness reports on your theft case says you're out and about every day, all over the place. Not safe, you know, Lizzie. Especially now, what with all the problems in Tintagel. You know. The murders.'
'I've got a route I follow. A route. That keeps me safer than anything. Safe. It is, you know. Tintagel is the safest place for me, because I know that I can't be found out.' She's suddenly interested. 'Top Secret.'
'Have you done something, Lizzie? Have you committed other crimes?'
I shake my head.
'No Not crimes. Just secrets. You know, family secrets. Like Andrew and his kids. Family.'
She shuts the file again.
'OK. I'm going to arrange for you to see our counsellor. She's very nice, and I think she can help you with some of your issues. The thing is, I can't arrange it unless you say it's OK. I need your permission. To be assessed.'
I snort.
'Assessed? For what?'
'For mental health issues, Lizzie. I know you're coherent and I know you must have a lot to put up with, what with your son and all that, but your life doesn't have to be like this, you know. Someone can help you.'
'Help me to what? Get back to what I was? Unhappy. A least I'm free now. People like me. That's what my friend says.'
'So you've got a friend. Good. So can I refer you? Is that OK?'
It doesn't have to be like this. So how can it be then? Because from where I'm standing it's the next to last option. I've slowly gone from happy young teenager to teetering right on the edge of life. It's not until you stand on the outside you get to see everything that goes on. I suppose it's similar to Zen, which I looked up in the library because Jer mentioned it. Kind of detached and looking at something from an observer's point of view. You get to see the games people play, the way they manipulate things to get their own way. Julia played it one way to get me to move out of the village, Alice played it another way; their intentions were different but the end result would have been the same. It's almost as if I'm so different to everyone else now that they feel almost an obligation to drag me back to normality. And I can see this for what it is, just another way to manoeuvre me. What harm can it do? I've no idea if I am mentally ill. All I know is that I'm at the centre of a lot of people's stories, some of them stretching back centuries.
'OK.'
I sign the form and push it back across the table.
'Good. She's very nice, Lizzie. And we're going to try to get you a court date where both the charges are heard at the same time. Much better for you that way.'
I fiddle with my buttons and brush my hair back. It's very warm in here and I can smell my own body odour. This is a sign that it must be very bad, because usually I wonder why people have crossed the street. The cuts on my feet are starting to itch now and I can feel beads of sweat trickling down my back.
'I can't believe this is happening to me.'
I don't know if I said it to the room, the universe or just to Joanne, but it was the first time in a very long time I had spoken words that were not an answer to a question. I surprised myself. In a way, it was freeing, because it was a way of releasing the tension that had been in my body since I first argued with Julia. Joanne obviously thought I was talking to her, because she looked sad.
'As long as you stay out of trouble, Lizzie, it will pass.'
'But I never asked for trouble. Julia hates me. My own son hates me. Probably other people who I don't even know hate me. But it's not like I've meant to do anything. It's just happened.'
She walks around the table and, despite the fact that I smell really bad and am wet with perspiration, she puts her arm around my shoulders.
'It's your birthday, isn't it? Come on. You'll get the best of the cells, but first, I'll get you some shower gel and you can have a nice long shower.'
'With warm water?'
'Hot water. As much as you like. Then you can dry your hair.'
She leads me up long corridors and in a lift, and we're let into the cells by a tall, young man.
'Can you get Lizzie a cup of tea, Lee? Put it in cell 18 when she's ready.' She turns to me. 'I'll get you some toast later.'
We're at the bathroom now and I wait for her while she skips off somewhere. She comes back with a tube of strawberry shower gel, some liquid soap and a loofa. She places a pile of clothes on the side.
'Some stuff from the lost property. Thank God for Primark, eh? Throwaway society?'
I get undressed and pull a cream terry dressing gown around me. She takes away my clothes, telling me she'll wash them and bring them back. I wait for a while then turn on the shower. It reminds me of my marital home, and the black and white tiles of the Victorian bathroom, a gentlemen's room. Nothing about that house was feminine, and nothing about police cells are either. I dip my fingers underneath the warmth and immediately feel happy. In all these years I swum in the sea and stood naked under a cold hose in my garden, but I've never had a proper shower. Most people take it for granted, but I marvel now at how these certain elements of equipment and power come together to do this: warm water flowing out of a tap over someone's head. And the opportunity to control the temperature. It's pure luxury.
I step underneath the water and the warmth envelopes me. The shower gel smells good and I squish it through my fingers. Dirt flakes from my nails and I see the pinkness of the water as it washes over my bloody toes. I wash my hair, scratching my scalp and I taste the salt first, running down my cheeks from the sea water coating, then the gritty sand ingrained sand, then the bubbles. Next, the loofa, scraping away at the hair on my arms and legs, rubbing my floppy white breasts until I am sure I am clean. Then again, just to make absolutely sure. One foot, then the other, sore but necessary. I don't want to leave. I want to stay under the shower forever in the warm. It makes me afraid of going back to the garden and the shed, and of the winter. I know I've tried to avoid the warmth, because it's a slice of happiness I can ill afford to remember when the blackness comes.
Finally, I get out and dry myself. I'm tired and hungry. I pull on the elasticised slacks and t-shirt that Joanne brought, and dry my hair with the prison issue dryer. There's a brush, and I brush out the knots and look at the whiteness in between what is left of the copper strands in the mirror. Stretched and dried, it's waist length. My skin looks a little plumper than the other day, but there are more broken veins. My hair is in exactly the same style as it was when I was fifteen. It strikes me that nothing really has changed since then. More experience, but the same way of coping with things. Top Secret, like I told Joanne. I'd never had a chance to explain the things that had happened to me, mainly because there was no one who cared. I sit in the warm, steamy bathroom and wonder what the counsellor will ask me? What she will want to know? Nothing will change. As far as I can see, it will always be like this. Desperation, punctuated with the odd treat, like a discarded doughnut or a warm shower every decade. The spectre of 'how many decades have I left' starts to descend, but I blow it away, knowing that we must be careful what we wish for.
I knock on the door and Lee comes to let me out of the bathroom. We walk along a corridor lined with steel doors; not what I imagine, no bars, but this is not jail. Not yet. He opens the cell and locks me in. At first it's frightening, but after a while I begin to think it's not that unlike a Travel Lodge I stayed in once on a weekend in Blackpool with Stan and Andrew. The bed has an actual mattress, and I feel my excitement mounting as I look forward to sleeping somewhere that I defiantly won't be disturbed, where no one can come looking for a piece of my past. Not that I mind the little birds pecking at my roof in spring, knowing th
ere will be crumbs for them. Or foxes scurrying behind the shed for leftovers. I've found hedgehogs in the shed curled up and watched rabbits through the latts. My favourite is a little robin who eats out of my hand. But you have to watch out for them, like you do children. Here, I can just simply sleep. I plump up the stiff foam pillow and pull back the thin quilt.
Then I sit on the toilet. This has been the most difficult part of my bag-ladydom; having no toilet. I try to go to the toilet in the library if I can, but they discourage it, and I have to sneak through and leave Macy outside. It kind of defeats the point of a public toilet if they are going to throw you out, but then again, I'm not the public am I? I'm either invisible or public enemy number one.
Lee brings me tea and toast, just like I ordered room service, and I settle down for the night, worrying about what tomorrow will bring, the court case. What will happen when I get back to Tintagel? Will there be another blood splattered note, a dismembered animal? Will there be another murder? I feel like I'm returning empty handed, with nothing to give to Mia, no way to stop the murders. I shiver and the words 'Kill You Next Time' go around in my head as I fall asleep. But of course, my last thought before I drop off is, as always, Andrew.
CHAPTER 17
I'm woken in the morning by Lee, who knocks on the cell door before opening it.
'Are you decent, Lizzie? I've got a nice boiled egg here for you.'
He waits outside and eventually I shout to him.
'Come in.'
He tiptoes in and leaves the boiled egg and toast, with a cup of tea, on the chair.
'Everything all right for you?'
He reminds me of the waiter at the Indian restaurant Stan and I would go to now and again when we were first courting, attentive and eager.
'Yes thanks.' I look up at him from my bed. 'What happens now?'
He smiles.
'Don't worry. I reckon you'll be home by teatime.'
He leaves and locks the door again. I look around the cell and feel the warm air conditioning. I wish this was home. I pretend that I'm in a hotel eating my breakfast and that the rest of the day will be spent just looking round shops, maybe with a little lunch, until I come home to the warmth. A little bit like my life with Stan, except I had to do all the cooking and cleaning. Much as I hated it, that life, the one I had tucked away somewhere at the back of my mind, seemed like luxury. I haven't been up to making comparisons much lately because I've had too much to worry about just surviving and making sure I do the daily route. Any spare time is spent in the library reading up on the stories, keeping it alive in my memory in case it fades and I forget why I am here. I eat my breakfast and drink my tea, then use the toilet and have a wash. Lee knocks again and brings back my clothes and my bags, and they sit there in the corner, and empty pile of me. For a day I've slipped into someone else, someone who buys slacks with an elasticised waist from Primark and showers every day.
It's amazing what a good night’s sleep can do. I sit on the bed and look back into my past, starting at the previous evening, and wonder what the hell I was thinking. Why did I go to see Andrew? Why did I imagine he would ever let me into his home? I laugh at the irony of it, and at how it's easy to see these things with hindsight. I look further back and try to pinpoint a time when I felt optimistic, but it's too far backwards and bunged up with my Dad and his stories. Every turning has him stumbling around with a whiskey bottle, shouting obscenities at us, forcing us into his car while he drives overnight to Cornwall, still clutching the bottle. The relative safety of Stan, with the danger of going insane with boredom.
Suddenly the door opens and two different policemen walk in.
'Elizabeth Nelson? Can you come with us please?'
I shove my clothes in one of the bags and pick up my life from where it's been resting in the corner. They walk too quickly for me, and I have to run, which bursts another blister on my foot. Up a maze of corridors and through the reception area, and along to an interview room. Joanne is there, with Sam from last night. They look very serious and I try to imagine the worst possible scenario? Did they believed Julia that I had done it? Did they think I was the killer? Or had Alice and Dr Davison found my Top Secret?
'Sit down, Lizzie.'
I sat and they nodded. Joanne spoke.
'We'd just like to ask you a little bit more about what you've been up to. Just so we know you're going to be OK.'
Sam coughed and interrupted.
'And not causing any more trouble.'
I look at my foot, which is bleeding again.
'I didn't mean to cause any trouble in the first place. I'm very sorry if I have. I didn't steal Julia's purse. But I did go to Andrew's house and probably upset them. As I said, I'm sorry. It won't happen again.'
Joanne smiles.
'Right. That's all well and good, love, but what about you? Are you going to take better care of yourself? I think that's what makes people angry. They think you don't care about yourself.'
'It's none of their business what I do. As long as I don't do them any harm. Is it?'
Joanne shakes her head.
'Not legally. There isn't a charge against people who don't wash or walk around in the same clothes. Not that I'm saying...'
I snort.
'OK. I'll take better care of myself. Actually, I feel a lot better today than I have for a while. The shower...'
Joanne puts a pair of trainers and some plasters on the table.
'Sort your feet out for starters. Look, Lizzie, we're not here to persecute you, but if you come to our attention, we have to deal with you. I'm not pretending to understand your predicament, or your situation with your son and his family. Hopefully Jean Simmonds can help you with that. But please, don't do yourself any harm. There are people that can help you. If anyone does anything to hurt you, call me or Sam, OK?'
I nod and unpeel some plasters. They fill out some papers and talk quietly and I sip the tea that Lee has brought. Eventually, Sam speaks to me.
'OK. We're going to give you a caution. Do you know what that means?'
I shake my head.
'Well, because you don't have any other convictions, and you've told us you won't do it again, we're cautioning you not to, and adding a condition that you attend counselling. Which you've already agreed to do and be assessed for mental health issues. Do you agree?'
'Will I still have to go to court about Julia's purse?'
Joanne nods.
'Yes. I've checked and the date is next week. That's quite early, but all the witness statements are in and there's been a cancellation on a big case. It’s quite serious, Lizzie, because your solicitor appears to have entered not guilty pleas on your behalf to a lot of accusations brought by Julia Scholes, so they're bringing it to Crown Court. It seems like the charge has been upped from theft to fraud and three counts of assault added, that'll be why it's going to Crown Court. Something about a credit card and some money gone missing. As well as some thefts from a shop. But your solicitor will explain it to you. So, next Thursday.'
'What day is it today?'
They look at each other.
'It's Friday, Lizzie. Friday the twenty sixth of May.'
'Where will it be? In Padstow?'
Joanne shuffles the papers.
'No. At Truro Crown Court. This is serious, Lizzie. There'll be a jury and everything. You will turn up won't you?'
I think about how I can get to Truro. I'd spent some of my emergency pile of pound coins, but I had some more under the makeshift bed.
'Yes. I'll be there.'
Joanne shakes her head.
'Look, I'll print you a map and find out the transport routes for you. It's very important that you are there. And I'll make sure that Jean's reports available on the day. OK?'
It’s like the longer the wait the more I feel like just going home. I can see the buses going past the huge doors and I could easily just walk out now. Nothing is stopping me. I read the leaflets one by one. They tell me about facilities for
homeless people, places I can have a shower, places I can get hot food for free. They're all in the main towns and not in Tintagel. One of them is around the corner from Andrew's office; I laugh as I think about that.
Whilst I've been reading I haven't noticed a woman come in and sit on the sofa adjacent to me. She must have crept in very quietly, and all I hear now is the crinkle of what I recognise as a Marks and Spencer Christmas Special carrier. I look over instinctively to see what shopping she has and see that she's got at least twelve carrier bags, all full of other carrier bags. She doesn't look at me, and she lets out a Short laugh. I know exactly who she is. She's the competition. She suddenly looks up and sees my bags. She looks me over and nods.
'First offence, is it?'
I nod.
'Yes. I got a caution.'
She smirks. Her teeth are grey stumps, set unevenly between wide gaps.
'Congratulations. Get used to it.'
Silence. She fumbles in her pockets and produces some mints, which she doesn't offer to me. I feel the urgent need to qualify my status.
'I'm in court next week. For theft. Oh and fraud and assault. But I don't know what I'm supposed to have done as yet.'
'Did you do it?'
'No.'
'Thought not. Someone trying to get rid of you?'
I smile.
'Yes. Yes they are. Is it common?'
She laughs a little bit louder than is appropriate. I look at her properly now. She appears to be older than me, and she's a lot thinner. Her hair is properly grey and she's wearing lots of layers of what appears to be leggings, skirts and sports shirts. Her skin, like mine the day before yesterday, is dirty grey over the deep tan of spending time outside.
'Common. Fuck me. Where are you from?'
'Manchester.'
'And they've sent you here?'
'No. I live in Tintagel.'
'Nice. Chilly by the sea, though. How long have you been at this game?'
I think hard.
'Not sure. Maybe about seven years? Not really sure.'
She leans back in her seat.
'Yeah. I'm in Penzance. Living in the back of a corrugated iron works, then they went bankrupt so I've got nowhere now. I got done for vagrancy again. So here I am again, here to see Jean, so they can get court reports.'