by John Nicholl
Anthony didn’t like Thursday mornings. Thursday mornings meant English, Welsh and mathematics, three lessons he didn’t particularly enjoy. Miss Larkin somehow succeeded in making English and Welsh bearable, but he found geometry utterly excruciating. Anthony listened at first, trying to grasp the complex concepts, but he quickly concluded that his teacher may as well be speaking a foreign language he couldn’t begin to understand. He glanced repeatedly at the clock above the door as the lesson progressed, and wondered why the hands were moving so slowly. When lunchtime eventually arrived, he felt as if a burdensome physical force had been lifted from his chest, and he smiled for the first time since arriving at school that morning.
Anthony chose sausage, beans and chips for lunch, one of his favourite meals. And for the first time since his father’s departure, he gulped it down, eager to escape to the schoolyard to play football with his friends. The game went well, he scored a goal, which was unusual for him, and his side won. Anthony walked back to the classroom when the bell rang, thinking that Thursdays weren’t so bad after all.
Anthony found the afternoon’s music and art lessons far more enjoyable than the morning’s academic tedium. To his surprise, he’d recently begun enjoying both drawing and painting far more than previously. He wasn’t sure why, but splashing paint around on paper somehow made him feel better. He painted a picture of his family, his mother, his father, his sister and himself, standing outside the cottage on a warm sun-drenched summer day. For some reason he couldn’t comprehend, he painted his father much larger and in brighter colours than the rest of the family. Miss Larkin pointed it out, asking why the man in his painting was so big. Anthony replied, ‘It’s my dad,’ but said no more than that.
Miss Larkin gave a sigh of relief when the much-anticipated bell, that signalled the end of the school day, rang out loudly in every part of the modern open-plan building. She stood at the front of her class, surveying her domain with obvious pride, and said, ‘Stand, put your paints away, pour the dirty water into the sink and wash the brushes before going home.’ Once the children had completed their various tasks, she smiled, and added the same familiar instructions she issued every afternoon, ‘Walk, don’t run, and remember your homework.’
Anthony was particularly keen to show his mother his watercolour as soon as he arrived home, and double-checked that it was safely tucked in his bag, before rushing out of the classroom as fast as it was possible to walk without actually running. Most of the children did likewise, and stood outside talking excitedly with friends, but Anthony waited alone and in silence for the bus to arrive. When it eventually turned up about five minutes later, he boarded last and sat at the front, rather than join the rest of the boys of his age at the back.
Molly was watching from the kitchen window when the bus appeared in the street amongst clouds of dirty soot-black diesel fumes. She opened the front door as it came to a gradual stop and waved as Anthony disembarked with his bag clutched tightly in one hand, and the painting in the other.
Molly buttoned her brown woollen cardigan against the winter chill, and met Anthony at the path’s halfway point. ‘Come on, cariad. I’ve made you a nice big mug of hot chocolate.’
Anthony followed his mother into the kitchen, took off his coat, hung it on the back of a chair, placed his schoolbag in a corner and held up his picture in full view.
‘That looks like a nice painting. Can I have a look?’
Anthony smiled eagerly, and handed her his picture. Molly held it out in front of her and studied it. It portrayed the four of them, that was obvious, but why was Mike so very large? Did the fact Tony was missing his father explain it? Maybe it was something else to ask the psychiatrist.
‘Do you like it, Mum?’
‘Get some sticky tape from the drawer.’
Molly smiled warmly as Anthony handed her the Sellotape. As she displayed the picture on the pantry door, she was praising Anthony’s artistic endeavours, but thinking about the impact her husband’s infidelity had had on them all. Anthony needed more help than she could give him. The child guidance clinic was a welcome beacon of hope.
Siân arrived home about ten minutes later, and went straight to her bedroom without speaking to either her mother or brother. Molly gave her a short reprieve, and then called to her from the hall, ‘Tea’s almost ready. We’re all going to eat at the table for a change. I need to have a chat with you both.’
Siân didn’t reply, but she appeared in the kitchen just as Molly was placing three plates of spaghetti bolognese topped with generous helpings of grated cheddar cheese on the kitchen table. Molly smiled at her daughter and pulled out a chair before saying, ‘Sit down, love. Is water okay?’
Siân nodded unenthusiastically.
‘What about you, Tony, milk or squash?’
‘Orange squash, please.’
Molly handed her children their drinks and joined them at the table. ‘I wanted to remind you both that we’re going to the clinic in the morning.’
Siân frowned in an exaggerated teenage manner. ‘Do I really have to go? Anthony’s the one with the problems, not me.’
‘We’ve already talked about this. The doctor wants to see us all. Please, love!’
Siân chose not to reply, but Molly noted she hadn’t said no.
Anthony grinned sheepishly as a length of pasta fell from his mouth and onto his jumper. ‘Can I watch telly now, Mum?’
‘Finish your food first. Surely you can wait that long?’
He said nothing more, but gulped down the remainder of his meal at breakneck speed.
Molly shook her head and smiled thinly. ‘Off you both go. I’ll do the washing up tonight. But tomorrow I want some help.’
Molly put Anthony to bed a little earlier than usual and read to him for approximately twenty minutes before saying, ‘I need to telephone Dad. You get off to sleep. It’s a big day tomorrow.’
‘Dad is definitely coming, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, definitely.’
Anthony beamed. ‘I scored a goal today. I’m going to tell him about it.’
‘Did you? That’s brilliant! Dad will be pleased. You’ll be able to start going to rugby training again soon.’
Anthony’s smile evaporated from his face.
‘Now then, eyes closed and off to sleep with you. I’ll leave the landing light on just for tonight.
Molly sat on the bottom step of the stairs and dialled Mike’s number. She was very much hoping that Tina wouldn’t answer, when she heard him say, ‘Hello?’
‘Mike, it’s Molly. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t forgotten about tomorrow morning.’
‘Of course I haven’t forgotten.’
‘Please make sure you’re not late. We need to be there before half past ten. It’s the first appointment. I want to make a good impression.’
‘I know that, love. I’ll…’
‘You promised to speak to Siân. The doctor wants to see us all. I’ve already explained that to you.’
‘Slow down, love. I said I’d speak to her, and I will. Is she in?’
‘She’s out somewhere. Hopefully, she’ll be back at some point. I’ll ask her to ring you if and when she finally turns up. See you in the morning. Please don’t be late.’
Molly put the phone down before he had the opportunity to respond, and shook her head regretfully. Be more patient, you daft woman. What had her mother told her? Conversation as opposed to monologue. It was sound advice. Mike was trying. Not hard enough, but he was trying.
Siân eventually arrived home when Molly was about to give up on her and head to bed for the night. Molly met her at the back door, and was relieved that she was sober and, wonder of wonders, communicative. She decided that in the circumstances it was best to ignore the time. There were bigger fish to fry.
‘Hi, Mum.’
Molly forced a transient smile. ‘Hi, love. Dad wanted you to ring him before bed.’
‘Is it about tomorrow?’
Molly nod
ded. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘I’ll go if you want me to. I do care about Tony. You do know that, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Sorry about earlier.’
Molly smiled, this time spontaneously. ‘Thanks, love. Come here and give your old mum a hug.’
For once Siân didn’t pull away.
10
Trevor Simpson peered into DI Gravel’s disorganised office and grinned. ‘How was Bournemouth?’
The forlorn expression on Grav’s face rendered any further discussion on the subject entirely unnecessary, but Simpson chose to pursue the matter nonetheless. ‘I hope the mother-in-law enjoyed herself.’
‘Look, Trevor, unless you’ve got something useful to say, I suggest you fuck off and let me get on with my work.’
Simpson guffawed loudly, and decided not to bait his friend any further despite the temptation. ‘No, seriously, there is one thing I wanted to mention.’
‘Come in and pull up a seat. Got time for a quick coffee?’
‘Tea, please, milk, one sugar.’
Grav swivelled in his chair, reached down, and switched on a kettle in a dark corner behind him. ‘Right then, what have you got for me?’
‘You know I’m heading up child protection for the force?’
‘I was just glad it wasn’t me the brass asked, to be honest.’
‘Yeah, I know what you mean. Look, while you were away, I’ve had Jane Pritchard making some enquiries for me.’
Grav raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought you were non-operational?’
‘I am in the main, but needs must. Jane needed some advice, you weren’t available and it progressed from there.’
‘Fair enough, what have you had her doing?’
‘She interviewed a young lad who mentioned being taken to a white room, where he alleges he was sexually assaulted by a man he believes to be a doctor.’
‘Could be an unused hospital building, or the like?’
Simpson nodded once. ‘Could be, I guess. It was Dewi Williams, you handled the case.’
‘Of course.’
‘It seems it wasn’t only his father.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’
‘I’ve had Jane ferreting about to see if there’s been any mention of a white room or a doctor in other similar cases.’
‘Any joy?’
‘Yeah, nothing definitive, but there may be something in it. I’d like to pursue matters further with Jane’s help, if that’s all right with you?’
‘Knock yourself out, Trevor.’
Simpson stood and drained the dregs of his tea. ‘I was planning on paying Dewi’s father a visit at Swansea nick this afternoon.’
‘Simon Williams? Good luck with that. He’s an obnoxious cunt at the best of times. Did you know he’s appealing his sentence?’
‘Yeah, you mentioned it before your leave. I may well be able to use it.’
‘It’s got to be worth a try. Let me know how it goes.’
It took DI Simpson just over an hour to make the approximate forty-mile journey to HM Prison Swansea in the Sandfields area of the sprawling Welsh seaside city. He parked his red Mondeo in Oystermouth Road, directly below the high Victorian granite walls, opened the driver’s door, and hurriedly made his way to the main entrance, just as the increasingly foreboding grey sky began to fill the air with icy drizzle that threatened to turn to snow at any minute.
The stout, sanguine middle-aged guard at the door quickly checked the inspector’s name off against a list of expected visitors, before waving him through, rather than engaging in the potentially lengthy security procedures that could accompany such visits.
Simpson made his way through the prison’s familiar corridors to interview room three as instructed, and waited with increasing impatience while a burly prison officer escorted an extremely reluctant and orally obstructive Simon Williams from the sexual offenders unit.
Simpson remained seated behind a small rectangular table when the two men finally entered the brightly lit room a few minutes later, and gestured to the prisoner to take a seat opposite him. As Williams sat in brooding silence, the inspector turned to the guard, who was standing just inside the door. ‘I don’t need you to stay, thanks, mate. I’ll give you a shout when I’m finished, if that’s all right with you?’
‘Yeah, no probs, ring the bell on the wall behind you when you’re done.’
Simpson rested the palms of both hands on the grimy table, and stared directly at Williams, who held his gaze momentarily before suddenly looking away. ‘I hear you’re not particularly enjoying your stay here, Simon. Accommodation not up to your required standard?’
Williams shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘What the fuck do you want?’
‘Were you expecting room service, gourmet food, or a spa facility possibly?’
‘Just get to the fucking point!’
‘I need some answers, and you’re going to give them to me.’
‘Am I fuck!’
‘I hear you’re appealing the length of your sentence. Be a shame if the Court of Appeal somehow got the idea you’re being uncooperative.’
‘You’re not going to do me any favours whatever I tell you.’
‘Well, you’re right there. I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire, to be honest. But I’ll promise you one thing. I’ll do everything in my power to make your life a total misery if I don’t get the information I came here for.’
Williams sat in silence.
‘Am I not speaking English, Simon?’
Still no response.
The DI grinned. ‘Oh, it’s going to be like that, is it? How would you feel about moving out of the nonces’ wing? See what life’s like amongst the rest of the prison population? You know who I’m talking about. The hard men who can’t be at home to protect their kids from scum like you.’
Williams kept his mouth shut.
‘We’ve been talking to your son. He had some very interesting matters to tell us about things you haven’t been charged with yet.’
The remaining colour drained from Williams’ pasty prison face. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘Oh, I think you’ll find we can. Are you seeing any chance of an early release disappearing before your very eyes? Magic, eh! Perhaps another four or five years is a more likely outcome.’
‘What do you want, you bastard?’
‘Now, now, no need for that.’
‘I’m waiting.’
‘You took your son to a white room. Do you remember that?’
Williams pressed his lips together.
‘He was assaulted in that room by a man you referred to as, Doctor. Anything you want to tell me?’
‘Fuck all.’
‘Videos were made.’
‘Like fuck they were.’
The DI stared at him incredulously. ‘What’s the denial about? We know it happened. You took him from your home, you blindfolded him during the car journey, and he was drugged. Stop pissing me about, man. Do you really want to stay here for another ten years or more?’
Williams looked as if he may throw up at any moment. ‘What are you asking me?’
‘Do I have to spell it out for you? Where’s the room? Who’s the doctor?’
‘No fucking way!’
‘So you confirm they exist.’
‘Fuck off. I didn’t say that.’
‘Oh, you did, Simon. You did.’
‘I’ve got nothing more to say.’
‘Who’s the doctor? Where’s the room? Two simple questions. Just two answers, and I’m gone from your life forever. No more charges, no unhelpful chat with the judge, no hateful prisoners kicking the shit out of you at every opportunity. It seems like a good deal to me.’
A tear ran down Williams’ cheek as he focused on the ceiling.
‘So you’d prefer to stay here a spell longer, rather than give me the information I want?’
Williams closed his eyes tightly and slowly nodded three times. ‘I’d h
appily do another ten years, before I’d grass up that bastard.’
‘You sound as if you actually mean that? Think, and think hard. What you decide now is going to shape your life for a long time to come.’
‘I want to go back to my cell.’
‘I’m going to give you one final opportunity. Make no mistake, I won’t be coming back here again unless it’s to charge you with further offences.’
Williams rose to his feet and yelled, ‘I want to go back to my fucking cell,’ his voice reverberating with raw emotion.
Simpson swivelled in his chair, reached out to ring the bell on the wall behind him, and stood to leave. ‘Careful what you wish for. It’s going to be a very long stay. If you have a change of heart, pick up the phone. You know where to find me.’
11
Molly’s radio alarm clock sounded at precisely 7:00 a.m. on Friday 17 January. She listened with only passing interest as the DJ announced the next track with an enthusiasm that seemed at odds with the time of the morning, and rolled over, pulling the warming duvet around herself against the morning frost. She closed her eyes briefly, telling herself that another five minutes in bed wouldn’t do any harm, but all too soon she accepted the inevitable and dragged her weary body out of bed. Molly stretched, yawned, and hurried to the bathroom, keen to freshen up before her teenage daughter got up. If Siân got there first, it would inevitably be a frustratingly long wait.
Molly washed her hands and face with unscented soap and water, brushed her teeth for a full two minutes, and ran a brush through her sleep-tangled hair. After a second or two staring into the wall mirror, she applied some subtle pink lipstick, in a valiant but ultimately unsuccessful attempt to boost her flagging self-confidence. She could quite happily have gone back to bed at that point to hide from the world, but her internal voice told her to stop feeling sorry for herself and to get on with the day ahead. It was an important day. Anthony needed help. They all needed help. Hopefully Dr Galbraith was the man to provide it.
Molly decided to enjoy a cup of her favoured herbal tea before waking her children. She could do with the brief reprieve, and it wouldn’t do them any harm to get some extra sleep. Why not put the radio on in the kitchen and make herself a hot drink?