My Last Confession

by Helen FitzGerald

  *

  ‘You can have your own room!’ Jeremy told her when she said she was getting sick of her room-mate a few weeks after they met. ‘And separate washing baskets!’

  Amanda moved into Jeremy’s Islington flat the next day. Physically it wasn’t hard. All she had was a rucksack filled with clothes that were stiff and fusty from three months of hand washing. Emotionally it was agony. Amanda was a runner, always on the go. She’d left her Glasgow home at the age of sixteen and moved to Edinburgh, then travelled around Europe, then Asia, then moved to London. A few months here, a few there, always leaving before interesting new friends became needy.

  It was two months ago that she’d arrived at Liverpool Street. She got a part-time job doing manicures and had twice won employee of the month. It was fun, as fun as anywhere else, but she knew it started to concern her when her room-mate Sally, during a late-night conversation, declared Amanda to be ‘the best friend I’ve ever had’. Amanda stayed awake all night with the worry of it.

  It wasn’t that she was seriously damaged by any childhood trauma, or that she had no family, or a bad one. Quite the contrary. It was something else that made her drift. Some unfinished business in Glasgow that was too hard to face, for now.

  But then she met Jeremy, and everything changed. He was a wonderful combination of danger and safety and he made her feel ready to face anything.

  He looked after her, bought her things and took her places. ‘I’ll pick you up,’ he’d say, after her evening shift at the salon, and he’d always be on time, parked in his Alfa with his music on and a big smile as she walked towards him in her short white uniform.

  ‘I’ll make you dinner,’ he’d say, and the meal would be delicious and beautifully presented.

  Jeremy wasn’t just paternal. He was exciting: he liked driving fast on country roads, walking barefoot through fields, and he greeted her unusual ideas with enthusiasm. He was clever: he read poetry and the Observer and enjoyed discussing issues over dinner. He was handy: he knew how to make things, and in fact presented Amanda with a beautiful hand-crafted chestnut jewellery box on their one-week anniversary. Not least, he was sexually daring: he knew about Purr Parties, held in the homes of the members, where single girls went to meet couples. The two of them went several times in the two months that they weren’t married and made rules – never one without the other, the third always jointly chosen.

  So Amanda was in love too. What girl wouldn’t be? A rich property developer, tall and blond, handsome and not averse to rimming. She wondered how she’d had managed to pull him. She couldn’t wait till her family and friends met him. They wouldn’t believe what she’d managed. A drifter like her, with him!

  ‘Will you marry me?’ Jeremy asked only seven weeks after the night of the Lion Bar.

  And that was that.

  Soon after, they tied the knot in a register office in Camden. And that night Amanda jumped naked onto the Savoy Super Kingsize bed and said: ‘I’m taking you to Glasgow!’

  6

  I planned my afternoon to a perfection. First, visit sex offender’s parents’ house. Second, attend pre-release case conference for said sex offender. Third, interview Jeremy Bagshaw.

  Mr James Marney’s parents lived in a high-rise flat on the south of the city. All four other high-rises were boarded up, ready for demolition, and number 99 – having thus far escaped the battlefield of rejuvenation – lay wounded in the middle. The Marneys lived on the thirteenth floor, so I had two options: dodge the shit and needles on the stairs, or take my chances in the lift. I chose latter, staring at the buttons as they failed to light up, and praying the doors wouldn’t open en route to let someone get in to stare at me, rob me, smash me over the head.

  I exited safely at the thirteenth floor, and walked the scabby corridor until I found number 13/7. It took a while for Mrs Marney to answer the door, and when she did she didn’t open it very far. She was a clean, earthy-looking woman in her sixties. Before responding to my introduction, she closed the door even further and yelled to her husband: ‘Frank, the social work’s here! Frank! Social work!’

  Through the tiny crack in the door, she checked my ID card very thoroughly and asked repeatedly about the reasons for my visit. A moment later, her husband Frank, not so earthy-looking (angry, I’d say, scary even), came to the door and ushered me inside.

  The flat was a shock after the filth of the lift and landing. It was neat and perfectly clean, with prints of hunting scenes on the wall, embroidered cloths on the arms of the couch, and a ridiculously large television set complete with DVD player and a huge collection of movies in the corner. I’d done loads of home visits in child protection, so I knew the score – surprise visits are often more fruitful, don’t accept crusty mugs of tea or coffee, sit on a non-fabric seat if possible, and take notice of everything. These rules in mind, I took out the list of questions I needed to ask, which Danny had kindly printed off for me, and fired away.

  They lived alone. They were pensioners. They were more than happy for their son to live with them after his release. They had his room ready. They would co-operate with supervision, as long as we phoned first. They had one other daughter – single, no children – who lived in the north of the city. They felt terrible for their son, who was not allowed to see his children unsupervised – James junior and Robert now lived with their maternal grandmother in Stirling. Oh, and they were absolutely sure he was innocent. James junior, they argued, had made a silly comment at nursery, and was then tricked into fabricating an elaborate tale. ‘Just nonsense,’ Mr Marney said. ‘He’s an excellent dad. Brought the kids up by himself after Margie died, God rest her.’

  ‘You know you won’t be able to have the children to visit while he’s here, not unsupervised,’ I said.

  ‘We never see them,’ said Mr Marney.

  ‘Well, if you want to, we need to okay it first. The police will need to approve the address too, and visit regularly. You understand?’ I said, scouring the room and taking note of the DVD collection.

  ‘Aye, but there’ll be no need.’

  ‘Do you mind if I use the loo?’ I asked.

  This was one of the ploys I’d used in childcare. Find a way to snoop. As usual, it worked.

  ‘You were saying you never see the kids,’ I said, taking my non-fabric seat a few minutes later.

  ‘Aye, it’s a shame,’ Frank said curtly.

  ‘So it’s you who uses Teletubbies toothbrushes?’ I asked. ‘And watches Pingu?’ I gestured to the penguin, who was hiding among the pile of DVDs next to the gigantic television.

  Their faces were white as I stood up. ‘Can I see the bedrooms?’

  Of course, they didn’t want me to see the bedrooms.

  Frank started yelling at me: ‘Who the hell do you think you are, stopping a good man seeing his kids?’

  Mrs Marney tried to escort me to the door.

  The kids in the bedroom started crying, then James junior managed to get the door open.

  ‘Hi, kids,’ I said, peering into the bedroom where two gorgeous little boys had been hiding since my arrival. The room looked well lived-in, with bunk beds, Ikea children’s furniture, clothing, and piles and piles of toys.

  I didn’t get a chance to explain what would happen next. Truth be known, I wasn’t sure anyway. Mr Marney told me to get the hell out and slammed the door in my face.

  *

  I’m great at this job, I thought to myself as I headed off to Sandhill. This guy had intended to live with his children, his victims. He was happy to lie to social work, the parole board and the police, and he had the wholehearted support of his parents.

  7

  Sandhill gave me the shivers. I’d been there before, visiting Chas, and the smell and look of it made me ill to the stomach. Mothers with babies smoked at the front door, white vans drove in and out, ferrying men to or from court, grumpy visits officers checked names on sheets and escorted people into the visits area.

  I gave my name and t
ook a seat in the foyer between two cheery-looking women.

  ‘How’s he doing?’ one of the women asked the other.

  ‘Och, it’s his first time,’ she said. ‘He’ll be better next time.’

  Another world, Sandhill. Normal to most of its visitors, an expected part of life.

  Eventually, a young gum-chewing admin worker escorted me through the staff entrance, where my bags were scanned and my ID checked. I followed her along a pretty garden area with a smokers’ hut, through a huge steel gate, past the halls and into a Portakabin.

  In a small room, four men sat at a table. A prison social worker, a prison officer, a policeman and Mr James Marney.

  Shit, he was already there. I had no time to prep the others about my home visit.

  Mr Marney was just what I expected. He had what I call the paedophile aura, a yellowish colour that coated his smug, normal, good-guy respectability. When he looked at me, I felt as though he’d spotted a victim and could see my past a mile a way. He seemed to smirk at me. I hated him. I hated sitting next to him. I hated being anywhere near him.

  The prison officer introduced everyone and began rambling on about how well Mr Marney had done in prison, completing group work for sex offenders, responding particularly well to the victim empathy module, getting on well with fellow inmates, and working hard in the joinery shed.

  ‘Can I stop you there?’ I interrupted. ‘I’m just back from visiting the proposed release address.’ I gestured to the police officer. ‘I understand you haven’t been out there yet? It’s clear Mr Marney’s children are living with his parents.’

  Penetrating Mr Marney’s yellow cloud with steely eyes that warned I am no victim, I continued. ‘You and your family appear to have misled us, and because of this it seems improbable that you would co-operate with supervision. Also, in my opinion, releasing you to the given address would place James and Robert at a very high risk of harm.’

  The prison officer and the prison social worker were shocked. The police officer smiled from his end of the table. He looked like a forty-year-old Sean Connery but his voice was unfortunately very squeaky, which let the whole 007 thing down a wee bit.

  ‘My, my. Is that so?’ squeaked PC Bond.

  What followed was an uncomfortable interrogation by Bond that eroded Marney’s calm, and his story, piece by piece.

  I never knew … They must’ve been visiting … The in-laws are arseholes … I wouldn’t let them stay there … They miss me … They love me … I never touched them … He’s fucking lying … Why the hell can’t I live with my own kids? Why should I find somewhere else to live?

  ‘Well done, Krissie,’ said Bond on the way out of the case conference.

  ‘Cheers,’ I said.

  The prison social worker, Bob, escorted me back over to the Agents’ visits area. He was beautifully dressed and very well groomed, and he knew everyone. En route, we spotted the priest, the rabbi and the minister, who were walking back from lunch.

  ‘So what’s the punch line?’ he asked them.

  Bob schmoozed the gate staff as we entered the main foyer, and spoke so rudely to the receptionist that I thought she might kill him (‘Love the skirt! Primark or TK Maxx?’). Instead of killing him, she simply slapped him on the arm with a ‘See you!’ Bob obviously had a way with people. He could tell the receptionist he’d shagged her husband and get a laugh. Mind you, he probably had.

  Bob left me to wait in the Agents’ area to interview Jeremy Bagshaw. With my first pre-release meeting fresh in my mind, I felt on top of the world, ready for anything.

  Hell, I was shit hot.

  8

  Jeremy Bagshaw was thinking about the day he and Amanda got married – a happy, perfect day – when his cell-mate, Billy, plonked his head down from the top bunk and said, ‘Give me your banana.’

  Billy, a bony waif with goggle eyes, had arrived a week earlier. He was rattling, cold turkey, his £60 a day habit rudely interrupted. During his first three days as Jeremy’s co-pilot, Billy had moaned like a cat on the top bunk, shaking both beds with his itching, fogging the room with the stench of his chemical sweat.

  ‘Shh!’ Jeremy had said, exasperated after three days of hell.

  ‘You want me to shut up, then give me something to trade with,’ Billy replied.

  ‘Just have a bit of respect,’ Jeremy suggested.

  A second later, Billy pounced down from his bed and grabbed Jeremy by the scruff of his polo shirt, his face too close, his mouth foaming.

  ‘You want me to shut up, then help me,’ said Billy, pushing Jeremy to the floor then grabbing five quid from his pocket.

  After that, Billy stole each and every bit of Jeremy’s allowance and/or canteen to swap for Valium, heroin, anything, so that sometimes the groaning and shaking stopped, but not for long. Some of the prisoners talked to their lawyers about how de-toxing in Sandhill was a violation of human rights and they wanted to sue the bastards. And it had to be said that coming off junk without medication, counselling or support was a right pain.

  Billy would have joined the campaign and called his lawyer too, but he was too busy raising currency for gear. So far, his friend’s sister had brought in five ten-pound bags of heroin by hiding it in her baby’s nappy. (The officers weren’t allowed to search babies.) He’d also befriended an officer, who’d given him cannabis at a grossly inflated price that his best friend on the outside had agreed to pay. So he was getting by, just.

  At first, Jeremy let the pillaging of his allowance and food supplies happen rather than face the prospect of gang rape in the showers or being slashed with a toothbrush laden with melted razor blades. But he was hungry, and he wanted his banana at 14:15.

  ‘Give me your banana.’

  Jeremy only had one banana, and he intended to eat it at 14:15, after exercise.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Gimme the fucking banana.’

  ‘Get your own banana,’ said Jeremy in his dangerously posh English accent.

  Billy pulled his head back onto the bed, the argument over, for now.

  ‘Agents!’ It was the boss, the gallery officer, and Jeremy snapped to, unsure what this meant.

  ‘Social work or lawyer,’ Billy informed him, reaching down for the banana.

  ‘Could you mind this for me?’ Jeremy asked the boss, snatching the fruit before Billy managed to get to it.

  The look on the officer’s face suggested the negative, so Jeremy flung the banana back on his bed to be swooped by the rattling vulture.

  Jeremy knew better than to complain at this stage. The officer wouldn’t give a shit, might even be irritated. And an irritated officer was a far more serious prospect than a missing banana.

  So he put his shirt on and followed the officer out of the cell, down two flights of ancient worn wooden stairs, along the main hall that was guarded at first-floor level with an iron net. The net wasn’t to stop suiciders from dying, Jeremy reckoned, but from hitting floor-level staff on the head. It worked, apparently. No staff had been injured by falling debris for years.

  There’d been a jumper the week before.

  ‘Code Blue!’ the officer had yelled. Alarms had gone off and keys had jingled as staff ran to the hall. Then all was still and closed for hours, until the hall door opened and there was a small black van parked in front, with a small man in black standing beside it, waiting.

  A pounding noise had come from the cell next to Jeremy’s. A deep boom-boom-boom of fist against metal door, and then another, and another, until two hundred metal doors were thumping with the fists of the grieving, thumping a goodbye to the body that was being liberated into a small black van.

  Jeremy waited underneath the suicide net while other prisoners were rounded up for transporting, and when they were all marked out and counted, he followed the officer into the concrete quadrangle, past D hall and through a nondescript door that led almost to the real world. ‘Bagshaw!’ an officer yelled, and Jeremy let himself be identified and escorted into the int
erview room.

  The woman was about the same age as Amanda, Jeremy thought – twenty-eight, give or take. She had thick layered hair and an enchanting smile. Natural. Her face was beautiful – fresh and honest – and she wore surprisingly casual and trendy clothes compared with the lawyers in the other rooms – well-cut jeans, cute shirt, fitted jacket, boots with a bit of a heel.

  ‘My name’s Krissie Donald. How are you getting on?’ she said, shaking his hand and looking him in the eye before sitting down.

  Krissie explained that the High Court had requested a pre-trial report for background information so that if he was found guilty he could be sentenced straight away. She couldn’t discuss the offence, just background stuff. And she couldn’t do the report unless he consented. Did he consent?

  Jeremy was surprised by her. The prison staff he’d been in contact with had either worn gloves or initiated well-rehearsed routines for hand-shaking avoidance (one hand on the door handle, the other pointing to the chair – ‘Take a seat Mr Bagshaw’). He understood why – most hands in prison were wrapped firmly around sticky penises 24/7. He wouldn’t want to shake hands either.

  But Krissie Donald had, and it’d been nice to feel a warm, if rather sweaty, palm in his, like a normal everyday human being.

  Krissie asked what he liked to be called. Was Jeremy all right? She asked if he was coping inside, if he was feeling okay, eating, sleeping? If he’d had any visitors? Any news from home? She asked things he wished she hadn’t, because when he answered he cried, and it wasn’t okay to cry in Sandhill. It was the opposite.

  9

  What a buzz, meeting Jeremy Bagshaw. Like the initial flush of romance – intimate and intense. I wasn’t aware at the time but if I’d asked any of my office mates they’d have told me that, like romance, after a while the excitement would dwindle, amazing stories would lose their zing and you would find yourself wanting to tell them to just stop it for God’s sake and close that door on your way out.