Perhaps the staff only skimmed the first few lines and thought it a letter full of nostalgia, apologies and missed opportunities. They should have read on.
Dear Vinnie,
I decided to write to you to tell you I’m sorry. Actually, my therapist told me it might help. I’ve made a terrible mess of my life and fucked up a lot of innocent people. You paid the biggest price.
I bumped into Jake and Ben, the lads that I used to doss around with when I was young and lived near you. They saw you in our local prison. I'd heard you got such a long stretch. I couldn’t believe it. I wondered at the time whether I should do anything about it, but I was out of control, so I didn’t. I was already on the drugs, doing things to pay for them that make me ashamed. The stuff I put in my body helped me forget the sad life I’d lived.
I’m not sure this will help me or you, but I loved you Vinnie. The awful stuff I so convincingly wrote about was done to me by that idiot boyfriend of my mum’s. The one who froze to death.
My mum said to say that you did those terrible things. She knew you had won a load of money on the lottery and we’d get compensation. Otherwise, she said we were so skint, that I would end up in foster care, where bad stuff happens - to young girls like me.
Obviously, she lied. We didn’t get any money, or if we did, it didn’t make any difference. I still ended up in care. Funnily enough, it was okay. My foster parents were nice but I missed my drunken Mum.
I missed you too, Vinnie. I should have thought about it, but what could I do? It’s only now I’m clean, sober, and older, that I realise how fucked up she was. Only now I understand how wrong we were.
I’m not sure if I’m asking for you to forgive me, or if I’m so horrible that I’m just trying to help myself. You didn’t do those things to me. For a long time, you were all I had. Those nights you got in my bed were the only times I felt safe. I messed up, so bad, and you paid. Well, we all paid, and then some.
Some of the other things that have happened will be carried with me for the rest of my life. Don’t think I haven’t been punished. I have, many times, and in ways only a woman can be.
I don’t know if this letter will help you in any way. Maybe you can get out early or something. I can’t go to court though, or even leave an address. I’m in a refuge, the address is a secret, so I can’t be exploited.
They tell me they can help me but I also need to help myself. Nights are bad, I still think of you, but I know I done wrong. I remember you saying how much you wanted your own children, well I had mine, and lost them. It’s been too long to get them back now, so I bring that with me too. More unwanted baggage that I can’t set down.
There’s a girl here, Alex, who was a teacher, said we need to start small. She helped me with this letter or there wouldn’t have been any commas or apostrophes in it. I couldn’t spell apostrophe either. She describes what we need to do as clinging to a few pieces from a jigsaw that’s been cast into the wind.
A little arty farty if you ask me, I’m suspicious, but she says she’s off the drugs. I understand the idea. We start again, build from the beginning. We may not find everything that’s lost but we will have something pretty good at the end.
It’s hard to think like that though. I want to be whole again, fresh and shiny. I’d love my teeth back too. Sorry, I’m rambling a bit.
The church people are coming over tonight. They mean well. They showed us knitting, which I’m pants at, and make us play strange games like Beetle. It’s some messed up shit. I have to pinch myself to let me know this is actually my life. I could kill a bottle of vodka when the singing starts.
It's weird, but I feel better after. Nice people with no agenda is what my therapist says I need. I reckon that’s bullshit, bet they feel dead pleased with themselves afterwards, helping us poor screw ups. And fuck the therapist, she gets paid, or there’s no way her ass would be here.
I’ve kind of lost my train of thought. I’m gonna send this anyway. Vinnie, I hope you are as well as can be expected. If my maths is right, you’ll be out next year. Perhaps one day we’ll meet for a beer.
Cheers, K
I let out the breath I’d been holding and slowly sat on my bed. I knew at the start it wasn’t from Sara as she only called me Vincent. A letter from Kirsty was unexpected though. I placed it on the table as if any sudden movement might cause damage, and waited for the rancour that I now understood was part of me to burst to the surface.
Instead, there was nothing. Even the prison stilled. Almost as if it wanted me to concentrate on that moment. I gingerly picked up the paper and read again.
Afterwards, I cried and cried. For my life, I suppose, most of all, but also for my brother’s. His was sent off course before he had any control. Who knows what might have happened if he had been left to be a child. I thought of my parents, their dreams, our victims, and shed a tear for everyone. For Kirsty, I wept, the greatest sorrow of them all.
What had my life been, and where was it going? Behind those bars, I just existed. Like Kirsty, I’d never be fresh and shiny again either. I tried, I know I did. I just failed.
Chapter 51
I think that’s what I was waiting for. I didn’t want to go to my end thinking I had done wrong by her. Her letter released me. Some of my motivations, such as becoming a Listener had been an attempt to make sure someone, anyone, would know me as something other than forgotten vermin. That’s probably how I will be remembered anyway, in the unlikely event they whisper my name.
Kirsty’s acknowledgment of the facts as how I recalled them has stopped me thinking I misused my life. I spoke to Joe Sparrow about the letter. He said it meant nothing legally. I could have sent it myself. However, the pressure from the crushing weight of a life not lived was lifted from me. I had done right by Kirsty and that provided some solace. It made my choice a simple one.
To think, all these years, I was scared of life. The reality was that I was right to be afraid. Not of the world though, but of myself. Death and disaster followed my family around. We were an ocean liner steaming through life, the wash a turbulent mishmash of dead, imprisoned, and damaged bodies.
I knew what worked as I’d heard others tell me what they were going to do. I fashioned two wedges from some softer wood in the workshop. There was obviously no rope available but a hundred things work just as well.
I used a bedsheet, twisted into shape. I lent a few of my more precious items out to people on the wing who had little, knowing they would keep them afterwards. There was nobody to tell. Besides, it wasn’t the time for a change of heart.
That night, I took a final wander around the landings. I passed a conversation where they were discussing the unfairness of our legal system. Innocent of course, those moaning men were. ‘Eight years I’ve done,’ I told them as I crept past. All I got was the pitiless frowns from disinterested and inconvenienced bystanders.
The same spirits who quietened the prison when I needed to think, were absent when I wanted to die. They had lost control of the wing next to ours after they served the evening meal. The country mince had raw meat in it apparently. Or should that be allegedly? I thought mine tasted funny. Typical of us lot not to complain on the VP unit.
The hardened souls in mainstream were not so law abiding. The burning smell was in everyone's teeth. They locked our wing in a rush and didn’t notice the loop of material I had left at the top of the door as it banged shut. They would need all of their staff to reclaim control from the bigger, angrier men. So, I waited.
A little over an hour later I heard the roar of protesters as the gates clanged open and the tornado squad charged. In those few minutes - it never took long for them to give in - I used my filled-up flask to hammer in the wedges. The loop hung down, so I tested the weight. It would do. After all, it only needed to hold for a bit.
What do you think of in those last few moments? I thought I would relive the bad things I’d done, yet I was wrong. They said your mother would always be in your thoughts.
>
I thought of mine. I recalled her sayings and remembered her sadness. What did she say? “Why do people rush to their deaths? It is one appointment they’ll never miss”. Nevertheless, in the end, she was early for hers too.
I remembered Frank and Kevin, and my dad’s booming laugh. I imagined the funfair, hot bodies on cold sheets, dancing with Sara, and giggling with Clara. Maybe it’s your soul, digging up the good things, to remind you there could be hope. Please don't give up.
I watched the news; it’s not the real world. When I saw the politicians, enraged with false fury, and the doleful celebrities, gilded in wealth, I wondered if they knew of me, at the bottom of life. Will I be missed - does anyone care?
The shouts and the frenzy died down. It was time. The TV buzzed for a few seconds after I turned it off and then it was as peaceful as it was likely to be.
I placed the loop over my head with my back to the door and sat down. The sheet stretched with my weight but constricted with me poised six inches off the floor. That would be the difference between living and dying.
Gently, I departed. My eyes bulged and drooped. It felt like drowning. I tucked my hands in my pockets to stop them reaching for safety. The light faded and each piece of me went with it. As if the wind was blowing a pile of papers away.
At the end, it was rightfully just fear that remained. Fifty years of it. Then, as it was in life, we left together.
Epilogue
Prison Custody Officer Teresa Griffin walked into the hub where the senior officer controlled the wings. He was long gone of course. The disturbance of the riot earlier had knackered her schedule, and she had a page of jobs like a menu.
She remembered being keen when they first offered her the role of I.C. That meant ‘In Charge’, of a wing of sex offenders in her case. Awesome. It was called the safeguarding wing now. A strange turn of phrase for two landings of mostly sick-minded people. They had been sent to prison to protect the public. Yet here, they were taken out of main circulation for their own safety.
She’d given up looking on the computer to find out what they were in for. It didn’t matter. She had a job to do and they were still human beings. However, it was gone nine p.m. and she’d only just finished the paperwork. She should have left two hours ago. Although better to do it now than first thing in the morning.
The night staff worker was Operational Support Officer Mo Maher. She was setting up her snacks and reading material for the night. They got less money, but in some ways, they had the best of it. At least everyone was locked up when they were here.
Mo was one of the good ones. She cared about the prisoners and did the job how it was supposed to be done.
‘Here’s the handover sheet, Teresa. Anything I should be aware of?’ Mo said.
‘Apart from the uprising earlier?’
They both smiled.
‘Yes, I’m up to speed on that. Everyone’s usually pretty quiet after the excitement. I’ve got three first night observation sheets and two ACCT books. Nothing on your wing is there?’
ACCT stood for Assessment, Care in Custody & Teamwork. They were generally used for suicide and self-harm. Depending on the probability of something happening, inmates were observed up to five times an hour.
‘No that’s it.’
‘Okay sweetie, have a good night. Wine o’clock for you.’
‘Thanks, and you too, Mo. I hope they behave for you.’
Teresa stopped herself at the door.
‘Actually, there might be something. Vincent Roach in cell twenty. He’s not on an obs book or anything, but he seemed different today. Almost happy. It looked like he’d given some of his stuff away too.’
‘No worries, I’ll look in on him as well. I’m doing my rounds now.’
Mo waved to Teresa as she left and went to the induction wing. Nowadays, everyone who came in the prison underwent observations on their first night. It was prime time for self-harm and suicide. The cells were supposed to be suicide proof, but there were always ways.
A man had killed himself using his shoelaces as a tourniquet around his neck and tightening it with a small pencil. She struggled to imagine a more gruesome way to go. All three men waved back at her from the three cells she checked. She’d seen them all before on numerous occasions. Prison didn’t hold many fears for the frequent flyers.
The two ACCT books were on the detox wing. Those two men had expressed dark feelings, so a book had been opened. Both said they had anxiety and depression. That was hardly unexpected.
If you regularly took drugs and got sent to prison where you were forced to go cold turkey, it wasn’t surprising you felt anxious and depressed as a result. She decided to leave them until later. Then she could try to have a chat with them if they were still awake. That way, she could see what frame of mind they were in.
First, she would have a look in on Vincent Roach. She walked through the open wing gates and noted the safeguarding unit was quiet. To be fair, it often was.
She heard the main house block door open behind her and saw the officer who would run the prison tonight. Senior Officer Gardner waved and headed for the hub. Cheeky twat would have eaten all her biscuits if she wasn’t quick.
She opened the observation panel on Roach’s door and stared at an empty room. Panic coursed through her. Surely, he hadn’t got out? The television was dormant and the bed made. Experience enabled her to calm herself and she nudged the metal door with her knee. There was a dead weight against it. She could see an outline of a body through the crack.
‘Mr Roach, get away from the door. I need to see your face.’
‘Vincent, move, now!’ she shouted. Still no sound.
Gardner came running to the wing.
‘What’s up?’
‘Roach, sitting against the door. Non-responsive.’
They both knew what that meant.
Gardner ran back to the wing gates and locked them, in case it was a ruse. He spoke into his radio.
‘QB, Gardner here. I’m breaking night state to open Charlie 20 on the safeguarding wing. Possible medical incident. Put the radio on call through. All available outstations to attend.’
‘QB received. Romeo 1 and 2 en route. ETA 90 seconds.’
Gardner unlocked the door and had to push the body away to get it to open. Vincent Roach was blue and still. Tina already had her ligature knife out and cut the homemade noose. Gardner pulled the body out of the cell and knelt beside it.
‘He’s not breathing, I don’t think he’s breathing.’
‘Vincent, wake up!’ she yelled.
‘QB, code blue. I repeat, this is a code blue. Charlie 1 wing. Medical staff to attend immediately. Attempted suicide.’
Mo put her fingers next to Vincent’s larynx. Gardner hovered in position to begin CPR. They stared at each other as they paused. Seconds crept by. A slight gasp broke the silence.
‘I’ve got a pulse.’
2017 - Present day
I survived. It was close for a while. However, I pulled through and spent long months in the prison healthcare unit. I wasn’t grateful to start with and they disturbed me day and night with people peeking through my observation panel to make sure I wasn't looking for a way out. Finally, I got the help I needed and decided I wanted to live.
Prison inreach identifies and treats prisoners with mental disorders. I was classified as such and, with still over a year to go, I had time to take advantage of the support they offered. No end of professionals saw me and I took part in courses and studies. To them, I was still an unrepentant, convicted, sex offender but the other parts of my behaviour were examined.
There are some who believe the temperamental traits that lead to sociopathy and psychopathy are genetic. A child of someone with the condition may inherit a predisposition for the disorder.
There are also those who think parenting, that of nurture, and their general environment, can prevent an antisocial personality before it fully develops. Therefore, I can probably thank my mothe
r twice for my madness.
We as humans always want to label things. It helps us understand the world but rarely is life that simple. My unusual behaviour as a young boy could have just been that; I was a bad kid. Anyone with children knows someone with a child who is incredibly naughty. Maybe it’s you who is reading this, you're the one who has the lad nobody wants to call wicked. We don’t name them as such as nearly all of these children grow up to be perfectly normal adults.
There are some misbehaving kids who are able to control themselves, perhaps wait their turn, if the incentive is big enough. Others simply can’t moderate their behaviour. There are no blood tests for conditions such as ADHD, and there was little understanding back when I was a boy.
Surprisingly, what they found more damaging was my loss of memory after the accident. I grew up not really knowing who I was. Understandably, my mother didn’t want to remind me of my previous conduct.
I learnt all I thought I needed to know through books and the little narrative my parents and brother provided. It’s no wonder I didn’t turn out to be a rounded individual. Perhaps my murderous rages were just frustration. I had limited experience of dealing with provocation, hostility and aggression. Maybe it was only natural for me to respond with the normal animal urges we are born with. We fight, or we flee.
I discussed the incidents I had in my youth. For a few months, we even had a psychiatrist on the wing. As I said before, there are no barriers to entry for paedophilia. He was more interested in the fact that I’d had the chance to finish Kilkenny off and didn’t. To him, that was a defining point in the examination of my personality. He thought that made me a good person. While under the most incredible tension, I had still not committed that dreadful act.
The other events, you could argue, were just growing up, and fights. I didn’t set out to kill those boys who chased us that dark evening. I feared for my life and in self-defence, most actions are, if not excusable, explainable.
Fifty Years of Fear Page 20