by John Nicholl
Dad tightened his grip on my shoulder. ‘What the hell is this, Inspector? Are we suspects now? That’s absolutely ridiculous!’
‘We’ve got to cover all the bases, Mr Jones. There are things I have to ask you. The quicker we do this, the quicker I get answers, the quicker we can leave you in peace and get on with the investigation.’
‘She was with me all afternoon. She was with me! Is that good enough for you? Cynthia became concerned that Steven was out running for longer than usual, and thought he may have got lost somewhere in the town. It was his first time in this part of the world. We drove around until… well, you know the rest.’
‘Spell it out for me, Mr Jones.’
‘I turned right onto the esplanade and we saw the ambulance. What more do you need to know?’
‘And you’d be happy to make a written statement to that effect?’
Dad looked increasingly frustrated, ‘Yes, of course, anything that helps.’
‘Then you won’t have any objections to us taking a look at your car?’
I could see by the expression on Dad’s face that he was as annoyed by the line of questioning as I was. He patted my back again in demonstration of his ongoing support, stood, walked towards the hall, and said, ‘I’ll get the keys,’ without hesitation.
The police didn’t find anything when they looked at the car. There was nothing to find. Dad came back into the house alone after a few minutes, closed the front door behind him, and joined Mum and myself in the lounge. He took a deep breath, sucking the air deep into his lungs. I could see the strain of events on his face, and he made a show of rubbing his eyes, saying that a wayward lash had scratched his conjunctiva. I had never seen him cry before and I never did again.
‘What else did the police say, Dad?’
‘Give me a second, love, I’m just popping to the toilet.’
He returned a couple of minutes later, looking a little fresher. I think he’d splashed cold water on his face because his retreating fringe was damp. I remember being unjustifiably angry with him at the time. Anyone who hasn’t experienced the extremes of emotion that surround the death of a loved one may find that surprising. Grief, as I discovered, can affect us in such diverse ways. I can say that with certainty. I’ve been there, seen it, done it, got the tee-shirt. I felt that mourning Steven’s passing was my prerogative, and mine alone. Looking back now, I realise that Dad was probably feeling my pain, and reacting to that. It was empathy as opposed to self-indulgence. I was wrong about that as well. Do you recognise a theme?
‘So what did they say, Dad?’
He slumped in his chair with the persona of a much older man, blinked repeatedly, and blew his nose noisily into a white cotton hankie before responding. ‘They’ve contacted the university for Steven’s parents’ contact details. Devon and Cornwall police will be giving them the bad news.’
‘Today?’
‘Yeah, I’ve asked DI Gravel to pass on our telephone number.’
‘Good, but…’
‘What’s worrying you, love?’
I told him there was nothing, but that was far from the truth. If Steven hadn’t met me, if he hadn’t loved me, he wouldn’t have died. I think we often look for someone to blame for the catastrophes that touch our fragile existence. If I blamed myself, why shouldn’t Steven’s parents do likewise?
Dad stared at me, but suddenly looked away. Mum made us another hot drink, handed us our mugs, and stood directly in front of him with her hands on her hips. ‘What is it, Gareth? There’s something bothering you.’
Dad looked increasingly uneasy, averting his eyes and shifting uneasily in his seat, but Mum wasn’t going to let him avoid her question that easily. ‘Come on, Gareth. I know there’s something. Spit it out.’
Mum wasn’t usually that assertive, but it was hardly surprising really. She was under pressure like the rest of us. Dad nodded, and repeated that he’d asked DI Gravel to pass on our contact details.
‘Come on, Gareth, there’s something you’re not telling us.’
Dad’s face appeared to visibly crumple and the tension was almost palpable.
‘Gareth?’
‘There’s going to be a postmortem. It’s unavoidable in the circumstances. And an inquest as well. There’ll be an inquest as soon as the coroner receives the pathologist’s report. I’m sorry, Cynthia, you had to know the truth. It’s better you hear it from me than somebody else.’
I recollect thinking that the world had gone completely mad. What if it wasn’t an accident? Who would want to kill my Steven? Run him over in the street, as if his life were worthless? How was I supposed to accept that he was lying in a morgue? How was I supposed to accept that…? Well, you know the rest. Things were changing too quickly, much too quickly. I found myself wondering if life could get any worse. Well, believe it or not, I later learnt that it could. It really could.
7
It’s been a truly momentous day here in prison world. I received a letter from Jack first thing this morning, and I had a few minutes to read it after slopping out and taking a communal shower with some of the other women. What I wouldn’t give for some privacy. Nobody can stop me dreaming.
Anyway, back to the letter. One of the older guards passed it to me through the bars at about sixish. I couldn’t quite believe my luck at first, but there it was, in my grubby little hand. It had been opened, of course. All our letters are opened before we receive them. It’s one of the many rules that I theoretically understand the need for, but that drive me to distraction nonetheless. Does that make any sense in the world beyond the bars? Bureaucracy, red tape, I’m sure you know the sort of thing I’m talking about.
I recognised Jack’s terrible scribbled handwriting immediately, and pulled the letter from its thin envelope with such urgency that I very nearly dropped it in the toilet bucket. It missed by just a fraction of an inch and looked up at me asking to be read. I picked it off the cold concrete floor with trembling fingers, and clutched it tightly, as if my very life depended on it. And in a way it did. Occasional contact with loved ones takes on an immeasurable importance in prison world. Support networks are essential for psychological, and if I’m honest, physical survival. I think most of the women here suffer depression from time to time, sometimes with tragic results.
And back to the letter. I must try to enjoy the positives when I can… I scrambled onto my recently acquired lower bunk, ignored Sheila’s crude mumbled obscenities, and focussed on the cheap white writing paper held out in front of me to accommodate my deteriorating eyesight. I read and reread the first paragraph three or four times, before it finally sank in. Jack, my previously wayward brother, was conforming to tradition. Jack and Marie were engaged to be married. How about that! I just wish Dad could have witnessed Jack’s metamorphosis. Maybe it would have helped heal his broken heart. I like to think it would. But, there I go again, trying to rewrite the past. Dad’s dead. I’m partly responsible and no amount of self-indulgent pontification on my part is going to change that painful reality. Maybe somewhere in infinity there’s a parallel universe where Jack didn’t discover pot, and where Steven didn’t die. Perhaps in that alternative world Mum and Dad will live happily into old age. I’d like to think so anyway.
Jack and Marie are to be married in a Presbyterian church in the Californian summer sunshine. Life can be so utterly unpredictable, for good or bad. He says he wishes I could be there. I wish I could be there! That’s one of the worst things about prison world: the earth keeps turning, your loved ones’ lives move on, but you can’t be a part of it, not really, not in any meaningful way. You can’t share in their merrymaking, or offer succour at times of crisis. I see Mum and my girls once a month, at best, and Jack not at all.
He’s promised to send me photographs of the wedding, and I’m grateful for that. He’s well-intentioned, but in a strange way, I’m dreading viewing them. Does that seem ridiculous to you outside the walls? I think it probably would have to my pre-incarcerated self. I�
�ll take pleasure in my brother’s celebration of love and commitment. Truly I will. But even now I know it will be a sweet sorrow.
Oh, there is one more thing I wanted to mention before continuing with my story… I’ve made a formal written request to the governor for a cell of my own. Sharing with Gloria was sometimes tedious, but generally tolerable. She was a nice enough girl. Cohabiting with Sheila, however, is a little different. I have learnt that not every female prisoner is a victim of circumstance. Some are evil bastards, just like he was. Sheila has little, if any, empathy, for anyone, whatever their circumstances. Except for herself, that is. She feels her own distress with an obvious burning intensity. Such a basic lack of humanity is not solely the preserve of men, as I’d previously surmised. My naivety surprises even me at times.
Lifers shouldn’t have to share a cell. That’s what the official guidance says. Or at least I believe it does. Someone said it once, but I haven’t actually read it for myself. I’ve appealed on that basis, rather than cite Sheila’s objectionable personality traits. I hate to think what would happen if she knew what I truly thought of her. I find her utterly repugnant. Repugnant and frightening. She has an unequivocal air of menace about her. Like he had. She’s one of life’s predators. I’ve seen evil up close and personal in the past. There’s a coldness about her that’s hauntingly familiar. If she recognises my weakness, if I let my mask slip even for a moment in her company, I fear she may feed on my fragile emotions like a vulture feeds on rotting flesh. Such a happy thought. It seems such things define me.
I’m very much hoping for a positive response to my request, but I won’t hold my breath. This place is horribly overcrowded. The prison authorities aren’t going to concede anytime soon, and that’s if they do at all. I’m probably clutching at straws and deceiving myself that there’s any hope. There just aren’t the cells available, even if they wanted to help, which seems unlikely in itself. What on earth was I thinking? I’m stuck with the woman, and she’s stuck with me. I’ll add it to the ever-growing list of inconveniences that dominate my increasingly unpleasant life here.
I think I’ve said all there is to say regarding my recently acquired accommodation crisis. I can’t think of anything else of significance for now. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about the horrendous smell of human waste and desperation, or the incessant ear-splitting noise that pervades every nook and cranny of this place. And so it’s back to my enforced reminiscences. Tenby, beautiful Tenby, here we come again…
Steven’s father phoned and spoke to Dad on the evening after the two police officers’ visit to our home. Dad said that Steven senior sounded incredulous that his son had died in such circumstances, in a seaside town he’d heard of, but never visited. Steven’s parents planned to take the train from Plymouth to Tenby. They needed to see where it happened for themselves. They needed to be nearer to their son. I thought it macabre at the time, but what was I thinking? Why wouldn’t they want to see their child?
Dad invited Steven senior and Moira, Steven’s mother, to stay at our home, but to my relief, they declined. I think the expectation of social interaction with people, who at the end of the day were strangers, would have placed an intolerable burden on all of us, despite our shared adversity. I think they must have felt much the same way, because Steven’s dad wouldn’t be persuaded despite Dad’s best efforts. They’d booked a room in a local hotel with an uninterrupted view of the deep ocean. In any other circumstances, I’m certain they’d have had a marvellous time. But, of course, circumstances are everything. I pictured Steven’s bruised and battered body lying on the cold hard tarmac, and hoped the authorities had washed away his blood. I didn’t want them to see it. I prayed they wouldn’t see it.
Steven senior phoned our home at about 4:00 p.m. the following day, to say they’d arrived at their hotel about half an hour before his call. I answered the phone, but to my relief he asked to speak to Dad, rather than engage me in conversation. I think that was best for both of us at that point. After the usual inane pleasantries regarding the journey, Dad arranged to collect the couple at 7:00 p.m. for a welcome meal at our modest home. Mum spent the next two hours or more in a whirl of activity, preparing fresh food, whilst I hoovered, wiped and dusted the entire house in preparation for their eventual arrival. I recall thinking it was utterly pointless, but keeping busy was surprisingly therapeutic in the short term. There was less time to think, less time to cry and less time to mourn.
Mum sent me upstairs to change at about 6:40 p.m., and disappeared into the ground-floor bathroom to wash her hair. I understood that she wanted to make a good impression, because it mattered to me too. I wanted Steven’s parents to like me. I wanted them to understand that I truly loved their son.
I heard Dad’s car pull up about half an hour later. I peered out from behind the net curtains in the lounge, and saw a visually unremarkable couple in their forties getting out of the car and following Dad towards the front door. There was an unmistakable sadness about them that resonated with me and caused me to look away, as the intensity of our shared grief became too much to bear. I was trying to work out what to say on our first meeting, when Mum appeared from the kitchen, touched my hand, and said, ‘Come on, love, let’s say hello.’ Simple, uncomplicated words that I needed to hear.
I stared at each of Steven’s parents in turn, wanting to say something meaningful, but failing to find the words. Steven’s mum stepped forward and threw her arms around me, as if greeting a long-lost friend. We clung on to each other and sobbed together. Deep all-consuming sobs that caused our chests to heave as we struggled for breath. I don’t know exactly how long we stood there in each other’s arms, but I remember a powerful sense of affinity born of all-consuming grief. We shared an immediate bond that would prove to endure. She still keeps in touch occasionally. Not as often as she once did, to be honest, but I still receive a letter on the anniversary of Steven’s death. It seems she can’t escape the past any more than I can.
Do you think I’m in danger of over-sentimentalising the events of that evening? I’ve concluded that those rare moments, when we are truly touched by another’s kind-heartedness, resonate with us throughout our lives, particularly at times of intense emotional reflection or adversity. But maybe I’m overcomplicating this and our relationship was self-serving, rather than altruistic. Do we humans do anything at all for purely unselfish reasons? Am I sounding more than a little world-weary? A tad cynical? Please ignore my negativity. It’s all too easy to see the worst in people in this hellhole. Prison world does that to a girl. It’s an unavoidable consequence of incarceration.
Mum and Dad tried to make what was always going to be an excruciating evening, as bearable as possible. We all sat sipping our drinks, nibbling on biscuits, and engaging in the usual small talk that dominates painfully emotive situations. Dad asked about their train journey from the West Country. Mum asked about their hotel, and repeatedly offered further refreshments they clearly didn’t want, but felt compelled to accept. Anything to avoid another painful silence. And then, after about forty minutes or so, Dad said something meaningful. Something that went to the very heart of the matter, and I silently sang his praises. He placed his cup and saucer on a coaster on the coffee table, looked at each of Steven’s parents in turn, meeting their eyes, and said, ‘I am so very sorry for your loss. Steven was a wonderful boy.’
Steven’s dad swallowed hard, and blinked repeatedly as his eyes filled with tears. Moira took a white paper handkerchief from her handbag, and dabbed at her bloodshot eyes. Dad looked concerned at their initial reaction, but he visibly relaxed when the fleeting hint of a smile played across Moira’s face, and she said, ‘Thank you so much, Gareth. It was good to hear you say our son’s name.’
Yes, words really can matter. They certainly did that night. We spent the next hour or more talking about Steven. His mum and dad told us cherished stories from his childhood, about his sporting triumphs, academic achievements and future ambitions. And I told t
hem how much I loved him, and about our happy life together in Wales’s wonderful capital city before his death.
I think that’s enough of wallowing in the past for now. I’m tired, and just can’t face writing about the funeral at the moment. It was a major turning point in the journey that is my troubled life, and I want to do the memories justice. I’m going to put down my pen and paper, say goodnight to Sheila, who may or mayn’t grunt in response, close my tired eyes, and try to fly away to a happier far-off place in my dreams. Fly away, Cynthia. Fly away like that glorious bird of yours and find happiness, however fleeting.
8
I haven’t put pen to paper for a couple of days, not by choice, but due to circumstance. Our esteemed governor, Mr George Thompson OBE, no less, deemed to grant me a week in solitary confinement. What a generous man. It was intended as a punishment, naturally, but, to be honest, I’m rather enjoying the imposed isolation. It’s only day three with four to go, but so far, so good. How come I’m allowed to write again? Is that what you’re wondering? It is unusual, I’ll grant you that. But, apparently, the circumstances are exceptional. Or at least that’s what Mrs Martin argued on my behalf. Continuing my journal is absolutely essential to my effective long-term rehabilitation, apparently. I’ll forgo my weekly counselling session. It seems she capitulated on that small matter in the interests of professional harmony, but when she appeared at my cell door early on Tuesday afternoon with my pen and paper in hand, there was an undoubted air of the victor about her. She had a definite skip in her step. Three cheers for Mrs Martin… hip, hip, hooray and so on!