by John Nicholl
As I read on, reaching the final paragraph, I threw my head back and fought the impulse to vomit. It seems I’d agreed to him collecting me and transporting me to Cardiff on the 17th of January. It seemed I’d agreed to stay in the Riverside flat he owned in the city, and it seemed I’d agreed to him taking a few days off work to tutor me in the psychological basics. Really? I’d agreed to all that? Why not the halls of residence? Why not point me in the direction of the relevant text books? Why a full week before the beginning of term? Had I really agreed to all that? Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t. I could have, I suppose. It’s a possibility. I’ve done some pretty stupid things when intoxicated. But then, haven’t we all?
13
Emma’s son is dead. It seems she killed him. Just two years old and his short sad life was over. What a tragedy. What a terrible reality. Life can be so very cruel. Let’s hope he’s in a better place.
She didn’t tell me herself. Why would she in the circumstances? That want-to-be-liked guard who we’ll just call ‘Needy Guard’ in the interests of her anonymity, whispered it to me at lunchtime as I stood waiting to be served with a plateful of unappetising slop masquerading as food. She pulled me aside and spewed it out, relishing the telling like a gossiping fishwife spraying her poison to all and sundry. I feigned interest initially, keen to bring the interaction to a rapid conclusion, acutely conscious of the staring eyes and cocked ears of other nearby prisoners, but I quickly wished she’d kept the information to herself and hadn’t told me anything at all. It would have been easier that way. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t need to know. I’ve digested enough human misery for one lifetime. For a hundred lifetimes! And I’d actually started to like Emma and her various idiosyncrasies. We weren’t friends, that would be an exaggeration, but I think we could have been, in different circumstances. I really do. I knew she was fragile. I knew she was haunted by memories she’d much rather forget. But so am I, so am I. She could have been victim rather than perpetrator. I can’t be the only one, can I? I so wanted that to be the case.
I saw the same plump, middle-aged guard skulking in the corridor about half an hour later, all bleached blonde hair, dark roots, over-tight uniform, stale body odour and chipped red-painted fingernails, as I made my weary way back towards the laundry from the canteen of hell. I approached her reticently this time, rather than her approaching me, and she turned away at first, making a point before eventually turning to face me as I knew she would. ‘Oh, so now you want to talk to me.’
And I did. I wanted to know more. I needed to know more. Not because I was naturally inquisitive or wanted to self-indulgently wallow in my cellmate’s suffering, but because I was hoping that the detail would alleviate Emma’s guilt to some degree. I just didn’t want to hate her. I had to share a cell with the woman after all.
‘You said Emma killed her son. What actually happened?’
She gestured with a subtle tilt of her head, and led me into a restricted brightly lit side corridor leading to various staff offices I hadn’t seen before. ‘So, what do you want to know?’
‘Emma. What happened to her son?’
She lifted a hand to her face and adjusted her fringe with chubby fingers. ‘I’ve had my hair done. What do you think?’
She wanted validation, searching for compliments. She had all the power. I said it looked good with as much conviction as I could muster. What else could I do?
She smiled thinly, seemingly doubting the sincerity of my response.
I took a step backwards as she drew closer and her stench filled my nostrils. ‘There were too many snooping eyes in the canteen. You know what it’s like in this place. People can get the wrong idea.’
She looked genuinely upset. ‘Ah, so you don’t want to be seen talking to me. And I thought we were friends.’
‘You know how things are. I can’t be seen to be too close to you, however much I want to.’
She nodded, seemingly satisfied with my explanation. ‘She poisoned the boy, slowly, over a period of months. She fed him honey laced with salt. Watched him suffer, the cruel bitch!’
She was gleeful, drooling, aroused by the illicit sharing, and I hid my revulsion as best I could. ‘Why would she do that?’
Her face broke into a sneer that defined her. ‘It’s something called Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy. I’ve been reading all about it. She craves attention. She’s desperate for attention. I thought you’d have known that, what with your psychology background and all.’
I just stared at her with my mouth shut. What was the point in saying anything at all? Why play her games?
‘The bitch poisoned her little boy for the attention it gave her: concerned doctors rushing around, test after test, repeated hospital admissions. She took him to three different casualty departments a total of nineteen times. Fucking bitch!’
Suffer little children. His words echoed in my mind, and I gagged, resisting the impulse to vomit.
‘Didn’t the bastard you killed do something similar?’
A single tear ran down my cheek and I noticed I was trembling. ‘It wasn’t the same.’
‘What did you say? You seemed to be whispering. If you’ve got something to say, just spit it out.’
I wiped her warm spittle from my face with the back of one hand, and repeated myself, louder this time, whilst fighting my tears. Why did I let her get to me? I should not have let her get to me.
She shook her head incredulously and laughed, head back, multiple dark amalgam fillings in full view. ‘Two murderers together. I’m sure you’ll get on famously. So much to talk about. So much in common.’
I turned away, ignoring the provocation. We’re different. Surely we’re different. ‘Does everyone know?’
She broke into a smile that lit up her face. ‘Not as yet, but they will. They definitely will. The bitch deserves everything that’s coming to her.’
‘She needs professional help. The woman needs help.’
She formed her right hand into a tight fist, and shook it in the air at eye level. ‘I know the kind of help I’d like to give the bitch.’
That word again. That hateful word. I’d heard enough. More than enough. Another crisis to ponder in my confined world of woe. I do care about the people around me, really I do. I’m not antisocial by nature or devoid of empathy like some others I’ve mentioned, but I need to focus on my writing. Too many distractions, typical inevitable unwelcome distractions time and time again. I turned and walked away as she called after me, angry, resentful, radiating spite. I’d pay for my insubordination, but it felt so good at the time. I think it was probably worth it.
14
I watched from the lounge window as an impressive, shiny black Daimler sedan pulled up outside our modest Tenby home at about 11:30 a.m. on the 17th of January. Dr Galbraith made a superfluous adjustment to his strangely out of place cartoon tie on exiting the vehicle, and hurried down our fragmented concrete driveway, just as the ominously darkening sky began to fill the air with freezing winter rain, swirling in every conceivable direction at the behest of the coastal wind.
Dad opened the door on the second knock, and welcomed the doctor into our white-painted hallway with a firm handshake, as Mum scurried to the kitchen to prepare refreshments worthy of our esteemed visitor. I stood and smiled coyly as the doctor followed Dad into the lounge, and found myself wondering if he always wore a tailored suit. He was always stylish, always immaculate, always charming, and he wore it well. He really did. The man glowed. He made an impression wherever he went. There was no denying it.
Dr Galbraith approached me confidently, touched my arm briefly with an outstretched manicured finger and asked, ‘Are you ready for your big day, my dear?’
I was pondering my response, unsure of the honest answer, when Mum appeared, carrying that same ‘meant-to-impress’, recently polished silver tray, loaded with the best white porcelain crockery, a stylish Portmeirion coffee pot, and a tin of assorted biscuits decorated with a stereotypical countr
y scene that for some inexplicable reason I disliked intensely.
The doctor directed the somewhat stilted conversation for the next half hour or more, oiling the conversational wheels with a friendly smile, empathetic words or a timely question or comment, as we sipped coffee and ate biscuits. Such contrived social situations are never easy to bear, particularly following the loss of a loved one, but the doctor somehow made the experience bearable. It was something he was good at. Something in which he excelled. Saying the right thing when the situation dictated. Making the right impression when it mattered. A Svengali at the very peak of his powers.
Even the doctor’s conversational skills were beginning to flag by 12:15 p.m. He glanced sideways towards my suitcase standing alone in one corner of the lounge, and said, ‘Right then, young lady, are you ready to make a move? We’ve got a long drive ahead of us and I’d like to reach Cardiff before the light fades and it starts freezing.’
I didn’t move an inch, but Dad stood, approached my chair, reached out a hand and helped me to my feet. ‘Come on, love, the doctor’s right. You want to get there safely, don’t you?’
‘David. Please, call me David.’
Dad looked towards him and nodded, as I headed into the hall to pull on the fashionable, warm winterweight green wool coat received from my maternal grandmother as a Christmas gift. Dad appeared next to me with my overburdened suitcase in hand, as I fastened the last of three buttons against the anticipated winter chill.
I don’t think Dad ever did call him David. Not that it matters. It’s of no real relevance. It just came to mind and I mentioned it in passing.
Dad opened the front door, reached for my suitcase, and led the way towards the doctor’s limousine, walking quickly, head bowed and shivering against the cold. The doctor unlocked the car with the press of a button, and held open the front passenger side door for me to escape the stinging rain. Dad put my case in the boot and hurried back to the shelter of the porch, where he stood and watched, hand in hand with Mum, as the doctor started the engine with one turn of the key and manoeuvred expertly into the road.
I was impressed by the car. Why wouldn’t I be? All that soft, supple grey leather and polished walnut. I’d never been in a car like that before. An extravagant car, a car shouting success, and so quintessentially British. And I have to admit that at least a part of me was looking forward to the journey. Steven was gone, he wasn’t coming back and I’d hidden from the outside world for long enough. He’d want me to get on with my life. That’s the sort of boy he was.
The doctor introduced me to classical music as we made our journey to Caerystwth, a pleasant Welsh market town on the River Towy about forty minutes’ driving time from Tenby. I asked if he had something more contemporary, something with which I was familiar, but he smiled thinly, shook his head slowly and deliberately, and extolled the virtue of various composers I’d heard of, but never knowingly appreciated. I half-heartedly protested at first, but quickly capitulated and sat in brooding silence as he played one CD after another. He was an important man, a busy man, and he was putting himself out to help me. I didn’t want to make a bad impression, and it seemed churlish to cause offence or argument over such a relative inconsequence. Listening to the various melodies was the least I could do to please him.
As we travelled east along the M4, through the worsening weather and approaching the exit lane for Swansea, I suggested we stop at a service station for lunch before continuing on to Cardiff. He didn’t accede to my request, for what it was worth, but he did say, ‘Oh, I think we can do better than that, my dear girl. There’s a pleasant pub I visit sometimes not ten minutes away. They serve an excellent lunch, as I recall.’
The doctor was true to his word and we were driving into the Red Lion’s quiet car park a few minutes later. I hurried into the dimly lit atmospheric building, and immediately headed in the direction of the ladies’ toilet, clearly located to the left of the bar.
Dr Galbraith already had a generous glass of red wine waiting for me when I returned from the bathroom, and he was sitting at a table for two within touching distance of a log fire smouldering in an imposing, apparently ancient natural stone grate. As I sat opposite him and picked up a menu from the tabletop, he held up a hand to stop me. ‘I’ve already ordered for us both, my dear. The establishment serves an excellent steak. Rare, of course. It’s the only way to eat it, I’m sure you’ll agree.’
As it happens I didn’t agree. I’ve always preferred my meat well done. I was irritated by his largesse, and my feelings must have shown on my face because he sat back in his seat with what appeared to be a look of genuine surprise on his face and asked, ‘Is there something the matter, my dear? I hope I wasn’t too presumptuous.’
When I didn’t respond, swallowing my words, he made a show of pushing up the sleeve of his suit jacket and looking at his gold wristwatch. ‘It’s just that the time is getting on, my dear. I thought it advisable to expedite matters in the interests of our journey.’ He swivelled in his seat and glanced out of the nearest window. ‘I really think there’s a threat of snow.’
He had a point, but would a couple of minutes really have made a difference? I considered objecting, I considered choosing a different meal to make a point, but he stood, picked up the menu and returned it to the bar. ‘Would you like a second glass of wine, my dear?’
‘I’d like my steak well done.’
He smiled engagingly, but I could tell that I’d displeased him.
‘I’d like my steak well done, please.’
‘Really? Are you certain, my dear? All the best chefs serve it bloody.’
I folded my arms and glared at him, furious but keen to avoid a confrontation.
This time he raised both arms in the air as if surrendering at gunpoint, and chortled unconvincingly. ‘Well done it is!’
A small victory, but a battle I was determined to win.
We left the pub about an hour later and rejoined the M4 to continue our journey. He turned up the heating, unbuttoned his jacket, and returned to the subject of classical music before moving on to discuss my studies about twenty minutes later. He extolled the virtues of studying Psychology as opposed to Law, as he had on that drunken evening and in his subsequent letter, and outlined what he saw as the advantages of me residing in his flat, rather than the halls of residence as I’d originally planned. I wasn’t entirely persuaded, to be honest. I was finding his demeanour increasingly unnerving despite his friendly persona, but I told myself that my temporary living arrangements would at least give me space to find my own place in my own time.
The light was fading dramatically by the time we reached Cardiff, casting dark shadows over a cold urban landscape lit by a myriad city lights. He manoeuvred through the city centre’s busy traffic, and into a quiet tree-lined street with impressive Victorian three-storey houses on either side. He slowed about halfway along the street, and stopped outside number 292, an imposing residence with a black gloss front door adorned with highly polished brass door furniture.
‘This is it, my dear. Out you get, out you get.’
Despite being divided into three flats, each with its own doorbell, the building was in total darkness. He must have sensed my uneasiness in that instinctive way of his, because he reached out to squeeze my hand and said, ‘The other students won’t be back from their Christmas break as yet, my dear. Nothing to worry about. Nothing whatsoever. Give it a day or two and you’ll be wishing for some peace.’
That made sense. There was an undoubted logic to it. But if it was true, why was I feeling so apprehensive? The halls of residence were calling out to me and I was beginning to regret acquiescing quite so readily. If only I’d acted on my inclinations.
15
It’s been a momentous day here in prison world, a good day, an exciting day, Emma’s self-destructive behaviour apart, that is. I think I’ll get the bad news out of the way first, before focussing on the positives. There’s absolutely no point in lowering the mood ind
efinitely.
She cut herself again, with an outstretched sharpened paperclip this time. She must have spent most of the night working away at her wrists, scratching at the skin, picking at the flesh and sinew, because by morning her bed was so soaked in dark blood that it was difficult to tell the original colour of the sheets. How can one fragile eight-stone frame hold so much of the red stuff? I shook her, shouted at her to wake up, but there was no response, barely a sign of life. I’m told she was rushed to the local hospital, weak but breathing shallowly. And she’ll be back, of course, when the physical wounds heal. I suspect her psychological flaws may take a little longer. I’d like to think that her actions originated in remorse, but I fear they may well have had more to do with the attention it brought her than regret. At least now she’s harming herself, rather than an innocent child. I guess it’s the lesser of two evils. It’s progress of a sort. I’m not really looking forward to seeing her again, if I’m honest, but at least I get some time to myself before that inevitable day beckons somewhere down the line.
And now for the good stuff! I’ll attempt to make my recollections as big, bright and loud as I possibly can, so you can get a full flavour of how it was for me. Mum and the girls were already waiting for me when I rushed into the communal starkly functional visiting room at 3:30 p.m. this afternoon. I didn’t know if Mum would turn up today, let alone bring Elizabeth and Sarah with her, and my emotions were virtually overwhelming when I first saw the three of them sitting there together.
Mum stood on wobbly legs as soon as she saw me entering the room, and I noticed that she looked older, despite her quickly vanishing smile. The flickering, overly bright fluorescent lighting directly above her head seemed to highlight every line, every blemish and every sunken shadow playing on her face. The girls remained in their red plastic seats initially, but stood on either side of Mum as I approached their table, and clutched her hands tightly. It should be my hands they were holding. If only things had worked out differently.