House of Correction

by French, Nicci

  ‘Look, I’m in the same position you are. I’ve got my parole hearing coming up. There’s always something to hope for. You start fantasising about life outside.’ Ingrid smiled. ‘You know, food, company. But mainly I imagine just going for a walk.’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Tabitha, trying to smile back as if they were just two women having a normal conversation.

  Ingrid’s expression became more serious. ‘Honestly, how are you?’

  ‘I was always taught growing up as a young English woman that when someone asks you how you are, the only answer allowed is “fine”.’

  Ingrid put her hand on Tabitha’s shoulder. ‘You can’t get by here alone,’ she said. ‘You need to talk to someone. It doesn’t have to be me. But you have to find someone. The people who don’t, they end up cutting themselves or getting high or even worse.’

  ‘All right,’ said Tabitha. ‘The answer, just at the moment, is I’m not doing so well.’

  And then she took a deep breath and told Ingrid about her meeting with Mora. When she was finished, she looked at Ingrid curiously.

  ‘More advice?’

  ‘Yes. You can lie to everyone. You can lie to your friends, you can lie to your cellmate, you can lie to me. But you have to tell your lawyer the truth. Your lawyer is like…’ She hesitated. ‘If you believe in priests, your lawyer is your priest. You tell them everything. Good and bad. Unless you’re guilty, of course, and then you do lie to them.’

  ‘I don’t think she believes me anyway.’

  ‘She doesn’t need to believe you. She needs to get you out of here.’ Ingrid narrowed her eyes and looked at Tabitha with a concentration that made Tabitha laugh nervously.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ said Ingrid. ‘What is it?’

  Tabitha pushed her hands into the pockets of her windcheater. Suddenly she felt as if the weather had turned even colder.

  ‘You know when you’re going over things at three in the morning?’

  ‘That’s another rule. Don’t go over things at three in the morning.’

  ‘I was thinking about how bad it looked to Mora. I’ve been charged with murdering Stuart Rees and I had said that I had no reason to kill him; there was no motive. But I knew that there was a motive. He had sex with me when I was underage. People would call that child abuse. I’m not sure if I would.’

  ‘I think I would.’

  ‘Well, whatever, it looks bad that I didn’t mention it.’

  ‘I hope that she was sympathetic.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say she was sympathetic. Mainly she was angry. But that’s not what I wanted to say.’ Tabitha paused. It felt difficult to utter the words out loud. But she needed to get it clear. ‘I’ve been through difficult times. I’ve been confused and depressed and I was given medication to deal with it and sometimes it made me feel better and sometimes it made me feel worse.’ She had been talking almost to herself and now she looked directly at Ingrid. ‘Do you really want to hear this?’

  Ingrid nodded.

  ‘It may have saved me but it also messed with my head. There are bits of my life that are blanks, things I just don’t remember. Like I’ve been wiped. So I had this moment last night when I suddenly asked myself: what if I did it?’

  ‘And what was the answer to that?’

  ‘That’s not really the point. I went through it in my mind. It went something like this: I suffer from depression, I drop out of college, I go travelling in an aimless sort of way. All the time, without really knowing it, I’m thinking about what happened between me and Stuart. At the time it felt a bit sophisticated maybe, or at least one of those things almost all young people go through, messy sexual experiences that are part of growing up. But gradually I start to realise that I was horribly exploited by him and I start to blame him for what’s gone wrong with my life.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Ingrid. ‘Are you saying this is what you felt?’

  ‘Wait,’ said Tabitha. ‘So I start unconsciously fixating on this and it kind of takes me over and in the end I move back to Okeham. I have a vague, hidden sort of feeling that I’m going to confront him about what happened, make him face up to what he did to me. I meet him and we have words. I threaten to expose him, go to the police. I arrange to meet him at my house. I tell him there are things we need to talk about. Instead, when he gets there, I have a knife. Which I use. I have a plan to get rid of the body, but before I can do it, my friend Andy walks out to the shed at the back of the house and finds it.’

  There was silence, except for the shouts across the yard, the thumping of a basketball.

  ‘You’re not saying anything,’ said Tabitha.

  ‘I don’t really know what to say. Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘I’m pretty certain that that’s what Mora thinks happened. So I was trying to look at myself the way Mora looks at me. I know I’m a bit crazy sometimes. I brood. I get angry. Could I have done it and somehow suppressed all memory of it?’

  ‘Surely you couldn’t have?’ said Ingrid. There was a deep crease between her brows.

  ‘That’s what I think. I couldn’t, could I? Even if the pills mess with my memory, I’d remember. Now that I’m here, going over everything, I know that Stuart did terrible things, and it damaged me in some deep way. It was abuse, of course it was. But I didn’t think that before. At least, if I did, I pushed it down deep. Anyway, none of that matters, all of that stuff about a motive. I wouldn’t kill someone whether I had a motive or not.’ She looked at Ingrid’s expression again. ‘I’m not asking you to believe me. I know everyone says they’re innocent.’

  ‘Some of them are,’ said Ingrid.

  ‘The problem is, what I know, or what I say I know, isn’t going to be much help in court. This may sound stupid but I don’t want someone just to do some clever defence. I don’t want them to think about strategy. I want to know the truth, even if it’s a terrible truth, and it’s driving me crazy. You see, I can’t remember that day. I’ve tried and tried, but it’s a horrible blank with nasty fragments in it, and I don’t know what I did. I honestly don’t know. I don’t know what I did during that day. The story I told you sounds quite convincing, doesn’t it?’

  Ingrid looked at her with a troubled expression.

  ‘What was your lawyer like?’ asked Tabitha.

  Ingrid’s expression hardened and then she gave a shrug. ‘He promised more than he delivered,’ she said.

  SIXTEEN

  When she woke in the early hours, she couldn’t remember for a moment where she was. She lay in the dark silence, just the sound of Michaela’s steady breathing, which had become somehow reassuring, and everything returned to her.

  Tomorrow was her court appearance. She needed to prepare herself. She tried to imagine it and found she couldn’t. Her world had shrunk to this tiny room and to the thoughts in her head that she couldn’t escape. In here, time was both meaningless and relentless: measured out by doors being locked and unlocked, by meagre breakfasts, unappetising lunches and nasty suppers, walks round and round the yard. But in twenty-six hours, she would, briefly, be back in time again. She used the toilet, washed her hands and face, cleaned her teeth, dressed in the same old shapeless trousers and thick top that she wore every day.

  It suddenly occurred to her that she didn’t have the right clothes for the court and it was too late to ask Shona to bring anything. She rummaged through her things, old tee shirts and trousers and jerseys, everything a bit wrinkled and stained. She couldn’t ask Michaela – she was about twice her size; one of her tee shirts would look like a dress on Tabitha. She imagined herself standing in front of the judge in a grubby tracksuit, with her uncut hair and her bitten fingernails and her cut lip, then put her head in her hands for a moment, feeling grim and helpless.

  * * *

  ‘Can I ask you a favour?’

  ‘Of course.’ Ingrid patted the chair next to her. The library was cold this morning; the heating wasn’
t working. Heavy, sleety rain fell past its window so Tabitha couldn’t even see the fields and the trees.

  ‘I haven’t got anything to wear to court. I wondered if you could lend me something. You’re always so smart.’

  And it was true. Today, Ingrid was dressed in dark woollen trousers and a bottle-green round-necked jumper. She had studs in her ears and her greying hair was neatly brushed. She looked like she was about to go into a meeting or stand at a podium to talk about fiscal responsibility.

  ‘I know not to let myself go,’ she said. ‘Of course you can borrow whatever you want. Though you might drown in my things. Let’s go and have a look.’

  * * *

  Tabitha felt like a child trying on her mother’s clothes. The skirt she put on slid to her hips and came down almost to the floor. The sleeves of Ingrid’s jacket covered her hands.

  ‘You’re very little,’ said Ingrid, inspecting her.

  ‘I’m still waiting for my growth spurt.’

  ‘What about this dress? You could hitch it up a bit.’

  Tabitha took off the skirt and jacket. Her skin was white and pricked with goosebumps. Her legs were hairy. She took off her socks. Her toenails needed cutting. She pulled on the dark blue dress. Ingrid rolled up the sleeves, then folded it up at the waist to make it shorter. She tutted and twitched the material, gathering it here and smoothing it there. Tabitha stood very still. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had properly touched her, put an arm around her.

  ‘There,’ said Ingrid at last. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I can’t see myself. Will I do?’

  ‘I think so. Have you got shoes?’

  ‘Trainers.’

  ‘What size are you?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Mine are far too big. Trainers will have to do.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ She scrutinised her once more. ‘You should wash your hair and comb it back from your face. It looks a bit wild.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you want to borrow any make-up?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It’s just a brief appearance.’ She swallowed hard. Her throat hurt. ‘I’m nervous.’

  ‘That’s only natural.’

  ‘I mean I’m scared. Really scared.’

  SEVENTEEN

  Tabitha woke before it was light. She was very cold and her heart was knocking against her ribs. She used the lavatory and then brushed her teeth so hard her gums bled. Michaela lay on the top bunk and watched her, not speaking. She put on Ingrid’s dress and tried to adjust it so it didn’t look ridiculous. She sat on her bed. Breakfast was impossible, but she had a mug of tea when it arrived. All around her she could hear the sounds of a day beginning. Doors scraping open, a cough, a dirty laugh, someone shouting boisterously along the hall. Her hands were shaking and her legs felt spindly, as if they might not hold her weight.

  ‘You look good.’

  Tabitha spun round. ‘Oh! Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’ There was a silence, then: ‘Good luck today.’

  It was so little, a few basic words that anyone would say, but tears filled Tabitha’s eyes. She put a hand against the wall to steady herself.

  At nine o’clock two warders came and collected her. Tabitha thought the woman was one of those who had searched her, but she couldn’t be sure. She put her old jacket round her shoulders, glanced at herself in the little mirror as she left the cell. Pale smudge of a face, blinking eyes: she looked about thirteen.

  As she walked through the central hall, people looked at her. Ingrid wished her luck; Orla shouted out an encouragement. Several women banged on their doors. Tabitha tried to smile at them.

  Doors opened and doors banged shut, keys turned. Past steel lockers. A vending machine. Then she was out into cold damp air. The wall ahead was high and grey, with a coil of barbed wire snaking its way along its top. There was a white van, its back opened ready for her.

  ‘In you go,’ said one of the warders, giving her a little prod.

  Tabitha climbed inside. The doors were shut. An engine revved and then she was moving, stopping, moving once more, gathering speed. She was in the world again, but the van was just another cell jostling her forward. She tried to concentrate. She had a pain in her lower back and thought she might be about to get her period, though it had been months. Out of the tiny window she could see trees, telephone wires, the sides of buildings.

  The van came to a halt and the doors were opened. Tabitha climbed out. They were at the back of the court and it was only a few steps into the building. Along a corridor, down some stone steps and then another flight. A door was held open for her and she went into a small room and sat on a chair and squeezed her eyes shut.

  ‘Tabitha.’

  She looked up at Mora Piozzi. She had a leather satchel over her shoulder and was holding a cardboard cup of coffee in either hand.

  ‘I don’t know if you take milk or sugar.’

  ‘Black is fine.’

  Tabitha took a sip, then another. Real coffee. It felt like a message from the outside world.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘We have half an hour.’

  Tabitha nodded.

  ‘Are you clear about the procedure of a plea and trial hearing preparation?’

  Tabitha shook her head.

  ‘It’s very simple and quick. You go into the dock. That might feel scary, but don’t worry. I’ll be sitting at the bench a few feet away. The judge will enter. Then the court associate will read out the charge and ask you for your plea.’

  ‘Yes.’ Tabitha took another mouthful of coffee.

  ‘Then the judge will fix the timetable, which includes the date of the trial, but also a series of stages. The first stage date is the one on which the prosecution must serve their evidence.’

  Mora Piozzi took some papers and her laptop from her satchel, but she didn’t look at them.

  ‘I have received the advanced disclosure pack,’ she said. ‘Basically, it’s the evidence the police have collected so far and the streamlined forensic report. There’s nothing in it we didn’t already know.’

  She looked searchingly at Tabitha. ‘Have you thought about your plea?’

  Tabitha nodded her head.

  ‘Good. Have you reached a decision?’

  Tabitha didn’t reply.

  ‘Would you like me to go over their case against you one last time?’

  ‘All right.’

  Now the solicitor picked up a single piece of paper. ‘The victim was last known to be alive at around ten-forty because CCTV shows he drove his car through the village shortly before that, in the direction of his house and yours. His car was parked at your house. His body was found in the yard behind your house. His blood was on you. You have no alibi. You have a history of mental illness. You lost your father when you were thirteen and you were abused by the victim when you were fifteen. Before the murder took place, you were heard making angry remarks about Stuart Rees. You were seen after the murder in a state of confusion and distress.’

  She put the piece of paper down, set her coffee on top of it.

  ‘You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I strongly advise you to plead not guilty to murder, but guilty to manslaughter.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘If you plead not guilty on all counts, Tabitha, you are very likely to spend many years in prison. There is a mandatory life sentence for murder. If you plead guilty to manslaughter with diminished responsibility, we can build up a strong case in your defence. He abused you. You were traumatised and mentally disturbed. It is very likely you would get a lesser sentence, perhaps no more than two years, which means you’d be out in one.’

  ‘I see.’

  Tabitha drank the last of her coffee, which was turning cold now. Her head was beginning to throb.

  ‘There’s a problem,’ she said. ‘What if it isn’t true?�
��

  ‘Tabitha—’

  ‘If I do what you say, I’ll never know.’

  ‘What won’t you know?’

  ‘We need to find out who did it. Whoever it is.’

  ‘That has nothing to do with any of this and it’s not my job. My job is to represent your interests. This is what I advise you to do; it’s your best chance. No solicitor would tell you anything different.’

  ‘OK,’ said Tabitha. At last she knew what she was going to do. It made her feel vertiginous.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means no.’

  ‘You want to plead not guilty?’

  ‘You think I did it, don’t you?’

  ‘We’ve been through this. It really isn’t the point.’

  ‘It is. You think I’m guilty so I should plead diminished responsibility and try to get out as quickly as I can. But what if I’m not?’

  Her solicitor gave a deep sigh; her shoulders looked heavy.

  ‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘All right, if that’s what you want, we will go in there and we—’

  ‘No.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I don’t want you to represent me.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  Tabitha smiled. ‘Don’t you get it? I’m firing you.’

  EIGHTEEN

  The stairs leading up to the court were narrow and steep and Ingrid’s dress tangled in Tabitha’s legs. A lace was coming undone on her trainers so she had to stop and retie it with the two police officers standing too close behind her.

  The courtroom took her by surprise; she blinked in its light. There was a man in a black gown with a clipboard, and rows of empty wooden benches, and three people sitting near the front, talking to each other, as if this was just another day. Two women sat at machines.

  She stumbled as she went up into the dock. There was glass on either side of it, and she didn’t feel tall enough. She stared out, confused. The exultation she had felt a few minutes ago had ebbed away and in its place was a sense of helplessness.