House of Correction

by French, Nicci

  Next, starting at the fallen tree, she marked the buildings. There were several small houses on the right as you came into the village; one was apparently only occupied in the summer, and she was pretty sure another was the home of Pauline Leavitt, the old woman who claimed that Tabitha had threatened Stuart. After them, on the left, was the hotel that was closed for winter.

  She couldn’t remember how many buildings there were until Shona’s bungalow on the right and a bit further on, Andy’s tiny house, set back from the road. Perhaps twenty, she thought, maybe a few more.

  More or less opposite Andy’s came the vicarage, which was smaller and shabbier than its name suggested. The church was next to it. Tabitha spent quite a long time getting the church right; its round tower and stunted spire.

  A few paces on from that was Dr Owen Mallon’s house.

  Then the post office, which Terry lived above, and to its side the little annexe that served as a café in the summer. Opposite the post office was the bus stop.

  She drew the Rees’s square house and then, remembering Laura’s words, added a sloping lawn and put a mole in its centre.

  Finally she made a miniature picture of her own crooked little house. She put smoke coming out of its chimney. She parked a tiny car at the front and then she drew in the shed where Stuart’s body had been found.

  What had she missed? She was sure there was something. Yes, the camera. She drew an eye over the roof of the post office. A glaring eye.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Dana was lying as usual on her bed, almost invisible beneath her blanket. Tabitha heard a clattering from outside.

  ‘It’s dinner time,’ she said.

  No response.

  She leaned up and touched the bulge in the bed. There was still no response so she pulled the blanket off.

  ‘We’re going to get our dinner.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  Tabitha shook Dana. She told her that she had to get up, fetch a dinner tray and bring it back to the cell and if she didn’t want to eat it, that was up to her. She had to almost drag her along the gangway, down the stairs and into the queue. They returned with a tray each. Back in the cell they each sat on a chair. Tabitha looked down at her tray; the sight and the smell of it made her stomach heave. There were four compartments, containing respectively vegetable stew that looked like vomit, a bread roll, a foil-wrapped granola bar, and a sludgy stewed apple for pudding.

  She looked across at Dana, who had chosen the baked fish instead of the vegetables.

  ‘I think you may have made a better choice than me,’ she said, not meaning it.

  ‘Take it,’ said Dana.

  Dana didn’t eat more than a couple of forkfuls of her meal. But it was something. She was sitting up. She had spoken a few words. She wasn’t just lying under her blanket.

  Tabitha took the two trays and returned with two mugs of tea.

  ‘I didn’t make you eat the food,’ she said, ‘but I am going to make you drink the tea. It’s about hydration. You should probably have about three litres but you’re definitely going to have this mug.’

  Was there the tiniest hint of a smile on Dana’s lips? Tabitha thought that there probably wasn’t. But she did start to sip at her tea. Tabitha put her own mug down. She laid a fresh sheet of paper on her desk and started to write. She quickly filled two sheets. Then she looked across at Dana who was staring at the wall.

  ‘I’ve written a letter,’ she said. She placed it in front of Dana. ‘What do you think?’

  Dana gazed blankly at it and then shook her head. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘You mean, you think it’s not right?’

  ‘I can’t make it out.’

  Tabitha hesitated for a moment. ‘Dana,’ she said slowly. ‘Can you read?’

  Dana shrugged. ‘A bit. You know. When I need to.’

  Tabitha pulled her chair closer and picked up her piece of paper and looked at it.

  ‘I’ve written two letters,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure if I’ve found the right tone. Pull your chair over here.’

  Dana looked suspicious.

  ‘We could go over the letter, spell it out, word by word.’ Tabitha paused. Dana still seemed reluctant. ‘Well, what else have you got to do? Crawl back under your blanket?’

  With a scraping sound, Dana eased her chair closer to Tabitha’s table.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Andy came into the room slowly and heavily; she could hear his shoes on the floor as he approached. She had made an effort for his visit, washed her hair and put on jeans rather than her shapeless tracksuit trousers, but still she saw he was shocked by her appearance.

  He had made an effort too. She was used to seeing him in his working clothes, at ease in old trousers covered in paint and oil that had multiple pockets for tools; rough, often ripped shirts and boots without laces. But today he wore jeans, a round-necked grey jumper that was one size too small, shoes he might even have polished, and he had shaved which made him look younger and less good-looking.

  He raised his hand to her from across the room and kept it awkwardly raised as he made his way towards her. He was tall and solid. She had always looked ridiculously little standing beside him.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said as he lowered himself onto the chair.

  ‘Oh.’ He flushed. ‘No worries.’

  He didn’t like talking very much; he communicated with his hands, with the way he used a saw, or measured up a space just with his eyes, or laid licks of fresh paint over plaster.

  He shifted in his chair, nodded. His blue eyes were uneasy and there were purple rings of exhaustion under them. His long dark hair was wet from the rain. The nail on his left thumb was dark. He was always picking up bruises.

  ‘I’m sorry about everything you had to go through,’ she said.

  ‘It wasn’t great.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘I’d like you to go on working on the house while I’m in here. I’ll pay you, of course. It just might take a bit more time. I’ll be able to picture you standing in the kitchen with a mouthful of nails and your radio playing. First of all, we need – that is, you need – to lay the floorboards.’ She saw the tiny flinch and knew he was thinking of going out to the shed. ‘And after that, there are the skirting boards and the shelves in that old pantry.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And the window frames need repairing, of course,’ she continued.

  ‘And the porch.’

  ‘Yes, but you can wait till the weather gets better for the outside stuff. I used to walk past it,’ she continued, ‘and think it looked so neglected and unloved. Houses need love.’ Her voice was dusty and her eyes throbbed. ‘But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Did you tell the police I had tried to stop you going out into the shed?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Yes, I did. He asked me.’

  ‘Who?’

  He shrugged. ‘The man in the suit, face like an axe. I had to tell him.’

  ‘But I don’t understand,’ said Tabitha. ‘I don’t remember that at all.’

  Andy stared at her helplessly. ‘You were pretty out of it. You couldn’t really speak.’

  ‘I was having a bad day.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I get them every so often. I just have to weather them. It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘Of course not,’ he replied, too quickly.

  ‘You know I’m defending myself?’

  He nodded.

  ‘So I need to know everything. Help me remember. From when you arrived.’

  Andy cleared his throat. ‘I knocked and then knocked again. I knew you were in because a light was on.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Four-thirty or near enough.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You opened the door but it was like you weren’t really seeing me. Your eyes had a kind of—’ He stopped.

 
; ‘Go on.’

  ‘A glazed look. Like you were on drugs.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘I thought you had taken something. And that you were unhappy. I was anxious.’

  ‘That I’d done something?’

  ‘No! Anxious for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re my friend,’ he said simply.

  Tabitha’s throat hurt. She swallowed hard and said, ‘Did you notice anything else?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like did I have blood on me?’

  He flinched. ‘No. I mean, I don’t think so. You had the blanket wrapped around you though. It was pretty dark.’

  ‘So then what?’

  ‘I asked you if you were OK and you mumbled something and kind of staggered back to the sofa and lay down. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to ask you about what we were going to do on the house the next day. I thought that might help. You know. Practical stuff.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then I said I’d bring in some of the planks so they wouldn’t be all frozen in the morning. I opened the back door. And you told me not to go out there.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Did I sound urgent?’

  ‘Kind of,’ he said miserably.

  ‘So why did you go out?’

  He frowned. ‘I don’t know. I just thought you didn’t want me going into the cold.’

  ‘Right,’ said Tabitha. ‘That’s what I must have meant.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. He wasn’t looking at her. ‘I guess.’

  ‘But I didn’t say that.’

  ‘No. You were strange. Scary.’

  ‘Andy.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I didn’t do it.’

  He looked at her. He was a handsome man, with his shaggy dark hair and his blue eyes. Little wonder that Shona had a thing for him.

  ‘Of course not,’ he said.

  ‘Do you believe me?’

  ‘You know I’m on your side.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Though it wasn’t really an answer.

  ‘What did you think of him?’

  ‘Stuart?’ He gave a grimace.

  ‘You’ve done work for him, haven’t you?’

  ‘I put up a greenhouse last autumn and laid the new patio.’

  ‘How was he?’

  Andy shrugged. ‘I was just the guy doing the manual labour.’

  ‘You mean he ignored you?’

  ‘He was good at getting what he wanted out of people.’

  Tabitha remembered what Laura had said about her husband making complaints.

  ‘So he got what he wanted out of you?’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He was a bit of an arsehole, that’s all.’

  Tabitha leaned forward. ‘Really? What do you mean by that?’

  Andy shrugged. ‘He wasn’t the nicest person. Liked getting his own way. An arsehole.’

  ‘Did other people think so too?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask them.’

  ‘When was the last time you were there?’

  Andy considered. ‘I helped move a socking great sofa into the living room a few days before he died. He stood there and told me I needed to find a different angle. In the end, I had to take its feet off.’

  ‘You didn’t see him the day he died?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘I was at Kenny’s, painting.’

  ‘Was Kenny there?’

  ‘No.’

  They stared at each other.

  ‘Why?’ asked Andy at last.

  ‘I need to find out who was in the village and where they were and when, and who they saw.’

  ‘Sure. Well, as I say, I was at Kenny’s.’

  They sat in silence, not meeting each other’s eye, then Tabitha said, ‘By the way, Shona came to see me.’

  ‘I know.’ Andy smiled and his face softened again. ‘She’s told everyone in the village. Multiple times.’

  ‘Of course she has. What do you think of her?’

  ‘Shona?’ A strange expression crossed his face, almost furtive.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s OK. Friendly.’

  ‘She’s very attractive.’

  ‘I’ve never really thought about it.’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Nothing. She’s broken up with her boyfriend and—’

  Andy gave a sudden shout of laughter. ‘I don’t believe it!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did she put you up to this?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘She did, didn’t she?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘It’s never going to happen.’

  A bell was ringing. Tabitha ignored it.

  ‘Let’s talk about something else.’

  ‘Time’s up.’

  She looked round and saw the thin warder with the sour face.

  ‘It can’t be.’

  ‘It is,’ the warder said.

  ‘I’m getting ready for my trial.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  The warder had thin cheeks and eyes like raisins. She put a hand on Tabitha’s upper arm and her fingers dug in like pincers. Tabitha felt herself grow hot.

  ‘Fuck off,’ she said, shaking the woman off. Then she said it again, louder. Very loud.

  Now there were two more warders standing at the table.

  ‘The governor’s not going to like this.’

  As she was led away, she turned to see Andy watching her. He didn’t look happy.

  * * *

  She sat in front of her opened notebook but she couldn’t concentrate on anything. She was remembering the way Andy had looked at her. He had pitied her. The thought of it made her nauseous. She felt suddenly overcome by a heavy exhaustion so that she could barely keep her eyes open. It would be such a relief to sleep. To sleep and sleep and not to wake.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘I’ve got a new idea.’ Tabitha heard herself. She sounded like the head of a girl scout troop, the sort of person that she had always especially hated.

  The new idea was that they would work on a letter together but this time Tabitha would dictate it and Dana would actually write it. Dana scowled.

  ‘Is that allowed?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be allowed? There are people in prison who can’t write and there are other people who write letters for them.’

  ‘But you can write.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. This is good practice for you.’

  ‘I’ll just feel stupid.’

  ‘You’ll be helping me. In this letter I’m trying to persuade someone to do something. It’ll be good to have your point of view.’

  So Tabitha sat Dana down at the table with a pen in her hand and a fresh piece of paper.

  ‘He’s the local farmer,’ Tabitha said. ‘I saw him down in the village that day.’

  ‘What good is that going to do you?’

  ‘There was hardly anyone in the village the day that Stuart Rees was killed. I want to talk to all of them. Someone may have seen something. Or heard something.’

  ‘That can prove you didn’t do it?’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. If I knew, I wouldn’t need to ask.’ She thought for a moment. ‘ “Dear Rob”. Actually his name is Robert but I’ve never heard anyone call him by that. Rob might be too casual. But then Robert might be too formal.’

  ‘Do you want me to write something down?’

  ‘Write “Dear Rob”.’

  And then slowly, Tabitha dictated a letter to a man she had no reason to like, friendly but not over-friendly. Some of the words she spelled out letter by letter. She pondered how to end. Yours sincerely? Yours? All the best? She settled for ‘With best wish
es’. She looked it over.

  ‘You did that really well.’

  When Dana left the cell, Tabitha quickly rewrote the letter on a fresh sheet of paper.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Almost by return of post, Tabitha got a letter back from Coombe.

  Dear Miss Hardy,

  Thank you for your letter. I may be called up to give evidence in the upcoming trial and therefore I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to come and visit you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Robert Coombe

  ‘Fucking pompous idiot,’ she said aloud when she had finished it. She tossed the letter down and then immediately picked it up again. He was giving evidence for the prosecution. And if it were for the prosecution, it would have to be damaging to her. Was it just that he had heard her bad-mouthing Stuart? Or he said that he had. She didn’t believe him, but why would he make up something like that? Would she be informed as part of the prosecution case? Probably.

  It was all so confusing. She had thought that in spite of everything Coombe would see her, that he would be curious enough. But just a few hours later, she found herself sitting opposite someone she had never even thought to ask.

  * * *

  ‘Long time no see,’ said Luke Rees.

  And it was a long time. He had been eleven or twelve when she left Okeham, and they were at the same school for only a year. All she’d known about him was that he was Stuart’s son, though by the time Luke arrived in secondary school Stuart no longer paid any attention to Tabitha. She remembered him as scrawny and emotional; once she had seen him weeping near the school gates, pushing his knuckly fists into his eyes, trying hard not to cry. To be a boy and cry was to be a baby or a sissy; to be the teacher’s son was to be the target for bullies.

  Now Luke was tall and rangy, with pale skin, long dark hair in a top knot: he was arresting in a wasted kind of way. He was wearing a purple hoodie and beneath it a red tee shirt. Tabitha tried to make out his expression. Was he contemptuous, amused, distressed or just detached?

  ‘I’m surprised to see you,’ she said finally. ‘I mean, really surprised. I didn’t write to you. I didn’t think you’d want to see me.’

  ‘Why? Because you fucked my father? Or because you’re accused of killing him?’