House of Correction

by French, Nicci

  He grinned and nodded his head as he spoke, as if he was agitated and trying to keep it under control. He put his hands on the table. They were pale and smooth with long fingers; beautiful hands, except the nails were bitten back almost to nothing.

  ‘Is that what you came all this way to say?’

  ‘I’m not sure why I came. Maybe it was just because I wanted to take a good look at you and hear what you had to say for yourself.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I’ve got anything to say for myself. I know this must be horrible for you.’

  ‘Don’t pity me,’ he said in a loud tone that made Tabitha look around.

  ‘You don’t want to make a scene here,’ she said.

  ‘What will they do, throw me in prison?’

  Luke Rees was about five years younger than Tabitha but she felt like he was a morose, ironic teenager who was going to be as sulky as he could, simply to make a point. But what point?

  ‘Our paths have never crossed,’ said Tabitha. ‘Since school, I mean. Not that they really crossed even when we were at school.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ he said. She liked his directness. ‘About you and my father, I mean. I only knew when Mum told me a few days ago.’

  ‘I suppose she was very angry with me.’

  ‘She didn’t seem angry. I think she just put up with things. That’s what being married means, doesn’t it? Putting up with things.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Tabitha. ‘I’ve never been married.’

  ‘You don’t seem like the marrying kind.’

  Tabitha didn’t know what to make of that. She forced herself to focus. She wasn’t sure why Luke had come but she needed to make the most of it, to learn anything she could.

  ‘What did you think when she told you?’

  He put his hands behind his head. Underneath his casual manner he was like a coiled spring.

  ‘Think? I thought, poor old Mum, having that as well.’

  ‘You weren’t surprised?’

  Luke gave a harsh laugh. ‘I’m told it’s what men do when they reach a certain age. I was only surprised it was with you.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I remember you. You weren’t exactly the most sophisticated girl in the class.’

  ‘No. I wasn’t.’

  ‘So yeah, really I just felt sorry for Mum.’

  ‘Have the police talked to you?’

  ‘Why do you care?’

  ‘I want to know who was in the village. Were you there?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘So you saw Stuart… your dad?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I came home that day. I took the train to Dormouth, but the bus to Okeham wasn’t running. So I walked.’

  ‘In the storm?’

  ‘It’s a way of thinking, clearing my head. There was almost nobody around. I saw where the tree had blown down and blocked the road. They were starting to work on it.’

  ‘I thought there was no way into the village at all.’

  ‘There wasn’t, except over the tree. I climbed over the trunk with the help of the men, and walked down. When I got home there was nobody in, the car wasn’t there.’

  ‘It must have been parked round the back of my house by then. What time was this?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Was it morning or afternoon?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. Afternoon, about two or three. Before Mum came back anyway. I wasn’t looking.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Nothing. I was tired.’

  ‘Did you see anyone?’

  ‘What does it matter whether I saw anyone?’

  ‘I’m trying to work out who was in the village and who met who and who talked to who and what they said and what they saw.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m defending myself in the trial.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard. It’s all anyone’s talking about. Sounds weird.’

  ‘That’s why I’m asking everyone.’

  ‘You’re saying you’re innocent?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He looked at her with frank curiosity.

  ‘I got home and hung around and I didn’t see anyone until Mum got back later in the afternoon and we didn’t talk to anyone else until the police arrived. Is that any help?’

  It felt like he was trying to provoke an argument. There was a silence, during which he tapped his fingers against the table.

  ‘It must have been difficult for you, at school, being the child of one of the teachers,’ said Tabitha.

  ‘It wasn’t perfect.’

  ‘You left when you were sixteen, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I thought you’d be one of the people who went to university.’

  ‘I did other things.’

  ‘What did your parents think about that?’

  ‘Why do you even ask?’

  ‘Your father was a teacher. I suppose that he thought it was important to pass exams, get good grades, all that sort of thing. So maybe your dad was a bit disappointed when you left school.’

  ‘My dad was disappointed with a lot of things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘This is my murdered father we’re talking about. And you’re talking about an ex-lover.’

  ‘He wasn’t my “ex-lover”.’

  ‘I thought that was the word for someone you’ve slept with. How would you describe it?’

  ‘He was my maths teacher and almost three times my age, and I was only fifteen.’ She thought Luke gave an involuntary flinch: perhaps Laura hadn’t told him that bit. ‘What would you call him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, and for the first time he sounded sincere.

  ‘I wasn’t a very mature fifteen either. Looking back, I see I was vulnerable and afraid and he was someone I looked up to and he took advantage of that.’

  ‘That sounds like a reason to kill someone.’

  ‘It’s one of the reasons I’m sitting here,’ said Tabitha. She had surprised herself by speaking so openly. ‘All right. What about you?’

  ‘What do you want me to tell you?’ said Luke. ‘You must have heard the story by now. I left school early. I went off the rails. I left home and didn’t return. I’m not the son my dad would have chosen. He wasn’t the father I would have chosen either.’

  ‘Did he bully you?’

  ‘Did he bully you?’ replied Luke.

  ‘I think he did bully you,’ Tabitha continued. ‘I think you were scared of him and crushed by him and he made your childhood miserable.’ She spoke slowly and held his gaze, willing him not to look away.

  For a few seconds she thought he was going to tell her something. She could see his face working with the effort to speak and not to speak. But then his expression shifted.

  ‘Fuck you,’ he said. ‘Oh no, I forgot, that was what my father did.’

  ‘Fuck you too.’ She sat back and they glared at each other. Tabitha wanted to shout with nasty laughter. ‘I need to find out something,’ she said at last. ‘Or I’ll be serving a life sentence for murder.’

  ‘Which is what you should be serving if you killed him.’

  ‘But I didn’t. Or at least, I…’ She bit down on the words. ‘I didn’t,’ she repeated.

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘And if I didn’t, someone else in the village that day must have. You see?’

  Luke let out a breath that was halfway to a whistle. ‘That’s what this is about. You’re playing detective.’

  ‘It’s hardly a game.’

  ‘You’re trying to find out if the bullied son could have murdered his wicked father. Or maybe just smear me a bit, spread a little doubt about. Would that be enough to get you off?’

  ‘It might be,’ said Tabitha. ‘You know: reasonable doubt.’ She considered for a moment. ‘Had you made up?’

  ‘Made up?’ Luke gave a peculiar little smirk. ‘You mean, had he
decided to forgive me for not being the son he wanted?’

  ‘Had he?’

  ‘I’ll never know.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Had you decided to forgive him for not being the father you wanted?’

  Something in his expression changed. He looked sharp and almost ugly. ‘I’ll never forgive him,’ he said, not angrily but deliberately, like a kind of pledge.

  Tabitha felt like she’d been punched. She stared at him and he stared back, then shrugged, regaining his ironic composure. ‘Fathers and sons,’ he said. ‘You know.’

  ‘You said your father wouldn’t have chosen you. What about Laura?’

  ‘You know mothers. She took my side. At least some of the time.’ He stopped and folded his arms.

  ‘So why did you come back?’

  Luke’s face flushed red. ‘It was Christmas. Mum wanted to see me.’

  ‘Was he OK with that?’

  ‘You know what they say, home is the place where when you go there, they have to let you in.’

  ‘You hadn’t been back for years.’

  ‘Have you been checking up on me?’

  ‘I didn’t need to. You know what Okeham’s like. Everyone knows everyone’s secrets.’

  Who had it been? She thought perhaps Pauline Leavitt, or maybe Terry in the village shop.

  ‘I can imagine. The ingratitude of kids, poor Stuart and Laura, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Something like that. But you should hear what they say about me.’

  ‘I don’t get what you’re asking.’

  ‘You don’t go back for ages, and then when you do return he’s killed.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Was his car there when you got home?’

  ‘No. I already said.’

  ‘And you didn’t see it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did the police interview you?’

  ‘They checked a couple of details.’

  ‘That sounds a bit casual.’

  ‘They were mainly there to reassure my mother. The main man told her that it was OK, that they’d already got the right person. Slam dunk.’ He pointed an index finger at her.

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Someone who liked the sound of his own voice.’ He wrinkled his brow. ‘His name was Dudley, I think.’

  ‘Face like an axe?’ asked Tabitha, remembering what Andy had said.

  ‘More like a hatchet. Or a cheese grater perhaps. He kept patting Mum on the shoulder.’

  ‘Are you going to be giving evidence?’

  ‘Why? What about?’

  ‘Maybe they’ll want you to talk about the impact on your family.’

  ‘I’ll leave that to my mother.’

  ‘You probably won’t be needed,’ said Tabitha. ‘I imagine the witness box will be full of people from the village talking about how beloved he was in the local community.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Luke, with a strange sort of smile.

  ‘What does that mean?’ said Tabitha. ‘Does that mean “yeah, right” meaning yes? Or “yeah, right” meaning no?’

  Luke stood up and leaned towards her. She realised he was very angry. ‘You’re the person he fucked. You’re the person who’s in prison for his murder. You decide.’

  The interview was over.

  THIRTY

  When she got back to the cell, she saw that Dana was away. Was that a good sign? Not necessarily but most of the really bad things people did to themselves was in their own cells. She sat at her table and retrieved her list of names. Against Luke’s name she wrote: ‘At home. No witness. Angry.’

  When she was finished she lay on her bed and went over the interview in her mind. Stuart Rees: revered teacher, beloved husband and father, the heart and soul of the village. Something Luke had said, a phrase, floated into her mind: Poor old Mum, having that as well. As well as what? She stood up and opened her notebook again to write down the words, underlining ‘as well’.

  Then she turned to the page on which she had written the timeline. She inserted Luke’s timing.

  6.30 (approx): Wake up. Lie there for some time (how long?). Not feeling good.

  7.30 (approx): Get up. Start making porridge and tea. No milk.

  8.00: Go to village shop to buy milk. See CCTV. In PJ bottoms and wellies. School bus there. Meet Rob Coombe? Insult Stuart?

  ???am: Go for swim. Meet Dr Mallon.

  10.34: Stuart drives out of village in his car.

  10.41: Stuart drives back again in direction of house (blocked by fallen tree).

  2–3: Luke arrives in village (apparently). Climbs over tree (workmen there).

  Walks to his house. Says he sees no one at all.

  2.30: Meet vicar. Talk about news.

  3.30: Laura returns. Luke there. No sign of Stuart.

  4.30: Andy arrives at house. Discovers body.

  The sky in the small window darkened. Dana returned, shuffling her feet. The key turned in the lock. They ate their supper in silence. Someone screamed and then screamed again. They used the lavatory. They cleaned their teeth. Footsteps echoed outside. Tabitha lay in her bunk and Dana climbed into hers, a foot or so above her; she could hear her breathing and shifting her position. She imagined the other women lying in their bunks in both directions, and on the floors above and the one below, like they were stacked on warehouse shelves. If she looked carefully, she could see a few pale stars in the small square of window. She thought about there being a moon out there somewhere, fields, woods, rivers and then the sea. She thought about snow falling on the water and frost glittering in the branches. She thought about people in their houses, closing curtains and cooking meals and watching TV, reading a book maybe, sipping tea and chatting about their day.

  She needed help and suddenly she had an idea.

  THIRTY-ONE

  From her icy little cupboard Tabitha could hear the sounds of sewing machines clattering and women talking. She put her hands to her ears and tried to concentrate. She had in front of her the list of names of people who had been in the village on 21 December.

  Me

  Mel

  Shona

  Rob Coombe

  Andy

  Terry

  Dr Mallon

  Luke

  Pauline Leavitt

  Delivery man

  If she hadn’t murdered Stuart, then one of these people must have. But why? She took the names one by one, adding comments beside some.

  Me: Sexually abused by Stuart when 15.

  Mel: Disagreement with Stuart over religion. He wrote to the bishop complaining about her.

  Shona: ????

  Rob Coombe: ???? (Why would he lie about me to the police?)

  Andy: Didn’t like Stuart.

  Terry: Must have been in shop all day?

  Dr Mallon:

  Luke: Stuart bullied him.

  Pauline Leavitt:

  Delivery man: Who is he?

  She looked at what she had written. Her motive was the only one that made clear sense. Her eyes ached, her throat felt itchy and sore. She had the beginnings of a cold. She put her head on her arms and fell asleep.

  * * *

  ‘You look tired,’ said Ingrid.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘It’s hardest in winter. But the days are getting lighter.’

  ‘I guess.’

  It was 27 March. Tabitha had been in prison for more than two and a half months. Eighty days. Spring was lying in wait. The snowdrops and winter aconites would be long gone, and the witch hazel would have lost its rusty gold blossom, but there would be primroses and crocuses and daffodils, and tight buds uncurling on the trees. It was time to pick young nettles for soup. Time to mend the porch and paint the windows.

  She mustn’t think of such things. She turned to Ingrid. ‘How are you, anyway?’

  ‘My parole hearing’s coming up soon.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Yes.’ Ingrid smiled. �
�I’m feeling hopeful.’

  * * *

  ‘It is so nice of you to come.’

  Michaela sat across from her, a tall, strong figure. She was wearing black jeans and a yellow blouse the colour of sunshine. Her hair was held back in a complicated plait. There was something different about her, thought Tabitha, and then she realised what it was: she looked clean. Her clothes, her hair, her skin were fresh. She even smelled nice.

  ‘I said I would,’ said Michaela.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘It’ll be better when winter is over. What about you? How’s your new cellmate?’

  ‘Dana. Young, like a child really. She cries a lot.’

  Michaela nodded matter-of-factly. ‘Early days.’

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You know I’m defending myself. So I need to find out what happened on the day that Stuart was murdered.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To work out who could have killed him.’

  ‘You just have to show it might not have been you.’

  ‘Everything points to me. I’ll be found guilty unless I can show it could have been someone else.’

  As clearly as she could, Tabitha spelled out what she knew. How a tree had come down, cutting the village off and effectively trapping only a handful of people. How the CCTV had shown Stuart to be alive at 10.30 in the morning – so it was just the hours between then and 3.30 in the afternoon that mattered. How his body had been found in her shed, his car in her drive, his blood on her clothes. How villagers had come forward to claim that she had threatened Stuart. How she had a history of depression that counted against her. How – she hesitated for a moment here – Stuart had had sex with her when she was fifteen and he was her maths teacher.

  She looked at Michaela’s expression, which wasn’t shocked like she had expected, and continued, telling her about the anonymous letter sent to the police, and the conversations she had had with Shona, Andy, the vicar, Laura and finally Luke.

  ‘So you see, several of the people who were in the village that day had reasons to dislike him, or even hate him. Not just me.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Michaela dubiously.

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘You’ve been busy.’

  ‘But there are things I can’t do while I’m in here. Which is where you come in.’