Before they’d come for him to take him to the visitors’ hall he’d filled in a request form for a short course on creative writing. That would get him out of his cell and hopefully out of his own head.
Smith opened his cell door, and before he could close it again Dave ducked in, found the form on the small table where he’d left the piece of paper, turned and handed it to him.
‘What’s this?’ asked Smith.
Dave coughed. ‘It’s a request to attend…’ He heard the weakness in his voice and despised himself for it. As he finished his explanation he fought to add the attitude he’d heard from the other men in the cells around him; ‘…a writing course.’
‘Really?’ said Smith, his eyebrows raised in a silent fuck you.
‘Yeah.’ Dave coughed again and swore that would be the last time he’d be so weak. ‘My lawyer tells me as a remand prisoner I get access to…’
‘But as a paedo you get access to nothing.’ Smith’s expression was hard and unyielding. He took the paper, tore it up into shreds and threw it back into Dave’s face. ‘Pick that up, Robbins. We don’t stand for untidy cells.’ Then, with a satisfied grin, he slammed the door shut.
And he was on his own. Bare walls. A metallic bunk bed. A tiny cubicle with a toilet in it. And God knows how many hours before his door was even opened again.
He fell on to the thin mattress, turned on his side, pulled his knees up to his chest and let the tears flow. His mind’s eye was full of the image of Amelie’s face when he told her not to come back for another visit. It was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. Of course he wanted her to come and see him. The knowledge that there was someone out there who believed him innocent was incredibly powerful, but he couldn’t bear for her to see him in this place. He couldn’t bear to see her in this place. It was like an assault on his senses. Like getting a glimpse of a Michelangelo painting after spending days looking only at the work produced by a chimp given a butter knife and a colour palette of two.
He’d almost buckled when she’d leaned across and held his hand. The soft warmth of her hand and the trust it implied was too much. He couldn’t afford to consider for even a moment the comfort he might find there. That was where insanity lay, he was sure. If he was to get through this he had to accept what had happened, deal with it and not look for relief anywhere.
Of course he’d heard stories of how badly sex offenders, and in particular those who had abused children, were treated. And given the high-profile nature of his case there would be a queue of men intent on violence, looking to carve a name for themselves, quite literally, on his flesh.
He wasn’t a complete stranger to violence; in his preteens he had a bit of a temper on him. He’d lash out with little provocation. And this went on until the school called in his parents. He’d never forget the shame on his father’s face when the headmaster asked them if there were any issues at home.
‘Would you call it an issue when you find your father shagging the neighbour’s wife?’ Dave wanted to ask.
He’d managed to cool it until later in secondary school, when he became the target of some bullies. To deflect this he occasionally tried to act the big man – which often resulted in a fat lip and bruised pride.
And he walked home daily through an area of town where the youth wore their disadvantage with a scowl, brand-name clothing, and permanently grazed knuckles. He negotiated that by ignoring any challenge, and whenever it looked like the threat might turn physical he took comfort knowing he was one of the fastest runners in his year and would easily get away from most threats.
In his time at university he was aware that his mop of blonde hair, bookish aspect and willowy frame would make him a target on nights out for any pissed-up loser who wanted to demonstrate they had the attitude to be anything but, so he joined the local rugby club and in doing so gained twenty pounds of muscle and a group of zealously loyal young men who took shit from nobody.
But here, he was acutely aware he was on his own, and a target. He’d have to find another way to negotiate the violence many men used to validate themselves and the mess of their lives. Or somehow tap into that fury he’d felt as a kid when his father betrayed him and his mother. But for now he’d press his knees against his chest, stare at the wall and try to ignore the feeling of helplessness that was growing in his bones.
‘So, you’re Amelie Hart’s boyfriend?’ a guy had asked him that morning as he’d queued for his breakfast, letting him know that without doubt the word had gotten out in to the prison population. Already he was learning how important gossip was in a place like this. When there was little to do and all day to do it, the details of other people’s stories could gain the allure of gold dust. ‘What’s it like shagging a movie star?’
‘Fuck off.’ He’d turned to face the guy down. Show no weakness. This was an older man, sharp-featured, white hair, and facial skin loosened by too many cigarettes and deep-fried burgers.
A guard moved across to them before the situation could escalate. ‘Everything okay here?’ he asked. With an effort, Dave took control of himself.
‘Everything alright?’ The guard’s repeated question indicated he wanted a verbal response.
‘Aye, boss,’ the other man said. ‘Was just curious, like.’
‘And I don’t want to talk about a past relationship with a fucking deviant,’ said Dave in a calm and reasonable tone.
‘Oi.’ The older man bristled.
‘Back to your cell, Mr Robbins.’ The guard stood between them, his frame so large Dave couldn’t see past him to the other guy.
Without another word, Dave took his instructions and moved back to his cell. Once inside he sat his breakfast tray on the small table that was bolted on to one of the walls and lay on his bed. He wasn’t hungry, and besides, if he drew out the moment of eating he could perhaps alleviate his boredom later on.
The older man’s voice sounded in his mind now, and he clenched everything against the disgust that bubbled through his veins. He wouldn’t be the only man on this site wondering about that very thing. It was unbearable. And you could bet your last penny the old pervert would be back in his own cell, beating off to the thought of doing unspeakable things to the woman he loved.
Chapter 14
Damaris was in her bed, listening to her parents arguing in the next room. When her mother tucked her in, she’d surprised herself by asking her to leave the big light on.
Her parents’ voices grew louder, but unable to hear what they were saying and desperate to know, she edged out of bed, pressed her head against the door and listened.
‘Can’t believe that evil bastard hurt my little girl. What kind of father am I that I would let that happen?’
‘You’re a good dad. A great dad.’
‘If I was, my little girl wouldn’t…’
‘Don’t do this to yourself, honey.’
Damaris heard a smashing sound. A whelp of pain and then sobbing. She’d never heard her father cry before, and she stuffed her thumb into her mouth in a desperate attempt to stop her joining him. This was all her fault. Her toes curled into the carpet as if trying to hold on to a more solid world.
After a troubled night’s sleep she made her way down for breakfast, but only once she heard some movement from the kitchen. When she got there her mother turned to her from the stove and smiled.
‘Just making your favourite breakfast, honey. Waffles and ice cream.’
‘Really? When we aren’t even on holiday?’ Damaris scrambled up onto a high stool at the breakfast bar.
‘Mummy’s going to look after you much better, honey. I’m going to be the best mummy ever.’ She stopped speaking and, hunched over, started to cry.
Damaris jumped off her seat and ran to her mother. Holding her round the waist she said, ‘Please don’t cry, Mummy. Please don’t cry.’
Her mother stopped crying and gave a weak sm
ile. ‘I’d hoped you wouldn’t see me like this. I need to be strong for my little girl after what she’s been through.’ She started crying again.
‘But Mum…’
‘I was standing at the window. I could see up the garden to where you and Dave were. Why I didn’t shout you in…?’ She wiped at her face.
‘But Dave’s my friend. He would never hurt me.’
‘He’s not your friend, darling. Friends don’t hurt each other like that.’
Just then her father appeared in the doorway.
‘Everybody okay?’ he asked.
There was something unsaid in his eyes, an uncertainty. Damaris looked from him to her mother and read a silent answer in her gaze. Her father then gave a little nod of confirmation. What had just happened, Damaris wondered? Grown-ups were so confusing.
‘D and I are just about to have some waffles.’ Her mother sounded like she was forcing some fun into her voice.
‘Well, that’s … a nice surprise,’ Rodger said as he moved closer. He came over to Damaris and kissed the top of her head. ‘How’s my little princess this morning? Sleep alright?’
‘Yes,’ Damaris lied. She might be confused with what was going on but she knew this was not a moment to tell the truth about her restless night. And the dreams.
In one she had boobs. Actual boobs. And Dave next door kept staring at them. In another he was sitting on top of her while her parents watched and she couldn’t breathe. And she woke up, almost terrified to go back to sleep again, ever.
After they’d all eaten her mother reached across the table and patted her hand.
‘How was that, darling?’
Damaris nodded. ‘Great, Mum, thanks.’
‘And don’t worry.’ Claire teared up again. ‘We’ll get through this, as a family.’
‘But, Mummy…’
‘That’s your memory protecting you, Damaris. It’s like when the light goes out when you close the door of your en-suite upstairs. It’s still there but you can’t see it for now.’
Damaris understood about the room being out of her vision, but how that applied to her memories of Dave she wasn’t sure.
‘Honey, when something bad happens,’ her father joined in, ‘sometimes our mind protects us. Shuts that thing down, you know?’
‘Uh-huh…’ Damaris replied as she remembered her strange dreams. Perhaps if her mind was protecting her from something horrible she should let it.
Chapter 15
There were paparazzi in the prison car park. More as she drove through the village. And a scrum of them, elbowing their way in front of each other, waiting outside the long drive up to the big house. She was almost tempted to try and mow them down, but settled for driving past as if they didn’t exist.
What a bunch of vultures. A whiff of human misery and there they were with their long lenses and desperate expressions: worried they might not get that shot before their competitors. During the good days she’d been on speaking terms with a few of them. She didn’t want to encourage their worst excesses, but courtesy cost nothing, and giving a little of her time, on her terms, meant she was mostly left alone.
Now, even through the windscreen of her car she could sense a change in them. Judgement. No more smiles for Amelie Hart, darling of the media. Instead as they thrust their cameras forward they held a little of themselves back.
They were thinking she must have known. How could she not have? But they wouldn’t know innocence if it lay in a manger surrounded by cattle and fairy lights. Everyone was guilty of something to them. It just took some digging and some flashlights to find out what it was, and if there was collateral damage then so be it.
As she negotiated the long, slow bend that brought the grand house into view a picture of Dave presented itself in her mind. The tension in his bearing. The white of his face. His words, ‘Notice how you didn’t say you loved me.’
She heard those words again with a lurch in her gut and a souring in her mouth. Did she love him?
Would they ever recover from this? He’d always doubt the reason she stayed, if she did. So would she. She searched her mind and heart for the truth of her feelings for him, but came up numb. Nothing. There was too much noise to work it out.
She parked in front of her house, and pulled on the hand brake, wondering how she had managed to negotiate her car into the correct position successfully. Almost dreading going into the house on her own, she simultaneously craved the silence it offered. She could close the door on Dave’s office and the mess the police had left there. Pretend that part of it never happened. Forget that the police had worked their way through her sanctuary, looking for evidence of horrible crimes.
Gathering her handbag to her, she climbed out of the car. Turning to face her front door she became aware that there were people near. To her right, a blonde woman wearing a navy suit, carrying an oversized handbag, her expression calculated to portray a mix of won’t take no for an answer and I’m sorry to trouble you. Then she became aware of movement to her left. Damaris and her mother had just walked out of their door.
The journalist, for that was what Amelie assumed she was, inhaled sharply.
Amelie saw the little girl was desperate to speak to her, but she ignored the plea in her eyes. She just didn’t have the energy to accommodate both her and Damaris’s needs in that moment. Instead she focused on the girl’s mother.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself. What mother does this to their daughter?’
‘What kind of woman lives with a freak?’ Damaris’s mother asked, her face in a twist of loathing.
‘Miss Hart, what are you implying?’ The journalist strode forward, sharp with the query.
‘Go away,’ Amelie told her. ‘You’re trespassing.’ Then she unlocked her door, stepped inside and banged it shut behind her. There she fell into a slump at the foot of the stairs and gave in to her tears.
The letter box squeaked open and something dropped inside. A card fluttered onto the mat. Then a voice. ‘We want to tell your story, Amelie. Give me a bell when you’re ready.’
Amelie ignored her. In any case, what did that mean – tell her story? She probably meant what was it like shacking up with someone for years to find out they were a paedophile? The minute she tried to protest Dave’s innocence the woman would likely yawn and turn off the voice recorder on her iPhone.
Her handbag began to vibrate. She stuck her hand in and pulled out her mobile. Bernard. Shit. She’d been ignoring him for weeks now; she should really talk to him.
‘Hello, my sweet Amelie,’ he said after she answered, his voice thick with sympathy.
She sagged a little with relief when she heard him, and felt a warming affection at his usual, overly dramatic greeting. It had always been one of the interesting things about him. Rumour was that he came from an upper-middle-class family and his mother had links to the aristocracy. A career had been laid out for him with Coutts, the bank to the royal family, but he’d eschewed that for acting. When that hadn’t gone the way he wanted, he realised all of the networking skills he’d learned at private school could be put to good use as an agent. Whenever she’d asked him about the truth of this he’d wave his hand, make a dismissive sound and change the subject.
‘How are you, dear?’
What could she say? ‘Bloody awful.’
‘I know.’ Bernard sighed with the weight of his concern for her. A sound so heavy it was almost like he was suddenly asthmatic. ‘And…’ He paused.
‘What?’
‘I have been trying to get a hold of you for an age, Amelie.’ A gentle admonishment. And she read something in his tone. This wasn’t about Dave. Whatever you need to say, just say it, she thought. Although if Bernard was anything but supportive she didn’t know how she would cope. He was always the one she could turn to. ‘I can’t say this over the phone. We simply must meet up,’ he said.
Her sto
mach roiled. What the hell could he want to tell her?
‘I’ve got half of the world’s paparazzi on my doorstep, Bernard. Not a good time to leave the house. Just spit it out.’
A moment’s pause. ‘I can’t. This must be said face to face.’
‘Bernard, I won’t be offended that this conversation happened over the phone. I can’t leave here at the moment. Just tell me, please.’
There was a moment’s pause before he replied. ‘Did you catch a whiff of that story in the press recently about a bunch of celebrities who needed to stump up a lot of cash for a huge investment that went belly up?’
Amelie sat on the lower step feeling a note of relief. It was only about money.
‘I’ve been distracted.’ Pause. ‘Go on…’
‘Your liability in it is massive, my dear.’ He took a deep breath and Amelie could hear a quaver in it. ‘You’re down to your last hundred and fifty grand.’
Amelie let that settle in her mind. ‘All my…? How could…? How did that even happen?’
‘Something about an unlimited liability for losses. And this thing lost big.’
‘But…’ Amelie was confused. Her face had been everywhere at one point. How could that not have made her a lot of money, and how could most of that money now be gone?
She had no memory of any of her money being in such an investment. To be fair, she left most of the financials to Bernard, despite living with an accountant – perhaps because she lived with an accountant, who over the years had continually told her she needed to take more notice. But who has the inclination, really?
Dave had said to her numerous times that he was concerned about how many people out there were truly financially illiterate, and she’d simply held a hand up to the issue. Now she was beginning to regret that attitude.
She had an image of her moving out of the home she’d come to love so much. Sure, outside, even in the courtyard, the world was now a nasty place, but here, with the doors, windows and curtains shut it was her little haven. Looking around the hall and through into the living room, she noted the little knick-knacks she’d carefully placed here and there. Her home was lovely. No way was she losing it. She felt her throat tighten and her eyes sting, and fought to tamp it down. She would not cry. She would not cry.
A Song of Isolation Page 7