A Song of Isolation

by Michael Malone

  ‘There’s nothing that can be done, I’m afraid. It’s all legally binding. Don’t pay? You get sued and the courts will find against you. Probably best to just bite that bullet.’ He paused. ‘Sorry, Amelie. With everything else you’re going through … But it was simply unavoidable. I had to tell you.’

  ‘What are my options?’ she asked, hearing the tremble in her voice. Could the shit get any deeper?

  ‘Well, unless you want to go back to being poor, you need to get back to work.’

  ‘What, like, acting?’

  ‘No, in your local supermarket stacking shelves.’ He tutted. ‘Of course I mean acting, silly.’

  ‘Will anyone have me? Are people still interested?’

  ‘I get at least a couple of scripts for you every month, my darling.’

  ‘You do?’ Amelie was astonished, and felt an ember of hope flare in her mind. Some good news for a change. It was nice to be wanted. Even though she hadn’t wanted to be wanted. And she shook her head at her own crazed logic. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘You told me not to, remember?’ He spoke the next sentence in a terrible impression of her accent. ‘“I don’t want to know, Bernard. The movie world is over for me.”’

  ‘Yeah. Right. I remember that moment.’ They were in the bar at the Groucho Club in Soho, sipping G&Ts, studiously ignoring all the other famous faces in the room. The place was symptomatic of Amelie’s confusion over her celebrity. She loved the feel of the place and how it didn’t matter to anyone inside who she was, while at the same time despising the reason for its existence.

  Bernard had been silenced, at first, by her statement. Then in­creasingly frustrated that she could feel so. ‘But this is the big dream, dear. Do you realise how many people would give their right arm to be in your position?’

  ‘Let them donate a limb then. I’ve had enough,’ she’d said and felt the conviction of that statement in her bones.

  Now there was a way back? Could she face all that again? Then with a spark of insight she realised the life had never really left her. She just had all of the attention without any of the work.

  ‘How long would a hundred and fifty grand last me?’ she asked, steeling herself.

  ‘At the rate you spend? Three years? Four, max. If you get cheaper lodgings you could perhaps stretch that out to five or six.’

  No way was she being forced out of her home, even if those arseholes still lived next door. She made herself ask the question. The answer might provide the motivation to get up off her back­side and do something. ‘Then what?’

  ‘What skills do you have?’

  ‘I worked in a call centre that one time,’ she replied, half joking and praying it would never ever come to that.

  ‘And as I remember you got fired for calling your boss a C-U-N…’

  ‘Yeah, forget that.’ She shuddered at the memory. ‘What a hor­rible job that was.’

  Amelie paused and thought of the other jobs she had over the years. Because of her chaotic childhood, thanks to her father, she hadn’t bothered with education beyond secondary school. Then, after he died, she thought about moving to France to see what that kind of life might offer and make an attempt to acknowledge her roots. At least the weather would be better, but instead she moved down south to stay with a friend of her mother’s and attained her degree in life on the streets of London. Her first job was on a market stall selling women’s products. ‘Trim your lady garden with one of these, sweetheart,’ she remembers shouting at a scandalised matronly type, while wielding a pink pack of five razors. She grad­uated to working in pubs and clubs, and doing the odd piece of modelling. Which prompted her next question:

  ‘Any modelling jobs out there?’

  ‘There are. But they depend on you being Amelie Hart, movie star.’

  Could she really do all that again? She loved getting into a role, and always felt like she was born to pretend that she was someone else, but it came with so much baggage. Baggage that she never really left behind, she heard a small voice in her mind say. You’re getting the rough without the smooth. Why not just dive back in?

  ‘Would anyone really want me?’ she asked.

  ‘Course they would, you’re the Amelie Hart.’

  Amelie read the pause before the response. There was some­thing he wasn’t saying.

  ‘But…’

  ‘You would have to distance yourself from Dave.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘According to Lisa you were going to give him the heave-ho anyway…’ he said in a wheedling tone.

  She cringed at the thought that she might even consider this, and ignored the fact that Bernard’s comment meant her two friends were talking behind her back. ‘Nope. I can’t do it,’ she said. ‘You can’t imagine what he’s going through right now. I’m not going to make it even worse.’

  ‘You want to get your life back on track, my dear? You’re going to have to go Judas.’

  Chapter 16

  There was nothing to differentiate one day from the next. Wake up from a series of dreams that felt like one long terrifying chase, and stand emptying your bladder while wondering if the horrors of the night could be any worse than the unrelenting shame of each day.

  When your door was unlocked, shuffle down to the end of the row of cells where breakfast was served. Cornflakes and semi-skimmed milk. Weetabix on a good day. Take the tray back to your cell. Close the door. Eat. Take as long as you can to clean the plate and plastic cutlery in your tiny sink. Lie back on your bed. Wait. Lunchtime. The same process: collect food, bring it back to the cell to eat it. Wait for the cell door to be opened up again for one hour of exercise, which consists of walking round a high-walled courtyard open to the skies. Apply once more to be allowed to use the gym. Then back to the cell to wait for dinner. And then the last wait of the day, for lights out.

  When collecting his food, or going for his daily constitutional around the yard he never engaged with anyone else. He was in the sex-offender unit. Meaning all of the men around him, apart from the guards, were either rapists or child molesters. And they all made him feel sour to the depths of his stomach. He felt tainted just by being in their presence and often caught himself examining the faces of the guards, looking for hints of the strain that this must have on them.

  Of course, being the ‘celeb’ inmate, many of them tried to get a conversation going with him. He rebutted all of them with a gruff ‘fuck off’.

  ‘Think you’re special or something?’ One young lad faced up to him, shoulders back, chin up, arms out.

  Dave put his face close to the young man and laughed. Loudly, and for a good long minute. Then he turned and walked away.

  ‘Boss.’ He approached a guard standing just beyond the feeding station. ‘I sent in a request to have a meeting with the governor.’

  ‘The governor, is it?’ It was the guard’s turn to laugh.

  ‘Aye, three times. And I haven’t heard back.’

  ‘You should send in a complaint to the I Don’t Give a Shit Dot Com website.’

  There was a resolution in the other man’s face. He would give nothing away in this transaction. As far as he was concerned Dave was worse than scum.

  Dave bit down on his lower lip in an effort to tamp down on his rising anger, and mumbling, ‘Fuck you very much,’ he returned to his cell.

  That evening, Dave had a chance to use one of the public phones situated at the end of the hall. There were three of them, the one in the middle was missing a canopy and a receiver, making Dave wonder if some guy had gone crazy during a call home and battered one item with the other.

  ‘When’s the phone gaunnae get fixed?’ someone shouted from the middle of the queue. Ironic laughter rang round the hall.

  Eventually his turn came and he picked up a phone. He dialled, praying he’d got the number correct.

  ‘Bain,’ the man said.

&
nbsp; ‘Dave Robbins here.’

  ‘I know, Dave, they tell us … Never mind. How can I help you? Am I not due a visit with you anyway, next week?’

  ‘This can’t wait.’

  ‘How can I help?’ The man was all business.

  ‘I need to be in the general population. Failing that I need a word with the governor.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do about the second request, Dave, but the first one would be suicide.’

  ‘Don’t care.’ Dave hunched over the mouthpiece. ‘I can’t spend another day in among these…’ He was aware his voice was coming out in a strangled whisper.

  ‘I see.’ Bain’s voice softened with sympathy. ‘I really don’t think the remand hall, which is where they might put you, is an option. You would be in very real danger there. Perhaps,’ he said as if thinking aloud, ‘we can see about getting you a cell in the segre­gation wing.’

  Dave didn’t warm to the idea but nonetheless felt his legs all but sink with relief at the thought. ‘That would be great, thank you.’

  ‘Promising nothing. The Prison Service has been handling dan­gerous men for a long time and everything they do has a purpose. They won’t just try to please us on a whim. I have to give them a good reason. Have you received any threats recently?’

  Dave considered the febrile atmosphere every time he left his cell. The looks, the comments, the fists tight and poised as if to strike.

  ‘Just the usual shite.’

  Bain sighed. ‘Leave it with me. In the meantime do nothing that’s going to piss anyone off. Head down, understand?’

  If you keyed the words ‘civil servant’ into your Google Images search, Dave was sure it would come up with a picture of the man in whose office he sat.

  ‘I can’t agree to every meeting that inmates request.’ Callan McClymont, the governor of HMP Blackhill Prison, fixed the right cuff of his white shirt, which was jutting out from under the sleeve of his dark-blue suit. ‘We’re running at almost forty percent overcapacity at the moment so that would be lunacy.’ He offered a smile that was all business. ‘Having said that, you are…’ he paused, as he thought of a suitable word; ‘…an interesting case, David. We’ve had a lot of high-profile people in my time as gov­ernor of this prison, but I don’t think anyone has had the gossip machine churning out there … or in here, for that matter … to this degree. So I thought it best I make my acquaintance.’ He sat back in his chair, head cocked to the left, and studied Dave for a long moment. ‘I understand you want to be moved in to the general population?’

  ‘Yes, please…’ Dave wondered what the correct appellation might be, ‘sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m a remand prisoner, sir, in with convicted sex offenders, sir.’ Dave heard himself speak as if in the abstract. Too many sirs. And a hint of aggression. He needed to rein it in or he would get nowhere with this guy. ‘Sorry,’ he added. ‘I don’t know the correct way to behave in this place. With anyone.’ He coughed to hide his discomfort and hated himself for that moment of weakness. ‘Con­victed sex offenders who are obsessed with me and my girlfriend. I can’t wait to get out of my cell and then when I am, all I meet is these horrible men who’re … virtually pleasuring themselves in front of me at the thought of what they’d like to do with the woman I…’ He stopped, aware that the man in front of him was wearing an expression that was as blank as an unplugged TV screen.

  ‘Yours is a unique case, David. And we are in a difficult situ­ation. There’s a target on you, so remand would be dangerous. There’s no room in the segregation unit, so the sex offenders’ unit it is, I’m afraid. We’ve done the best we could do for you: given you a cell on your own.’

  Dave examined that last sentence for irony.

  ‘Are you aware of our listener programme?’ McClymont asked.

  ‘No,’ said Dave while thinking about going back to that cell in among those other men. He couldn’t help but give an involuntary shudder.

  ‘These are trusted prisoners who perform a valuable service in the prison. We all need someone to talk to, yes? And these lis­teners, as the word suggests, provide a willing ear. I suggest you avail yourself of this service as soon as possible.’ He stood up. Fixed an already neat line by tucking his shirt into the waistband of his trousers. ‘This really is a volatile place, David. Part of my job is to keep a lid on that as much as possible, and if I were to put you in the hall with the other prisoners on remand everything would kick off. No matter how much you think you’d prefer it, your life would be at real risk.’

  Chapter 17

  Each day blended in to the last, and each morning Amelie woke up feeling the weight of Dave’s incarceration and wondering if she was able to throw him to the wolves to save herself. Her only real breaks from the fever her life had now become were her moments of dreamless sleep, and long telephone conversations with Lisa.

  Twice a week she made the trek to the prison, each time to be told that Dave didn’t want to see her. After a couple of weeks a guard had taken pity on her and let her sit just out of sight of the reception area for half an hour before she went outside to face the photographers who seemed determined to chart her every move­ment.

  The first few times she’d driven across the city to the prison it was like she was leading a cavalcade, but then the photographers realised where she was going and settled for a photo of her leaving her house and another leaving the prison. At each place they thrust their lenses in her face, looking to capture that one ex­pression that would reveal the toll all of this was taking on her so they could sell it to the highest bidder. And she was determined, time after time, that they were getting nothing.

  Zen, she told herself, she was Zen.

  Most days, despite her best intentions, she opened the social-media apps on her phone to see what was happening in the world. And then, despite herself, she had a quick peek at her messages and mentions.

  ‘Die, PaedoBitch’ was one of the less cruel ones of late.

  A meme that consisted of a still from one of her earlier movies, showing her as a young mum holding her daughter, with a speech bubble that read ‘Just warming her up for the boyfriend’ was trending.

  ‘If you ever have kids, hope another paedo fucks them’ had over a thousand likes.

  With a shudder she closed down her phone and threw it on to the sofa beside her.

  Although it was difficult Amelie recognised the importance of trying to look beyond all of this and to think about what might come next. Her cash wouldn’t last forever so she would need to start working again. Could she do another movie?

  The day after her last conversation with Bernard, three scripts had arrived. Four the day after. They had been coming in sporadi­cally ever since, but she had let them pile up.

  Bernard had clearly been working his contacts, and every now and again he would phone her to check she’d received the latest proposal.

  ‘They’re not going to wait around forever, love,’ he’d chided. ‘You might not like it but your name has cachet … for the moment.’ His pause was calculated to remind her what the per­sonal cost to her must be. ‘Anything in there that you fancy?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You haven’t looked at any of them, have you?’

  She said nothing.

  ‘I have other actors on my books who would die for these kind of roles.’

  ‘Pass them on, then.’

  ‘Don’t be a child,’ he scolded and in her mind she saw that ex­pression he favoured for his more unruly clients. Then his tone softened. ‘We’ve had some interview requests … BBC, ITV, CNN…’ He paused and she sensed he was about to unleash his ace. ‘Oprah.’

  Despite herself, she felt her chest lighten at the prospect. She damped it down. ‘Piss off.’

  ‘Her people got in touch this morning. They’re offering to fly you out to her ranch where she’ll spend a couple of days talking to
you, finding out how tough it is…’

  ‘…Living with a paedo.’

  ‘Living in a world that has an intense need to know what it’s like to be you. She’s a powerful and compassionate woman, Amelie, who just wants to know the truth.’

  ‘Truth, my arse.’

  ‘Who knows more than her what it’s like to live with the trashy media detailing her every move? She sees you as the twenty-first-century Lady Di…’

  ‘I’m not royalty and I’m not—’

  ‘You’re a beautiful woman who was being used as a shield.’

  Amelie heard the pitch Oprah’s researchers would have used and recoiled.

  ‘For pity’s sake, Bernard, that’s shit and you know it. I wasn’t a shield. Dave never harmed anyone in his life.’ She paused and allowed the thought to enter her head. Teasing it out a little, she saw herself on a cushioned seat under a tree. Oprah leaning towards her, tapping her on the arm in a ‘it’s just us girls’ gesture. She shook her head hard. ‘It would be trial by public opinion before this even gets to court.’

  ‘That’s what’s happening anyway, honey.’

  Of course it was.

  ‘And what’s the verdict so far?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Oh, someone’s on the other line,’ she lied. ‘Got to go.’ She ended the call and threw her mobile onto the sofa beside her.

  When was this ever going to end? She could feel the emotion bubbling up, but she refused to give in to it. She was done crying. She was done being the world’s worst bitch.

  She pulled one of the large cushions over, pressed her face into it and started to scream. Once she was out of breath and her throat was hoarse she could hear Lisa’s voice in her head.