A Song of Isolation

by Michael Malone

  Dave climbed up on to the top bunk and lay there, both hands under his head. At least Angus had picked the free bunk. That was one less thing they had to negotiate.

  ‘Is it cos you’re a celebrity con, d’ye think, that they went for you?’

  ‘I’m not a fucking celebrity, Angus.’

  ‘Keep your hair on, mate. Just asking. And by the way, if we’re going to be co-pilots let’s at least be civil to wan another, eh? Space is a bit tight for any celeb tantrums.’

  ‘For chrisssake.’

  Angus laughed. ‘Just yankin’ your chain, mate.’ The springs creaked on the bed below, suggesting Angus was changing posi­tion. ‘It’s a deal. No more mention of famous people. Except one last question. What was it like, sleeping with a proper movie star? You must have loads of stuff locked up in the wank bank, ya lucky bastard.’

  Dave jumped off the bed and leaned into Angus’s face. ‘You want to be civil? Any more mentions of Amelie and I’ll find a shank and have one of your kidneys out. Got me?’

  ‘Got you. Jesus.’ Angus held his hands up. ‘Touchy or what?’

  Dave climbed back up onto his bed.

  Silence.

  Dave turned to face the wall, pulled his knees up towards his chest and settled in to think through his conversation with the social worker. What would his reaction at the end of their con­versation do for his chances of a shorter sentence? What an idiot.

  ‘My bird’s quite tasty as well,’ Angus said. ‘What a beautiful body. Gorgeous. Not in the same league as your…’ He stopped. ‘Just one of them head-turners you see every day in Glasgow. Lots of good-looking women out there, eh?’

  Dave closed his eyes and hoped that Angus would read his silence as a signal to stop talking.

  ‘That was my problem. Liked looking at women. Loved looking at pictures of Jenny. That’s my hot girlfriend, by the way. Well, my hot ex-girlfriend.’

  Despite himself, Dave found himself connecting the statements about looking at pictures and Jenny being his ex. ‘Ex-girlfriend? You stalked her then?’

  ‘No. What do you take me for?’ he asked huffily. ‘I’m no’ a deviant. I had some pictures of her on my phone and when she two-timed me with a guy she met on a girly holiday I sent one of the pictures to her dad.’

  ‘What was happening in this picture?’

  ‘She was sucking my cock.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Dave said. ‘Poor woman. What a horrible thing to do to her.’

  ‘Well, she shouldn’t have shagged that German guy in Ibiza, should she?’ Angus lapsed into silence, but only for a moment. ‘Yeah, lesson learned. One daft wee picture and I end up in this dump, locked up with the perverts … no offence.’ More movement from the bed below him and Angus was on his feet. He prodded Dave in the back.

  ‘Can I get a wee bit of peace here, mate?’ Dave asked.

  ‘Sorry, just had a thought.’

  Dave turned to face Angus, who was standing uncomfortably close. Dave pushed himself to a sitting position and flung his legs over the side of the bed, in the hope that Angus would move back and give him more space.

  ‘You were an accountant or something, aye?’ Angus asked as he stepped back to lean against the desktop bolted on to the far wall.

  ‘Still am,’ replied Dave.

  ‘Means you’re proper smart, eh? I need to write a letter to Jenny.’

  ‘Not interested.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Angus held his hands up. ‘I’m done with the revenge porn an’ that. I want to send her a wee letter of apology. Ah done a horrible thing. Nae lassie wants her Da to see a pic of her with her mouth round a gerry helmet.’

  ‘Shame you didn’t realise that before you sent the picture.’

  ‘Totally,’ Angus agreed. ‘What a bell-end. Anyway, if I write the letter, will you check it out? Make sure it’s dead clever an’ that?’ His face was slumped in an expression of contrition.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied, realising that Angus was genuine. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Magic,’ Angus said and rubbed his hands together.

  Just then the cell door opened and Walker, one of the older guards, appeared. ‘Letter for Robbins,’ he said.

  Dave jumped to the floor and stepped over to Walker.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, wondering who it was from and if he would want to read it.

  ‘Shit,’ he said when he pulled the paper out of the envelope a couple of inches. Amelie’s name and their old address appeared as the header. He pulled it out the rest of the way and read.

  ‘What’s up? Somebody die?’ Angus asked and then covered his mouth. ‘Sorry. Forgot about your ma. Ma granny was pure pissed off at that. Said it must’ve been the shock. I’ve got such a big gob at times. Ma granny says I need to think before I talk, but I said to her, how can folk do that and have a quick conversation? If you thought about everything afore you said it, every conversation would take hours.’

  ‘Your granny’s right,’ Dave said.

  ‘So? Whit’s it say?’ Angus stepped closer, his head tilted in an effort to read what was on the letter. ‘Amelie, eh? Your ex? How’s she been? Bet the press are pure giving her pelters.’

  ‘She wants to come to see me before she leaves the country,’ Dave said, feeling as if his stomach had plummeted all the way down to his feet.

  Chapter 38

  There was a little boulangerie tucked into the corner of the square just along from Amelie’s new apartment in Bordeaux. She’d fallen into the habit of going there every morning for a baguette, crois­sant or, on the days when she felt she deserved a treat, one of their delicious pain au raisin. She took as long over her trip as she could, often going the long way around the park, through the ranks of trees, down to the junction where the fruit shop stood, then back past the little play park with the brightly coloured climbing frame and the side entrance to the Basilica de Saint Seurin.

  Then she’d walk past the café with the red awnings, cross the road and stand in front of the boulangerie window to peruse the trays of bread, cakes and pastries, but only ever taking home the same items.

  ‘Bonjour, Madame,’ the owner said every day, her welcoming smile a rare human contact for Amelie in her first two weeks of living in the city. Indeed, in those two weeks the only conversa­tions she’d had were with shop owners when she bought her food.

  Two weeks that passed by at a tortuous pace. Every day she questioned why she was here, every day when she opened her cur­tains to look out over the little park across the road from her new home she felt guilty that she was among these beautiful surround­ings while Dave was behind bars.

  As she walked among the inhabitants of the city she tried to tune her ears in to the language. Her mother told her years ago that she had been fluent in French as a child, after various summers with her grand-mère, but disavowed everything Français after her father’s string of affairs came to light.

  It took a while to get her ear in. A word here. A phrase there, and it slowly began to make some sort of sense. While buying her groceries she would try to allow those forgotten words to tumble from her mouth, but then struggled to understand the response, the words bouncing off each other, the other person assuming she was a native.

  ‘Lentement, s’il vous plait,’ she would reply. Slowly, please.

  As she moved among her new neighbours she tried to assess the reactions of everyone she came across. Maybe it was the new darker and shorter hair style – the ‘pixie’ look Lisa called it – or the large glasses, but it seemed like no one recognised her. Of course the Bordelais were blasé about so-called celebrities being in their midst. They were far too cool and Gallic to stand to the attention of her fame.

  There were the usual glances she got from men, and some women, that she’d had most of her life, but few of them went beyond the quick appreciative glance. Those that did were easy to handle. Her well-practised respons
es ranged from a polite but distant smile to a withering look.

  To limit her exposure she didn’t walk much beyond her little circuit, more than a little afraid to walk down the Rue Judaïque, which led on to the Place de la Comédie and the Grand Théatre in the city centre. There she was sure, with the number of tourists around, she was bound to be recognised. And they might not be so reserved as the locals were.

  The apartment was her refuge. Bernard had outdone himself when arranging the lease. It was on the fourth floor – two bed­rooms, each en-suite and one large, open-plan living space with three plump-cushioned sofas squared off in front of a large, dec­orative fireplace and a kitchen with everything she could want in the far right-hand corner. All of this with the added bonus of a small, private rooftop garden, from where she could look over the red roofs and treetops of the city.

  All this loveliness and she couldn’t share it with anyone.

  Sitting at her little green, wooden-slatted table in her rooftop garden, slicing and preparing her baguette with butter and jam, sipping fresh coffee that was brewed in her little moka pot, her mind often retreated from the guilty pleasure of it all and she’d think through that last meeting with Dave in prison.

  ‘Thanks for seeing me,’ she’d said while searching his face for signs of the attack. There was some scarring at the temple and hair­line, and down the side of his face, but the beard he’d grown would disguise most of that.

  ‘Good to see you,’ he’d replied. And just as carefully as she’d as­sessed his skin, Amelie interrogated the tone of those few short words for clues as to his well-being.

  ‘I’m liking the face fuzz,’ she said. ‘Suits you.’

  He pinked a little and her mind flooded with memories. She always loved this about him: the vulnerability and the contradic­tion he offered when he was confident and capable and strong.

  ‘There’s a good barber guy in here.’ Dave rubbed at his chin. ‘I’ll let it grow out a little and he can…’ His sentence faded away as if he realised such a topic of conversation was trivial when held against all the things that had happened in the last few months. ‘How’s Dad? I’m glad he offered you the flat.’

  ‘Yeah, that was very kind of him. He’s been amazing actually. I don’t know how I could have handled…’ It was Amelie’s turn to curtail what she was about to say. How could she possibly com­plain to this man when what he was facing was so much worse. And how much should she say about Peter? Dave would want the truth of it, but should she give so much detail that it would make him worry?

  ‘He’s doing okay,’ she said, without any real conviction. ‘I think work will be the saving of him. Keep him busy.’

  Dave nodded. While she was talking his gaze was aimed down at his hands, the table-top, or over her shoulder at other people in the visits hall. He was yet to meet her eye.

  ‘I’m so sorry about all of this. If it wasn’t for me…’ She slumped forward in her chair, momentarily overcome with emotion. She swallowed it down. She couldn’t make a scene of herself in public. Biting her bottom lip she straightened her back and squared her shoulders.

  ‘Hey.’ Dave reached across the table, and she felt the heat of his palm on the back of her right hand. ‘None of this is on you. I don’t blame you for any of it.’

  ‘I’m…’ Amelie’s emotions threatened to bubble back up. ‘But if I…’

  Dave squeezed her hand. ‘If pigs could fly they’d be dragons.’ Then he pulled his hand away as if he just reminded himself he needed to keep his distance.

  ‘What?’ The nonsense of this disrupted her thinking, and she managed a laugh. And then longed for his touch again.

  He worked on a smile. ‘We were just minding our own business, getting on with our lives when that vicious woman saw an oppor­tunity and ran with it.’

  ‘Poor Damaris,’ Amelie said. ‘This is really going to mess her up.’

  ‘I know.’ Dave nodded his head slowly. ‘I hope her mother uses the money from her book deal to pay for counselling. How’s that going, by the way? Any word of a deal?’

  ‘Nothing as yet. I’ll need to check in with the oracle…’

  ‘How is Lisa?’

  Amelie laughed. ‘Oh you know Lisa. Nothing bothers her. I did wonder if our connection would harm her, but she says she’s Teflon. Last I heard from her she doubted any of the big pub­lishers would touch Mother Brown … but…’

  ‘Money talks.’

  ‘Yup. If someone thinks there’s money to be made they’ll snap the book up.’ Amelie sat back in her chair, creating a little distance, and realising she’d done this because of what she was about to say next, she leaned forward again. ‘I’m hoping my leaving the country will help the interest fade away, and she’ll have even less of a chance of a deal.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re going,’ he said. His smile was resolute, but laced with uncertainty. ‘And to Bordeaux. Will you look up your father’s family?’

  ‘Last I heard grand-mère’s little vineyard was bought by a neigh­bouring concern when she died. Chateau Smith Haut-Lafitte, or something like that. Not sure if any of the family would have hung around.’ She stopped speaking, realising that the conversation had mainly been about her. God, she was such a bitch.

  ‘You bearing up?’ she asked.

  He shrunk a little, and then mirroring her earlier movements he sat up and set his shoulders. ‘One day at a time,’ he said, search­ing her eyes. And in his expression Amelie could read a litany of reasons why he was struggling. ‘But I am genuinely happy for you. If one of us gets their life back together again that’s a great big fuck-you to the Browns.’

  ‘I still love you, you know…’ Her turn for her face to pink. Why on earth had she said that? ‘Sorry, I…’

  She considered their relationship towards the end. At times she’d given him nothing but a cool indifference, blaming him for her confused state of mind. Then, feeling guilty, she’d accede to the limp plea in his eyes, and lie back, waiting for the passion to rekindle with each pant and thrust, feeling the slow rise of arousal, but pushing it down as images of that masked intruder in the corner of her room grew in her mind.

  Then, his head was back on his pillow, and she was marooned on hers.

  ‘I’ve been doing a lot of reading,’ Dave said after a long moment’s silence. ‘There’s a surprisingly well-stocked library in here.’ He adopted a self-deprecatory expression before carrying on. ‘He or she,’ he added with meaning, ‘that trusts in a lie shall perish in truth. And, a life well lived is the best revenge.’ He ducked his head a little as if self-conscious. ‘George Herbert’s Out­landish Proverbs from 1694, would you believe.’ It occurred to Amelie that there was a hint of desperation in his voice as he intoned these phrases. As if by repeating them over and over the wisdom might eventually sink in. He reached across the table once again, gripped her hands and looked her solidly in the eye.

  ‘Please. Live well. Be my revenge, Amelie.’

  Chapter 39

  They were warned the day before that because of staff training they’d be confined to their cells for much of the day. All education classes and even any booked gym sessions would be cancelled.

  ‘What do you think they’re getting training in?’ Angus asked. ‘How to be even more miserable?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be miserable working in a place like this?’ Dave replied.

  Judging from the movement of the frame of the bunkbed Angus was moving underneath him.

  ‘Aye, true. It’s just the whole beast thing. All I done was send a photo to my girl’s da. I’m hardly a pervert, am I?’ There was a low energy to Angus’s voice that Dave recognised. Being locked up in this place was affecting Angus’s mood on what seemed like a minute by minute basis. One moment he was laughing and talking non-stop, the next he was flat and crushed by his pun­ishment. ‘You’re the only guy in here I can talk to. The rest of them pure give me the creeps. See
that guy two cells down? The old guy with the walking stick and the thick specs? I swear if he looks me up and down one more time I’m gaunnae tear him a new arsehole.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ Dave said. ‘He might enjoy it.’

  Angus snuffled a laugh.

  Then there was silence, followed by a sob and some gentle shaking of the bed. Without looking, Dave could tell that Angus had stuffed his blanket into his mouth to try and hide his upset. He wondered about offering the lad some comfort but opted for distance instead. Often, Dave didn’t have the spare mental energy to cope with the shifts in Angus’s state of mind, he had enough internal torture of his own to deal with, and his responses would vary from ‘bend over and take it like a man, dipshit’ to ‘you’ve only got a few more months, you’ve got this, mate’.

  When the bed shaking subsided Dave waited for another few minutes before asking, ‘You didn’t mention if you got a letter back from your girlfriend…’

  ‘Yeah, nothing yet,’ he replied. ‘I’m an idiot thinking Jenny’d be bothered. Probably still hates my guts. And why wouldn’t she? I’m an arsehole.’

  ‘Meant to ask. If you treated her like that…’

  ‘Aye rub it in, why don’t you.’

  ‘Let me finish,’ Dave asserted. ‘If you treated her like that, why would the prison authorities let you send her a letter?’

  ‘I sent it to her wee pal, Donna. I might be an arsehole, but I’m no daft, mate.’

  ‘How do you know Donna handed it over to her?’

  Silence.

  ‘Right enough. I didn’t think of that.’

  ‘It’s only a week or so, eh?’ Dave asked. ‘Maybe Jenny’s on holiday? Maybe Donna’s on holiday?’

  ‘They haven’t got the money for holidays at this time of year. They save up, get Christmas out of the way first and then they start saving for Spain in the new year…’ his voice faded away and Dave groaned. That would just remind Angus of his reason for the revenge porn in the first place. Jenny’s hook-up with a German in Ibiza.