A Song of Isolation

by Michael Malone

  ‘Wish they’d give us that more,’ Dave said. ‘Instead of that card­board muck, cornflakes.’

  ‘Bollocks. It’s just a different kind of cardboard muck,’ Angus replied. ‘With a different flavour, for chrissakes.’

  Dave had ploughed on, unusually mindless, or, to be more ac­curate, for once not taking on board how Angus’s tone had climbed through the anger scale from the start of his sentence to the finish. ‘No, it’s not. Weetabix is actually good for you,’ Dave said. ‘Did you know that Kellogg guy came up with cornflakes as a way to stop folk masturbating? Tasteless and totally devoid of nutrition is the way forward, apparently, if you want to stop guys knocking one out.’

  ‘Give it a rest, will you?’ Angus all but threw his plate of cereal on to the desk. ‘I’m sick of you and your opinions. Just shut the fuck up.’ His face was puce, saliva spraying from his mouth.

  ‘You on the rag, pizza-face?’ Dave had had it with the boy’s dark moods.

  He was on his feet and both men were face to face, inches apart, snarling.

  The door opened.

  ‘You guys having a lovers’ tiff?’ the guard asked.

  They stepped apart.

  ‘Young, you’ve got an appointment this morning. Robbins, library,’ the guard said and walked out.

  Normally Dave would have asked Angus who the appointment was with. The lad was almost halfway through his one-year sen­tence so he guessed it might have been to discuss his release date. A conversation he would be desperate to have. But to hell with him.

  None of the novels he saw on the shelves talked to him that morning so he’d pulled out a collection of poetry: Being Human: More Real Poems for Unreal Times. That was about right, he thought. These times were for sure unreal. Perhaps pouring over brief insights might be more involving than a long narrative? Would be a change anyway. And God knows, he needed a mental shift. The written word was one of the few ways he could lift himself out of this place, a refuge for his mind, before his reaction to Angus’s moods and aggression became dangerous to one or both of them.

  When Angus returned his mood was no better. If anything it was slightly worse.

  ‘How did it go?’ Dave asked as he set his book on his bunk.

  ‘Okay, yeah, okay, I suppose.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  A moment of silence.

  Dave sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bunk so he was facing Angus. ‘What? They keeping you in longer? Not getting out on a tag or anything?’

  ‘Yeah. Sorta.’

  ‘What do you mean, sorta? You getting out or not?’

  ‘I’ve got two weeks left,’ he said, and a flicker of a smile formed on his lips before failing altogether. ‘Getting out on a tag.’

  ‘Man, that’s brilliant. Why aren’t you…? What’s up, Angus? Did you propose to Jenny already and she said no?’

  ‘Just leave it, eh?’ Angus snarled.

  ‘Thanks be to Christ it’s only two weeks, cos you are doing my nut in,’ Dave said. He lay back in his bunk, picked up his book, stared at the pages but really saw nothing. What was going on here? He couldn’t follow this guy with radar.

  The rest of the day followed the set pattern of mealtimes, rec­reation and a shower. Then it was back into the cell, where it was Angus’s turn to choose what they watched on TV. And that evening it was a diet of the soaps, and a crime drama where a child had gone missing and the neighbour did it.

  Dave spent most of the evening with his back to the small screen and his book over his face.

  Just before lights out he heard Angus cough below him.

  ‘Just want you to know, big guy, you’ve been a good mate.’

  ‘Eh?’ Dave asked. ‘What?’

  The frame of the bed moved as Angus turned on his side.

  ‘You alright, mate?’ Dave asked.

  Nothing.

  Eventually, Dave fell asleep. When he set his head on the pillow initially all he could do was worry about Angus. Had he sent a letter to Jenny without asking him to review it? Might it have been a proposal that she rejected? Why else would the young man be unmoved by the fact he was soon to be released. Fair enough it was on a tag, but still, he would be away from this place.

  Something pulled him from a dream.

  Angus was standing by the side of his bed, and the moonlight picked out the silver sheen of tears running down his cheeks.

  ‘I’ve got to do it, man. I’ve got to.’ He held up his right hand. And paused. And in that frozen moment, Dave could see a line of darkness pointing from Angus’s hand. ‘They’ll hurt her if I don’t.’

  “What the…?’

  With a scream Angus brought his hand down towards Dave’s chest.

  Hard and fast.

  Chapter 44

  ‘My apologies for not returning your call sooner, dear,’ Bernard said. He sounded a little breathless.

  ‘Have you been running?’ Amelie asked. She was so relieved to hear from him she felt about ten kilos lighter.

  Bernard snorted. ‘I never run, darling. Unless it’s after a good-looking waiter and he’s holding a giant bottle of champers.’

  ‘What happened to you? I was so worried.’

  ‘I’m fine now, Amelie. There’s no need to worry.’

  ‘What do you mean you’re fine now?’

  ‘I had a little heart attack, sweetheart. But I’m fine. I’ve got all these lovely doctors and nurses running after me and my –’ Amelie heard a slight clanking noise as if Bernard was tapping something large and metallic; ‘– oxygen tank new best friend.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Amelie said. ‘I’ll get the next plane. You can’t be on your own.’ She knew Peter’s suspicions about him had to be wrong.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing, Amelie. I’m getting the best of care here, and besides, the world thinks you’re in Latin America so don’t be spoiling that for me.’

  ‘America, where? What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘When you left the UK the newspapers asked for sightings, so using some snaps of you I have on file I anonymously send them pics every now and again.’ He cackled, coughed and then cackled some more. ‘You’ve had a lovely time in Mexico City, Rio, Buenos Aires…’ Amelie recalled a tour she’d taken for the movie that in­volved those cities. ‘And if you come back here you’ll waste all my hard work.’

  ‘What has been the reaction to my travels?’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘I’ll be like super bitch or something. Off sunning myself while that poor girl and her family deal with the after-effects of her abuse.’ She paused. ‘Shouldn’t you stop sending out those pic­tures? Isn’t it keeping me in the public eye?’

  ‘Darling, you never left it. And in the absence of any real news they make up all sorts of nonsense, so at least this way I’ve been keeping some sort of control. And making you look fabulous while I’m doing it.’ He paused. ‘What was so urgent anyway, Amelie?’ Bernard asked. ‘I only listened to part of your first message. You sounded so worried I cut it off and dialled you straightaway.’

  Amelie told him about her missing money.

  ‘Dear God, that’s horrible. What are the police saying?’

  ‘I haven’t reported it to them yet.’

  ‘Why on earth not? Have you taken leave? You can’t just let that kind of thing slip.’

  ‘It’s so difficult to do things from over here, and I didn’t want to go back to Glasgow and then word would get out and…’

  ‘Amelie, you’re talking about over a hundred thousand pounds. That kind of money just can’t go missing.’

  Amelie bit back a retort about the much bigger sum that had gone missing under Bernard’s less-than-watchful eye.

  ‘Dave’s father, Peter, is on stand-by. He’s an accountant, as you know. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.’ She hated think
­ing about the money, and, besides, cash had never been a motivator for her. They could take the money and rot for all she cared. As long as she had enough to pay for essentials, that was good enough for her. She’d known real poverty in her life, when her father left, and this moment in time was more than comfort­able by comparison.

  ‘Do you want me to fly up to Glasgow to meet him?’ Bernard asked, and she felt a surge of affection for him that in his moment of need he was thinking of her.

  ‘Will they let you on the plane with your oxygen tank?’ she asked while wondering if it was a good idea to have Bernard and Peter in the same room. She’d found Peter’s suspicions of her old friend so unlikely she’d dismissed them with little more than a momentary pause, but she certainly didn’t want two of the few people who were actually on her side to be at odds with each other.

  ‘I’ll paint a face on it and say he’s my carer.’

  ‘Idiot.’ Amelie laughed and enjoyed the feel of it as sound vi­brated up from her lungs to her throat. It had been so long since she’d managed to find something to laugh about. Or someone to laugh with.

  Bernard joined in, but it set off a coughing fit that sounded so harsh Amelie thought about going straight to the airport.

  Eventually he stopped. ‘God,’ he managed. ‘You should see the other guy.’

  ‘Any word on a book deal for Mama Brown?’

  ‘Isn’t Lisa keeping you up to date on that?’

  ‘She’s away on a shoot in the Far East somewhere,’ Amelie replied. She hadn’t heard from her friend for a few months, but she wasn’t concerned. The pattern of their friendship over the years was long absences followed by unannounced and dramatic drop-ins.

  ‘I’ll put some feelers out. See what’s what, but Claire Brown has been absent from the public eye of late. She did all those late-morning and lunchtime talk shows, playing the victim card in the first few weeks after the trial. Since then, nothing. The latest word, which might be stale now since my little contretemps with the surgeon’s knife, was that the expected windfall didn’t arrive and they had to move out of their home before they were evicted.’

  ‘Really?’ Amelie fervently hoped that this was true. She then felt a churn of concern for Damaris. How would all of this up­heaval affect her?

  As she’d been talking to Bernard, Amelie had been walking. When she ended the call she looked around to see where she was, and with a start of pleasure she saw the trees in the centre of a large square, recognised the awnings of a couple of cafés as being at the end of Rue Judaïque, and realised she was on the Place Gambetta. Only a few minutes’ walk from the Saint-Seurin and home.

  Someone barged in to her. She turned to face them. ‘Pardon,’ she said automatically.

  A young, dark-haired man faced her. Raised an eyebrow and then walked away.

  How rude, she thought. It occurred to her that he was wearing a slight, black leather jacket, which at this time of year would be rare for a local. The temperature must be around 14 or 15 degrees Celsius, which would be considered to be positively balmy back in Glasgow, but here in Bordeaux had the locals out in their woollen coats, puffy jackets, scarves and hats.

  Dismissing him as a tourist she continued on her way home, going on a little detour past the front entrance to the basilica, which faced on to Place du Pradeau. The sight of the building from this angle never failed to move her. The pale-yellow lime­stone edifice always seemed to pick up on any sunshine available and beam it back to her. Feeling that she needed the sense of calm it always provided, she made her way inside the church and sat in the back row. When she’d first visited this place she was surprised that instead of pews there were rows and rows of wooden chairs, but they looked almost as old as the stone of the basilica itself.

  Sitting there she allowed the hush and awe of the place to settle on her, feeling it work its way through her skin, her muscle and deep into her bones. Looking around, she took in the giant pillars, wondering how many people it would take to circle one of them. A few rows ahead of her, on the right, an ornately carved pulpit, darkened with age to walnut, stood high against a pillar, complete with its own little winding staircase. To preach from a pulpit like that with its own gothic spire pointing to the vaulted ceiling would surely make any priest feel full of the word of God.

  She heard a muffled cough to her right. And then again.

  Turning, she recognised the figure hunched there.

  It was the man who’d bumped into her over on the Place Gam­betta.

  Before he could notice her looking she turned back to face the front. She ran over the moment when they collided. He was walking in a direction that would take him further away from here. Had he followed her?

  Was she being paranoid?

  Looking over her shoulder again she saw that the man’s head was tilted as he gazed up to the ceiling, one arm draped over the shoulder of the chair at his side, his left foot resting on his right knee. A typical tourist. Or was he just acting the part?

  As if he was aware of her scrutiny he faced her and offered her a nod. But there was something in the directness of his gaze. This was more than the usual looks she got from men. There was an in­tensity in his eyes that set off a flare of worry in her gut.

  She was back in her London home that night more than five years ago. Fear prickled through every cell in her body and robbed her of breath.

  She rubbed at each of her wrists as if the bruises were still there after all this time.

  Holding herself rigid and moving slowly so as not to give any­thing away, she stood and walked to the door, her footsteps echoing in the great chamber. Outside the main entrance she all but ran to Le P’tit Bar and in through the door. Picking a stool just inside the entrance with a view of the church she sat and waited and watched to see if he would follow.

  Sure enough, the dark-haired man appeared. He looked around, not observing his surroundings as a tourist might, but scanning the people.

  ‘Here’s your café allongé, madame.’ A waitress was at her side, an oddly knowing look in her eyes. ‘Can I get you something else?’ she added under her breath. Amelie had only been in here a couple of times and only ever had this drink. She was impressed that the woman remembered. But then she looked at the waitress properly and saw that her expression articulated what she really meant: it was an offer of help.

  Forcing herself to appear casual, she picked up the coffee, fought to control the shaking of her hand, and just managed to sip without spilling any.

  ‘The man, over there, at the church door, have you seen him before?’ she asked.

  ‘No. But that is no surprise.’ Shrug. ‘The basilica attracts a lot of people.’ The waitress placed a light hand on her shoulder, an offer of support and solidarity. Her eyes questioning.

  Amelie shook her head. This was fine. She was fine. She was over-reacting. She was imagining a threat where there was none. She didn’t want to cause a fuss. It was fine. No, really. Fine. All the things women told themselves when a predator was nearby.

  Was he a run-of-the-mill predatory male, or something more? She ran over their brief meeting in Gambetta, and the one in the church. His eyes. There was something about them. Something familiar. Someone familiar. She couldn’t shift the thought that he wasn’t just on the prowl for a woman, any woman, he was looking for her.

  The figure in the gloom at the top of her stairs, could this be him? She held herself tight against the thought, aware that every part of her was trembling.

  Although she’d managed to rebuild and get on with her life with little impediment, it dismayed her that the terror that man caused her had never really left.

  Chapter 45

  The governor looked across the table and explained to Dave what was happening. This was called the Orderly Room and was in effect a mini court inside the prison. He was being placed under a Rule 95 for fighting, and the meeting today was to apportion blame and set the neces
sary punishment. Did he understand?

  Dave nodded. He understood. Without thinking, his hand strayed to his left ear and the earlobe that had to be stitched back on. He’d thrust his arm up just in time to deflect Angus’s blow. The small blade was aimed at his throat, but ended up cutting his arm, cheek and earlobe.

  ‘Are you comfortable, Mr Robbins?’

  ‘Yes.’ His hands were resting on the table in front of him, and he could see the clean bandage just under his wrist. He shuddered. He had been so lucky. If he hadn’t woken up. If his arm hadn’t been outside his blanket.

  ‘What can you tell me about the night of the fifth of February?’ the governor asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You won’t or you can’t?’

  ‘I can’t,’ Dave replied. ‘I can’t remember anything.’

  ‘The screams of your cellmate alerted the staff, Mr Robbins. They entered your cell to find you both on the floor. You strad­dling Mr Young, him covered in blood and you with your hands around his throat. You have no memory of this? Forgive me if I don’t believe you, Mr Robbins.’

  Before the attack Angus was crying, pushing himself into a fury, working himself up so he could carry it out. In the week since it happened Dave had thought through the events of that night over and over. Angus’s words:

  I’ve got to.

  If I don’t they’ll hurt her.

  That could only have been about Jenny.

  Who was ‘they’? And what kind of threat had they asserted that would persuade Angus to try and kill him?

  ‘I went to sleep as normal, boss,’ Dave said. ‘And woke up in a hospital bed. The rest is…’ he shook his head ‘…a mystery.’

  ‘If not for the fact that you were cut, and the blood all over Mr Young was yours, you would be in much more serious trouble, David. Do you understand?’