The Sinner

by Martyn Waites

  She was invited to parties, drinks in the town with her classmates, and had attended a few. But she still felt she had little in common with them. Because of what she had been through, she couldn’t share their self-assurance and certainty about the future. So she went along with them, joined in as much as she could, but found them, for the most part, too young for her. Or at least too naive.

  Tom had encouraged her to mix, get to know them. They might not be as bad as she thought. And she had made an effort, but she still preferred her own company at breaks rather than hearing their opinions on the latest vacuous American TV show they were all watching on Netflix. And not just because she and Tom couldn’t get Netflix.

  But as the term had progressed she had reached something of a conclusion. Maybe it wasn’t them. Maybe it was her. Yes she was different to them, had had a different set of life experiences, felt older than her years as a result. But maybe she just wanted to fit in and couldn’t. Maybe she wanted to be carefree and laugh at everything like they did. To care about dumb stuff like TV shows and Instagram celebrities. To have certainties instead of nothing. Maybe. And the closer she got to that, the harder the divide was to navigate.

  Whatever. She sat on her own, drinking her coffee, eating her muffin. Thinking that maybe she should just accept that distance if she couldn’t change it. She tried to think about other things. Like the motorcyclist she had seen a couple of days ago at the top of the hill.

  Why couldn’t she get him out of her head? He had been lost, he said, that was all. Looking for somewhere. Seemed simple enough. So why did she feel like he had been watching her?

  She hoped it wasn’t because of the colour of his skin. True, there weren’t many people of colour in her part of Cornwall and the ones who were there tended to stand out. But with his Belstaff motorbike jacket and good boots he hadn’t looked like a local. Or a tourist for that matter. He looked like he had been working. And that made her uneasy.

  Since then she had checked for him while she was on the bus, when she was home, even during the night, getting up to peer into the darkness. She found no trace of him, no evidence he was watching her or the house, but that unease still wouldn’t lift. She was glad Pearl was with her most of the time, just for security.

  She wished Tom were there. He would know what to do. Or if he didn’t, she could comfortably imagine that he did. He was that kind of reassuring presence in her life. She just wished she could talk to him. Maybe she could go and . . .

  ‘Hey,’ said a voice, ‘mind if I join you?’

  Lila looked up, startled. A girl was standing in front of her. Dark skinned, pretty, smiling. Lila thought for a moment, recognised her from her sociology class.

  ‘Uh . . . yeah, sit down.’

  ‘Looked like you were miles away,’ said the girl, sitting down opposite, putting her coffee on the table.

  ‘Yeah, I was.’

  ‘We’re in sociology together, aren’t we, with good old Guru George Hearn?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Lila smiled then looked perplexed. ‘Guru? Is that what he’s called?’

  ‘Yeah the whole class calls him that. Don’t you?’

  ‘I’m . . . I hadn’t heard.’ She smiled again. ‘Guru. Suits him.’

  ‘I’m Anju. Don’t know if you knew or not. You’re . . . Lola?’

  ‘Lila.’ She said it. Couldn’t help herself. There was something about this girl’s openness that made her put aside her normal reticence.

  ‘Lila. Right. Where’s that from?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Lila. Does it mean something?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Your parents didn’t give you that name because of any deep meaning or anything?’ Anju laughed as she spoke.

  Lila smiled again. It felt like the most smiling she had done in ages. ‘Obviously you’ve never met my parents.’

  Anju laughed again. It sounded so refreshing, unforced. Infectious, even. There was no way this girl had an agenda. No way someone had sent her over to talk to her. At least Lila hoped there wasn’t.

  ‘Mine gave me this name, Anju, because it’s Hindi for beloved.’

  ‘So you’re Hindu?’

  Another laugh. ‘No. Muslim. My parents wanted to show just how progressive they were by giving me a Hindi name. I told them, if they really want to show how progressive they were, they should have called me Alison or Sandra, or something like that. They didn’t think it was funny.’

  Lila was starting to enjoy herself for the first time in ages. She made eye contact with Anju. Anju’s gaze was direct, intense, even. But not in an unpleasant way. The opposite. Like she just really wanted to see her and be seen by her. So honest Lila dropped her eyes to her crumbled muffin.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Anju. ‘I’m stopping you eating.’

  ‘No.’ Lila shook her head, ‘You’re not. I was just having a coffee. The muffin was just something for my fingers to do while I drank.’

  Anju laughed, again unforced, uninhibited. Lila was really warming to her. ‘Why are you on your own? You waiting for someone?’

  ‘No,’ said Lila. ‘Just . . . dunno. Just on my own.’

  Anju sat back, regarded Lila inquisitively. ‘I’ve been watching you.’

  Oh God, thought Lila, here it comes. She’s mental. I’ve attracted another mentalist.

  ‘Not like that,’ said Anju, almost reading her mind, ‘Not in a stalkery way or anything. Just, you know. I’ve seen you in class and round here. And you’re always alone. Well, most times. But you don’t really look lonely.’

  ‘What do I look like, then?’

  Anju thought, tried to find the right word. ‘Apart. Separate.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. Like you’re different to the rest of the class. You’re mainly in psychology, right?’

  Lila nodded. ‘And Sociology. But mainly Psychology. So you think I don’t fit in? I’m a misfit, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘No. You just seem like you know something they don’t. And they might never know it. It’s interesting.’

  Lila sat back, stared at the other girl. Wary now. Not wanting to give up any more of herself. ‘I know something? Like what?’

  A look of worry crossed over Anju’s face. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’ve spoken out of turn. I get like that. I don’t have . . . whatever other people have. A filter? I don’t know. I just . . . say things. What I’m thinking. Some people say it makes them uncomfortable. I’ve done it to you now. Sorry.’ Anju’s face reddened. She picked up her coffee cup, made to go. ‘I’ll leave you alone. Enjoy your muffin.’

  Lila watched her rise. Something told her if she let her go she would regret it. She thought quickly, made a decision. She would trust her feelings.

  ‘No wait. You don’t have to go.’

  Anju paused, looked back at her.

  ‘Sit down. We were getting on all right.’

  Anju sat back down. ‘Sorry. I’ll make small talk instead. Promise.’

  Lila smiled. ‘Who the hell wants small talk?’

  Anju smiled too.

  And they both laughed.

  25

  Foley stood by the door, waited patiently for it to be opened. Looking at the floor, his feet, showing a deference, a nervousness even, he never would on the wing.

  The door opened. A young woman greeted him, hand on the edge of the frame, looking round, smiling, long hair falling to one side as she did so. ‘Hello Dean. Come in.’

  The accompanying officer nodded at him to enter then walked away. No longer visible, but somewhere nearby. Dean Foley entered the room. The door was closed behind him.

  The room was like no other in the prison. It didn’t even feel a part of the prison, which was the point. A desk at one end, bookshelves and files against one wall. Modern furniture. Tasteful, not the usual institutional kind. Even some decorations, paintings, flowers. A coffee maker on top of a filing cabinet filling the room with welcoming aromas.
Recognisably branded supermarket milk and biscuits in their packaging gave a comforting but slightly melancholic glimpse of the outside world. In the centre of the room two comfortable Ikea armchairs.

  Foley knew the procedure. He sat in one. Waited.

  ‘Coffee, Dean?’ Doctor Louisa Bradshaw knew the routine. She had established it.

  ‘Please,’ he said.

  She poured a mug of coffee, added milk and one sugar. Foley smiled inwardly at her remembering. She passed it over as she seated herself opposite him.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. His voice changed in here, layers of hardness stripped away, revealing something softer. He knew he did it but couldn’t help it. Now he no longer wanted to help it. He took a sip of the coffee, placed it down at his side.

  ‘So how’ve you been, Dean? How’s your week?’

  He picked up the mug, took another mouthful. ‘Interesting, I suppose you might say.’ Replaced the mug. She was waiting for more. He knew she would be patient with him, wait until he found the right words.

  He had never thought he would actually tolerate a visit to the psychologist. Not just tolerate, actually enjoy. Look forward to it, even. It had been one of the terms of his sentence. A reduction in time served if he agreed to address his underlying anger issues. With no choice, he’d agreed. It was the approach his barrister had taken during his trial. Dean Foley wasn’t a villain – not as such – just an angry man trying to make a living the only way he knew how. If he didn’t have the anger he might be a more useful member of society. All bullshit and he knew it. But if it reduced his sentence, he would play along.

  And it worked. So when he was transferred to HMP Blackmoor he was told that he would be having regular weekly sessions with Doctor Louisa Bradshaw. Fair enough, he thought. He would find a way round that.

  But he didn’t. He had taken one look at this young woman – pretty but not making the best of herself – and thought she would be a pushover. So he took charge, told her he didn’t need all this bollocks, that he was going to use these sessions to contact associates on the outside, check how his empire was running. He’d see she was handsomely compensated.

  But this doctor, this young woman, had stood right in front of him and said no. You’re not going to do that. You might have your own way everywhere else in this prison but not in this room. And if you think you can try that then I’ll refuse to hold these sessions with you and whatever concessions you’ve managed to achieve for sentence reduction will be null and void and you’ll be back at the beginning. If you’re in here you do what you’ve come for. Or you don’t come at all and take the consequences.

  Foley had been shocked. No one had spoken to him like that in years, certainly not a woman. He didn’t know what to do, how to respond. So he just looked at her speechless. And then did what she told him to do.

  And it was the most difficult thing he had ever done in his life.

  ‘In what way interesting?’ she said.

  ‘Someone turned up. From my past. Turned up in this prison. The person who’s responsible for me being in here, you might say.’

  Louisa’s eyes widened, then quickly regained her professional composure. ‘Before you say anything else, Dean, I have to remind you of my position here.’

  ‘I know. If I confess anything you have to pass it on. But other than that, everything in here stays in here, right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well it’s no secret. I was betrayed by my right-hand man, who turned out to be an undercover cop. And now he’s in here. Supposedly for assault.’

  ‘Why d’you say supposedly?’

  ‘Because he’s an undercover cop, isn’t he? Got to be working on something.’

  ‘Not necessarily. He might actually be in here for assault. It was a long time ago. His life might have changed. Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘Not as such.’ A smile crept onto his face. ‘But he’s seen me. He knows I’m here.’

  Louisa picked up on the smile straight away. Knew it wasn’t a positive development. ‘And have you attempted to do anything? Take revenge against him?’

  She looked at him directly. He tried to avoid her penetrating, unwavering gaze, but couldn’t. He could see beyond those eyes, knew decisions were being made about him. Like she knew and understood him better than he did himself. It used to unnerve him. Not anymore. Just made him want to find out what she knew, how she knew it. Wanted to understand himself as well as she seemed to understand him.

  ‘No,’ he said, eyes dropping away. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Do you intend to?’

  He picked up the mug, took a mouthful of coffee. Tried to hide behind that before answering.

  ‘I . . . don’t know.’

  Louisa sighed. ‘Your honesty’s commendable, at least. But I’ve got to remind you . . .’

  ‘I know. I’m just trying to tell the truth.’ He leaned forwards in the chair, hands clasped, engaged. ‘I mean I looked at him, went onto his wing to see him for myself. Made sure he saw me.’

  ‘And?’

  Foley shrugged. ‘He kicked off. Got taken to the seg.’ He held his hands up. ‘Nothing to do with me. Honest. Didn’t touch him.’

  ‘And now what? Are you waiting for him to be released back into the general population?’

  He frowned. Twisted his hands in his lap. ‘I’ve been thinking about this. For years, really. And honestly? I don’t know what I want to do. I mean, I know what I should do. And I’d do it in a heartbeat if I was on the out.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Make him pay. Slowly. Then make sure he couldn’t do anything like that again. To anyone.’

  ‘And would that satisfy you?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Quickly, without reflection.

  Louisa frowned. ‘Would it? Really?’

  Foley thought. Again, he wanted to be honest with this woman. She demanded it of him. Deserved it. ‘I . . . It used to. In the past, like. You know? When someone does you a wrong turn you make them pay for it. Don’t think about it, it’s just the way it is. You have to do it, it has to happen.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you look weak if you don’t. And if you look weak, others’ll think you are weak. And they’ll attack you. Image, innit? Got to project a strong image or your enemies’ll find a way to get you. Like Chinese whispers. Word gets round. Before you know it everyone’s left you for the other side – because there’s always another side, always someone who wants to be where you are – and you’re on your own. And you won’t last long like that. So yeah. You’ve got to take revenge.’

  ‘But you haven’t answered the question. Does doing that, taking revenge, satisfy you?’

  ‘I . . .’ Foley thought. Hard. ‘I don’t know. I never look at it in those terms. Just what has to be done, you know? You do it without thinking. It’s what you have to do.’

  She gave that penetrating gaze once more and he felt himself shrinking. Sometimes he wanted to shout: ‘What can you see? What am I really like? To you? To everyone? To me? Tell me . . .’ But he never had. Or at least not yet. But he never stopped thinking it, wanting to do it. He might do it one day. But he probably wouldn’t. He was too scared to hear the answer.

  ‘So you get no satisfaction from it, is that right?’ Her voice calm, as though she had all the answers to the questions she was asking and was waiting to see whether his measured up.

  ‘I’ve never . . . I don’t know. I suppose I must do. Yeah, I must do.’

  He tried to imagine times in the past, draw those memories out and examine them in front of her. It was what she had taught him to do in these sessions and he found it so damned painful. Reliving his life. All the pain, tears, hurt, everything. But it was necessary, she had told him. To try and understand who he was now, where he was going from here, he had to discover and acknowledge how he had come to be here. And that meant opening everything up. Everything.

  His father. The beatings. The childhood taken aw
ay from him by one man’s singular cruelty. Making himself so pathetic in front of his father he would turn his vicious, abusive attention to his younger brother. Letting his relief, his silence become complicity. Reliving all of that once more. Stripping himself emotionally bare in front of her.

  And the life after that, in care. Foster homes. Institutionalised neglect. Abuse. That anger building up inside him, all the time, waiting for an outlet. Detention centres. Young offenders institutions. Feeling something within him die, something fragile, knowing once it was gone it could never be reborn. Then trying to harden himself round it. Not wasting time mourning the man he could have been but embracing the man he had no choice but to become.

  Which led him here. And now this question. Did he enjoy his revenge?

  He thought back on all the punishment beatings he’d orchestrated, the ones he’d carried out himself. Bones breaking bones, turning flesh into something unrecognisable, getting high off the screams, the prayers and the pleading. Seeing other faces on the bodies he hurt, older faces. One in particular. Hitting again and again until he had no strength left, until his arms were carved from jelly, until that face disappeared. And that would suffice, that exhaustion. That sense of accomplishment. Until the next time. And the next . . .

  ‘I . . . suppose so.’ He had tried lying on previous occasions and had been found out straight away. He had done it to look good in her eyes. But he soon realised the only way he could do that was by telling the truth.

  ‘How did it make you feel?’

  ‘Like . . .’ Back there again, in some anonymous warehouse or lock-up. Punching a hanging body like he was tenderising a side of meat. Blood pounding in his ears, the air rank with coppery blood, shouting all the while, drowning out the screams of his victim.

  Trying to get rid of that one face.

  ‘I had to keep going,’ he said, eyes closed, mind somewhere else. ‘Had to make sure that face went away.’