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She sighed and tried to refocus. If she did take up Jen’s offer of work, and nothing bad happened, maybe she could finally put her paranoia to rest. She pushed the competing thoughts from her mind and, without analysing it any further, dialled the number on the Post-it note she’d had tucked beneath her fern desk plant for the past week.
‘Hi, can I speak with Jennifer Black, please?’ Her voice shook.
She cleared her throat, and sat up straighter, waiting for the person on the end of the phone to speak. Connie hoped Jen was in the office; she wasn’t sure if she’d have the nerve to call back again.
‘Just a moment, I’ll transfer you,’ the voice said.
There was silence for what felt like minutes, then a click.
‘Jennifer Black. How may I help?’
Jen’s ‘professional’ voice was one they’d always mocked when Connie had worked at HMP Baymead. She always put on a posh voice to conceal her strong Plymothian accent when speaking on the phone. She’d moved from Plymouth to Torquay when she was a teenager, but never managed to fully escape the accent.
‘You can drop the fake accent, Jen – it’s just me.’
‘Connie! Thank God. I didn’t think you were going to return my call, you’ve taken so long. I hope this means—’
‘Slow down, slow down. I’m calling to find out more details, that’s all. Don’t get too excited.’
‘Oh, come on. You’ll do it. You wouldn’t have phoned otherwise.’
Connie shook her head. Damn this woman. Her abruptness, her perceptiveness and her knack of getting to the point quickly was what made Jen one of the best managers the programmes department had ever had. You always knew where you stood with Jen.
‘Seriously, Jen. I need to weigh up the pros and cons of doing this – coming back in after …’
‘Pah! Water under the old bridge, Con. You know … we know, you did nothing wrong. You acted in line with every protocol. It was you who blamed yourself.’
‘Er, I think you’ll find it wasn’t just me. I didn’t see anyone else being dragged through the papers, and there wouldn’t have been a capability hearing if the governor didn’t think I’d messed up Hargreaves’ risk report.’ Merely talking about it again caused Connie’s heart rate to increase and her armpits to tingle with sweat.
End the call. This isn’t worth it.
‘Look, I know things went downhill rapidly for you after Hargreaves, but you shouldn’t let that stop you from coming in and completing a few assessments.’
‘Are they high-risk prisoners?’ Connie was immediately mad at herself for asking; it sounded as though she was seriously considering the offer.
‘Not really. None are up for parole. It’s their progression through the system we need to focus on. Some of the guys have been here a long time, and we have a fair few refusing to do any of the offending behaviour programmes. We’re under pressure to get arses on seats so they can move forwards in their sentence plans, get them into a Cat-D establishment.’
‘Nothing new there, then.’
‘Exactly. Our group numbers are actually falling. Anyway, point is, you can come in, do the assessments, and get out. You can write the reports at home. That’s the extent of your involvement. I wasn’t kidding when I said it was easy money, Con.’
Connie exhaled loudly and sat back in her chair. Risk-wise, these prisoners weren’t up for release, so her reports would only be used as evidence for the decision to move them to an open prison, or not – or recommend action, such as attending further offending behaviour programmes. An open prison would mean there was a chance of the prisoner absconding though, so she could still get a backlash if she wrote a favourable report and then something bad happened later down the road.
‘And how many would I be assessing again?’
‘Only three. We have another psychologist coming in as well, so between us all, we should catch up on the backlog. Might have to spread it over a few weeks though.’
Connie’s shoulders sank. She’d been hoping, if she were to do it, that it would be over in a week. Realistically though, she’d known deep down it wasn’t likely to be possible.
There was one other thing that was bothering her.
‘I need to ask something.’
‘Shoot,’ Jen said.
‘You don’t have an Aiden Flynn at Baymead, do you?’
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_bb1031ce-5a8c-5bf3-a317-55fd85092c0e)
Deborah (#ulink_bb1031ce-5a8c-5bf3-a317-55fd85092c0e)
She doesn’t realise I know.
I sit here anyway, listening to her. I’ve made a pot of tea and I pour her a cup from the bone china teapot belonging to the set that once sat on my mother’s oak sideboard – reserved for special occasions; people she wanted to impress. I don’t know why I chose to dig it out from the back of the cupboard now. Or why I’m trying to impress this woman. I’m turning into my mother.
‘That’s a lovely picture of Sean,’ she says, gesturing to the large silver-framed photo on the mantelpiece.
I take a deep breath.
‘Yes.’ I force a smile. ‘Would you like a biscuit? I have chocolate digestives or rich tea.’ I want to avoid talking about my son. Even though I know that’s why she’s here.
‘Oh, um … chocolate, please. Although I really should be watching my waistline.’ She pats her belly. There’s no fat on the woman, but I refrain from remarking as I shake out some biscuits from the packet and offer them to her.
‘Thanks for letting me come in,’ she says as she dips the biscuit in her teacup. She leaves a trail of brown slush on its side. I look away. It’s a bone china cup for God’s sake, not a mug.
‘Well, I couldn’t leave you on the doorstep, could I?’ Although that’s exactly what I’d wanted to do at first – her babbling on about her son being at school with my Sean was irritating at best. My lips are tight; the smile harder to come this time. How polite should I be in this situation? A huge part of me doesn’t want to be polite at all – it wants to shout in her face, tell her to get out of my house. But there’s something about her – vulnerable, yet brave. It would be like kicking an inquisitive puppy. It must’ve taken some guts to turn up at my door, even though she’s yet to come clean and tell me who she really is. Didn’t she think I’d recognise her? I thought I’d hardened over the last few years, but the harsh words that spring into my mind – the ones telling this woman exactly what I think of her efforts to squirm her way into my life – evaporate before I can speak them.
Maybe it’s curiosity.
I find myself wanting to know why she thinks it’s a good idea for her to visit the mother of a murdered boy. He was only eighteen. Not even a man. He’d hardly lived, had so much to look forwards to.
She puts her cup and saucer down on the table, and I watch as her pale-blue eyes travel back to Sean’s photograph.
‘You must miss him terribly.’ Her words are quiet, almost inaudible – her face directed away from mine.
My skin is suddenly cold, as though someone has placed a blanket of ice on me. Of course I miss him. He was my only child; my life, up until that terrible day. I’ve had to learn to live without him, carry on with everyday things, all the while knowing my life would never again have meaning. Not the same meaning, anyway. I’m no longer someone’s mum. Tears come at this thought.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have allowed this woman in. Curiosity is not good for me.
I wipe my eyes with my sleeve.
‘Yes, it’s like I have a part of me missing. A hole that will never be filled.’ I can feel a bubble of anger. I should keep a cap on that.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, simply.
‘Oh, so am I. Sorry he ever encountered Kyle Mann. Sorry I wasn’t able to protect him.’ I must be careful, or years’ worth of hatred will erupt in this lounge. Amongst my mother’s bone china tea set. With the smiling face of my handsome Sean staring down at me.
‘Maybe I shouldn’t have …’ She shifts awkwardly; she’s flustered. It looks as though she’s thinking about leaving.
‘No. Maybe not. But you’re here now,’ I say firmly. We lock eyes.
‘Yes, it’s taken quite a while to pluck up the courage.’ She gives a wavering smile.
‘Right.’ It’s time to stop the pretence. ‘So now that you’re here, what exactly do you want, Alice?’
CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_3674ff93-714c-5fac-bb90-15f10f5a0502)
Connie (#ulink_3674ff93-714c-5fac-bb90-15f10f5a0502)
‘Well, well. If it isn’t the infamous Connie Moore!’ The voice bellowed from behind the glass partition.
‘Hey, Barry.’ Connie kept her chin low, almost tucked into the collar of her blouse. She didn’t want him to see her discomfort at being back inside the prison. Barry had been an operational support grade for as long as she could remember, and clearly, even given the time she’d been away, her reputation still stood. She’d contemplated giving them her new surname, Summers, which she started using when she set up her own practice to avoid any connections with the Hargreaves case. But she decided it would be a bad idea in this instance. She preferred to keep her prison life in a separate box.
‘I saw you were on the list today. Says here I gotta give Verity a call and get her to come and fetch you, now you haven’t got your own keys and ID. Take a seat, love. Won’t be long.’
Connie turned on her heel and sat heavily on the leather-look bench seat that ran alongside the window of HMP Baymead’s gatehouse and placed her coat beside her. She’d only ever sat here once before: the day she came for her interview, eight years ago. She pulled self-consciously at the cuffs of her sleeves. She even felt like she had all that time ago: nervous, uncertain – questioning whether her skills were up to the job. She kept her eyes down, not wanting to catch a glimpse of anyone else she knew from her previous life there. She didn’t want to face any awkward questions.
Why did I agree to this? Stupid, stupid woman.
Connie pushed her cuff up, checking her watch. It would take at least ten minutes for Verity to reach the gatehouse. Baymead was spread over a wide area, and the psychology block was on the far side of the grounds. She used to love the early morning walk to the office from the gatehouse, when the prisoners were yet to be unlocked. She could stroll along the tree-lined concrete paths, taking her time to let herself through the huge gates. The walk back after her day ended was never quite so pleasant. She’d often time it so her departure didn’t coincide with prisoners going back to the wings after their activities, or work. But even then, if she was on her own, she couldn’t help feeling vulnerable. And the times she’d happened to leave the office when the prisoners were on their way back to their living blocks were more stressful. She didn’t miss that at all.
At least now, for the period she was going to spend here, she’d have someone accompanying her around the prison. She’d have to be let through each gate in the grounds, and have the living-block gates opened for her. She’d be collected from her interviews with the prisoners and taken back to the psychology block.
Connie consciously unclasped her hands, placing them loosely on her lap. This could be all right. It wasn’t as though she was going to be spending enough time within the confines of the establishment to warrant anyone taking much notice of her. And it was almost two years since she’d last been here. Some staff were bound to know her, remember her, but it was unlikely many prisoners would. At least Aiden Flynn, the man responsible for the murder of Ricky Hargreaves last year, was not residing at Her Majesty’s pleasure in Baymead. That had been one of her biggest fears. He was the last person she’d want to come into contact with. Not only was he a cold-blooded murderer, but he also had a personal vendetta against Connie and had been determined to exact revenge on her because of something that her father had done twenty years previously. And he’d almost managed to accomplish his task: attacking Connie in her own home, beating her to the ground. If it wasn’t for Lindsay … Connie shook the memory away. No, the most that would happen is she’d get some attention from being a ‘new’ female about the place. Whistles, some remarks shouted at her – the common response from a proportion of the men – those she could handle.
A whooshing noise alerted Connie to someone coming through the glass security doors. She jumped up as a young woman, who looked to be around twenty, walked towards her.
‘Connie?’
‘Yes.’ Connie grabbed her coat and offered her hand. The woman limply shook it.
‘I’m Verity, the new admin for the programmes department.’ She smiled broadly, her small, round face appearing to almost split in two. ‘I’ll be your key person.’ She laughed.
‘Great, thanks, Verity. I appreciate it. Sorry you’ll have to be dragged wherever I’m going though, not much fun for you.’
‘No problem. It’ll be a good excuse to get out of the office. It’s manic in there at the moment.’
‘Oh?’ They both entered the glass box of the security pod and stood still, waiting for the operational support grade to close one door before he opened the other. Connie had always disliked the pod. Sometimes, if she’d timed it badly, she’d been stuffed inside there along with some twenty-odd people: admin staff, officers, service providers – all squished in, waiting at the mercy of the OSG on duty in the gate room to be quick with the release button for the other door. It was claustrophobic. Today though, it was only her and Verity, and the OSG didn’t leave them too long before releasing the inner door.
Connie’s tummy flipped as she left the pod and walked the familiar corridor that led to the outside. Which was really inside. She put on her coat as they stood by the heavy door, waiting for the noise that would inform them it was open.
Click.
For a moment, Connie wobbled. She was dizzy.
Take deep breaths.
A waft of air hit her face as Verity opened the door and stood aside to let Connie through.
That sight. The grassed area, the large trees, the metal fences separating the living blocks beyond. She shivered, pulling the coat tighter around her. What was she doing? The old twinges of stress, worry – the unease – were suddenly back, swooping in at her from every angle.
This is a mistake.
‘Are you okay?’ Verity’s concerned face turned towards Connie’s. ‘Jen said you might feel a bit, well … odd. Coming back.’
Odd? That didn’t come close.
‘No. All good. I’m fine.’ Connie forced a smile, keeping her gaze forwards while quickening her pace. She was aware of Verity tripping along beside her, trying to keep up, chatting away as they walked. But she wasn’t listening. She’d feel better once she was less exposed, safely inside the psychology portacabin.
They paused at each gate as Verity unlocked, then relocked them as they moved through – every clank of the locks sending a wave of familiarity through Connie’s mind. Then goosebumps. It was a sound she had assumed she’d never hear again.
As they approached the psychology office, Connie’s muscles finally relaxed. She rubbed at the back of her neck, at the knot of muscle – she hadn’t realised she’d been hunching her shoulders. Verity ushered Connie in, then locked the door. The large whiteboard inside the entrance named everyone in the office: showed whether they were in or out, and if out, which block or room they’d gone to and an approximate time they were due back to the office.
Jen was ticked in. Connie took a slow intake of breath, holding it as she pushed through the inner door.
‘Hey, mate! So pleased you decided to come and help us out.’ Jen jumped up from her seat upon Connie’s arrival, and arms outstretched, strode towards her, enveloping her in a hug that expelled her held breath.
‘Good to see you, Jen.’ Connie gently pulled back and gazed around the room. Very little had changed. A couple of people she didn’t recognise were sitting at the desks, but that appeared to be the only difference.
‘Yes, as you can see, things are just the same, bar a few new faces. I’ll introduce you in a sec, but let’s get the kettle on first.’
She was in there now. In the prison, in the office. She could hardly revoke her offer of helping with the reports. But a creeping uneasiness spread through her, like her blood was travelling around her body delivering tiny parcels of adrenaline.
Preparing her.
Fight or flight.
And Connie wasn’t at all sure she had enough fight in her.
CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_d8520d8a-de48-5d9a-91f4-3cbd14c9442c)
Alice (#ulink_d8520d8a-de48-5d9a-91f4-3cbd14c9442c)
Things are moving along nicely now. I couldn’t imagine being at this point before: feeling more positive than I have in years. I even feel a bit lighter. I noticed my reflection in the shop windows as I walked past this morning, and I’m standing taller too – not stooped as I had been. This is good. I want to mark this progression somehow.
I should share it.
As founder and leader of the group, it’s my duty to give positive news to my members. Tell them about the steps forwards I’ve made. Of course, I’ll have to be slightly economical with the truth – mould it to make it fit. But it will give them hope. Inspiration. Let them know we can all come through these terrible times, bit by bit. Moment by moment.
I’ll finish washing the breakfast dishes, then I’ll get on the laptop and go to the online support group page. Our next in-person meeting isn’t for another eight days – the last Wednesday of the month. Maybe by then I’ll have even more good news to share. More to celebrate.
My heart sinks a little as I gaze out of the kitchen window. Is it right to feel this way? Excited about a few minor steps in the right direction? There’s still so much to do; such a long way to travel to get to the end. If there is an end. Oh, please God, let there be an ending to this. I make the sign of the cross on my chest. Before all of this happened, I’d go to church to pray; being in God’s house made me feel as though I had a direct link with Him. After the murder, though, I was afraid. They’d know. I couldn’t face being judged by the congregation. And, after all, my support group is giving me what the church once did, and God is everywhere – I don’t have to be in a holy place to pray, to be listened to. So now, at times like this, I look to Heaven for help, wherever I am. Surely I deserve some help, some divine intervention.
I’m doing God’s work here.
Once the dishes are neatly stacked on the drainer, I settle in the lounge, at the rectangular pine table on the far side, the one I eat my meals at – alone. I’ve angled the table so I can see the TV. It’s my company these days. I also keep my laptop on this table.
The house is silent. I rarely get disturbed. I’m rarely needed.
