One Little Lie

Connie flung herself back on the sofa and lay with both arms crossed above her head. The money would come in useful. Lindsay was right about that. Having her as a support, knowing she’d have someone other than her mother to lean on, was reassuring. Lindsay hadn’t let her down – she’d been through the Hargreaves situation with her. She’d been the detective inspector on the case, and, after the initial frostiness between them, they’d come together for the common cause.

And then Lindsay had saved her. Literally saved her life.

She trusted Lindsay implicitly.

Connie pushed herself up. She’d give herself another day or two to consider it before calling Jen. For now, she had her own work to focus on. Her new client yesterday had been a woman whose son had been convicted of murder four years ago, and she’d presented with huge guilt issues. Her life had been upturned, she’d been hounded from the town she’d lived her life in, and although she was making progress in Totnes, she couldn’t get over the knowledge her own flesh and blood – a boy she’d brought up – could’ve ever committed such a heinous crime.

After the initial consultation, it had become clear to Connie that she had an ethical dilemma on her hands. Her new client, Alice Mann, had spoken of her son’s crime and an alarm of recognition rang in her head.

Her son was Kyle Mann.

And Connie knew him.

CHAPTER FOUR

Alice

My knees are wobbling. I’m glad I chose a long skirt – only I know they’re shaking as I reach to press the doorbell. I know it’s working because I can hear the tacky tune it plays within the house. I wait for movement, looking through the patterned glass of the door. I lick my lips; the roughness catches my tongue. I can’t swallow either, all moisture has left my mouth and throat.

Maybe no one is in.

I’m not going to be able to ring again. My heart is already dancing along at a rate that can’t be good for me. This is my second attempt. At least I managed the bell this time. Last week I only got as far as the gateway. This is progress.

I turn, and, disappointed in my weakness, walk away from the house.

I see a flutter of a curtain as I pass by the house next door. A nosy neighbour, no doubt. I wonder if they saw me last week, too.

Oh well. Doesn’t matter if they did. I’m not doing anything wrong. In fact, what I’m trying to do is make things right. It’s all I want. I’m doing well so far, I reckon. I’ve set up the support group, I’ve even begun therapy myself. I’ve made huge leaps.

None of it was my fault. I didn’t make him do it.

I repeat this mantra a lot. I cannot be held responsible for his actions.

But I am accountable for my own. And while I didn’t make him do it, I didn’t stop him either. That’s what they said in the newspapers. What people gossiped about at the post office, in the local shops. I saw it, heard it.

It’s always the mother who gets blamed. Something she did, or didn’t do, when the child was growing up; some sort of neglect during that delicate stage of development. Lack of attention, lack of love, lack of stimulation. The list is endless. Who even decides this stuff? Who has the right to question the parenting skills of others? Probably some stuck-up university toff. What do they know about parenting?

I did my best.

Or is that another lie I tell myself every day?

‘Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers over all wrongs,’ I say quietly, making a sign of the cross on my chest as I slowly head back to the bus stop.

I get off the bus at a different stop than usual. I don’t want to go home. I can’t face that right now.

I slip and slide up the road towards the café at the top end of Fore Street. I wish I’d worn trainers instead of these ankle boots. The sole has little traction, and although there are only a few frosty patches on the pavements, I feel vulnerable. What if I fall and break an ankle?

I’m being silly. It’s not like I’m old, with brittle bones. I shouldn’t be worrying about stuff like this. I’m only fifty-five. If it hadn’t been for these past four years, I’d feel a lot younger, I’m sure. This has prematurely aged me.

The familiar sensation of prickling begins at the top of my nose, my eyes water. The cold makes them sting.

Don’t cry. Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t helping anyone. Neither is feeling guilty.

My preferred table in the corner of the café, practically hidden from view, is taken. Now what? I hesitate. It might be better to leave. But no one really knows me here. My face won’t be recognised. I am anonymous. With a confidence I’m unsure of the source of, I position myself at the table by the window.

It’s only when I have ordered my latte that I allow myself to look outside. I can see the psychologist’s building from here – down the hill a bit, on the left, before East Gate Arch. I have another session with Connie Summers on Monday. Our first meeting involved a lot of background information, a setting up of expectations. Talk of objectives and goals.

I told her about Kyle.

I don’t mind talking about him. It makes me feel better to talk about what he did. I told Connie that, and wondered if she thought me odd. I bet she thinks I’m off my rocker. Maybe I am. It’s not normal to feel better when talking about how someone murdered another mother’s son, is it?

But I am beginning to feel better. Talking about it is all I can do at this present time. And now I have two outlets. Two opportunities to make right.

The third way will come. Any day now, I’ll be brave enough. It’s building, this inner strength I’ve found.

Soon, I’ll be strong enough to face her.

CHAPTER FIVE

Connie

Alice Mann was quite still. She didn’t fidget, didn’t flit her eyes about; she wasn’t nervous in her demeanour. She appeared calm, confident – keeping her eyes squarely on Connie’s as she told what seemed to be a well-rehearsed retelling of her story. Her experience of finding out her son had committed a murder. Connie’s decision to accept Alice as a client despite her earlier misgivings was made after carefully deliberating the pros and cons. Now, as she sat opposite Alice, listening to how her son’s actions had such far-reaching implications, Connie felt confident she’d made the correct choice. She could help this woman. She could make a difference to her life.

‘I tried, you know? I tried so hard to encourage him out of his bedroom, to go out with his friends, not just chat to them over the internet. I literally took his door off its hinges once – I wanted to know what he was up to, all those hours with his eyes fixed on that screen, earphones plugged into his ears – it wasn’t healthy. He could get nasty, would shout at me to leave him alone. So, you know, I let him put the door back on eventually. Not like I had much choice, as I couldn’t stand up to him physically. You understand?’ Alice took a breath.

Connie took advantage and jumped in before she set off again. ‘It sounds as though you had a difficult time with Kyle. Had his behaviour been challenging before, or was it new?’

‘Oh,’ Alice sighed, ‘it had been since his dad left, about two years before … you know. Anyway, I noticed that he was beginning to take on a different character, really. Like he was now the boss of the house. He took over where his dad left off. Looked after me, in his own way.’

For the first time during the session, Alice lowered her head, staring at her lap. She traced the flower pattern on her skirt with her index finger. Connie noted a small bald patch at the crown of her head, or maybe it was where her dyed ash-blonde hair had become white-grey at the roots. What did she mean by ‘looked after me, in his own way’? She made a mental note to come back to that in a later session.

‘That must’ve been hard, to manage on your own. Did you seek any help?’

Alice gave a guttural laugh. ‘Help? What kind of help? He wasn’t a child, he was sixteen. No one was interested in helping.’

‘You said before that he was always in his room, that you tried to get him to interact with others, but failed. How then did he come to commit the murder?’ Connie spoke softly, in an attempt to take the hard edge off her question.

‘Well, they said the victim was someone he met online.’ Alice straightened. ‘On some stupid gaming site. He spent hours on it. I could hear his low voice, even through the soundproofing he’d put on the walls. Always chatting – you know, on the headphone mic, into early morning.’

‘What was he talking about?’

‘Not sure. On the few occasions I was allowed to be in his room when he was talking, it was mostly about the game. Tactics, medi-packs – or something like that … Killing. The game was about killing.’ Alice closed her eyes. ‘It was only a game, though. How could I have known he was going to go one further – take it into real life?’

‘Do you think you should have known?’ Connie said.

‘I’m his mother. Yes, I should’ve known. I should’ve seen something bad coming. Done something about it.’

‘What do you think you could’ve done to prevent it?’

‘Talked to him. Given him more of my time; attention.’ She sighed again, gently shaking her head. ‘I don’t know. Something. I could’ve done something. Instead, I went for the easy life, the easy option. When he was in his room, I could relax, I didn’t have to worry about any conflict. If I gave him what he wanted, we could get on with each other.’

‘What he wanted?’

‘Yes. Privacy, to be left alone. Not to be challenged about anything. Not to go on about him getting a job. No nagging.’

Connie thought back to her own tempestuous teenage years. Her behaviour had got out of hand after her brother Luke was stabbed. She became unruly, disobedient. Promiscuous. Her parents’ numerous warnings and well-meaning interventions – their constant nagging – went ignored. The consequences of that had been far-reaching and had followed Connie into her adult life. A shudder shot along the length of her spine as the memory of That Night flashed in her mind. All she’d wanted after that was to be left alone – shutting herself away in her bedroom with only her shame and rock music for company. She’d not spoken to her mum or dad for days on end.

Hadn’t Alice’s son behaved like a lot of teenagers? How could she have known, really, that he would go on to commit a terrible crime? Unless there were other indicators. Perhaps Alice wasn’t telling the whole story, yet. Connie had the feeling there was a lot more behind Kyle’s behaviour. It was one thing to kill in a game, quite another for that to escalate into killing in real life. Despite what the anti-gamers wanted people to believe, it was not common for violent games to make a violent person. There was usually something already in them, or something predisposing them to violence.

Like growing up with an abusive parent.

CHAPTER SIX

Alice

I think that went well. Connie is going to be helpful, I feel sure of that. I must be guarded, though. Be careful not to tell too much; think about how I’m saying things. She’s smart – she’s going to chip away, use her psychological knowledge to get under my skin. Attempt to get to the root of my issues. I want that as well, to a degree. But I need to protect my son, still. I know what he did is bad, and to some, unforgivable. But he’s my flesh and blood. A product of me. And him.

We created him, and I nurtured him. Despite what I try to tell myself, it’s my fault he’s turned into this monster.

The walk back to the house is slow. The sun is shining, and it’s quite pleasant – a mild day for February – but I feel heavy. Cumbersome. I stop a few times, looking into random shop windows. I know I’m not really seeing anything. My eyes don’t focus on the displays. It’s like I’m looking past them into the distance. Into my past. My future. Both are equally messed up.

I need to jolt myself out of this mood.

Should I attempt another visit to her house? I think getting to the next stage will pull me out from under this dark cloud. It’s been over a week since I was last there. Standing at her door full of dread, but with an inkling of hope.

Hope is what I need right now.

I turn and head back to the lower end of town. I’ll get the bus, go there while I’m feeling bold. No guarantee she’ll be there, of course. I should try to figure out her schedule so I don’t waste these bursts of courage by getting there and her being out.

I need to be more organised if I’m to achieve what I want.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Connie

Connie stared at the phone, one hand twiddling a piece of her sleek black hair around and around her fingers. She’d just looked at her accounting records – it didn’t make for good reading. Her client base was growing, but slowly. She needed an injection of cash for advertising.

A piece of A4 paper was placed next to the phone with two columns: one showing the ‘pros’, one showing the ‘cons’ of going back to Baymead to do the reports. Connie picked it up. The only thing in the pros column was ‘extra money’. Not really the best reason for stepping back into the lion’s den, she mused. Maybe another pro could be that by going back, facing her demons, she’d be able to move on more successfully. Had she really put everything that happened behind her or was she avoiding anything that brought the memories back?

Connie had often thought about her actions, examined them, considered what else she could’ve done – should’ve done – and, each time, she concluded that she wouldn’t have handled Hargreaves any differently than she had back then. She wasn’t the last gatekeeper either – as the psychologist, she’d merely handed her report to the parole board for them to make the final decision of whether to release him or not.

Still, Connie never shook the feeling that her favourable report gave considerable weight to proceedings, and ultimately led to the rape of a woman. The ripple effect of her involvement had caused so much hurt and pain. If she went back, would something similar happen again? But then, could she go through the rest of her life worrying about whether a single action of hers could cause something bad to happen?

It had in the past, she reminded herself.

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

Deborah

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

Connie

‘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.