One Little Lie

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

Alice

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.

I fire up the laptop and go to the only icon on the menu I regularly use.

Group support.

There are no members live. My shoulders slump, my back arching in disappointment. My initial excitement gives way to a darkness. Gloom.

Never mind, I can still leave a comment – I’ll begin a new thread so it’s the first thing people notice when they log in. I see Bill has been active over the past few hours. Poor man. His daughter, Isabella, has gone off the rails and he has no clue how to handle it. His wife, he says, is useless. Isabella’s already been cautioned for drug possession, and now it seems she’s disappearing every night and they don’t know where she’s going. The group have asked Bill why he doesn’t stop her – prevent her from leaving the house. Lock her in her room. But I know these ‘easy’ steps are, in fact, incredibly difficult. Near to impossible sometimes. She will find a way, because it’s not like she’s a child – she’s in her early twenties. It’s even more challenging with a boy, when you’re a single parent – my strength was no match for his.

Before I compose my own, I write a supportive message on Bill’s thread, encouraging him to attend the group meeting at the end of the month. I think he needs more help than we can offer him online. He needs to be with us, see us, speak to us in person. Share everything. It’ll lighten the load. Plus, we need another man in the group.

I have another session with Connie Summers two days before the group meeting. She’d wanted me to see her weekly, but I’m struggling to get the money, so I explained I could only do fortnightly. I didn’t tell her it was due to lack of funds. I’m hoping to steer the next session where I want it to go. If I can gain some more insight, and helpful suggestions from her, I’ll be able to share those with my members on Wednesday. It makes me sound more authoritative when I can spout jargon and give good advice.

I can’t help smiling.

I am giving back to the community; I’m helping parents to cope with their unruly offspring. I’m offering a service.

That makes me a good person.

Doesn’t it?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Connie

The sound of men in the exercise yard behind the psychology portacabin filtered into Connie’s consciousness. She was sitting at the desk closest to the window, but her back was to it. Wooden fencing panels separated the area from view, so even if she’d been facing the window she wouldn’t have seen the prisoners. From the lower floor of the portacabin they were only visible if you were standing. Still, a sharp tingling sensation ran the length of her back. She’d never been bothered by her proximity to them before – in fact, she’d often stood and watched to see who was interacting with who, trying to pick up on the body language of the men she’d had in her group at that time, or those she was compiling reports for. It was good to get a different perspective, watch them when they were unaware of it, so their actions and behaviour were more natural than when they were sitting in front of her.

Now though, for a reason she couldn’t pinpoint, she was uncomfortable.

Maybe it wasn’t them – maybe it was her. Being out of the establishment for this long meant she’d lost some of that toughness – her invincibility – which was required in order to work in the prison environment. She wasn’t the confident leader she had once been. This was no longer her territory, and it felt every bit as alien as she’d expected it would. That must be the reason she felt so out of her comfort zone. As she’d said countless times, there were good reasons why she’d left in the first place.

Coming back now was revisiting the past – the past she’d worked so hard to put behind her.

‘How are you getting on with those files? Got everything you need?’ Verity popped her head over the blue partition that divided the desks.

Yes, she must keep focussed. The quicker she read the files, the quicker she could get on with the job in hand.

‘Fine, I think everything’s here.’ Connie slid out the bottom of the three files given to her and flicked through it. ‘Actually, there doesn’t appear to be a list of pre-cons for a … Michael Finch.’ She looked up at Verity.

‘I’ll walk over to the offender manager unit, check his main file and photocopy it,’ Verity said, immediately rising from her seat. ‘I mostly only keep the psychology-related stuff in our filing room. The bulk is kept with the offender managers.’ She was out in the corridor, her coat half on before Connie could say another word. It was a shame Verity hadn’t been around when Connie worked here; having admin support would’ve really cut down her running-around time.

Connie returned her attention to the other files she had on the desk. The name Kyle Mann stared out at her. Connie leant back; what were the odds? It might be a conflict of interest to see him, compile his report now she was in a therapeutic relationship with his mother.

‘Jen?’ Connie stood, and then made her way over to Jen’s desk. ‘Not sure I can do this one.’ She handed Jen the file.

‘Oh, this is the guy you saw way back when he first came to Baymead. The silent one.’ Jen made quote marks with her fingers.

‘Yes, I remember that – those one-way conversations with him were so frustrating.’ Connie raised her eyebrows at the recollection.

Jen’s forehead wrinkled. ‘Why can’t you see him now?’

‘Ethically. His mum is a client of mine.’ The only reason she’d decided it wasn’t unethical seeing Alice Mann was the fact Kyle had never spoken a word during any of Connie’s previous encounters with him. It was ironic she was now concerned about seeing Kyle because of her sessions with his mum.

Jen sat up straighter, her mouth gaping. ‘Oh! Um … well, to be honest, Con, I don’t reckon it’ll matter much. He still hasn’t uttered a word to any of us. We need his report doing, but I’m not expecting any great things. It’ll be compiled on what we already have in his file, and info from the wing records, his personal officer and whatnot. I mean, I could swap him for another, but we’ve all started the assessments on the other guys …’

Connie pursed her lips. If Kyle had not spoken to any of the psychology or programmes team before, he was unlikely to now. Maybe it wouldn’t be unethical. She’d literally be going over old ground, things she’d already known before. She weighed it up in her mind. If he didn’t speak, then it wouldn’t take very much time to get his report done. That was a bonus – she could get out of the prison even more quickly than she’d hoped if she didn’t have to start from scratch with a new prisoner with lots to say.

‘His risk is going to remain high if he doesn’t comply, doesn’t commit to doing any offender behaviour work. He does know that, right?’

‘Con, he’s been informed many a time. There are a lot of refusers, he’s not the only one, and it would appear they don’t care whether it’s keeping them from progressing through the system.’

‘I bet he’s the only one who’s never spoken, though?’

‘Yes, that’s true. Four years of silence is some accomplishment. I just can’t understand why he won’t talk.’

Connie delved into her somewhat hazy memory of the case. ‘Wasn’t there a suspicion someone else was involved with the crime?’

‘There was something like that.’ Jen moved to her keyboard and opened the OASys database, which kept records and assessments of all the offenders in the establishment. She scanned through the various pages, searching for the details of the offence. ‘Of course, this didn’t come from Kyle Mann – it says here that police suggested due to the nature of the abduction and murder that it was improbable that a single individual was able to carry it out. The police pushed Kyle for details, but he went down the no comment line, and they didn’t have any substantial proof, so …’ Jen clicked on another page in OASys: ‘the only hard evidence they had was all stacked against Kyle and it was enough to safely convict him of the murder of Sean Taylor.’

‘He was only eighteen.’ Connie frowned. ‘Such a terrible crime for someone so young.’

‘Poor bloody victim, though. Jesus, have you read the file?’

‘I did originally, back when he first came to us, but haven’t refamiliarised myself yet. When I saw the name, I thought it best I should mention it.’

Jen tapped her pen against her bottom lip. ‘It’s not like your client is the victim’s mother – then I’d definitely say not to carry out his assessments and report. But I don’t see a conflict of interest here. As long as you don’t disclose anything of your work here to Kyle’s mother, and vice versa, then there’s nothing to worry about. And anyway, like I said, it’s not like we’re going to gain new information from him, is it?’ Jen held the file up.

Connie took it from her. ‘Okay. No problem, I’ll get to work.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Deborah

‘Deborah.’ I hear the voice, but somehow it sounds far away, like a distant echo, rather than directly behind me.

I carry on walking, entering the building.

‘Hey, Deb!’ It’s more insistent. She knows I hate being called Deb. I guess I can’t really ignore her now. It’ll be obvious I’ve heard that harsh yell.

My muscles are all tense. What does she want?

I slow and, reluctantly, turn to face Marcie. My boss.

Her face is flushed, but otherwise she’s the usual picture of perfection. She’s half my age, practically, and runs the marketing business with her brother.

‘Didn’t think you were going to stop,’ she says, her breathing rapid.

‘Miles away, sorry. Just keen to get to work, you know me,’ I say with a smile I know is disingenuous.

‘I wanted to catch you before we reached the office. Have a quick chat.’

My pulse dips. This can’t be good. This’ll be a ‘you’re not pulling your weight’ kind of chat. My mind has been preoccupied of late; I’m here in body, but my head has been AWOL. I’ve been in this job for seventeen years – I was here at the beginning, when her father, George, ran the place. I’d secured and managed some of the company’s biggest client accounts. George had often told me I was indispensable. I’d loved the job back then – and although I can’t say that with conviction now, I still need it; it’s my home from home.

Before I realise what’s happening, Marcie’s arm is looped through mine and she’s gently steering me back to the door, against the throng of people entering the foyer. I catch sight of Andrew and Marcus; they stare questioningly at us as we exit the building. This will set the office gossips going. They will be thinking I’m about to get the sack.

Oh, bloody hell. Am I about to get the sack?

I need this job. I can’t do without it. Not only the money, but the time outside of my own head – when I can focus. It’s what keeps me going.

I swallow the rising panic. Take a steadying breath.

‘What’s this all about, Marcie?’ I say as she guides me into the Costa a few feet away.

‘Coffee and a heart-to-heart.’ She grins. Her teeth are a perfect line of white squares. She gets them whitened. Everything on this woman is falsely enhanced: teeth, eyelashes, eyebrows, hair, boobs, the lot. I suddenly feel old and ugly in her presence.

But at least I’m real.

And a cosy heart-to-heart with this young, business-driven woman is really not what I need right now. I still remember her prior attempts to get me to open up. I easily brushed aside her offers to chat. But now – almost four years later – she’s actually managed to ‘trap’ me. It’s futile, though. This chat. How is she likely to understand what I went through? What I’m still going through? Every single day is a struggle. A struggle to stay in this life.

I sit at a table at the back of the coffee house, waiting for her to bring the drink I don’t want. I used to love people-watching. It was one of my favourite pastimes. Not any longer. I don’t care enough about them to watch. Their lives are of no interest to me.

I watch as Marcie heads towards me with two lattes on a tray. I don’t even like coffee.

I can hear my own heartbeat.

I lean my elbows on the table, clasping my hands together to stop them shaking.

‘Thank you,’ I say as she places the drink in front of me.

‘Right. So, Deborah, how are things for you at the moment?’

‘Great,’ I hear myself saying.

‘Really?’ she says. Her head tilts to one side.

Christ. She’s giving me a sympathetic smile to boot. How condescending.

How can I veer the conversation in a different direction?

‘Yes, really, Marcie. I’m good. Getting stuck into work helps, but you know that. After your dad died you did the same, didn’t you?’

I see the flinch in her face, the flicker of her eyes as I bring the conversation back to her. See how she likes it.

Over to you.

‘I guess so.’ She takes a sip of her drink. ‘But I had little choice. Me and Alexander had to get stuck in, keep the business Dad had built afloat. We owed it to him. Not to mention that we had to ensure everyone, like you, kept their jobs.’ She smiles.

Back to me.

‘That must have been a challenging time. No opportunity to grieve for your father.’ Now I put my head to one side.

Over to you.

‘It was challenging at times, yes. But I mourned in private. And I tried to keep my private life separate from work, you know? I think that’s important.’ Her eyes are fully on mine as she places her cup down and props her elbows on the table.

Back to me.

Now I’m aware of where this ‘chat’ is going, I drop the pretence – the personal game I’m playing – and get to the point.

‘You’re trying, in your roundabout fashion, to tell me I’m not keeping my private life separate from my work life.’ My irritation oozes out in my tone.

She exhales dramatically and looks away from me for a moment. Then faces me and begins to deliver her speech, the one she’d probably rehearsed all night.

‘I’m … we’re … worried about you, Deborah. It’s been four years, yet you still appear to be in mourning. It was a shocking, terrible, event—’

‘Event!’ My shrillness pierces the room, other people stop their conversations to look at me. ‘Event, Marcie?’ I lower my voice to a harsh whisper. ‘My son was murdered. I lost my only child.’ The tears are escaping my stinging eyes. I didn’t want to show my emotion in this way. It’s not helping my cause.

‘I know, and I’m so sorry – I can’t even begin to imagine …’

‘No. Of course you can’t.’ I look down at my lap. Wait for her next shot.

‘You didn’t take a lot of time off work when it happened. I thought that was a mistake at the time, now I definitely do. Take some time right now, Deborah.’

I look up sharply. ‘No. No, I don’t need to take time off. I need to be in work, with other people.’