Daisy in Chains(25)
‘Actually, I live a few miles the other side of Minehead, where are you heading for?’
‘Minehead town centre, and you get out without argument or I call the police.’ The barrier is up and Maggie drives out of the park, narrowly avoiding two people who are walking, hand in hand, down the road. Both are carrying large backpacks. She takes her foot off the accelerator.
‘Those two weirdos will stink your car out.’ Sirocco has seen them too, is looking back through the rear window.
The two travellers draw closer and Maggie opens the passenger window.
‘Can I give you a lift into Minehead?’ she asks.
‘That’s very dece—’ Broon is interrupted by a tugging on his arm. He turns his back, there is a mumble of conversation, and then he bends down.
‘Thank you, but we prefer to walk. Have a good evening.’
The main road into Minehead is quiet, the weather keeping most people indoors. ‘Sirocco, you seem like an intelligent woman,’ Maggie says. ‘Why are you spending time with these people? Why are you fixating on a man who is likely to spend the rest of his life in prison? And, please, don’t give me any soulmate nonsense. Did you even know Hamish before he was arrested?’
‘We don’t choose who we love, Maggie. Have you ever been in love?’
‘You can’t love a man you’ve never met, a man you never will meet, because he’s never getting out of Parkhurst.’
‘Hamish won’t be in prison much longer. He has a plan.’
‘A plan? What is he doing, digging a tunnel?’
‘He hasn’t told me the whole plan. It’s not that he doesn’t trust me, it’s just that he can’t be too careful. One thing I do know, though. You’re part of it.’
Chapter 16
Sunday Telegraph, Sunday, 9 November 2014
WOMEN WHO LOVE MONSTERS
Fiona Vermeer asks why women fall in love with the worst possible men.
Every other Saturday, Helen Rayner gets up at four thirty in the morning to catch an early train from her home in the north-east. Her destination is Wandsworth prison, her purpose to visit her husband of two years, Stephen Rayner, known to most of us as the Stevenage Strangler.
Between 1998 and 2001, Rayner raped and strangled three women in their homes in the Stevenage area. The prosecuting barrister at his trial described his crimes as some of the most violent and sadistic murders he had ever encountered. Rayner is serving a whole life tariff, which means he is extremely unlikely, ever, to get out of prison, and yet he is a married man, with a wife who claims she loves her husband very much.
Helen started writing to Rayner eighteen months after he was sentenced. He wrote back. She was later to say, of that first letter, ‘It changed something in me. I knew this was the man I was destined to spend my life with.’
A decision, I imagine, that must have proven tricky to explain to her husband of thirteen years and her teenage sons, but explain it she must have done, because she started visiting Rayner in prison shortly after that first exchange of letters. She and her husband divorced in 2003 and she married Rayner three months later.
The marriage has never been consummated. Wandsworth does not allow conjugal visits and the couple have never been alone. On the face of it, it is difficult to see what she’s gained in return for such a cataclysmic life change. Helen’s two sons are estranged from their mother, many of her family and former friends no longer want anything to do with her. The marriage has put Helen’s life on hold. It is likely to remain so for many years to come.
Helen is by no means unique. It is believed that several hundred convicted killers in British prisons are married to women whom they’ve met since they were sent to prison. A far greater number than this will be in long-term, romantic relationships. In the United States the number is far higher.
Death-row romances are relatively common in the US, where the threat of an imminent execution brings even more glamour and excitement to a prison relationship. In spite of their horrific, murderous rampages, both Richard Ramirez and Ted Bundy attracted gangs of admiring groupies right up to the time of their deaths.
Tempting though it might be to dismiss these women as poorly educated and easily impressed, the evidence might suggest otherwise. Convicted prisoners have married their lawyers, their psychiatrists, police officers and prison guards. Women whom, you would think, should know better.
It isn’t hard to understand the appeal of a relationship to a man serving time. A wife, or long-term girlfriend, will be an advocate for his cause, driving forward any appeal process. A steady relationship, and its accompanying permanent address, is considered a big advantage when the possibility of parole comes up. A regular visitor will bring money, food and other desirables. Letters and phone calls provide a much-needed break from the monotony of prison life. A prisoner with a woman, especially a good-looking one, gains automatic status within the prison, and there is always the erotic frisson of stolen sexual encounters during visits.
How though, does one explain the appeal for the woman? Why would any woman commit emotionally, and legally, to a man with whom she cannot possibly build a future? Why should she dedicate herself to a man who will never fall asleep beside her, will never be there at Christmas and holidays, who cannot give her children? Esteemed psychologist Emma Barton explains it as the modern equivalent of medieval courtly love. ‘Courtly love isn’t real love,’ she says. ‘It’s a romantic ideal. The perfect suitor adores his lady, gives her unconditional love and devotion, and expects nothing in return.’