My Husband's Wife(39)

‘I see.’ He sighs and pulls me to him. I’m a teenager again. Raw with grief. ‘Remember what I told you?’ he says. ‘You have to start again. Put the past behind you. Otherwise you’ll end up like us.’ He doesn’t need to spell it out. His words take me back to less than a year ago, when I’d admitted to Dad that I didn’t go out very much and spent most of my time in the office.

‘You need a social life,’ he’d advised. ‘A new century is dawning, Lily. It’s time to move on, Daniel would want that.’

And that’s when my then flatmate suggested I go to a party with her. The same one where I met Ed. I could hardly believe it when this tall, handsome man began to talk to me and then – miraculously – asked me out. What did he see in me? I thought of saying no. I’d only get disappointed.

But at the time, it seemed like my escape route to sanity.

‘Crisps? Sellotape? Sugar? Sharp implements?’ barks the officer the following week.

I watch Tony Gordon go through the process. It’s clearly familiar to him, just as it’s becoming increasingly familiar to me. Prison, said Tony on the way here, can grow on you. It can also, he added with a warning look, be curiously addictive.

I’ve realized that already. Meanwhile, we’re following the guard across the courtyard, through the set of double doors and gates, down the long corridor past men in green jogging bottoms, and finally into D wing.

The HOPE poster has a big rip on the bottom right-hand corner. Joe Thomas’s arms are folded, as if he has summoned us.

‘This is Tony Gordon,’ I say, plastering on a smile to hide my nervousness. After my trip to my parents’, all I can see is Daniel sitting there. The same clever face, which at the same time manages to look vulnerable. That sideways manner of looking at you as if working out whether you’re to be trusted or not.

‘He’s your barrister,’ I add unnecessarily, because Joe has been told this already.

‘What have you got to say to me then?’

I’m almost embarrassed on Joe’s behalf at his lack of social grace. But Tony proceeds to rattle through the defence – the boiler company data, our proposed cross-examination of the Joneses (the neighbours who testified against him last time), the other expert witnesses – before proceeding to ask Joe more questions. Some of them I’ve wanted to ask too but haven’t quite dared. Some of them I haven’t considered at all.

‘Why did you usually run the bath instead of allowing Sarah to do so?’ I’ve asked this before but I want to make sure. Maybe catch him out.

There’s an ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ stare which reminds me of a look Joe had given me when we’d first met and he was declaring his innocence over Sarah. ‘I have to. It’s what I do.’

I’m reminded of the ritual side of obsessive behaviour that I’ve been reading up on. Fleetingly, I wonder if Tony runs his wife’s. Not to control, but to be kind. Somehow I don’t see it.

‘Would you say you have some habits that others might find strange?’

Joe glares at Tony challengingly. ‘What might seem strange to you isn’t strange to me. And vice versa. My habits are quite normal in my book. They’re my rules. They keep me safe. If someone wants to be part of my life, they have to accept that.’

‘Did you tell the defence this at the first trial?’ Tony glances at his notes. ‘Because there’s no record here.’

Joe shrugs. ‘He thought it made me sound too controlling. Would make me unsympathetic to the jury.’

‘Did you hit Sarah during that row when she came home drunk?’

‘No.’

‘Did you turn up the temperature on the boiler?’

‘No. I told you before. But the water was still hot when I found her, which suggests the water was near-scalding when she’d turned it on, earlier. That’s why I had burns on my hands. They came from getting her out of the bath.’

The questions go round and round, as though we are in court already. Vital preparation for the real thing.

If Tony is irritated that each of these replies is addressed to me, he doesn’t show it.

‘Right,’ he says, getting up. ‘I think we have enough now to be getting on with.’

‘Think?’ Joe Thomas’s keen eyes train themselves on my colleague. ‘ “Think” isn’t going to be enough to get me out of this place. Trust me.’

‘And trust me too.’ Tony Gordon’s voice comes out as a low growl. A ‘leave my ball alone’ warning growl that reminds me of our old dog, who used to limp along with Merlin.

Daniel had been obsessed with horses, so, after considerable pestering, my parents had bought him one from a neighbouring farmer when we’d moved to Devon. This steady, safe, lumbering beast didn’t see Daniel as being ‘different’ from anyone else. Right from the start, he had forged a special bond with Daniel. It was my brother whom he would nuzzle first when we went down to the stables in the morning to feed him and muck out. When we took turns to ride him across the downs, Merlin seemed to take special care with Daniel, who visibly grew in confidence as a result. We even rode him along the beach. Once, Daniel was actually allowed to bring Merlin into the kitchen through the back door as a ‘special treat’.

Bitter-sweet memories that had held me back from going into the paddock, let alone the stables, when I visited my parents.