My Husband's Wife(43)
I suspect he’s not joking. Not long now. The berries on the holly trees are already out in force when I walk past them every morning.
Red for blood. Red for anger. Red for the jacket that Daniel was wearing that night.
‘Christmas is like a battlefield with mince pies thrown in,’ my brother had told me once. I had the feeling that this was something he’d heard, but he told it as though he’d made it up himself.
Either way, he’s right. Ed wants us to go to his parents for the day. I want him to go to mine. ‘They don’t have anyone else,’ I point out. We still haven’t come to an agreement.
As I speak, I wonder how Joe Thomas will spend the so-called festive season. Will anyone visit him? I also wish – too late – that I had never given him Daniel’s old sticker album during our last meeting. I’d crossed the line. What had got into me?
Today’s visit has to be different.
Joe Thomas’s eyes are blazing. They remind me of a tiger. ‘Tiger, tiger, burning bright.’ One of Daniel’s favourites. Joe’s almost snarling as he speaks. ‘Someone put a threatening note under your door?’
On the way to prison that morning, Tony had declared this was the time to come out with it. ‘We’ve got to squeeze him now we’ve got a court date,’ he says, his mouth tightening. ‘Get things moving. Provoke him, see if we can get more out of him. If there are any holes.’
It’s doing that all right. Joe’s jaw muscles are tightening visibly. His hands, on the table between Tony and me, clench into hard, ball-like fists. The HOPE poster is sliding down the wall.
‘What did the note say?’
‘If you try to help that man, you will be sorry.’
Tony pronounces each word very clearly, as though there is a large area of space around it.
‘I ought to add,’ says Tony with a half-laugh, ‘that it wasn’t spelled very well.’
‘Leave it to me.’ Joe’s eyes grow blacker, if that is possible. I’ve read about eyes changing colour before, but thought it was poetic licence. Yet here’s an example, right before me. ‘I’ll put out feelers.’
Tony nods. ‘Thank you.’
So that’s why, I suddenly realize. Tony wants to see if Joe has contacts on the outside. By playing on what my barrister has already referred to as ‘the client’s obvious empathy with you’, he’s confirming his suspicions.
‘How else could your feelers help us win this case?’ asks Tony, leaning across the metal table, rocking it so one of the legs comes down against my leg, laddering my tights.
Instantly, Joe sits back in his chair, arms folded. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Those figures that were sent to you in the post,’ says Tony softly, ‘they came from a mole, didn’t they? They must have. Someone working for the gas people or the boiler company or somewhere in the industry. Are you paying them, or do they owe you a favour?’
Joe’s face is a study of emotion wiped clean. I’ve seen it before on my husband’s canvases. An outline. Nothing more. Then Ed fills in the feelings: a curve of the eyebrow to indicate disbelief or amusement; a curl of the lip to imply irritation or longing. Joe’s face does none of these.
‘Why would I do that?’ he asks. ‘And why do you assume I’ll tell you if it’s true, even though it isn’t?’
‘Because,’ snaps Tony, ‘you need to help us in order to help yourself. I’m going to give you some time to think about this, Joe. When I come here next, I’d like you to tell me who your mole is and then we might stand a chance of winning your case. And before you start bleating about honour among thieves, I want to ask you something. Do you really want to spend another Christmas inside this place?’
He looks around the bare room with its DO NOT REMOVE notice next to the clock and the torn lino on the floor. ‘Because I wouldn’t, in your position.’
As we go out of the room, I shoot Joe an ‘I’m sorry’ look. I can’t help it. His reaction to the note has helped to convince me once and for all that he’s innocent. You can’t fake that kind of thing.
‘Thanks for the pictures,’ he whispers as I pass him.
I freeze, hoping the officer standing by the open door hasn’t heard.
‘I don’t get many gifts in here.’
I don’t dare reply.
Then Joe’s eyes go down to my legs; he’s noticed the ladder in my tights. He frowns. ‘You need to do something about that.’ And then he slinks off down the corridor in the opposite direction as though I have personally offended him.
Knees knocking, I follow Tony down the corridor, past men staring; wishing I could look as confident as my colleague with his straight back and arrogant air.
As we hand in our passes at security, I’m still trembling. ‘You did very well,’ says Tony, placing a hand briefly on my shoulder. ‘Prison isn’t easy. Don’t worry. Joe and I have built up an understanding now. I won’t need you to come with me on future visits. A secretary will be enough. The next time you’ll see that man is when we’re all in court.’
I glance back at the high wall with its rolls of barbed wire still visible through the window. Not see Joe until the court hearing? I feel an irrational rush of disappointment. But there’s something else too. He’ll think I don’t care about him. And suddenly I know that I do. Very much.