My Husband's Wife(5)

Are you telling me the truth about your brother? My mother’s voice cuts through the swathes of commuter crows and pulls me on an invisible towline away from London to Devon, where we moved two years after Daniel had arrived.

I wrap my grown-up coat around me and throw her voice out of the window, on to the tracks. I don’t have to listen to it now. I’m an adult. Married. I have a proper job with responsibilities. Responsibilities I should be paying attention to now, rather than going back in time. ‘You need to picture what the prosecution is thinking,’ the senior partner is always saying. ‘Get one stage ahead.’

Shuffling in an attempt to make room between two sets of sturdy, grey-trousered knees – one on either side of my seat – I open my bulging black briefcase. No easy task in a crammed carriage. Shielding the case summary with my hand (we’re not meant to read private documents in public), I scan it to refresh my memory.





CONFIDENTIAL


Pro Bono case

Joe Thomas, 30, insurance salesman. Convicted in 1998 of murdering Sarah Evans, 26, fashion sales assistant and girlfriend of the accused, by pushing her into a scalding-hot bath. Heart failure combined with severe burns the cause of death. Neighbours testified to sounds of a violent argument. Bruises on the body consistent with being forcibly pushed.



It’s the water bit that freaks me out. Murder should be committed with something nasty like a sharp blade or a rock, or poison, like the Borgias. But a bath should be safe. Comforting. Like the woody-green District line. Like honeymoons.

The train jolts erratically and I’m thrown against the knees on my left and then those on my right. My papers scatter on the wet floor. Horrified, I gather them up, but it’s too late. The owner of the trousers on my right is handing back the case summary, but not before his eyes have taken in the neat typed writing.

My first murder trial, I want to say, if only to smooth the wary look in his eyes.

But instead I blush furiously and stuff the papers back into my bag, aware that if my boss was present I would be sacked on the spot.

All too soon, the train stops. It’s time to get out. Time to try and save a man whom I already loathe – a bath! – when all I want is to be back in Italy. To live our honeymoon again.

To get it right this time.

Whenever I’ve thought about a prison, I’ve always imagined something like Colditz. Not a long drive that reminds me of Ed’s parents’ rambling pile in Gloucestershire. I’ve only been there once, but that was enough. The atmosphere was freezing, and I’m not just talking about the absence of central heating.

‘Are you sure this is right?’ I ask the taxi driver.

He nods, and I can feel his grin even though I can’t see it from behind.

‘Everyone’s surprised when they see this place. Used to be a private home till Her Majesty’s Prison Service took over.’ Then his voice grows dark. ‘Pack of bleeding nutters in there now, and I don’t just mean the criminals inside.’

I sit forward. My initial worry about putting a taxi on expenses (the bus didn’t go far enough, as it turned out) has been dissipated by this rather intriguing information. Of course I knew that HMP Breakville has a high proportion of psychopaths and that it specializes in psychological counselling. But a bit of local knowledge might be useful.

‘Are you talking about the staff?’ I venture.

There’s a snort as we carry on up the drive, past a row of what appear to be council houses. ‘You can say that again. My brother-in-law used to be a prison officer here before he had his breakdown. Lived in one of those, he did.’

My driver jerks his head at the council houses. Then we round another corner. On the left rises one of the most beautiful houses I’ve seen, with lovely sash windows and a stunning golden-red ivy climbing up the outside. At a rough guess, I’d say it was Edwardian. It’s certainly a complete contrast to the crop of Portakabins on my right.

‘You check in there,’ says the taxi man, pointing at the house. I scrabble in my purse, feeling obliged to tip him if only for the extra information.

‘Ta.’ His voice is pleased but his eyes are troubled. ‘Prison visiting, are you?’

I hesitate. Is that what he has me down as? One of those do-gooders who feel it’s their duty to befriend the wicked?

‘Sort of.’

He shakes his head. ‘Take care. Those blokes … they’re in there for a reason, you know.’

Then he’s off. I watch the taxi go back down the drive, my last link to the outside world. It’s only when I start to walk towards the house that I realize I forgot to ask for a fare receipt. If I couldn’t get that right, what hope is there for Joe Thomas?

And, more importantly, does he deserve any?

‘Sugar? Sellotape? Crisps? Sharp implements?’ barks the man on the other side of the glass divide.

For a moment, I wonder if I’ve heard right. My mind is still reeling from the strange journey I’ve just taken. I’d gone towards the lovely house, relieved that prison wasn’t that terrifying after all. But when I got there, someone directed me back across the grounds, past the Portakabins and towards a high wall with curled-up barbed wire on top that I hadn’t noticed before. My heart thudding, I walked along it until I reached a small door.

Ring, instructed the sign on the wall.