The Dead Ex(99)

I take in the broad-shouldered man in a suit who has stepped round the side of the booth. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name’s Patrick Miles. I knew your mother from prison.’

No. Mum’s face has gone white.

The man steps closer. ‘ “The bitch would get blamed for the murder”, would she? Would the bitch you’re referring to be Vicki Goudman by any chance?’

Oh my God.

‘I think we need to speak to the police, don’t you?’

‘Fuck off.’ There’s a glint. Mum has a knife in her hand.

‘Don’t!’

‘Police,’ the man yells, grabbing her wrist. The knife falls to the ground.

‘Scarlet,’ shouts Mum. ‘Help me.’

But this time, there’s nothing I can do.





59



Vicki


I know exactly what is going to happen now. I’m back in the remand prison where I’d been while waiting for the trial to come up. In a few days, or maybe weeks, I will be assigned a different prison: one suitable for lifers.

Life. It can mean so many things. If you’ve never been in prison, you take it for granted. Breathing in fresh air. Being free to walk down the street. To go into a shop. To have a drink. To read a book in companionable silence. To make love …

But my sentence means I will never have any of this, at least for a very long time. I won’t have a chance to find the right man, if such a person is out there. I won’t have a normal existence. Mind you, my epilepsy has already taught me about that. And worst of all, I will know I have been responsible for taking another life.

For the more I think about it, the less clear I am regarding the exact events after throwing Tanya to the ground.

‘Sign in here, if you please,’ says the officer. We’re in what’s known as Reception, the area where prisoners are booked in and out. I am frisked in case I have managed to secrete some dangerous weapon or illegal substance during my court appearance or at some point during our drive back here.

Then I am led to a cell. It’s a different one from before. ‘Your padmate didn’t fancy sharing with a lifer, let alone an ex-governor,’ says the officer tightly. ‘Nor did anyone else. You’re on your own now.’

A single cell is usually a luxury with today’s overcrowding. But this feels like more of a punishment. There is barely room for the narrow bed. Nor is there much light through the tiny window, which looks out onto a concrete wall.

‘No loo?’ I ask.

‘You’ll have to press the bell if you want to risk the shared bathroom.’

Her meaning is clear. It isn’t unknown for lifers to be assaulted – especially ex-prison staff. The showers are a favourite place for this. You’re at your most vulnerable.

‘Or there’s a pot under the bed.’

She slams the door behind her. I am alone with my thoughts. My library book from my old cell isn’t here. No one, I realize suddenly, has mentioned my medication, which I need to take soon. I hammer on the door. Silence. I haven’t had a seizure for some months now – in fact, not since that day in Penzance. Long lapses can sometimes happen, as I knew from the consultant. But what if I have one now and no one comes? I could swallow my tongue. Hit my head on the floor when I fall …

Panic begins to smother me. It’s like an invisible suffocating blanket wrapping itself around me and choking my breath. ‘Help!’ I call out. ‘Help!’

Two hours pass. I have been timing every minute on the clock on the wall which has a ‘Do Not Remove Me’ sign next to it. Two hours ten minutes. Two hours twenty minutes. Someone has to come soon, if only to feed me.

Footsteps! At last.

It’s a different officer.

‘My meds,’ I gabble. ‘I need to take them.’

‘What meds?’

‘Haven’t you read my medical notes? I have epilepsy.’

Her expression changes. ‘Right. We’ll get that sorted on our way to the governor’s office.’

‘Governor’s office?’ I repeat. ‘Why?’

She gives me a strange look. ‘Your solicitor has rung. She wants to speak to you. Urgently.’





60



Helen

4 September 2018


‘Zelda Darling. You are accused of the murder of Tanya Goudman, the obstruction of justice and attempted grievous bodily harm towards Patrick Miles. On the first charge, do you plead guilty or not guilty?’

I hold my breath. Ever since Mum had been arrested, she’d kept changing her mind about the murder bit. We don’t know exactly what Patrick overheard in the noise around us in the pub. She couldn’t very well plead not guilty to the second and third, though. There’d been too many witnesses to her attack on Patrick.

Some discussion had gone on about me being a witness too, but I’d been having some bleeding and my GP had written a letter to say that, in his view, the stress of taking the stand could be harmful to my pregnancy. Thank God. I didn’t know whether I could lie for Mum again.

I have at least managed to find a solicitor for her who does legal aid, which means we don’t have to pay anything. He’s an earnest young man who keeps checking and re-checking his notes. ‘It’s essential,’ he told me before the case, ‘that your mother is honest about what happened on the day she visited Tanya’s house.’