Border Crossing (6 page)

Floods of tears the minute she walked through the door. And when I tried to talk to my father –’

‘He got up and walked out.’

‘Yes.’

A long pause. Danny was looking down at his hands. Nails neatly manicured, cuticles picked raw. Tom waited.

‘When my mother died,’ Danny said at last, ‘somebody sent me some photographs, and there was one of me as a little boy, pushing one of those trolley things, you know, with bricks inside. I’d have been about two, I suppose. And I look at that photograph, and – I look like a normal little kid. I know, you can siy, “Well, what do you expect? Horns?” But that’s i”, you see. I just want to know why.’

‘Danny, if we’re going to do this…’ Tom raised both hands. ‘And I’m not saying we are. I think you have to think very carefully about whether… about v/hether you’re up to it. Because it’s not a simple matter of getting the facts straight. It’s… you’re going to be dredging up the emotions as well. Do you see that?’

‘Yes. Yes.’

‘No, not “Yes, yes.”
Think.
If you start this, and then you have to stop because it’s too painful, you’re going to feel you’ve failed. And if you do manage to go on, there’re going to be times when you feel a lot worse than you do at the moment. And what I’ve got to remember is that a couple of days ago you tried to kill yourself.’

‘But I’m not depressed.’ Danny waited for a reply.

‘Do
you
think I’m depressed?’

Tom hesitated. ‘I see no sign of it.’ What he couldn’t say was that he didn’t find the absence of depressive symptoms reassuring.

‘Well, then. What you… sorry, what I don’t seem to be able to get across is that I don’t want therapy. I don’t want to “feel better”. I simply want to know what happened and why.’

Tom took a moment to think. ‘Danny, a lot of people would say the real priority for you is to tackle the problems you’ve got now. You can’t change the past, but you can change the present.’

A wintry smile. ‘It’s up to me to set my priorities.’

‘Yes, that’s true.’

Danny leant forward. ‘Can I ask you what you think – no, sorry what you
feel –
about the trial?’

‘What I feel? I’m not sure my feelings are relevant.’

‘Oh, I think they are.’

Tom’s mind flooded with images of the courtroom. The small, lonely figure in the dock. ‘Uneasy,’ he said at last.

Danny smiled. ‘You see? That’s what I mean. You want it to be doctor and patient, or expert witness and accused. But it… it isn’t just that I don’t want it to be like that… it
isn’t
like that.’

‘We seem to be making sense of the trial now. Danny. I thought it was the murder you wanted tc talk about.’

‘It’s not much of a choice, is it? One led to the other. You see, all this stuff about, Can I can stand it? Is it going to make me worse? Shouldn’t I be thinking about sorting out the problems I’ve got now? It’s all a load of…’ Another unexpectedly charming smile. ‘With respect, bollocks. Because in the end you need this as much as I do.’

Tom sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, not caring about the body language, wanting every bone and muscle to express what he felt. ‘Danny,’ he said, ‘if you have the slightest suspicion that I need… anything out of this, you should run a mile.’

‘I’m sorry. I need this very badly, and I don’t… I cion’t know how to put this. I don’t always manage to distinguish between what I’m feeling and what ether people are feeling. I seem to be –’

‘permeable?’

A short laugh of recognition. ‘Yes, I suppose. More than most people.’

That was an impressive display of self-knowledge, Tom thought. ‘Look, let’s leave it for now. I need to talk to Martha, and of course you do realize there’s no question of going ahead if she doesn’t agree? And even if she does agree, I still haven’t made up my mind.’

‘All right,’ Danny said, putting his glass on the table. ‘I haven’t handled this very well, have I?’

‘Oh, I don’t think you did too badly.’

SEVEN

Martha Pitt called first thing next morning, her smoke-roughened voice sounding, as it always did on the phone, slightly tentative. It had taken him a long time to work out why. It wasn’t that she disliked the phone; she just hated giving her name. At first he’d thought it was her nickname – ‘Pit Bull Martha’ – that she disliked, and you could see why – not a lot of women would have liked it – but it turned out to be ‘Martha’ she couldn’t stand. ‘How do you think it feels? Condemned from the cradle to choose the worser part.’

‘What is the worser part?’

‘Doing good, rather than contemplating God.’

Martha was a Catholic. She knew that sort of thing.

‘Bloody good name for a probation officer, then.’

‘Aw, piss off.’

Now she said crisply, ‘I think we need to talk.’

‘What about?’ he asked, teasing.

‘Ian Wilkinson.’

They arranged to meet for lunch at one o’clock. He’d been standing at the bar for five minutes when Martha came in, clutching the enormous black satchel she carted around with her everywhere. Sometimes, watching her scrabble about inside it for something she knew she had somewhere, he imagined her disappearing into it, backwards, dragging make-up, car keys, court reports in after her, like a badger pulling fresh bedding into its sett.

Bending to kiss her, he breathed in the familiar smells of stale cigarette smoke and peppermints. She’d become addicted to mints during her last attempt to give up smoking, and now scoured sweetshops for stronger and stronger varieties. Fiery Fred was her latest fix. The last time they’d met he’d made the mistake of accepting one, and his eyes had watered for a full five minutes afterwards.

‘Do you want a pint?’ he asked.

He waited, patiently, while the usual struggle with temptation played itself out on her features, ending as it always did. ‘Yeah, go on, why not?’

‘Cheers,’ Tom said, raising his glass. ‘Probably the end of useful work for the day, but never mind.’

‘How’s it going?’

‘Not bad. I ought to finish the first draft by the end o**next week.’

‘Then I can start reading?’

‘Yes. Gently.’

They took their glasses over to a table by the window and sat down. ‘Well, then,’ Martha said, lighting a cigarette, ‘how does it feel to be a hero?’

‘Dunno.’

She smiled. ‘C’mon, Tom. How close was it?’

‘For him? I don’t know. He’d taken enough pills to knock him out, so I suppose, yes, it was pretty close.’

‘Extraordinary coincidence.’

‘Extraordinary.’

They didn’t need to say much to make themselves understood.

‘Of course he’d say it wasn’t a coincidence,’ Martha went on.

‘That’s right. Arranged by God.’

‘Well, don’t knock it,’ she said. ‘A lot of perfectly rational people would agree with him.’

‘Yes, I know. And a lot of perfectly rational people would say it happened that way because Danny planned it.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘I don’t know. And, anyway, he has to be given the benefit of the doubt. There’s no way we’re going to prove anything. And outrageous coincidences do happen. He’s told you he wants to come and talk to me about…” He glanced round, but they had the back room to themselves. The solicitors and barristers who were the Crown’s daytime clients preferred the lounge bar. ‘The murder.’

‘He’s been talking about doing that on and off ever since I’ve known him. And I’ve always encouraged him. I think he needs to do it. Whether this is the right time

‘Did you think he was depressed?’

‘No. He seemed angry, if anything. But then I suppose if the anger’s got nowhere to go…’

‘How often do you see him?’

‘Three times a week.’

Tom whistled. ‘That’s a helluva lot.’

‘Yes, well, he needs it.’

‘Do you find him difficult?’

‘Draining. Sometimes after I’ve seen him I have to go home and lie down. But actually he’s also quite rewarding. He’s… I don’t know. Very empathic. At times it’s almost uncanny. You think, how the hell could he know that? I haven’t said anything.’ She paused to think. ‘He gets inside.’

‘Like a tapeworm, you mean?’

‘To-om.’

‘All right. I was starting to think
I
might consult
him.
So anyway, you think I should do it?’

To his surprise she didn’t answer immediately. ‘I’m not sure. You know I said he was very good with people? Well, he is, but –’

‘He doesn’t like triangles.’

She looked surprised. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Just a hunch.’

‘Did he say anything?’

She was over-involved. ‘About you? No.’

‘Well, anyway, you’re quite right, he doesn’t. Mike Freeman – you know Mike? – and I were supposed to work together, they thought it would be good for him to have a man and a woman. And it simply wasn’t possible.’

‘It must’ve been quite bad if he actually split you?’

‘Yeah, well, Mike isn’t very experienced/

He had split them. ‘And you think the same thing might happen with you and me?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘I don’t really see what you’re worried about. So okay, he’s not good at triangles? The general idea is that we’re supposed to be.’

‘It’s not just that. There’s a certain amount of antagonism there, Tom. Towards you.’

‘Yes, I think 1 detected that. Does he say why?’

‘He trusted you. In his mind, you let him down quite badly. He thinks if it wasn’t for you, he wouldn’t have been in court at all, he’d have been dealt with as a child. You were the one who said he understood what he was doing and that he was fit to plead in an adult court. He hasn’t forgiven you.’

Tom nodded. ‘We’d need to talk about it. But the antagonism itself isn’t automatically a barrier. I mean, frankly, even if I was starting from scratch, I’d expect to be on the receiving end of a fair bit of hostility, because he’s angry. He hates the system, he hates what it did to him.’

Martha shook her head. ‘No, it’s more than that.’

A long pause. Tom said, ‘There’s no question of my going ahead without your approval.’

‘And I think he needs to do it. So that’s that, then.’ ‘

You could try getting him to talk to somebody else.’

‘I have.’ She smiled. ‘It’s you or nobody.’

‘Which raises doubts about his motivation.’

She hesitated. ‘He wants to get at the truth, Tom. I’ve no doubt about that.’

He looked at her. ‘You’re very concerned about him, aren’t you?’

‘Over-involved, you mean?’

Tom smiled. ‘How much is over? I don’t know.’ ‘I’m concerned about you, as well. What do you want to do next? What do you want me to tell him?’ ‘I need to see him again. And I’d quite like that to be in your office. You know, establish a fairly formal framework.’

‘All right. Normally I don’t see him there, because… because Ian hasn’t got a record, for one thing.’ ‘I suppose you do know how bad for him that is?’ ‘But there’s no choice, Tom. If the press found him, his life wouldn’t be worth living.’ She picked up her bag. ‘Anyway, I’ll fix something up, and give you a ring. Oh and by the way, if you ever phone the office, you will remember he’s Ian Wilkinson, won’t you?’ He nodded. ‘Thoughhe’s gotto be Danny withme.’ ‘Yes, I know. Well, I think he’ll welcome that.’

Talking to Ian on the phone, half an hour later, she was fully aware of how much he welcomed it. ‘Dr Seymour hasn’t said he’s going to do it,’ she warned.

‘No, I know. But he will.’

She put the phone down, thought about ringing Tom with suggested times, then thought she wouldn’t disturb him yet. The cursor on the computer screen winked at her. She felt slightly sick, a combination of VDU glare and sunshine coming through the window. That day she went to fetch Ian back from the prison it had rained as if it would never stop. A smell of wet clothes, condensation on the windows closing them in, a constant patter of drops on the sunroof, and herself, hunched forward over the wheel, trying to see out through windscreen wipers that seemed only to spread the dirt more evenly across the glass. She leant back in her chair, with her hands over her face, and gradually the hum of the computer was replaced by the rhythmic squeak and whine of the wipers moving to and fro.

It had been late evening by the time she reached the prison. Ian was sitting in the waiting room, looking lost. ‘You don’t half put yourself through it, don’t you?’ she’d said.

He shook his head without speaking. The street lamps were on as she drove away. Rain bounced on the pavements. In the town she would have said it was dark, but out on the moors you realize what darkness is.

Rain, endless rain, and mist. The snow posts by the side of the road flashed past, inducing an almost trance-like state. She would have welcomed conversation, if only to keep her awake, but Ian remained silent. The mist thickened. They were driving along a narrow road with a steep drop on the left. When she cornered, the headlamps swept across a hillside with heather and clumps of gorse and, scattered here and there, huge grey boulders. Erratic blocks they were called, she remembered, dredging up some geography lesson of long ago.

Ian opened the window to throw his cigarette out, and drops of rain blew into her face. She heard the clank of bells on sheep grazing by the side of the road. In this light they looked like lumps of clotted mist, and any one of them could wander out into the middle of the road. As much as the rain and mist they forced her to slow down.

Ian was angry. That curious blocked anger of his. Knowing he wasn’t the victim, knowing he had no right to be angry, and yet seething anyway. She felt his anger in the silence, heard it in the hiss he made drawing on the next cigarette. My God, and she thought
she
smoked too much. It was making her want one, though. ‘Could you get me one of mine?’ she asked.

She was aware of the rasp and flare of the match. Why not a lighter? she wondered. But no, always matches. She saw his hands, briefly, in the orange glow. Then he put the cigarette into her mouth, his fingers brushing her lips. Watch it, she thought, and hardly knew whether the warning was directed at Ian or herself.

Still silence. It was getting on her nerves, and she needed to concentrate. The road wasn’t just wet – it was greasy from the long hot summer. At that last corner she’d felt the car start to skid. Corrected immediately, but it was a nasty shock.

‘Do you mind if we stop?’ Ian asked abruptly.

‘No, I could do with a break.’

She pulled up in the next passing bay and got out. Ian disappeared round a bend in the road, and she walked up and down, smoking and shivering and being rude to the sheep. After a while the darkness, the loneliness, the clunk-clunk of the sheep bells began to get to her, and she looked at the brow of the hill, impatient for Ian’s return.

Then the oddity of it struck her. Here she was, a woman alone and nervous on a dark road at night, looking forward to the reappearance of a convicted murderer. She’d never thought of Ian like that – well, yes, perhaps before she met him. But she’d never felt threatened, and in her job she did feel threatened, now and then. Hell, she didn’t
just feel
threatened, she
was
threatened – though she’d learnt how to recognize anger seething below the surface, to spot the signs of impending violence, to know when to back off.

Plenty of anger bubbling now, and nowhere to back off to. Extraordinary – she’d just this moment been thinking how she’d never felt threatened by Ian, and yet here she was – not frightened, nowhere near frightened – but certainly tense. She could have done without the sheep and their bloody bells, and the racket they made cropping the grass. Her footsteps, crunching up and down the gravelled passing bay, were beginning to rattle her. Where was he, for God’s sake?

She stayed still, and listened. Immediately she heard his footsteps coming towards the brow of the hill. A light seemed to be growing in the distance and, seconds later, she heard the sound of an approaching car. Ian appeared, head and shoulders first, climbing steadily, his shadow, cast by the car’s headlights, reaching out towards her, lengthening as he reached the summit. He was nothing, nothing she recognized. A dark figure haloed in light. She waited, and couldn’t speak.

‘Sorry I’ve been so long,’ he said. ‘Just had to get out and walk, you know. I can’t sit still when I’m like this.’

And immediately he was Ian. Except that he wasn’t Ian. As they waited for the car to pass, she was aware that a line had been crossed in her thinking about him. Until tonight, she would have said without hesitation that he had changed, that he was no longer the same person who had killed Lizzie Parks, or rather she believed that he’d changed. Those few minutes alone on the dark hillside taught her something, not about him, but about herself. He might have changed, but she didn’t believe it Not absolutely. Not without doubt.

And almost as though he’d read her thoughts, Ian started to talk about how impossible it was to leave the past behind. Being turned away from the prison like that was the final straw. He was beginning to think – well, not beginning, he’d thought it for a long time, only he kept pushing it to the back of his mind – that he was going to have to confront the past, in some way, try to make sense of it, before he could move on.

‘Perhaps you should see somebody,’ Martha said.

‘You mean a shrink?’

‘Or a psychologist. I don’t think it matters as long as you trust them. I mean, in the end, unless you’re suffering from an actual mental illness, schizophrenia or something like that, it’s the quality of the person that counts. You need to feel safe.’

‘I hate shrinks.’

The car splashed into a puddle by the side of the road, and, for a second, the windscreen was marbled, opaque. Christ, she thought. ‘Why do you?’

‘Dunno. Dad, I suppose. He always used to say you’re all right as long as you stay away from them. You can be drunk every night, shit your pants, doesn’t matter, but the minute you go to one of them, that’s it, you’re finished. After that you’re just a bag of shite.’

Now that’s a helpful instance of father – son bonding, Martha thought. ‘Well, perhaps that was your father’s experience. But –’