Guilty (3 page)

Sadie had slid down one more notch on the scale of total despair and hopelessness that day.

As she now clung to the plastic-covered mattress, she remembered how she had hugged that little body until it was stone cold, just as her heart now was stone cold; there was nothing left in her life to love and nobody left to love her. But then an image of Caroline’s smiling face flickered into her mind and something warm stirred inside her. A faint ghost of a smile passed her lips; somewhere deep inside her there was still a spark of love.

In a convulsion of sobs, her body rolled onto the floor. She had no way of knowing it was a mirror of Caroline’s own present despair. Both women felt they had fallen into the depths of hell.

Now the muddled thoughts took hold, she felt her mind slipping into a jungle. Fantasy and reality snaked together. Rationality was abandoning her yet again.

“Indeterminate sentence,” loomed into her brain. The trial judge had seemed so smug when he announced it. She struggled to grasp the severity of it; her mind would not accept the full-stop to her life. It kept introducing her to escapism, and plans for a shopping trip swarmed into her thoughts. “Plan a party,” some thought teased her. A holiday, she must book a holiday.

The interview she had been given on entrance to the prison had tried to explain to her the rules and procedures. “Tariff period” had been an empty phrase, a chain preventing her from ever seeing the outside world again. The words now swam around her head. She was in a living nightmare.

There had been some rays of light, some signs that a life could partially exist during that interview. Promises of courses, healthcare, her rights. None of it had made sense to her troubled mind.

She chanted her prison number, no longer worthy of a name, as she crawled back onto the bed, traumatised.

“Retribution and deterrence,” other meaningless words which had been hurled in her direction. Words tumbling around in her skull, a crescendo in volume arousing her anger.

Sadie recognised what was coming.

They obviously pre-empted things like this in this place of torture. There was nothing for her to throw to satisfy her rage. She rose like a polar bear on its hind legs desperate for prey.

She clutched her hair from its bobble and tried to hoist it out. She was enjoying the self-inflicted pain. If only she had a blade to scratch her arms. She needed release and her long nails were not a good enough weapon as they drew just hints of a trickle of blood.

Her blood-curdling screams brought them running. The sound of the padlocks, chains and keys just agitated her further and she lashed out at them in the split second before they had her in a hold and they were dragging her off. She had lost it one more time but now it no longer mattered; there was no lower level than life imprisonment. She bared her teeth, trying to bite the guard on her left but he was well practised in such situations and he was one step ahead of her. They knew the correct manoeuvre to hold her head down as she was led to the padded cell.

2.

The hurried hammering on the door barely bothered Simon. It was second nature to him to expect a catastrophe to result from Caroline’s binges and he had known without a doubt that she was off on one. Steve couldn’t understand the cool response. Simon seemed oblivious to their suggestion that they all dash off and find her.

“Want a coffee, guys?” he leisurely enquired.

“I’ve got a pub to run,” the barman snapped as he turned on his heels and left, wondering why on earth he had left his pub when Steve could have quite adequately been the messenger.

“Bit grumpy!” Simon remarked.

“Seriously, Simon, we should go look for her. It’s cold out there and she’s completely sloshed. A car could get her, or anything.”

Slowly Simon came to his senses. Steve was right. This delaying mechanism was just another escape valve from the pressures of family life with which he just could not cope.

Sighing deeply, Simon reached for his old, grey duffle coat.

“What do you suggest?” he sheepishly asked, trying to pass the responsibility over.

Steve found himself taking charge; driven by what, he was not quite sure.

“Right mate, get a torch, and we’ll get looking.”

*

Caroline was drifting in and out of consciousness. She was happy lying there in the warm bracken.

She had heard that when you are dying, your life flashes before you, so the thought flickered through her confused mind that this was it and she welcomed death – the idea of a deep slumber for eternity, all worries cast to oblivion.

Like an old video, the scenes filtered through to her. She felt like she was tumbling through space as the film show began . . .

*

Simon was still sleeping when she woke and carefully turned so as not to wake him, glancing at the alarm: 6 a.m.

She let her arm dangle to the floor and her fingers gingerly felt for the thermometer she kept under the bed. It was important to record this awakening temperature each morning as her cycle peaked towards ovulation. A slight rise indicated blast-off day and she needed to ensure the bull’s eye was hit this time. Month after month she had suffered the torture of the unwanted period. As day twenty-eight approached, she would constantly be running to the loo to see if there were any signs. She’d read so many books and articles on fertility that she knew you could have a mini period even if pregnant, especially in the first few months, so she would desperately try to convince herself that this was the case if she detected the first few tell-tale red spots.

She would be in denial for the first two days until, full flow, she would accept there really was no baby yet again. Simon dreaded these days. Nothing would cheer her. Meals out to her favourite restaurants, a new dress, and a mini break – all had failed to raise a smile.

She popped the battery-thermometer in her mouth, waited till it bleeped and then tried desperately to read the temperature by the light of her alarm.

It indicated that it was opportunity knocks time of the month.

Simon would need to perform. Thank goodness it was the weekend. He could wake up leisurely; she’d give him a gentle all-over body massage to put him in the mood. They could try that morning, then when his sperm count had had time to rebuild she’d cook a romantic meal accompanied by a bottle of his favourite wine for the back-up attempt the next night.

Simon had woken to find her long, pink, manicured nails slowly caressing his back. He had bristled because he knew why. This didn’t usually happen, only when she was after something – his sperm. He felt used, a baby-making machine. He’d brushed her hand aside brusquely.

“Sorry, love, need the loo.” When he’d returned he continued, “Nice day out there. Think I’ll take a jog.”

Caroline had pulled the duvet back to reveal her slim, tanned legs rising to a knickerless crotch. He’d swallowed hard and melted as his manhood hardened. Swallowing his pride, he’d slipped back into bed next to her and had given in to her arousal.

As they lay there afterwards, she pulled the pillows under her thighs, raised her legs against the wall – all tips from her research on how to get pregnant.

He was hurt as she now cast him off so cruelly – she’d got what she wanted and she couldn’t even be bothered to attempt small talk.

“You look ridiculous like that,” he retaliated, but she was deaf to his ramblings as she lay there dreaming of baby names, planning a nursery.

He hated it.

He knew now she’d be on a high for the next two weeks, constantly flicking through Mothercare brochures and reading her childcare manual. She’d be so happy, eating sensibly, refusing any alcohol, getting early nights. Her wardrobe was already acquiring outfits which would accommodate a growing bulge.

He’d be as nervous as she was, looking for any premenstrual symptoms. Did she just snap at him? Was that stomach ache which she just complained of really period cramps?

Caroline made Simon take cold showers and eat foods high in zinc as part of her mission to ensure his sperm were as healthy as could be. She’d booked them on stress management courses. Simon was sick to death of her latest crazes which she always managed to involve him in. There had been acupuncture after the various homeopathic courses. He’d been dragged along to reflexology and something that went under the name of cranial osteopathy. None of it interested him. The courses were packed with what Simon stereotyped as highly strung women.

In his opinion they’d all have been better off spending the night in the pub or at a wine bar chilling out with friends. He often wondered if Caroline could just forget all these health fetishes, relaxed, drank several glasses of red wine and gave in to a genuine night of passion, they might well succeed in producing a pair of tiny footsteps.

As it was, she wouldn’t let alcohol pass her lips and she was quite tense whenever they made love these days, insisting which positions were, according to her manual, more likely to end in conception.

He’d long lost the excited wait for news of a baby, but instead it had been misplaced with the dread of a failed pregnancy test. Every time he opened the bathroom cabinet the things fell out over him. She’d found some that guaranteed reliability even from the first day that your period was late.

All this anxiety meant that some months she could be two or three days late and then the outburst would be so much worse when the enemy blood dared to show.

He could tell by her face the minute he got in from work or by the tone as she answered the phone, if he was brave enough to ring on one of these days.

There was anger, despair, frustration, mourning, all rolled into one ugly ball which knocked him flying. She never gave a thought to the fact he could be disappointed too, just that he was a failure at impregnating her. You could guarantee that on one of these days from hell, a friend would ring to announce their pregnancy. It seemed to Caroline that the entire world was pregnant. The worst thing was that some of her friends were now on their second baby.

Caroline would refuse to visit his sister for the next couple of weeks until she had hope building again, because Della and her husband, Mark had delightful one-year-old Josh with his golden hair, little snub nose and cherub cheeks; Josh, who filled every second of Simon’s mother’s tactless nightly phone calls.

“Josh is walking!”

“Josh said ‘Nana’!”

“When are you two going to get round to getting a cousin for poor Josh? At this rate, Della and Mark will pip you to it with a baby brother or sister for him. It would be so nice if the cousins are at an age when they can play with each other.”

Then there were Noreen’s twin boys. Fate had to rub Caroline’s nose in it: two healthy honeymoon babies.

“As easy as shelling peas!” Noreen had boasted, explaining the unplanned pregnancy and the perfect births.

Caroline point blanked refused to let Simon tell any of them about their problem.

“It’s private,” she would sob.

Sometimes Simon found it impossible to perform due to all the pressure. This would add so much more fuel to the fire. Caroline was desperate, as the window of opportunity was so small once she had ovulated.

She’d be sympathetic at first, hoping he would be able to manage with a bit of gentle coaxing, but then she’d feel rejected, ugly, when her feminine charms appeared to fail her. She’d sulk but he knew she’d come back, all forgiven for round two because she couldn’t wait another whole month.

He felt cheated when, during infertile periods, she pleaded a headache and turned him down. Simon found it hard to remember how loving it had been before these baby-making days.

It had been romantic: weekend mornings devoured by luxurious lie-ins, massages generously given to each other as an expression of love.

Genuine love-making, expressing their devotion to each other, totally unselfish, each desiring to satisfy the other. Cuddles of affection, each evening, sometimes progressing further depending on their energy levels after such busy days. They never grew bored of each other’s bodies.

Simon wanted to forget the baby business and re-find their perfect relationship.

Eventually she felt they needed medical help and nagged him to go to the doctor’s with him. He kept delaying because he was scared that it would be found to be his entire fault. In the end she dragged him there. He faced the humiliation of producing a sample into the little pot in the tiny cubicle, walls plastered in porn.

Apparently his sperm count was low; there were some live, healthy sperm and after all you only needed one! However, if you only produced about fifteen million as he did, you are really classed as infertile unless one believed in miracles! Perhaps they could run a few tests on Caroline too, plus some joint ones?

Anxiety could be a cause. It certainly wouldn’t help the situation.

“You do have to give these things time,” were irritating words offering a possible lifetime of false hope?

Excuses for time off work for all those medical appointments had added to the pressure.

Caroline couldn’t accept these hurdles.

Patience at this point in her life had eluded Caroline. Her maternal instinct was all consuming. It devoured every second of her waking life and filled her dreams. Caroline couldn’t stand Simon when he told her to occupy herself with a new hobby.

“Plant a new flowerbed.” She couldn’t believe his insensitivity. Her fury made her wonder if she had an affair, could another man make her pregnant? Then she would feel so guilty and angry with herself for even thinking of such things when she and Simon were hoping to start a brand new family unit.

Exasperated with the doctor’s words she suddenly, sharply turned to the idea of sperm donation. It was all about her; she couldn’t appreciate that such delicate issues involved them both making decisions together.

She badgered Simon every moment. He wasn’t interested. It was important to him to sire his own flesh and blood, to continue his family name with the genes of his dad, granddad and great-great-granddad, who had all been doctors. Why would he want to bring up another man’s son? He couldn’t see the point.

He wanted a second opinion on the quality of his sperm. He felt somehow that his manhood was being questioned. He needed Caroline to reach out to him emotionally, for them to be united as they tried to cope with this together. It was a huge blow to him but she was so dismissive, so callous, just moving on, searching for another man’s sperm.

She had arguments sorted for everything. Caroline could be so persuasive. The bottom line was that he liked a peaceful life.

“Look,” she’d say every time they were out. “Look at that little girl; look at that little boy there.” She’d explain how she could love any of them.

She was manageress of a lingerie store in an exclusive shop in York. She enquired from head office about maternity leave.

*

Caroline was lying so still that a tiny field mouse scampered over her cheeks, waking her from her flashbacks. It amazed her how she could now look back and have the empathy to see things from Simon’s viewpoint too. Back then, it had all been about her, but then the trials of all the following years had mellowed her. They had honed a much more considerate Caroline, a bit of a saint nowadays, in fact.

She now believed she was at home in her superking-sized bed. She must have become entangled in the duvet as she found it difficult to roll over. The mattress seemed a bit rough; she must complain to John Lewis, she decided, before nodding off again.

It hadn’t been easy and it hadn’t been quick.

Months of research by Caroline about how to contact sperm donors. There were various organisations offering the service, but which could be trusted? Could she be sure that all the screening was thorough? It was like shopping for furnishings: you had to choose the hair and skin colour, blood groups could be considered, colour of eyes.

Lists of paternal hobbies were available. She noticed most contained active, sporting hobbies. Suppose this meant there was a chance the child would inherit over-active genes; ADHD? There were claims of degrees, but how valid were these? You could discover if previous donations had resulted in pregnancies. She pondered how she might feel if her baby, therefore, would have several half siblings, maybe scattered across the globe. Would she choose a donor who wished to remain anonymous? Would she and Simon tell their baby the truth one day? There was so much to consider that even she realised this was not a decision to be taken lightly.