Human Remains (47 page)

We needed to have that conversation, the one that had been hanging over us ever since he’d arranged my move into the spare room. I’d been putting it off and hoping the problem would go away, but it was getting worse.

‘Sam,’ I began. God, this was awkward. ‘I don’t really understand. I just don’t know… what it is you want from me?’

‘I don’t want anything,’ he said, cheerfully.

‘I mean – I don’t know. We’re friends, right?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Nothing else? I just – it feels weird that I moved into your house. And now going on holiday with you. I’m no good at all this stuff; I never really understand people’s motives. And I’d really hate for you to be… you know… expecting…’

‘I’m not expecting anything, he said. ‘And it’s not weird that you moved in. We invited you, didn’t we? It’s what friends do – help each other out.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I was feeling hot all of a sudden. The fact that he was so disarmingly relaxed was making it far more difficult even than I’d imagined it might be.

‘You don’t need to be,’ he said.

‘Are you gay?’ I said quickly. ‘I mean, not that you have to be gay not to be interested in me, far from it, I mean why would you be interested in me, after all? I’m twelve years older than you at least and… well…’ I looked down at myself as though that made the point.

Sam’s gulp of coffee had gone down the wrong way. When he recovered, he stared into the dregs of his cup intently, as though the answer lay in the foam.

‘I’m not gay.’ He was smiling, trying not to laugh. ‘I’m just happily single right now, is that OK?’

There was a momentary pause. I sipped my tea. This wasn’t going very well. I was just working up to another apology when he surprised me.

‘It’s not that you’re not attractive. I think you’re lovely, and of course you’re clever and very interesting to talk to, even though you don’t seem to realise it. But…’ He took a deep breath in. ‘Can we just be friends?’

‘Yes,’ I said, with relief. ‘That sounds great.’

‘And that means we can go on holiday?’

I couldn’t very well refuse now, could I? ‘Alright, then,’ I said. ‘As friends.’

In my bag, my phone started ringing. The caller display showed a withheld number – which meant it was probably Police HQ. I took a deep breath and answered it.

I’ve always taken pride in making the best of any given situation. Even if I do whinge and complain from time to time, I see that as being a healthy expression of indignation, pertaining to any infringement of my basic rights.

In this case, my right to liberty.

The solicitor (invariably they seem to send the junior out to me, a young man in an ill-fitting suit with a pustular outbreak around his hairline – but he seems efficient enough) has been unable to tell me exactly how long I might be here. They have me on remand, charged with abduction and assault, which is horrific enough but not beyond the limits of my endurance. I have achieved a certain notoriety already, and, as for those of my fellow jailbirds who choose not to take me seriously, I only have to look at them in a certain way and mumble a few incantations and they back off immediately. It’s really rather comical, and it passes the time.

The downside to my notoriety is that this is the third remand centre I’ve been shipped to since my second arrest. Every time a suicide takes place in whatever institution I’m in, they decide I must be responsible for it and move me elsewhere.

It’s utterly ridiculous, of course, as I’ve told them many times – I have no interest in death itself. Why would I even bother? Being moved around like this is a hideous inconvenience. I don’t know why they don’t just put me in some sort of solitary confinement; that would be infinitely more agreeable to me. I might suggest it if I get moved again.

I am also getting letters from people in the most appalling circumstances – people paralysed following accidents, suffering terminal illnesses, those who want to ‘die with dignity’ but can’t afford to take themselves off to Switzerland and don’t want their loved ones to take any blame.

I can’t help them, of course. Well, perhaps I could – and in response to one particularly touching letter I did reply suggesting they research voluntary refusal of food on the internet – but why the hell should I? There is nothing for me following their death, after all. There will be no process to observe.

I’ve given up reading the newspapers. I was in an almost constant state of outrage. The debate about euthanasia that has been provoked by my activity was quite intriguing to follow, but once the ‘bereaved families’ formed themselves into a mutual support group I had to stop reading.
Bereaved families
, indeed. Where were they when their so-called ‘loved ones’ were suffering? What support did they provide to the lonely, the depressed, the suicidal? None at all. And now they want some sort of justice. I despair of this country and the depths to which it has sunk.

As part of the preparation for the court case, they arranged for a psychological evaluation of me, which was most entertaining. In fact it remains so because the process seems to be never-ending – once one of them has finished with me, they send someone else, so I am clearly an intriguing case for them. Are they trying to decide if I’m sane?

After a particularly interesting discussion with one of the psychologists regarding guilt and blame, I wrote to Audrey to apologise formally. What happened with her was a dreadful misunderstanding, of course, and I do regret it deeply. Whether they passed the letter on is a matter for them.

Vaughn, on the other hand, can go to hell as far as I’m concerned. I have no desire for further communication with him.

I sometimes think about all the others – and there are still more – who remain in peace at home. I think about what might be left. I have wondered about Leah, too – where she might be now and whether she has continued down her path without my encouragement. I had thought her still unsure, but who knows what has happened to her and her unfortunate married lover since then. If she has turned back from that particular Underworld, followed the path behind her apathetic Orpheus back to life, it may be that she has memories of our meeting and may come forward. Would she speak for me, I wonder, or against me? It all depends on her frame of mind. They all know I did nothing of harm to them. They all know I was on their side.

There has been no mention of the images and my accompanying notes, and I presume from this that they remain safely hidden. I have no doubt that if they came to light it would prejudice my trial, if it ever takes place, even though they show nothing other than decay. There is no further crime they could charge me with, but if the prosecution showed the pictures in court I can imagine the jury would take it the wrong way. Without them, it may be possible that this whole sorry farce will result in a very brief custodial sentence, probably a suspended one in recognition of time spent on remand.

I could be free quite soon, in fact.

I’ve asked for books to be brought from home, but instead they limit me to the library here, which is insufficient for my needs but, as they say, better than nothing. However, unfortunately several of the requests I have submitted have been declined without reason. It’s enough to make me wish they would hurry up and convict me of whatever it is they think I’ve done, just so that I can get back to studying something more interesting than the state of the canteen assistants’ fingernails and the endless pile of letters I’ve been receiving, including some from women who suddenly, and ironically, seem to find me irresistible. I re-read these for my own amusement, since there is precious little else to do. Sometimes I correct the spelling and grammar – ‘you didn’t need to do them things you done, you could of had me’ – dear God, I ask you – and sometimes I spend a while picturing the females who take the time to write to me. Easier, of course, when they have enclosed a photograph. One last week was even wearing a bikini, but that was unfortunate and with the best will in the world the sight of her was not enough to provoke even a flicker of arousal.

There is one, however…

Her name is Nancy Heppelthwaite and she is
twenty-nine
years old. She studied at Oxford and enjoys art, music and literature. She paints. She dances, sometimes, but she has never met anyone she likes to dance with. She has yet to send a photograph even though I have replied and requested one – but in a way I’m glad she remains faceless, as I can impose any number of wonderful thoughts upon her, in those restless hours after lights-out when all you can hear are the shouts and moans of the insane ones who shouldn’t be on remand at all, the sobs of the lonely and the homesick, and the grunts of all the others like me who fill the dark hours with harmless acts of self-abuse. They use posters ripped from the pages of
Nuts
and
FHM
, or disturbing pictures of their wives in their underwear. I use Nancy’s letter.

Ahead of me lie several paths, and, although limited by the restrictions of the British Criminal Justice System (may it rest in peace), I can still choose my own destiny. I want – oh, I dearly want – to experiment with letters to Nancy, to see what may come of this blossoming attraction between us. And, of course, it may yet be possible to extend my influence to her through prison visits (a privilege to which I am entitled, but have yet to avail myself of) or even, simply, through writing.

Leaving Nancy reluctantly aside, there remains the greatest adventure of all. I have within me the power to change. They would not leave me to transform naturally, of course, but I can leave a will and express the desire for burial over cremation – which would mean the process would take place much as my father’s did. It would not be a gentle transformation in the privacy of my own home, which would be the best of all, but it would be acceptable to me, I think.

For now, though, I am not ready. I am at the very beginning of enlightenment, the very source of knowledge. There is so much still to do.

I would like to thank everyone in the extended Myriad Editions family, not just for this book, but for the love and support you have all shown to me over the past few years. It might seem simplistic to describe Myriad as a family, but that’s how it feels: everyone connected with the organisation, and their families too, are a part of the enterprise. There is a real sense of belonging, and I am incredibly fortunate to be in on it. Thank you all. There are two members of the Myriad family, however, whom I would like to thank in particular: my wonderful editor, Vicky Blunden, and my genius copy-editor, Linda McQueen. They made this book so much better. Thank you.

Many individuals provided me with very specific help and advice with particular aspects of
Human Remains
, and so I would like to express my thanks to: Caroline Luxford-Noyes, for a long conversation in which she described to me how a person’s life might end in hospital; Dean Edwards, for the details surrounding a disciplinary investigation; Freddie Elspass-Collins for his expertise concerning the Coroner’s Office; Fi Gutsell for insight into the life of a reporter on a local newspaper, and Sarah Hockley for putting us in touch in the first place; Niki Baier, David Baier and Liz Dyer for assistance with regard to funeral arrangements; David Holmes, Ernie Pratt, Paul Pope and Wayne Totterdell who generously shared their experiences of attending scenes; and Mike Silverman, whose description of decomposition odours over a CWA lunch in Brighton proved too tempting to resist.

In particular I would like to thank Mitch Humphrys and Lisa Cutts, for checking the entire manuscript for procedural issues, and for being so kind and supportive with your comments all the way through the writing and editing process.

As well as Mitch and Lisa, I would like to thank those who also read early drafts of
Human Remains
and provided me with fresh perspectives, pointed out crucial omissions and inconsistencies, and yet still managed to make me feel that I’d written something quite good: Alison Arnold from Text Publishing, Rob Hope, and my genius husband David who has developed a real knack for spotting opportunities I’ve missed. Thank you.

Many of my friends kindly provided listening ears and I’m sorry not to mention you all – but in particular, thanks are due to Samantha Bowles and Katie Totterdell who had to endure every last whinge. Bless you both.

I would also like to thank Paul Moscrop and Lindsay Brown, for allowing me to use their names, and for not being too concerned about how they were used!

Over the past year I’ve been lucky to have met a number of book groups, as part of the Big Book Group tour, via Skype, and by having been invited into people’s homes. I wanted to say thank you very much to everyone I’ve met, for your enthusiasm, and your kindness in making me feel so welcome and special.

Last and best thanks and love to those who have put up with the most – my family. I love you all.

Interview with Elizabeth Haynes

Extract from
Revenge of the Tide

What was the starting point for Human Remains?

As an analyst working for Kent Police, I did receive a copy of the Chief Constable’s report every morning, and with some degree of regularity this would include bodies found in a state of decomposition. There was never (to my knowledge) an alarming increase in the numbers, but I found myself wondering what I would do if I did notice something like this – and who or what might be the cause. The thought of that made me shiver, which is always the best sort of starting point for a novel.

How much did you draw on your own experience working as a police analyst in the writing of this book?

I’ve always felt the role of analysts within law enforcement has been sadly overlooked by fiction writers, and I thought it was time to redress the balance. However, it’s harder than it might seem to convey the excitement that we analysts sometimes feel over a particularly enlightening spreadsheet – it makes us sound really geeky and dull. But I’ve always found beauty in patterns, and it’s the perfect sort of puzzle, where something random and nebulous suddenly clears, the various pieces slide into focus and you realise that what you have is evidence about the circumstances of a crime. Everyone in law enforcement knows that thrill, when you realise you’ve found something nobody has spotted yet. I hope I’ve managed to convey something of that.