Nine Lives (11 page)

‘It's going to be a fine day,' she said, looking out of the window. ‘Not a cloud in the sky.'

We were on safe ground at last. The weather. You couldn't lie about that one. It spoke for itself. But once spoken, it could not be elaborated on. So again there was silence, broken at last by the voice on the tannoy asking car owners
to return to their vehicles. We were about to land.

Mrs Comley rose quickly. I think she wanted to be one of the first to get away so that she could lose no time with her ‘friends'. I said goodbye to her and wished her a good stay. I tarried a while, sipping my brandy and I was among the last to leave the ferry. I did not fear missing the bus. It would wait for me. My name was on the passenger list. I went down the stairs to the lower decks, and walked through the pedestrian gangway as the last cars were leaving. The bus was standing at the dockside. It had no markings and that was a relief. I went towards it, looking behind me to my right and left, as if I were being followed. I did not want to be seen boarding the bus, so I passed it by nonchalantly, then darted back to the open door and rushed inside. There was lots of room, but I did not take a window seat. I sat at the back, in the middle of the bench, and kept my head down. I heard the start of the engine, but still we idled.

‘Hurry along now,' I heard the conductor say, and I looked up to see him help a woman on to the bus and the doors close after her. She hung her head as she walked down the aisle, then raised it to find a seat.

Mrs Comley. We stared at each other, and to my relief, she shrugged her shoulders and smiled. I tapped the empty seat next to mine and she joined me.

‘It's not our fault,' she said, as she settled herself down.

It had never occurred to me that I was guilty of Donald's incarceration. I believed he was innocent, and that made me innocent too. Since it was now all out in the open, and it was clear that neither of us had island friends to visit, certain questions were permissible.

‘Who are you visiting?' I asked.

‘My husband,' she said. ‘And you?'

‘My husband too,' I told her.

‘Mine's innocent,' she said.

I said nothing. I didn't want Donald's innocence to be classed with Mr Comley's. I was curious as to why he was in prison. I assumed it was for something quite major. One wasn't put in Parkhurst for stealing a packet of chewing gum. But that was a question one couldn't ask.

Mrs Comley must have read my mind. ‘He's in for murder,' she said.

‘So's mine,' I gladly volunteered. I was strangely pleased that we both had something in common.

‘This your first time?' she asked.

‘First time here,' I said. ‘Donald's just been moved.' I was becoming familiar. Why not? I thought. We had much to share.

Mary responded. ‘Steve's been here for four years. Six in Strangeways. He'll be up for parole soon.'

So he's already served ten years. He must be a lifer, I thought.

I had to respond. ‘This is only Donald's second year.' I felt very low. Mrs Comley was far better off than I.

‘I'm his only visitor,' she was saying. ‘His family want nothing to do with him.'

‘Neither do Donald's,' I said. I thought of my boys, but without affection. Rather with a deep resentment that I had to bear the burden alone. For that's what Donald had become. A burden, and one that I could never shake off. He was my life sentence. And I was innocent. But this was no time for resentment. I had to wear a happy face, one without a trace of blame. I had to tell him the fictitious news from home. I wanted to see his face light up at other people's
troubles and I just prayed he wouldn't ask after the boys.

The bus stopped at the prison gates.

‘Come on, dear,' Mrs Comley said. ‘I'll show you the way.'

I followed her into the building and when asked, I whispered my real name. And I overheard hers, as she confessed to Mrs Cox. I put Stephen and. Cox together. It was a name, in its time, as known and hated as Dorricks. I recalled him as the axe killer of his mother-in-law. And here was that poor victim's daughter visiting her mother's murderer. I didn't know how to construe it. Loyalty, perhaps? Punishment even? Or sheer weakness? And I realised that any of those motives could have applied to me.

They searched my handbag and little parcels before letting me through, and I followed Mrs Cox to the waiting room and sat beside her.

‘We have to wait for the bell,' she said.

When it rang, she was the first to rise and I followed her along with all the others to the visitors room. No telephones, no glass partitions. Just a large open room, scattered with tables. I was disappointed. I would have preferred the distance. I didn't want a cuddle or a peck on the cheek or an hour of hand-holding. I saw him sitting at one of the tables, and when he saw me he rose. I wanted to run away, but I put on my smile and went towards him, and with every step I took I decided never, but never, to visit him again. I would go and live near my boys, change my name as they had done, and never mention Dorricks again. And with this resolve, I reached his table and suffered his cuddle, his kiss and his desperate holding of my hand.

I sat down beside him. I chose my place deliberately. I did not want to look him in the face as I would have been
forced to do had I sat opposite him. But I did make myself look at him as I sat down and, for the first time since he had been arrested, I said to myself, ‘My Donald is guilty.'

He wouldn't let go of me. He clung. I couldn't bear his touch but I suffered it, comforting myself with the thought that I would never have to suffer it again. I don't know what it was that had so changed me. Perhaps I was tired of all the lies, of the Comley/Cox pretence, of the Jones/Dorricks facade. But above all, tired of that phrase out of my own and Mrs Cox's mouth. ‘He is innocent.' I was tired of it all.

‘I am innocent,' was the first thing he said to me. ‘You believe that, don't you, sweetheart?'

I nodded. What else could I do? He was looking well – even merry. And I was glad of it. It would have been hard to desert a man who was plainly in ill health and misery.

‘You look well, Donald,' I said.

‘And you too, Verry.'

The use of my name, that troublesome name, slightly shook my resolve. Only Donald could say it with such certainty, and with such affection. I smiled at him.

‘I've waited so long for this visit,' he was saying. ‘I've brought some of my paintings to show you.'

And then the Painter of Parkhurst flashed through my mind, and the film that they would make in Hollywood and my Donald on parole by public request. And slowly my resolve evaporated. All that remained was pity. A life sentence of pity, that no amount of counselling could conquer or assuage.

‘What's it like here?' I asked.

‘Not too bad,' he said. ‘I've made some friends.'

That was a bonus, I thought. He'd made no friends on
the outside. What with friends and painting, prison might be the making of him, I thought, and that cheered me up a little. He did not ask for news from outside. He was too intent on showing me his paintings. Their content surprised me, for none of them depicted the prison or prison life. They were seascapes, reminiscent of our early holidays with the boys. And they were beautiful. And full of longing. They moved me unutterably, but served only to swell my pity. I praised them fulsomely. My Donald had at last found his voice, that voice so monosyllabic on the outside. It was as if he had at last found peace. And who was I to pity him? But pity, I knew, had nothing to do with his circumstances. Pity was
my
need and,
faute de mieux,
pity was the only way I could stomach his incarceration.

‘I painted this one especially for you,' he said. ‘Not that I need any reminder of you, but it's as if you are here by my side.' He drew a sheet from underneath the pile and he laid it before me like an offering. It was a portrait of myself, painted by and from the heart. The likeness was astonishing, and though it was a fine portrayal in every particular, I had an acute sensation of being blackmailed. But I could not help but admire it. I told him it showed great talent and that I was very flattered. That seemed to please him.

‘Encouragement helps,' he said, and as he was tidying up the sheets, I looked around at the other convicts and their visitors.

Mrs Cox stood out among them, partly because she was on her feet and seemed to be in a bit of a temper. I could not hear what she was saying, because she was hissing, as if fire was coming out of her mouth.

Others turned to look at her, and her husband cringed
with embarrassment. Then suddenly she turned and stormed out of the room, though there was a good half-hour left of visiting time. Poor Mr Cox. He made no move to follow her. He laid his head on the table, accepting defeat, and I wondered if Mrs Cox had fled the room with pity in her heels.

My Donald hadn't seemed to notice the disturbance and I thought I ought to bring it to his attention.

‘Oh, we get a lot of that,' he said. ‘Relatives get upset. And so do inmates, when they visit. But she'll be back next time. They always have a dust-up, I'm told, those two.'

‘But why?' I dared to ask.

‘He keeps saying he's innocent, and she only pretends to believe him. Not like you, Verry,' he said. ‘You believe me, don't you? You know I'm innocent.'

I nodded my head. What else could I do? I was in a quandary. I wasn't convinced of his innocence, never had been, but at the same time, I couldn't believe that he was guilty. In view of our years together, the happiness we'd shared, it was much easier to presume his innocence, whatever the opinions of twelve men and women true. My former resolve was now totally shaken and I leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, knowing that I would visit again and again and again, until he was exonerated. Even so, as I was kissing him, I sensed that I was out of my mind.

The remainder of visiting time passed easily and he seemed almost relieved when it was over. He told me he wanted to get back to his painting. ‘It's my life-line,' he said. ‘That and your visits.'

Again I felt faintly blackmailed, but I kissed him and told him that he was a fine painter. Once more I thought of
Alcatraz and Hollywood and as I left the room, waving, I realised that my former resolve had been a hiccup, and that I must never entertain such thoughts again.

Outside the prison, the bus was waiting and the visitors were already boarding. I looked around for Mrs Cox but there was no sign of her. So I boarded and made my way to the back of the bus. There she sat, huddled in the corner, weeping.

I put my arm around her. ‘It's not easy,' I said.

‘He's innocent,' she sobbed.

‘Of course.' I comforted her. And comforted myself with our shared self-deception.

‘But he killed my mother,' she went on.

Nothing added up. Nothing at all. All was confusion. Mrs Cox was indeed my soulmate. Neither of us dared to believe what was real, so we fashioned another kind of truth that was easier to accommodate. We had to. But it was not all that easy. And certainly not comfortable. For both Mrs Cox and I would be forever plagued with pity. And it was pity that would lace our stirrings in the small hours, a pity so dangerously close to resentment and anger that it led to a paralysing confusion.

Yes, I survived my Paris sortie and it was time I went back to work. Or rather, to my mission. In any case, Wilkins had had a long enough break. It was time for him to go back to work too.

Up till now I had gotten away with murder, to coin a phrase. My easy dispatch in Paris had made me cocky and I had to take a break for a while to steady myself. I was uneasy about killing women. But I knew that gender was irrelevant. Man or woman, it was the profession that was my target. Nevertheless, I chose a man for my next hit. A Dr James Fortescue. He sounded posh and learned, and although those factors did not whet my appetite, they lessened my scruples.

I had taken the trouble to do a little research on Dr Fortescue. I had an urge to know a little more of the figure that I was about to eliminate. It was totally unnecessary, of course. Dr Fortescue just had to be a psychotherapist – nothing more. But I thought that my previous dispatches had been too perfunctory, and I felt obliged to discover a little more about my victim than his or her mere profession.

Thus I discovered that Dr Fortescue was a therapist who practised according to Freudian methods. And among these was an interest in dreams. I decided to oblige him. I forget most of my dreams, but one sticks in my mind. Probably because I have it often. The same dream. The first time I dreamt it coincided with the beginning of my crusade. And from time to time it repeats itself. I myself don't understand it. So I proposed to throw it over Dr Fortescue's desk, to make of it what he would.

He lived alone on the edge of a London suburb, close to a famous public school. That gave me an idea. It's true I'm a man well into my forties but I have worn well and at a pinch I could be mistaken for a school-leaving prefect. I am tall and lean, and I can affect a gangling gait. So I took myself off to the school uniform department of a large store and on the pretence of buying for my son who was on holiday, I purchased a blazer, a tie and a cap of the relevant uniform colours. I dressed in my office, and I have to say that I could have fooled anybody. And if any witnesses came forward, they could only offer a schoolboy, which would in no way please Wilkins.

I was given a morning appointment, eight o'clock to be precise, and I marvelled at how these people beavered away from early morning till late at night in order to ruin and destroy.

I parked my car well away from Dr Fortescue's house. I was nervous as I walked towards it. I realised that I was out of practice. For murder is a skill that can rust if not continually exercised. In my mind, I rehearsed the usual moves as I fingered the string in my pocket. At his front door, I hesitated before ringing his bell. I knew that hesitation was dangerous so I rang it with some force, and many times. Dr Fortescue must have sensed an emergency for the door was immediately opened.