can drop the fake accent, Jen – it’s just me.’
‘Connie! Thank God. I didn’t think you were going to return my call, you’ve taken so long. I hope this means—’
‘Slow down, slow down. I’m calling to find out more details, that’s all. Don’t get too excited.’
‘Oh, come on. You’ll do it. You wouldn’t have phoned otherwise.’
Connie shook her head. Damn this woman. Her abruptness, her perceptiveness and her knack of getting to the point quickly was what made Jen one of the best managers the programmes department had ever had. You always knew where you stood with Jen.
‘Seriously, Jen. I need to weigh up the pros and cons of doing this – coming back in after …’
‘Pah! Water under the old bridge, Con. You know … we know, you did nothing wrong. You acted in line with every protocol. It was you who blamed yourself.’
‘Er, I think you’ll find it wasn’t just me. I didn’t see anyone else being dragged through the papers, and there wouldn’t have been a capability hearing if the governor didn’t think I’d messed up Hargreaves’ risk report.’ Merely talking about it again caused Connie’s heart rate to increase and her armpits to tingle with sweat.
End the call. This isn’t worth it.
‘Look, I know things went downhill rapidly for you after Hargreaves, but you shouldn’t let that stop you from coming in and completing a few assessments.’
‘Are they high-risk prisoners?’ Connie was immediately mad at herself for asking; it sounded as though she was seriously considering the offer.
‘Not really. None are up for parole. It’s their progression through the system we need to focus on. Some of the guys have been here a long time, and we have a fair few refusing to do any of the offending behaviour programmes. We’re under pressure to get arses on seats so they can move forwards in their sentence plans, get them into a Cat-D establishment.’
‘Nothing new there, then.’
‘Exactly. Our group numbers are actually falling. Anyway, point is, you can come in, do the assessments, and get out. You can write the reports at home. That’s the extent of your involvement. I wasn’t kidding when I said it was easy money, Con.’
Connie exhaled loudly and sat back in her chair. Risk-wise, these prisoners weren’t up for release, so her reports would only be used as evidence for the decision to move them to an open prison, or not – or recommend action, such as attending further offending behaviour programmes. An open prison would mean there was a chance of the prisoner absconding though, so she could still get a backlash if she wrote a favourable report and then something bad happened later down the road.
‘And how many would I be assessing again?’
‘Only three. We have another psychologist coming in as well, so between us all, we should catch up on the backlog. Might have to spread it over a few weeks though.’
Connie’s shoulders sank. She’d been hoping, if she were to do it, that it would be over in a week. Realistically though, she’d known deep down it wasn’t likely to be possible.
There was one other thing that was bothering her.
‘I need to ask something.’
‘Shoot,’ Jen said.
‘You don’t have an Aiden Flynn at Baymead, do you?’
She doesn’t realise I know.
I sit here anyway, listening to her. I’ve made a pot of tea and I pour her a cup from the bone china teapot belonging to the set that once sat on my mother’s oak sideboard – reserved for special occasions; people she wanted to impress. I don’t know why I chose to dig it out from the back of the cupboard now. Or why I’m trying to impress this woman. I’m turning into my mother.
‘That’s a lovely picture of Sean,’ she says, gesturing to the large silver-framed photo on the mantelpiece.
I take a deep breath.
‘Yes.’ I force a smile. ‘Would you like a biscuit? I have chocolate digestives or rich tea.’ I want to avoid talking about my son. Even though I know that’s why she’s here.
‘Oh, um … chocolate, please. Although I really should be watching my waistline.’ She pats her belly. There’s no fat on the woman, but I refrain from remarking as I shake out some biscuits from the packet and offer them to her.
‘Thanks for letting me come in,’ she says as she dips the biscuit in her teacup. She leaves a trail of brown slush on its side. I look away. It’s a bone china cup for God’s sake, not a mug.
‘Well, I couldn’t leave you on the doorstep, could I?’ Although that’s exactly what I’d wanted to do at first – her babbling on about her son being at school with my Sean was irritating at best. My lips are tight; the smile harder to come this time. How polite should I be in this situation? A huge part of me doesn’t want to be polite at all – it wants to shout in her face, tell her to get out of my house. But there’s something about her – vulnerable, yet brave. It would be like kicking an inquisitive puppy. It must’ve taken some guts to turn up at my door, even though she’s yet to come clean and tell me who she really is. Didn’t she think I’d recognise her? I thought I’d hardened over the last few years, but the harsh words that spring into my mind – the ones telling this woman exactly what I think of her efforts to squirm her way into my life – evaporate before I can speak them.
Maybe it’s curiosity.
I find myself wanting to know why she thinks it’s a good idea for her to visit the mother of a murdered boy. He was only eighteen. Not even a man. He’d hardly lived, had so much to look forwards to.
She puts her cup and saucer down on the table, and I watch as her pale-blue eyes travel back to Sean’s photograph.
‘You must miss him terribly.’ Her words are quiet, almost inaudible – her face directed away from mine.
My skin is suddenly cold, as though someone has placed a blanket of ice on me. Of course I miss him. He was my only child; my life, up until that terrible day. I’ve had to learn to live without him, carry on with everyday things, all the while knowing my life would never again have meaning. Not the same meaning, anyway. I’m no longer someone’s mum. Tears come at this thought.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have allowed this woman in. Curiosity is not good for me.
I wipe my eyes with my sleeve.
‘Yes, it’s like I have a part of me missing. A hole that will never be filled.’ I can feel a bubble of anger. I should keep a cap on that.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, simply.
