page of our monthly print magazine. It’s a follow-up on an on-going local celebrity scandal, the sort of gossipy article I wouldn’t even glance at normally, but Kelly has written it in an appropriately sensationalist tone, and it only contains one spelling slip-up.
‘This is good, Kelly,’ I comment, which elicits a small smile.
She takes this as invitation to talk to me about her idea of setting up a weekly entertainment vlog.
‘I’ll have a word with Claire,’ I promise. ‘She should probably consider a rejuvenating facelift.’
Kelly grins, then pinches her eyebrows into a quick frown.
‘For The Rag, I mean,’ I add hastily. ‘Keep it,’ I say, as Kelly tries to hand the cotton hanky back to me. She scrunches it up in her hand.
She looks at me, a puzzled expression on her face, as if she’s trying to work me out. ‘I think my granddad is the only person I ever knew who carried cloth handkerchiefs on him.’
I’m not sure how to answer that, and I’m about to make a joke about her unflattering comparison, but I think the better of it. ‘I use them to clean my glasses,’ I say, shrugging.
It’s mid-afternoon before I can talk to Claire again. I’ve reread several articles on the Slade case, including my own. I’m still a bit hazy on some of the details, but I am clear about one thing. I’m not doing this.
It smells of cigarettes in Claire’s office. I suddenly feel like one – the itch has never completely disappeared, even after all these years as a non-smoker. I decide to scrounge a fag if she lights up, but she doesn’t appear to need one herself. She leans forward in her chair, resting her elbows on the desk and her chin on her hands.
I start by pitching Kelly’s vlog idea to Claire, aware that I’m putting off talking about Melissa Slade.
‘We’ll discuss it more fully at the next editorial meeting, but why not? She’ll be more presentable on screen than on paper,’ Claire comments dryly.
There’s a short silence, which Claire breaks. ‘Was there anything else?’
‘Er, yes. About Melissa Slade’s request for an appeal …’
‘Yes?’
‘Is there anyone else you could assign that to?’
‘Jonathan, it’s an interesting story and you’re the best I’ve got.’
‘Thank you, but can one of the others do it?’
Claire sighs. She takes a stick of chewing gum out of a packet on her desk, unwraps it and folds it into her mouth. ‘Is there some reason you can’t?’
Yes. There’s a very good reason I can’t. But there’s no way I’m going to tell Claire what it is. I don’t talk about it. Not to her. Not to anyone.
‘Well, it’s just that I’m really busy at the moment. You know?’ I can see from the expression on her face that I’m not convincing her. ‘Work-wise, I mean,’ I add. I don’t know if Claire has children, but I do know that she doesn’t tolerate anyone using their kids as an excuse for missing a deadline or as leverage for a lighter workload. ‘I’m going to the theatre tonight so I can write a review of The Cherry Orchard for The Mag, I’ve got a Sports Day to cover at the local comp tomorrow and—’
‘Jonathan, I’m giving you the opportunity to get in there ahead of the pack. This is investigative journalism.’
‘Claire. I can’t do it.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘It’s personal.’ I have to make an effort not to raise my voice.
‘So is this.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean it has to be you. It can’t be anyone else. It wasn’t my idea. It came from … Your name …’ She breaks off, as if she realises she has said too much.
‘Who asked—?’
‘Anyway, you know as well as I do, there is no one else.’
I rack my brains, trying to think of another journo who could take the job. I have to get out of this.
‘You never know, Jonathan. Maybe they got it wrong and Melissa Slade was innocent all along.’
‘Yeah, right,’ I scoff.
‘That would be a great angle,’ Claire continues, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘She did time when she didn’t do the crime.’
An image bursts into my mind. Melissa Slade, sitting in the dock at Bristol Crown Court. Impassive and cold. I was in that courtroom nearly every day. I didn’t see her shed a single tear. Not once during the whole three weeks of her trial.
‘She was found guilty,’ I argue. ‘She did it.’
I storm out of the Aquarium, only just refraining from slamming the door behind me.
I’ve been seeing someone since I arrived here. A shrink. There’s no stigma attached to it the way there is when you’re on the outside. All the inmates I know have regular appointments with the prison psychiatrist. Anyway, he suggested it might be therapeutic if I wrote down my version of events. I don’t like that term – it sounds as if my version is just one possible account of what happened instead of the truth.
At first, I was reluctant to go through everything again, to relive something that was – and still is – so traumatic. But I’ve decided to give it a go and see if it helps. And although one day someone else may read my story – my son, Callum, perhaps – I’m really writing it for myself, so I can always skip the parts that are too painful.
So, this will be a sort of diary, I suppose, but I don’t intend to write an entry about what’s going on in here every day. Where should I begin? I should focus on the events leading up to my imprisonment. It all started when my daughters, Amber and Ellie, were newborn babies. If I could turn back time – and every single day I wish I could – that’s the moment I would go back to.
January – February 2012
It wasn’t the same when I brought Callum home. Back then, I was on cloud nine. It really was the happiest time of my life, just as everyone tells you it will be. He was a calm baby and this gave me the impression I was getting everything right. To my delight, the pregnancy weight fell off my body in next to no time with a little exercise and no dieting whatsoever. Simon and I continued to
