Say You're Sorry (8 page)

“He’s a schizophrenic. He’s convinced he’s done bad things, but he hasn’t.”

She hears me sigh.

“You should talk to his lawyer,” I say. “Surrender your clinical notes.”

“He’ll have to share them with the prosecution.”

“You’re hiding behind protocol.”

“I’m trying to save Augie.”

“The police can get a court order.”

“Fine. When that happens I’ll abide by the law. Until then I’ll be siding with the angels.”

Our meals have arrived. I choose the bread roll, not willing to tackle the soup.

“You’re not hungry.”

“Not really.”

She signals the waitress, whispers something. Moments later another serving of soup arrives, this time in a mug. I should feel embarrassed, but I have gone beyond feeling self-conscious.

“Will you interview him again?”

“Who?”

“Augie. Talk to him.”

“I don’t see the point.”

“You’ll see I’m right. I’ve worked with him. He’s harmless.”

There’s something she’s not telling me; some other reason that Augie Shaw went to the Heymans’ house that night. He lost his job for inappropriate conduct. He was found in the daughter’s bedroom going through her things.

“Is this about the daughter?” I ask.

Victoria Naparstek shakes her head.

“Not the daughter… the wife.”

I
often wonder what I look like now.

I can see bits of me: my hands, my feet, my stomach and my knees, but not my face. We used to have a mirror but Tash broke it and tried to cut her wrists so George took it away.

She didn’t cut very deeply, but that’s only because she couldn’t find a sharp enough edge. We also lost our only pair of scissors because Tash hacked off my hair. She was trying to make me look ugly. Uglier.

Knives, nail-clippers, all the sharps have been taken away like we’re living in some mental asylum. He even took the can-opener because he thought she might use the edge of the baked bean tin, but he gave it back again because we had to eat.

If I lean close to the tap I can see my reflection in the stainless steel, but the curve makes my head look like a squash. It’s like one of those funfair mirrors or the weird pictures you can make using Photo Booth on a Mac.

Tash will be back soon. She’ll bring the police… my mum and dad… the army, the navy, the Queen’s Guard. Every time I look at the window above the sink, I think about her. Every time I close my eyes.

The reason George hasn’t come is because the police must have arrested him. They’ve locked him up and I hope they beat the shit out of him or he gets raped with a broom handle in prison.

I’m sorry about my swearing. I have a potty mouth. I once overheard my mum telling my Aunt Jean that I might have Tourette’s Syndrome so I looked it up on Google and I found out it’s when you say fuck at inappropriate times and you do lots of eye-blinking and facial gymnastics. Gordon Ramsay does that all the fucking time, I thought, and I don’t swear at the wrong times, I just swear a lot.

I’m curled up on the bunk, wearing all my clothes. When Tash was here we used to lie together to keep warm and tell each other stories. We’d imagine eating make-believe meals like fish and chips, bread and butter pudding and chicken korma, Tash’s favorite.

After she cut off my hair, I offered to do hers, but she said it didn’t matter because it was falling out anyway. She could pull out chunks like it was some party trick.

When I was a little girl I used to wet my hair and flatten it with a comb, parading in front of the mirror pretending that I had straight hair. I did a lot of embarrassing things, which don’t seem so bad any more.

I’m eighteen now—as far as I can tell. I have no idea of the date, but I can count the seasons. Tash woke me one morning last spring and said she was throwing me a party for my birthday. We had biscuits and sweetened tea on a blanket in the middle of the floor.

Right now I know it’s winter because of the snow and the naked trees. I can look outside if I stand on the bench and lift myself up on tiptoes. The window is about ten inches high and wider across. If I hold my face close I feel the air coming through the crack at the bottom of the metal frame. At certain times of year, when the sun shines, it angles through the window and makes geometric shapes on the opposite wall that shift and twist. It’s my television, my weather channel.

That’s the window Tash squeezed through by standing on my shoulders. I’ve jammed it back in place so that George won’t be angry, but he’ll know the truth and there’s nowhere for me to hide.

I know every inch of this place. I know the crevices and cracks between the bricks, every water stain and smudge and peeling paint flake.

In one corner there are two narrow bunk beds. Tash and I pushed them closer together so we could hold hands in the dark. On the far wall there are shelves with cans of food and boxes of porridge oats. The other wall has a bench with a gas burner, a kettle and a sink. There is a tap with only cold water. A hose snakes through a hole in the wall. If I look along the edge of the hose, I can see a tiny bit of greenery.

The only other furniture is a chest of green-painted drawers and a kitchen cabinet with stencils of geraniums. This is where we keep our clothes. Oh, and I forgot to mention the two straw-bottomed chairs and a table with bamboo legs.

The ladder is attached to the wall opposite the window. It only goes halfway to the ceiling and if I could balance on the very top rung, I might just be able to reach the trapdoor with my fingertips. Behind the ladder there is a poster of Brighton Pier. I think it’s Brighton. The words have been torn off at the bottom but you can see the sea and people walking on the pier. They’re dressed in old-fashioned clothes with the women carrying umbrellas and the men wearing hats.

There is a camera in the corner of the ceiling, one of those webcams that look like a cue ball, or a beady black eye. I don’t know if it’s hooked up to anything. Maybe it’s another one of George’s lies.

There is only one place in the room where the eye can’t see us. It is in the corner under the ladder near the sink. That’s where I wash myself and where I squat over the bedpan.

When I can’t sleep I do OCD stuff like rearranging the cans of food in the cupboard and wiping the benches. There are only four cans. I have plain baked beans, baked beans with sausages, baked beans with barbecue sauce and baked beans with cheese, which is totally gross. I’m out of tuna and sweetcorn and biscuits. After stacking the cans, I count the sticking plasters and headache tablets and little rehydration sachets that you mix with water when you get the runs—the ones that are supposed to be fruit-flavored, but they taste like medicine.

That’s everything in the cupboard. There’s nothing for the skin rashes, eye infections, aching teeth, stomach cramps, or period pains; nothing for the boredom or the loneliness.

At least there are no bugs. If this were summer my legs would be dotted with bug bites, which I scratch until they bleed.

I don’t mind the darkness any more. It hides my blotchy skin and hairy legs. In the darkness I can be invisible. I can pretend that I don’t exist or that George can’t see me. He’ll think I’ve escaped and leave me alone.

Some nights I used to think he was watching us. I could feel him behind the beady black eye on the ceiling, which seemed to follow us around the room, but Tash said it was just an optical illusion.

In all those months and years, he only ever looked at Tash. The reason she cut off my hair was to make me less attractive. She was protecting me. Keeping me safe.

T
he snow is thawing but occasional flurries still descend like flakes of dandruff from an old man’s scalp. Patches of grass have emerged in the parks and verges, giving dogs somewhere to shit upon.

Poking out my tongue, I taste the falling crystals. Two dozen reporters are waiting in a queue inside Oxford Crown Court, surrendering mobile phones and cameras. Nobody recognizes me as I pass through the screening.

I still don’t know why I’m here. Maybe I’m a sucker for a pretty face or a kind gesture or a body I’d like to hold myself against.

Victoria Naparstek is close to me now, sitting in the upper gallery, which has been opened to take the overspill of reporters. Beneath us, the courtroom is a mixture of the new and the old: the vaulted ceilings and coat of arms, as well as microphones and digital recording equipment.

I whisper to Victoria, “So what you’re saying is that Augie had a crush on Patricia Heyman?”

“Yes.”

“She’s old enough to be his—”

“Yes, I know.”

“Were they sleeping together?”

“Not according to Augie, but I think she was fond of him.”

“Fond?”

“Yes, fond. Are you going to repeat everything I say?”

Augie Shaw appears from below, emerging into a square enclosure of bulletproof glass. People crane their heads to catch a glimpse, wanting to put a face to the crime: see the monster not the man.

He sits, handcuffed, between two court security officers. Turning his head, he gazes into the public gallery, searching for someone. His eyes rest on a small woman in the front row with ragged hair and a sharp nose. His mother, not yet fifty, dressed in a flimsy denim jacket and black jeans.

Augie waves. She smiles anxiously, scared for what’s coming.

The prosecutor begins. “Your worship, this is a particularly gruesome double homicide. A husband had his skull crushed and a wife and mother was set on fire while still alive. A quick resolution is obviously welcome, but not a rushed one, which is why detectives need extra time. They wish to make further inquiries and put more questions to the suspect.”

The defense counsel, a young duty solicitor called Reddrop, stumbles over his own name as he introduces himself.

“Your worship, my client has been co-operating fully with the police and has agreed to make himself available for further questioning. Mr. Shaw is a local lad, who lives with his mother and has no criminal record. He does, however, have a history of mental health problems stemming from his childhood. His psychiatrist is here today. She believes his mental state will deteriorate in prison. He is claustrophobic and frightened of authority figures.”

Judge Eccles clears his throat. “Medication, Mr. Reddrop.”

“Yes, your worship, but his psychiatrist Dr. Naparstek assures me that he’s not a threat and he can abide by reporting restrictions…”

The prosecutor hasn’t bothered to sit down.

“Until two weeks ago the defendant worked as a farm laborer and odd-jobber for the Heymans. He was sacked for inappropriate conduct concerning items of clothing that went missing from the house—underwear belonging to the Heymans’ teenage daughter. She is frightened for her safety and doesn’t want Mr. Shaw released.”

“Was the theft reported?”

“No.”

Mr. Reddrop interrupts. “These allegations are denied by my client. He informs me that he went to the Heymans’ house that night to collect his wages and stumbled upon a crime in progress. He burned his hands trying to save the couple.”

“He fled the scene,” says the prosecutor.

“He went for help but suffered some sort of blackout.”

“How convenient.”

Judge Eccles interrupts both men and tells them to sit down. He scribbles a note to himself and rocks back in his chair, producing a thin whistling noise from his nose like a badly played flute.

“I’m going to grant the police request. Detectives have forty-eight more hours.” He addresses Augie. “Mr. Shaw, you will be held in protective custody for a little longer but I’m going to ask that you be well looked after. In the meantime I want a full psychiatric report.”

Augie glances at his brief, wanting an explanation. Mr. Reddrop gives him a sad shrug.

“When can I go home?” he asks in a loud voice.

“You’re still under arrest.”

“But I want to go home.”

Augie is being led away between the two police officers. Victoria Naparstek tries to signal him.

“I’m going to be sick,” he says.

“Not here,” says the officer.

Outside the court, Victoria weaves between the waiting reporters in the foyer, looking for Reddrop. She intercepts him before the main doors. I don’t hear their conversation, but she’s clearly a persuasive woman.

“We can see him,” she says, slipping her arm through mine. “Augie won’t be transferred to prison until later in the day. He’s downstairs.”

Having emptied our pockets and signed the waivers, we are taken along a bleak corridor by a court security officer, who wears his set of keys like a sidearm. The door is unlocked. Augie is squatting on a bunk with his legs folded beneath him like a complicated pair of springs.

He wipes his cheeks and won’t look at Victoria as she takes a seat on the bench opposite.