The Truth About Julia: A Chillingly Timely Psychological Novel (12 page)

I remember that, while working on the transcription of the interview, I was struck by Jonathan’s repeated emphasis on decency – a moral term. Why was he so keen to emphasize the family’s decency? I wondered. Was that simply to counter as strongly as possible the potentially negative public perception of himself and his parents? Or might it be driven by a secret fear that decency was precisely the quality his family was lacking? Sometimes, we protest most forcefully against what, deep down, we fear to be true. Even now I can’t shake the feeling that some form of censorship, or even whitewashing, has shaped his account. I understand the impulse, though; after all, the only reason he spoke to me in the first place was to clear his family’s name.

I wonder, now, whether I didn’t judge Jonathan too harshly back then, all things considered. I admit I didn’t like him much, but perhaps that had less to do with him as a person and more with his line of work and what it has come to represent for me. After all, my experiences with City traders haven’t exactly been pleasant. I had come to associate the entire world of investment banking with one figure only – Adrian Temple, my glib nemesis.

Since the day of my trial – 21 May 2010, I still remember every little detail of it as though it were yesterday – I had fantasized so often about taking matters into my own hands, bringing about the kind of justice that the judicial system had denied me, like some heroic vigilante in an American movie. (Have you ever noticed that virtually all Hollywood action films celebrate the solitary ethical outsider, who courageously stands up to corrupt institutions and seeks justice on their own terms?) But I did no such thing. Instead, I just reacted allergically to people such as Jonathan, which is hardly a heroic act, and nor is it fair. I know, of course, that not all of them are criminals. Not all of them are ruthless confidence tricksters, responsible for the ruin of thousands of small-scale investors and the cause of numerous suicides in its aftermath. But one of them is. And they allowed him to get away with it. I still can’t believe they let him walk that day – not just unpunished but victorious, free to continue with his ruthless gambling. Which is of course precisely what he did. His triumphant glare after the sentence was read still burns on my skin, even today.

But I tried very hard to follow Amanda’s advice in the early stages of the project. For the first time since that fateful May day, I actually felt hopeful and excited about my future. I knew that I needed to let go of the past, I needed to bury it and move on with my life, and that was what I was doing. During the first few weeks of my research I felt fine. In fact, more than that: I felt exalted – I was, after all, working once more on something meaningful. After all those years – who would have guessed?

VIII

I’m not just a prisoner because my movements are restricted – I don’t mind that part so much. Right now, I wouldn’t know where to go even if I were free. What’s worse is being subjected to the drab sameness, the soul-destroying routine of strictly monitored and rigidly timed activities. It’s the imposition of external rhythms that gets to me most, the knowledge that someone else is the master of my time. Every day, at 6.30, we are driven to the shower rooms, like a flock of sluggish sheep. There, we are at our most vulnerable – you would blush scarlet if I told you the demeaningly obscene things women are capable of saying about one another’s bodies. The faint trickle of water is lukewarm at best, and the scratchy towels we are given smell of vinegar.

At 7.30, we have to assemble in the dining hall, a place I have come to loathe. Even though it gets scrubbed three times a day, its lime-green lino floor is eternally greasy (on my first day I slipped on it like a novice skater on ice, making an embarrassing spectacle of myself). Sixteen long, beige plastic tables stand neatly aligned in the centre, like the bars of a zebra crossing. The seating politics are complex – I have yet to figure them out. For the moment, I sit on the table frequented by other newcomers and the long-term loners; often, the seats around me remain empty. There’s a counter connected with the kitchen, behind which two big women with bare arms and hairnets ladle things onto our plates that would make Laura fume with indignation. The smell of frying oil stains the air, and it has permeated our skin and hair. No matter how rigorously we scrub ourselves with the little scentless soap bars we are handed every morning, it just won’t come off.

After breakfast, we are allowed to spend time in the common room or return to our cells. Some go off to their jobs – they produce things in workshops, or work in the kitchen or the laundry room. From ten to eleven, we have to take some exercise in the courtyard. Most do so in groups of two, three or four; but quite a few walk around on their own. Some defy the request to be physically active completely and just lean against the brick wall, smoking and watching. A few women run and do push-ups. At twelve thirty, we are summoned once again to the hall of horrors for lunch. It’s the two hours after lunch that I cherish most: then, we are allowed to explore freely the few leisure activities available here. There’s a gym, a games room, a TV room, and, thank God, the library. It’s a small, quiet room with a few sparsely filled shelves. It’s a peaceful space, a refuge of sorts; there are a few armchairs and two small, round tables, and they even have a selection of daily newspapers. I sit in the same armchair every day reading the papers. Hardly anyone else comes in, and I think of the room as my little sanctum.

Visiting hours tend to be between four and six. In addition to consultations with my lawyer, I’m allowed two one-hour visits a week in the heavily guarded visitors’ room, where we sit for an hour at one of the twenty or so small tables with our loved ones, whom we are not allowed to touch. So far, Amanda and Laura haven’t missed a single opportunity to see me. But Amanda seemed strained and tense during our most recent encounter. The other day, she reprimanded me rather too sharply for the fact that I’m still not eating properly. I try, but I find the idea of chewing and swallowing nauseating, and it’s not even because of what they serve us here.

Anyway. Jonathan must have urged his parents to speak to me, having convinced them that it was in the interest of the family’s reputation, because at the beginning of September, only a few days after my interview with him, I received a phone call from Timothy White. In a pleasant, gentle voice he asked whether I would be able to meet him and his wife the following day, and suggested 8 p.m. at his company’s offices. Timothy’s law firm is situated in an imperial Georgian building on a quiet side-street off the Strand. When I entered the marble-panelled lobby a porter asked me to sign the visitors’ book and take a seat. I had just sat down on one of a group of hard, black leather armchairs when Timothy came down the stairs. I was immediately struck by his appearance: a tall and naturally elegant man with silver-streaked dark hair; his gentle manner and smile seemed warm and authentic. His suit was expertly tailored, his shirt crisp and white. As Jonathan had indicated, he was an accomplished small-talker. As we climbed the wide marble steps that led to his offices on the third floor, he told me about the history of the building, and even found time to mention that he had read and very much enjoyed my study on the Bangladeshi sweatshops. If ever I had to cast someone to embody suavity in a film, my vote would go to Timothy.

His office, too, demonstrated quietly expensive taste (the kind acquired over generations, confident and not needing to show off): minimally furnished, it featured nothing but a large cherry-wood desk, a very orderly floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that held leather-bound tomes of legal literature, a black leather sofa and a matching armchair, a little drinks cabinet and a glass coffee table on which stood an empty fruit bowl. The floors were covered with a thick white carpet, and on the light-grey walls there were no pictures other than a colourful map of the world in a golden frame, probably dating from the fifteenth century. I noticed only one imperfection: there was a light, rectangular patch next to the map that must until recently have been covered by another picture.

Rose White was sitting upright on the edge of the armchair when we entered. She rose to shake my hand (a contact that felt strangely immaterial, as though I had been accidentally touched by a phantom). She, too, was tall and thin, and both her frame and her facial features gave the impression of excessive angularity. Everything about her seemed hard-edged and symmetrical, like a modern glass and steel building: her strong jaw, her sculpted cheekbones, her high forehead. She looked older than her husband, an impression that was mainly owing to her hair, which was ghost white, and her dark, tired eyes. Those eyes seemed to glide restlessly across the objects in the room, searching for something to take hold of, like a ship adrift at sea.

We exchanged a few pleasantries and Timothy offered drinks. Rose asked for gin. Timothy poured himself a glass of sherry. I opted for water. When we were all seated I pulled out my digital recorder. This changed the atmosphere; I could feel the two of them stiffening. I talked a little about the book project, how I was planning to put things together, and offered them the right to review and edit their interview transcript until they were fully happy with the result. Rose finished her drink while I was talking and got up to pour herself another one. She got up numerous times to refill her glass during our two-hour interview.

Two days after our meeting on 7 September, I received a handwritten note from them, in which the couple apologized for their behaviour during our session. Things did get a little out of hand, but I don’t blame them for it. I think none of us can even begin to imagine the psychological impact of knowing that one’s own child has committed an atrocity. How that must feel; where one would go from there; the energy it must take to continue to perform the simplest of routines and not to fall to pieces. But unlike their son, Rose and Timothy refused to change, delete or censor anything. Instead, they told me to do with the interview what I deemed best for the project, and I include our conversation unaltered, occasionally complemented by my observations at the time. The direct exchanges between Timothy and Rose show most poignantly the corrosive effect the tragic events have had on their relationship.

IX

‘Thank you again for agreeing to speak to me about your daughter,’ I began. ‘I know how painful this must be for you. I wonder whether you could start by telling me what your feelings are about the bombing?’

Rose stared into her glass. When Timothy, who had waited for his wife to reply first, realized that she didn’t have any intention of speaking, he responded: ‘Obviously, we’re enormously shocked and saddened by Julia’s actions. Our hearts go out to her victims. Rose and I have founded a charity to support the families of the bereaved and the wounded. We’re trying to raise funds to help pay for their healthcare and psychological support. We just have to do
something
, no matter how small. It isn’t much, it’s just money, I know that, and it won’t have the power to heal any of the victims’ families’ wounds, but we can’t just sit back and do nothing – isn’t that right, Rose? Darling?’

Rose didn’t speak. Her eyes remained lowered and her body oddly stiff.

‘Rose spends one day a week fundraising at the moment,’ Timothy continued. ‘She’s reduced her hours at the hospital to make time for that. We sent cards to all of the victims’ families. After all, it was our child who caused them all that pain. We feel responsible. I mean, how couldn’t we? We can’t just go on with our lives now as though nothing has happened. There must be some way to help and to make amends. Even if it’s just by providing financial support. What else can we do?’

They both remained silent after this. Their sadness was almost palpable – it surrounded us like heavy fog.

‘Can you tell me why you think Julia did what she did?’ I asked them next.

Again it was Timothy who spoke. This time, he didn’t meet my eyes but instead stared at the discoloured spot on the wall. ‘I honestly don’t know, Clare. I just can’t understand at all what could have led her to commit this atrocious act. I simply can’t comprehend it. It still won’t sink in. I
know
that the attack really happened and that twenty-four people died as a result, but some part of me just can’t accept it yet. I keep thinking that there must be a mistake, that Julia didn’t do it, that there’s some complicated mix-up that will be resolved soon... ’

He paused and then continued. ‘Killing people is not something I can reconcile with the Julia I know and have always loved and admired and cared for so very much. Not at all. It just doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t fit. Even as a young child Julia already had a finely developed social conscience, an astute sense of justice and a highly sophisticated conception of what does and doesn’t constitute ethically acceptable behaviour. Julia was so talented. So beautiful. So
special
. So very different from Jonathan and Amy. She and I always talked so much, about all kinds of things, even in the past few years, when things had become more difficult between us. You know, I always felt that
I
was learning things from
her
, not the other way round. She had such a unique, perceptive vision of things. Rose, darling, don’t you agree?’

Rose continued to ignore Timothy’s attempts to draw her into the conversation. For most of the interview, she sat still and upright at the edge of her chair, and only ever moved to raise her glass to her lips and to refill it.

‘Julia was always such a
good
person – the way she cared for Amy, the way she always fought for the causes of those less fortunate than us, the way she championed the plight of the disadvantaged... ’ Timothy continued. ‘You know, we’re talking about someone who cared for her little sister like a mother. She took Amy everywhere she went; the two were completely inseparable. Julia was so mature and selfless about everything concerning Amy. It made me so proud to have raised someone like that. We’re also talking about a person who spent most of her teenage years doing voluntary work in a rough and run-down homeless shelter. We’re talking about a person who went to India for an entire year, once again to help the poor. I just can’t understand what could have changed her so completely. It doesn’t make sense. It just doesn’t make sense.’