Part Fifty Six
"You go and celebrate your victory with John tonight, Jo. I'm going home and probably going to get drunk with Lover Boy," were George's parting words to Jo , a hard self protective edge to her voice which didn't deceive Jo in the slightest. That's the first time George has actively encouraged me to go after John. Something new is happening here.
George had made no effort in the slightest to hurry away as she knew full well that there was not much to go home to. She trailed slowly down to the car park and sat in the drivers seat and stared into space. By some instinct, she had clutched onto her bundle of court papers which stared back at her with the confusing morass of statements and evidence. These papers were exactly the same as when she had impatiently grabbed them off Brian Cantwell's listless hands when, all fire and energy, she had visited him in his chambers. She had heard what she then thought of as his spineless account of the case, hectored him for not having sufficient force of will and had driven home with all the drive and determination that came natural to her abrasive personality. The papers were exactly the same but she had changed.
She sat in her car, her eyes unfocussed for ages until a snap decision came into her mind. She needed a copy of the Evening Standard to be forearmed for when she got home tonight. In the distance, she spotted the women who had been in the gallery all week who were as far removed from her as if she were watching them on the cinema screen. Karen was the last in line and George smiled generously that at least the trial had come out well for her. She shook her head as she stood and watched the women clatter past and out of view. Must be getting soft in her old age. She bought the copy of the paper and there the headlines were emblazoned. "Porn Film Star and her Lover Jailed for Firebombing Attack." She folded the paper carefully, and headed back to her car to drive home. It was now or never.
"Twenty two years for one of them and ten years for the other." Neil's tight hard voice opened the hostilities after a very perfunctory kiss on the cheek. "Just think what this will cost the British taxpayer to keep them in idleness. You and I pay enough taxes as it is."
Speak for yourself, darling, George thought sarcastically. Only a total prig like you can talk so loudly that way and conveniently forget the blind trusts and tax shelters which do very nicely for you and keep you in the Saville Row suits to which you are accustomed.
"I suppose you are pleased with yourself, George," Neil snapped, "A nice mess you've landed me in."
"Oh, shut up, Neil." George's temper flared. She had planned on being conciliatory and to steer away from the awkward topic of conversation but her good resolutions disappeared in a flash. She'd had a hard week or so in court and was never keen on enduring Neil moaning away about the rigours of his job. Still less was she going to act the submissive woman in a situation like this.
"You'll have to work that extra hard in persuading your Cabinet friends that black is really white. After all, that's what your kind are good at," She added sarcastically.
"You've let me down," Neil sulked from the far side of the Evening Standard. "Just what sort of message is this supposed to send out to the electorate?"
"The truth," George said shortly."I've told you the way the trial has been heading but you wouldn't listen. But don't ask me, I'm only the barrister defending these two criminals. The jury were right…………… and so was John."
"What!" Neil Houghton exclaimed incredulously, putting down his paper. "After all these years when you've called the man every name under the sun, you're now going soft on him."
"Yes, but at least he knows the difference between right and wrong," George said shortly. She had her hard bitch image to maintain and she'd gone quite soft enough in one day, thank you very much. It was one thing for her to knock John but it was quite another thing for Neil to do it.
"I'm going out to the club, George. See you later." Neil stormed out, throwing the paper down on the elegant table and shutting the front door curtly.
George poured herself a generous measure of gin and tonic and sat out on her terrace at the elegant wrought iron table. This was the favourite part of her house where the evening sun shone into her eyes and she could meditate. Neil never liked being there and preferred sitting stiffly upright in his armchair with his newspaper. She smiled a little to herself as she reflected on their recent awkwardness. Typical Neil, she thought. He was like a little boy who, if the game wasn't going his way, stalked off saying 'I'm not playing' and went into a sulk. She could hardly call it a row as such a word conveyed a theatrical outpouring of your emotions and a readiness to take risks, with yourself, with your relationship, with your partner that Neil was utterly incapable of. But not her and not John. At least, in the old days, John would have given her back as much as he got in a fine stand up row. He used to hardly even flinch when a well directed plate whizzed past his left ear. Most satisfying of all was the making up after the row. John was a wonderful lover and the sex was as incandescent and memorable as the arguments. It was that and their love of Charli that had kept them together and it had hurt her beyond any imagination when she could no longer be there for her daughter full time. It was that pain that she wanted to forget and drove her on to solidify that hard artificial shell round her that served her so well in getting on in this material world.
She had never broken anything in her house while Neil was here and that was a bad sign of their relationship, if you could call it one, rather than the good sign as convention had it. When they fell out, Neil was a distant cold presence on the far side of their bed and only days later, by some imperceptible change did Neil become more agreeable.
Where was she going to, the question, unasked, slipped into her mind as she sipped her drink and stared into the setting son. Why, to make a good match in the way that Daddy had always urged his only child to do. This favourite phrase of her actorish barrister father harked back to a Victorian novel which she unthinkingly accepted. The failure of her marriage to John had only increased that desire in her to do better second time around. It was now as she stared round at her elegant surroundings and at her life in general and wondering what this cold stranger was doing in her own house, that she seriously wondered what this stranger who was sipping a gin and tonic was doing in her own life.
Neil Grayling was not having a good week at Larkhall and certainly not today.
In all his years of managerial authority, he could never remember the feeling of his actions being put under the microscope as the day he gave evidence in court. His vanity was wounded by the way two very powerful women pinned him down with relentless questions and the sarcastic crack that " while you are a glittering ornament decorating Larkhall Prison, practically, you are everywhere and at the same time nowhere at all" was the most wounding of anything. He has long been used to obscuring the truth to those above him to suit his purposes but the relentless cross examination made him feel uncomfortably naked and angry. He resolved that the function of court appearances should henceforth be always entrusted to those who are in charge of the nuts and bolts of Larkhall, and not its Grand Designer. Still, outsiders, even know all barristers like these, are never the ones to know what really goes on. He has the finger on the pulse of Larkhall as no one else does. Responsibility stops with him and this is his calling.
The rest of the week wasn't much better as his contacts consisting of Di Barker, Mrs Hollamby and Sir Ian Rochester alike, were all vague and non committal. Surely, someone somewhere would be able to spill the beans. That is how management systems work, to have your reliable spies in position to know the news before anyone else does. But all the 'Old Boys Networks' and lines of authority alike were silent, even the local Masonic lodge. It was all one big frustration as if his favourite boyfriend had become one maddening tease, promising all yet delivering nothing. As for Ms Betts, she paid periodic flying visits to Larkhall and had come and gone before he knew she was in the building.
Today, Grayling had a small portable television plugged in and was flipping channels while pretending to himself that he was looking at a few files. Destiny ticked away the minutes from which he was isolated, unable for once to influence it.
Suddenly a newsflash interrupted the usual horse racing from Cheltenham and he jerked upwards in his chair.
"Today, British justice is decided that two notorious criminals, Ms Tracy Pilkinton, also wanted for murder in the state of Florida and Mr Ritchie Atkins, a member of a notorious East End gangland family, are sentenced to twenty two years and ten years respectively for conspiring together to set off a home made bomb in Larkhall Prison to aid Ms Pilkinton's escape during which one inmate died …………" the 'voice over' announced what, to him was bad news.
"Oh no," groaned Grayling as the first thought that hit him was that the white wan would be speeding down the road to land what should rightly be someone else's problem back on his doorstep.
When the 'voice over' stopped, the TV screen showed a hubbub of comment from a crowd outside the Old Bailey to Grayling's unhearing ears. They had got their two minutes of fame as so many people wanted these days, Grayling thought spitefully. The camera then panned forward to a very familiar woman with long blond hair whose voice in his mind, was turned up to maximum volume. " ……..all press queries should be addressed to the Governing Governor, Neil Grayling. That's GRAYLING. I can give you the phone number of Larkhall Prison and I can promise you that he's the sort of person who is only too willing to communicate with the press……………."
This can't be happening, Grayling thought to himself and it was on the sixth ring that he was aware that the phone was ringing. Nervously, Grayling picked up the phone, expecting some persistent, pushy reporter but, instead, the Area Director himself was on the phone.
"Is that you Grayling?" the terse voice said without preamble."For your information the line is 'an official spokesman is unavailable for comment.' Got that? I know you like to pose and preen before the world's press but not today. Let the press print what they like and, in two weeks time, the whole sorry mess will be publicly forgotten. Except by us. You do know that you've got your annual appraisal on Thursday September 25th at ten sharp. Don't be late." The voice cut off.
A burst of cheering echoed down from what must be G wing as it was evident that the prisoners had heard the news but treated it in a very different manner from Grayling who was preoccupied with his own rather battered reputation taking another knock.
Grayling could remember nothing more of the rest of the day except from saying, time and time again, 'I have no official comment on the matter.' Despite the way the reporters cajoled, harassed and threatened him All this went completely against his nature. He reached into his draw for some double strength headache tablets and reached for a glass of water. But his musings were disturbed by yet another phone call.
"Mr. Grayling, Sir, It's Sylvia Hollandby from G wing."
Karen was sitting in Yvonne's garden with Yvonne, Lauren, Cassie and Roisin. They'd eaten a meal cooked by Cassie and Roisin, and were now working their way down a few bottles of wine. After the adrenaline rush of the end of the trial, they were now all fairly mellow, listening to some soft music and letting some of the tension begin to seep away. Lauren suddenly looked up as if remembering something.
"Mum, where did you go this afternoon?" Yvonne took a drag of her cigarette.
"None of your business," Yvonne said affectionately, knowing that Lauren would think she'd gone soft if she knew her mother had sent a bottle of Champagne to a barrister.
"Little surprise for someone, was it?" Asked Cassie with a wink.
"Jesus," Said Yvonne laughing, "You're as bad as Lauren."
"That's why you love me," Said Cassie, an utterly angelic look on her face.
"Oh, like a kick in the head," Said Roisin drily. Karen was about to add her own opinion when her mobile rang. Digging it out of her handbag which she'd slung on to a spare sun lounger, she was immensely displeased to see the main number for Larkhall on the display.
"Karen Betts," She said, slipping back in to her professional role even though there was a fair amount of alcohol sloshing about in her blood stream.
"Karen, it's Neil Grayling." Karen was irritated, but something, some instinct told her not to reveal his name to those around her.
"What can I do for you?" She asked politely but making it clear that this better be good.
"I'm afraid we have a problem. Snowball Merriman has killed herself."
"What?" Karen felt a surge of blind fury.
"I know, I know," Said Grayling. "Not exactly in the name of justice, is it."
"When did this happen?"
"About half an hour ago. I thought you'd want to be informed, her being on your wing. But that's not all. I've been on the phone to Wormwood Scrubs. It seems Ritchie Atkins has done the same thing." Karen's blood ran cold. Ritchie was dead. Yvonne's son was dead, and Karen knew she had to be the one to tell her. She couldn't speak at first.
"Karen, are you still there?" Neil asked.
"Yes," Karen said, suddenly knowing she was stone cold sober.
"Are you with Yvonne by any chance?"
"Yes."
"I think this might be better coming from you."
"I suppose so."
"And as Merriman's wing governor, we need you to formally identify her."
"I'll be there when I can." Karen switched off the phone before Grayling could make any more demands of her.
"Sweetheart, you've gone white, what's happened?" Asked Roisin gently. Karen simply stared back at her, at them all, but her gaze focussed mostly on Lauren and Yvonne. How the hell did she break the news to them that Ritchie had killed himself. When she was a nurse, and to a certain extent in her capacity as wing governor, breaking the news of a death to unsuspecting relatives was occasionally part of her job, and as a part of her job she could detach herself from it. She would be polite, sympathetic but still removed in some way from the immediate reactions of a grief stricken partner or parent. But this was different. Karen was far too closely connected with Yvonne and by extension Lauren to remain professionally aloof about this. It hit her in an instant that for the first time in her life, she was utterly stuck for words. She didn't appear to have the ability to verbalise this shocking fact. Her gaze seemed to be irrevocably drawn to Yvonne's, perhaps by the intensity in the other woman's eyes. Yvonne was holding a wineglass in one hand, suspended in mid air as if time itself had come to a standstill.
"Tell me," Said Yvonne, and even though her voice was gentle, it invited no argument. Karen took a deep breath.
"Ritchie died about half an hour ago." With anyone else, Karen might have tried to soften the blow, but with Yvonne she knew this was futile. Yvonne, and Lauren for that matter, would have seen straight through her.
"How?" Asked Lauren. Karen's gaze moved to Lauren, who looked furious.
"Other than that he killed himself, I don't know," Replied Karen softly.
"Forgive me for being thick," Said Lauren, "But why did you get the call and not mum?"
"Because Ritchie wasn't the only one to take that way out this evening."
"You mean Snowball?" Asked Cassie, her anger also beginning to rise.
"Yes." The splintering of glass brought all of their eyes back on Yvonne. The glass she'd been holding had shattered under the pressure of her squeezing hand, but she made no sound. Even as Karen reached for a serviette, she could see the blood running down on to the table cloth. Grabbing Yvonne's wrist and turning her hand palm up, Karen could see tiny fragments of glass embedded in the bleeding skin.
"Jesus, mum," Said Lauren, "Are you all right?" Karen held the serviette gently against the wound, though not applying too much pressure because of the glass in Yvonne's hand.
"Lauren, do you have anything resembling a first aid kit in this house?" She asked, knowing that this at least she could do something about.
"There's one in the kitchen." Roisin went to fetch it.
"Yvonne, I need to get the glass out of your hand, and I need to do that in a bit more light." Yvonne didn't respond. Wrapping the serviette around Yvonne's hand and keeping it held between her own, Karen led Yvonne back to the house and in to the kitchen. As she persuaded her in to a chair at the kitchen table, Karen turned Yvonne's face towards her. It scared her to see the totally blank expression on Yvonne's face.
"Sweetheart, look at me," She pleaded, wanting some kind of recognition from Yvonne to show she was still there with them. Yvonne gradually focussed her gaze on Karen, but still didn't speak. Rifling through the contents of the first aid kit that Roisin had unearthed, Karen was slightly astounded to see various things that no ordinary person would keep for simple domestic emergencies. She held up the type of needle and thread that she hadn't seen since her nursing days. At her raised eyebrow, Lauren remarked,
"What do you expect. We do illegal things which occasionally result in illegal injuries in this house." Not wanting any more details, Karen picked up the tweezers and wiped them with one of the sterile alcohol wipes.
"Yvonne, this is going to hurt." As Karen delicately extracted the tiny slivers of glass from Yvonne's hand with the tweezers, she was dimly aware of Lauren going away and returning with a bottle, a glass and searching in the fridge for orange juice.
"Did you used to be a nurse or something?" Asked Roisin, watching Karen's precise movements.
"Yes," Was Karen's unequivocal answer. Yvonne didn't even flinch whilst the glass was being removed, nor when Karen cleaned her palm with alcohol wipes, though Karen found herself ludicrously tempted to simply dunk Yvonne's hand in Lauren's glass of vodka. There were three quite deep gashes on Yvonne's hand which Karen knew would not heal up by themselves. Karen picked up the human sewing kit and looked at it contemplatively, her gaze straying back and forth to Yvonne's hand which still rested in one of her own. Roisin, whose head again seemed to be the clearest in a crisis said,
"Could you stitch her up?" Lauren laughed mirthlessly.
"She already did that," Was her unemphatic comment. Karen ignored her, needing to keep her mind resolutely on the job.
"It's years since I did anything like this," Said Karen, not wanting to hurt Yvonne more than necessary.
"And casualty on a Friday night is exactly what mum doesn't need," Put in Lauren.
"I'm perfectly well aware of that," Replied Karen, her patience with Lauren fading fast. She rummaged through the first aid box, looking for anything that remotely resembled local anaesthetic. Finding a prepackaged, sterile syringe of Novacain complete with needle, Karen reflected that never again would she be surprised by anything she saw within the walls of this house.
"Jesus, you certainly do keep a stash," commented Cassie, fervently hoping that the sight of this wouldn't reignite Roisin's interest in other more lethal drugs. As Karen began reading the instructions on the packet, Yvonne's left hand came up and removed it. Yvonne put the end to her physical pain aside and gestured to Karen to stitch her up without it. Karen stared at her, but saw something in Yvonne's face which told her that she needed the physical pain to attempt to take her away from the emotional.
"Are you absolutely sure?" Asked Karen gently, knowing just how much this was going to hurt. All she received from Yvonne was a small nod. At least she's communicating with me, thought Karen. She opened the sterile needle and threaded it with a length of incredibly fine twine which brought back numerous memories from her nursing days. Needle poised, she approached Yvonne's palm with something like trepidation. What if she got this wrong, what if her memories of thirteen years ago weren't enough. At the first introduction of the needle in to her wounded flesh, Yvonne's hand jerked. Karen stopped what she was doing and looked Yvonne full in the face.
"Sure you want the pain?" She asked, "Because it's going to get much worse than that." At Yvonne's affirmative nod, she said, "Okay, but Roisin is going to have to hold your arm still for me and if you change your mind, just let me know." Roisin moved round the table and held Yvonne's arm flat to the wood. Cassie watched with a kind of sick fascination as Karen slowly but deftly sewed up the three gashes in Yvonne's hand. Apart from being aware of the clink of bottle on glass as Lauren continued drinking, Karen's whole mind was focussed on her task. She felt every flinch from Yvonne. Roisin was as good as her word and Yvonne's reflexive reaction didn't jeopardise what Karen was doing, but every shudder was felt all the same. When Karen tied off the final stitch, and covered Yvonne's hand with a thin gauze bandage, both Cassie and Roisin stared at her with a new level of respect. Karen tidied away the paraphenalia of her craft, and finally laid a hand on Yvonne's shoulder to get her attention. Looking in to Yvonne's face, Karen was still concerned at her lack of speech.
"Yvonne, you know that I've got to go in to Larkhall. I won't be there any longer than necessary, and I promise I'll be back as soon as possible. Will you be okay till I get back?" Yvonne's left hand, the one not covered by a bandage, came up and briefly rested against Karen's cheek. As Karen walked out in to the hall, Cassie got up and followed her.
"Be careful," Said Cassie. "You've been drinking."
"I'll be okay," Replied Karen. "I feel more sober than I think I've ever felt in my life."
"You did brilliantly back there," Said Cassie in awe. Karen walked out in to the garden to collect her handbag, Cassie following her.
"Like I said, it used to be my job. But no, I wasn't expecting to have to do something like that tonight."
"How could he do this to her?" Asked Cassie, the tears for Yvonne evident in her voice.
"I don't know," Said Karen softly. "But she's going to need us all."
"You go and celebrate your victory with John tonight, Jo. I'm going home and probably going to get drunk with Lover Boy," were George's parting words to Jo , a hard self protective edge to her voice which didn't deceive Jo in the slightest. That's the first time George has actively encouraged me to go after John. Something new is happening here.
George had made no effort in the slightest to hurry away as she knew full well that there was not much to go home to. She trailed slowly down to the car park and sat in the drivers seat and stared into space. By some instinct, she had clutched onto her bundle of court papers which stared back at her with the confusing morass of statements and evidence. These papers were exactly the same as when she had impatiently grabbed them off Brian Cantwell's listless hands when, all fire and energy, she had visited him in his chambers. She had heard what she then thought of as his spineless account of the case, hectored him for not having sufficient force of will and had driven home with all the drive and determination that came natural to her abrasive personality. The papers were exactly the same but she had changed.
She sat in her car, her eyes unfocussed for ages until a snap decision came into her mind. She needed a copy of the Evening Standard to be forearmed for when she got home tonight. In the distance, she spotted the women who had been in the gallery all week who were as far removed from her as if she were watching them on the cinema screen. Karen was the last in line and George smiled generously that at least the trial had come out well for her. She shook her head as she stood and watched the women clatter past and out of view. Must be getting soft in her old age. She bought the copy of the paper and there the headlines were emblazoned. "Porn Film Star and her Lover Jailed for Firebombing Attack." She folded the paper carefully, and headed back to her car to drive home. It was now or never.
"Twenty two years for one of them and ten years for the other." Neil's tight hard voice opened the hostilities after a very perfunctory kiss on the cheek. "Just think what this will cost the British taxpayer to keep them in idleness. You and I pay enough taxes as it is."
Speak for yourself, darling, George thought sarcastically. Only a total prig like you can talk so loudly that way and conveniently forget the blind trusts and tax shelters which do very nicely for you and keep you in the Saville Row suits to which you are accustomed.
"I suppose you are pleased with yourself, George," Neil snapped, "A nice mess you've landed me in."
"Oh, shut up, Neil." George's temper flared. She had planned on being conciliatory and to steer away from the awkward topic of conversation but her good resolutions disappeared in a flash. She'd had a hard week or so in court and was never keen on enduring Neil moaning away about the rigours of his job. Still less was she going to act the submissive woman in a situation like this.
"You'll have to work that extra hard in persuading your Cabinet friends that black is really white. After all, that's what your kind are good at," She added sarcastically.
"You've let me down," Neil sulked from the far side of the Evening Standard. "Just what sort of message is this supposed to send out to the electorate?"
"The truth," George said shortly."I've told you the way the trial has been heading but you wouldn't listen. But don't ask me, I'm only the barrister defending these two criminals. The jury were right…………… and so was John."
"What!" Neil Houghton exclaimed incredulously, putting down his paper. "After all these years when you've called the man every name under the sun, you're now going soft on him."
"Yes, but at least he knows the difference between right and wrong," George said shortly. She had her hard bitch image to maintain and she'd gone quite soft enough in one day, thank you very much. It was one thing for her to knock John but it was quite another thing for Neil to do it.
"I'm going out to the club, George. See you later." Neil stormed out, throwing the paper down on the elegant table and shutting the front door curtly.
George poured herself a generous measure of gin and tonic and sat out on her terrace at the elegant wrought iron table. This was the favourite part of her house where the evening sun shone into her eyes and she could meditate. Neil never liked being there and preferred sitting stiffly upright in his armchair with his newspaper. She smiled a little to herself as she reflected on their recent awkwardness. Typical Neil, she thought. He was like a little boy who, if the game wasn't going his way, stalked off saying 'I'm not playing' and went into a sulk. She could hardly call it a row as such a word conveyed a theatrical outpouring of your emotions and a readiness to take risks, with yourself, with your relationship, with your partner that Neil was utterly incapable of. But not her and not John. At least, in the old days, John would have given her back as much as he got in a fine stand up row. He used to hardly even flinch when a well directed plate whizzed past his left ear. Most satisfying of all was the making up after the row. John was a wonderful lover and the sex was as incandescent and memorable as the arguments. It was that and their love of Charli that had kept them together and it had hurt her beyond any imagination when she could no longer be there for her daughter full time. It was that pain that she wanted to forget and drove her on to solidify that hard artificial shell round her that served her so well in getting on in this material world.
She had never broken anything in her house while Neil was here and that was a bad sign of their relationship, if you could call it one, rather than the good sign as convention had it. When they fell out, Neil was a distant cold presence on the far side of their bed and only days later, by some imperceptible change did Neil become more agreeable.
Where was she going to, the question, unasked, slipped into her mind as she sipped her drink and stared into the setting son. Why, to make a good match in the way that Daddy had always urged his only child to do. This favourite phrase of her actorish barrister father harked back to a Victorian novel which she unthinkingly accepted. The failure of her marriage to John had only increased that desire in her to do better second time around. It was now as she stared round at her elegant surroundings and at her life in general and wondering what this cold stranger was doing in her own house, that she seriously wondered what this stranger who was sipping a gin and tonic was doing in her own life.
Neil Grayling was not having a good week at Larkhall and certainly not today.
In all his years of managerial authority, he could never remember the feeling of his actions being put under the microscope as the day he gave evidence in court. His vanity was wounded by the way two very powerful women pinned him down with relentless questions and the sarcastic crack that " while you are a glittering ornament decorating Larkhall Prison, practically, you are everywhere and at the same time nowhere at all" was the most wounding of anything. He has long been used to obscuring the truth to those above him to suit his purposes but the relentless cross examination made him feel uncomfortably naked and angry. He resolved that the function of court appearances should henceforth be always entrusted to those who are in charge of the nuts and bolts of Larkhall, and not its Grand Designer. Still, outsiders, even know all barristers like these, are never the ones to know what really goes on. He has the finger on the pulse of Larkhall as no one else does. Responsibility stops with him and this is his calling.
The rest of the week wasn't much better as his contacts consisting of Di Barker, Mrs Hollamby and Sir Ian Rochester alike, were all vague and non committal. Surely, someone somewhere would be able to spill the beans. That is how management systems work, to have your reliable spies in position to know the news before anyone else does. But all the 'Old Boys Networks' and lines of authority alike were silent, even the local Masonic lodge. It was all one big frustration as if his favourite boyfriend had become one maddening tease, promising all yet delivering nothing. As for Ms Betts, she paid periodic flying visits to Larkhall and had come and gone before he knew she was in the building.
Today, Grayling had a small portable television plugged in and was flipping channels while pretending to himself that he was looking at a few files. Destiny ticked away the minutes from which he was isolated, unable for once to influence it.
Suddenly a newsflash interrupted the usual horse racing from Cheltenham and he jerked upwards in his chair.
"Today, British justice is decided that two notorious criminals, Ms Tracy Pilkinton, also wanted for murder in the state of Florida and Mr Ritchie Atkins, a member of a notorious East End gangland family, are sentenced to twenty two years and ten years respectively for conspiring together to set off a home made bomb in Larkhall Prison to aid Ms Pilkinton's escape during which one inmate died …………" the 'voice over' announced what, to him was bad news.
"Oh no," groaned Grayling as the first thought that hit him was that the white wan would be speeding down the road to land what should rightly be someone else's problem back on his doorstep.
When the 'voice over' stopped, the TV screen showed a hubbub of comment from a crowd outside the Old Bailey to Grayling's unhearing ears. They had got their two minutes of fame as so many people wanted these days, Grayling thought spitefully. The camera then panned forward to a very familiar woman with long blond hair whose voice in his mind, was turned up to maximum volume. " ……..all press queries should be addressed to the Governing Governor, Neil Grayling. That's GRAYLING. I can give you the phone number of Larkhall Prison and I can promise you that he's the sort of person who is only too willing to communicate with the press……………."
This can't be happening, Grayling thought to himself and it was on the sixth ring that he was aware that the phone was ringing. Nervously, Grayling picked up the phone, expecting some persistent, pushy reporter but, instead, the Area Director himself was on the phone.
"Is that you Grayling?" the terse voice said without preamble."For your information the line is 'an official spokesman is unavailable for comment.' Got that? I know you like to pose and preen before the world's press but not today. Let the press print what they like and, in two weeks time, the whole sorry mess will be publicly forgotten. Except by us. You do know that you've got your annual appraisal on Thursday September 25th at ten sharp. Don't be late." The voice cut off.
A burst of cheering echoed down from what must be G wing as it was evident that the prisoners had heard the news but treated it in a very different manner from Grayling who was preoccupied with his own rather battered reputation taking another knock.
Grayling could remember nothing more of the rest of the day except from saying, time and time again, 'I have no official comment on the matter.' Despite the way the reporters cajoled, harassed and threatened him All this went completely against his nature. He reached into his draw for some double strength headache tablets and reached for a glass of water. But his musings were disturbed by yet another phone call.
"Mr. Grayling, Sir, It's Sylvia Hollandby from G wing."
Karen was sitting in Yvonne's garden with Yvonne, Lauren, Cassie and Roisin. They'd eaten a meal cooked by Cassie and Roisin, and were now working their way down a few bottles of wine. After the adrenaline rush of the end of the trial, they were now all fairly mellow, listening to some soft music and letting some of the tension begin to seep away. Lauren suddenly looked up as if remembering something.
"Mum, where did you go this afternoon?" Yvonne took a drag of her cigarette.
"None of your business," Yvonne said affectionately, knowing that Lauren would think she'd gone soft if she knew her mother had sent a bottle of Champagne to a barrister.
"Little surprise for someone, was it?" Asked Cassie with a wink.
"Jesus," Said Yvonne laughing, "You're as bad as Lauren."
"That's why you love me," Said Cassie, an utterly angelic look on her face.
"Oh, like a kick in the head," Said Roisin drily. Karen was about to add her own opinion when her mobile rang. Digging it out of her handbag which she'd slung on to a spare sun lounger, she was immensely displeased to see the main number for Larkhall on the display.
"Karen Betts," She said, slipping back in to her professional role even though there was a fair amount of alcohol sloshing about in her blood stream.
"Karen, it's Neil Grayling." Karen was irritated, but something, some instinct told her not to reveal his name to those around her.
"What can I do for you?" She asked politely but making it clear that this better be good.
"I'm afraid we have a problem. Snowball Merriman has killed herself."
"What?" Karen felt a surge of blind fury.
"I know, I know," Said Grayling. "Not exactly in the name of justice, is it."
"When did this happen?"
"About half an hour ago. I thought you'd want to be informed, her being on your wing. But that's not all. I've been on the phone to Wormwood Scrubs. It seems Ritchie Atkins has done the same thing." Karen's blood ran cold. Ritchie was dead. Yvonne's son was dead, and Karen knew she had to be the one to tell her. She couldn't speak at first.
"Karen, are you still there?" Neil asked.
"Yes," Karen said, suddenly knowing she was stone cold sober.
"Are you with Yvonne by any chance?"
"Yes."
"I think this might be better coming from you."
"I suppose so."
"And as Merriman's wing governor, we need you to formally identify her."
"I'll be there when I can." Karen switched off the phone before Grayling could make any more demands of her.
"Sweetheart, you've gone white, what's happened?" Asked Roisin gently. Karen simply stared back at her, at them all, but her gaze focussed mostly on Lauren and Yvonne. How the hell did she break the news to them that Ritchie had killed himself. When she was a nurse, and to a certain extent in her capacity as wing governor, breaking the news of a death to unsuspecting relatives was occasionally part of her job, and as a part of her job she could detach herself from it. She would be polite, sympathetic but still removed in some way from the immediate reactions of a grief stricken partner or parent. But this was different. Karen was far too closely connected with Yvonne and by extension Lauren to remain professionally aloof about this. It hit her in an instant that for the first time in her life, she was utterly stuck for words. She didn't appear to have the ability to verbalise this shocking fact. Her gaze seemed to be irrevocably drawn to Yvonne's, perhaps by the intensity in the other woman's eyes. Yvonne was holding a wineglass in one hand, suspended in mid air as if time itself had come to a standstill.
"Tell me," Said Yvonne, and even though her voice was gentle, it invited no argument. Karen took a deep breath.
"Ritchie died about half an hour ago." With anyone else, Karen might have tried to soften the blow, but with Yvonne she knew this was futile. Yvonne, and Lauren for that matter, would have seen straight through her.
"How?" Asked Lauren. Karen's gaze moved to Lauren, who looked furious.
"Other than that he killed himself, I don't know," Replied Karen softly.
"Forgive me for being thick," Said Lauren, "But why did you get the call and not mum?"
"Because Ritchie wasn't the only one to take that way out this evening."
"You mean Snowball?" Asked Cassie, her anger also beginning to rise.
"Yes." The splintering of glass brought all of their eyes back on Yvonne. The glass she'd been holding had shattered under the pressure of her squeezing hand, but she made no sound. Even as Karen reached for a serviette, she could see the blood running down on to the table cloth. Grabbing Yvonne's wrist and turning her hand palm up, Karen could see tiny fragments of glass embedded in the bleeding skin.
"Jesus, mum," Said Lauren, "Are you all right?" Karen held the serviette gently against the wound, though not applying too much pressure because of the glass in Yvonne's hand.
"Lauren, do you have anything resembling a first aid kit in this house?" She asked, knowing that this at least she could do something about.
"There's one in the kitchen." Roisin went to fetch it.
"Yvonne, I need to get the glass out of your hand, and I need to do that in a bit more light." Yvonne didn't respond. Wrapping the serviette around Yvonne's hand and keeping it held between her own, Karen led Yvonne back to the house and in to the kitchen. As she persuaded her in to a chair at the kitchen table, Karen turned Yvonne's face towards her. It scared her to see the totally blank expression on Yvonne's face.
"Sweetheart, look at me," She pleaded, wanting some kind of recognition from Yvonne to show she was still there with them. Yvonne gradually focussed her gaze on Karen, but still didn't speak. Rifling through the contents of the first aid kit that Roisin had unearthed, Karen was slightly astounded to see various things that no ordinary person would keep for simple domestic emergencies. She held up the type of needle and thread that she hadn't seen since her nursing days. At her raised eyebrow, Lauren remarked,
"What do you expect. We do illegal things which occasionally result in illegal injuries in this house." Not wanting any more details, Karen picked up the tweezers and wiped them with one of the sterile alcohol wipes.
"Yvonne, this is going to hurt." As Karen delicately extracted the tiny slivers of glass from Yvonne's hand with the tweezers, she was dimly aware of Lauren going away and returning with a bottle, a glass and searching in the fridge for orange juice.
"Did you used to be a nurse or something?" Asked Roisin, watching Karen's precise movements.
"Yes," Was Karen's unequivocal answer. Yvonne didn't even flinch whilst the glass was being removed, nor when Karen cleaned her palm with alcohol wipes, though Karen found herself ludicrously tempted to simply dunk Yvonne's hand in Lauren's glass of vodka. There were three quite deep gashes on Yvonne's hand which Karen knew would not heal up by themselves. Karen picked up the human sewing kit and looked at it contemplatively, her gaze straying back and forth to Yvonne's hand which still rested in one of her own. Roisin, whose head again seemed to be the clearest in a crisis said,
"Could you stitch her up?" Lauren laughed mirthlessly.
"She already did that," Was her unemphatic comment. Karen ignored her, needing to keep her mind resolutely on the job.
"It's years since I did anything like this," Said Karen, not wanting to hurt Yvonne more than necessary.
"And casualty on a Friday night is exactly what mum doesn't need," Put in Lauren.
"I'm perfectly well aware of that," Replied Karen, her patience with Lauren fading fast. She rummaged through the first aid box, looking for anything that remotely resembled local anaesthetic. Finding a prepackaged, sterile syringe of Novacain complete with needle, Karen reflected that never again would she be surprised by anything she saw within the walls of this house.
"Jesus, you certainly do keep a stash," commented Cassie, fervently hoping that the sight of this wouldn't reignite Roisin's interest in other more lethal drugs. As Karen began reading the instructions on the packet, Yvonne's left hand came up and removed it. Yvonne put the end to her physical pain aside and gestured to Karen to stitch her up without it. Karen stared at her, but saw something in Yvonne's face which told her that she needed the physical pain to attempt to take her away from the emotional.
"Are you absolutely sure?" Asked Karen gently, knowing just how much this was going to hurt. All she received from Yvonne was a small nod. At least she's communicating with me, thought Karen. She opened the sterile needle and threaded it with a length of incredibly fine twine which brought back numerous memories from her nursing days. Needle poised, she approached Yvonne's palm with something like trepidation. What if she got this wrong, what if her memories of thirteen years ago weren't enough. At the first introduction of the needle in to her wounded flesh, Yvonne's hand jerked. Karen stopped what she was doing and looked Yvonne full in the face.
"Sure you want the pain?" She asked, "Because it's going to get much worse than that." At Yvonne's affirmative nod, she said, "Okay, but Roisin is going to have to hold your arm still for me and if you change your mind, just let me know." Roisin moved round the table and held Yvonne's arm flat to the wood. Cassie watched with a kind of sick fascination as Karen slowly but deftly sewed up the three gashes in Yvonne's hand. Apart from being aware of the clink of bottle on glass as Lauren continued drinking, Karen's whole mind was focussed on her task. She felt every flinch from Yvonne. Roisin was as good as her word and Yvonne's reflexive reaction didn't jeopardise what Karen was doing, but every shudder was felt all the same. When Karen tied off the final stitch, and covered Yvonne's hand with a thin gauze bandage, both Cassie and Roisin stared at her with a new level of respect. Karen tidied away the paraphenalia of her craft, and finally laid a hand on Yvonne's shoulder to get her attention. Looking in to Yvonne's face, Karen was still concerned at her lack of speech.
"Yvonne, you know that I've got to go in to Larkhall. I won't be there any longer than necessary, and I promise I'll be back as soon as possible. Will you be okay till I get back?" Yvonne's left hand, the one not covered by a bandage, came up and briefly rested against Karen's cheek. As Karen walked out in to the hall, Cassie got up and followed her.
"Be careful," Said Cassie. "You've been drinking."
"I'll be okay," Replied Karen. "I feel more sober than I think I've ever felt in my life."
"You did brilliantly back there," Said Cassie in awe. Karen walked out in to the garden to collect her handbag, Cassie following her.
"Like I said, it used to be my job. But no, I wasn't expecting to have to do something like that tonight."
"How could he do this to her?" Asked Cassie, the tears for Yvonne evident in her voice.
"I don't know," Said Karen softly. "But she's going to need us all."