A/N: Wonderfully betaed by Little Dorritt and Kaatje.
Part Fifty Three
George had gradually become aware that Karen was tossing and turning, murmuring in her sleep, clearly in the middle of a dream. She didn't let it bother her, because she knew that on occasions, she did something similar herself. But when the edge of fear in Karen's voice reached George's ears, she became wide-awake. Karen was fighting some inner demon, desperately trying to free herself from some inner torture. But it was when Karen's words became more distinct, that George realised exactly what she was dreaming about. "No, Jim, please stop!" Putting out a hand, George gently shook Karen's shoulder. "Darling, wake up," She urged, wanting to break this nightmare as quickly as possible. When Karen's eyes eventually snapped open, the sheer terror in them made George almost recoil from her in shock. Karen stared at her, not immediately registering who she was in bed with. "It's all right," George strove to soothe her. "It's me, George." The relief in Karen's eyes was almost imperceptible, her fear that Fenner was in fact there, somewhere, not yet assuaged. Her eyes flitted around the room, searching as far as she could see for any sign of her nocturnal tormentor. "Darling, he's really not here, I promise you," George affirmed, knowing that however irrational Karen's distrust of his absence might be, it was very real to her at the moment. Karen slowly began to relax. "Oh, I know," she said bitterly. "He's six feet under somewhere." Lying back down, George took Karen's hand and began gently chafing the fingers, compromising between giving her some comfort, and affording her as much physical space as she might need. "I'm sorry I woke you," Karen said after a while. "That's all right." George couldn't for the life of her come up with anything else to say. She had absolutely no idea what, if anything, she could do. "You don't have to look quite so worried," Karen said with a smile. "Though I wish you hadn't seen that." "Do you often have dreams like that?" "Not really, and it's probably my own fault I had that one. The effect of visiting one of Fenner's crime scenes on Thursday, obviously hung around longer than I thought it would. But then, when you're trying to excise any kind of disease, it's going to get worse before it gets better." "And who told you that little piece of received wisdom?" George asked with a smile, letting Karen stay on the surface for the moment, allowing her to talk about only what she felt comfortable discussing. This didn't mean, however, that George was about to lose sight of the real problem, of how to persuade Karen to talk about what had been haunting her. "It's just something I've learnt over the years." "Darling, what did you dream?" Immediately she'd voiced this question, George could feel an instant retreat in her. There was no physical change in Karen, no drawing back, no removing her hand from where it still lay in one of George's, no actual attempt to run from the fear-laden words that would pour out of her if she wasn't careful. But George could feel the erecting of all Karen's most formidable barriers, betrayed only by the switching of her gaze between the picture above the bed, and the lamp on the bedside table. "Please don't ask questions that, I can assure you, you really don't want answers to." "Karen, you need to get this out," George insisted vehemently. "If you don't, it'll come back to haunt you again and again, and slowly drive you mad." "I said no," Karen replied firmly, the bitter edge of steel providing the underlying force in her tone. "All right," George said gently, seeing in an instant that she needed to tread extremely carefully, if she didn't want to push Karen away completely. After a moment's silence, Karen gave George's hand a squeeze. "I'm sorry. It's just, dealing with my own reaction to a dream like that is hard enough, without having to explain it to someone else as well." "If you were on your own at home, what would you do now?" "That's easy, get up and do some work, or watch TV, anything to stop me from going back to sleep." "So, as you're not at home, what would make you feel better?" "Would a cuddle be too much to ask?" "No, of course not. I just thought you might need some space, that's all." "I know, and it is appreciated, believe me." But when George moved to put her arms round her, Karen said, "It probably sounds stupid, but do you have something I can wear?" George stopped and thought for a moment. "Nothing of mine will fit you, but I can probably find you an old T-shirt of John's. Will that do?" "Yes. It's not that I..." George held up a hand. "Darling, after the kind of dream I'm fairly certain you had, not wanting to be naked in bed with anyone, is perfectly understandable." Slipping out of bed, George put on a pale blue, cotton nightie, and after digging in the bottom of her chest of drawers, she handed Karen a worn but clean T-shirt that had clearly, at one time, belonged to John. When Karen slipped it over her head, she could smell a comforting mixture of John's aftershave and George's perfume. When George returned to bed, they moved instinctively together, Karen desperately needing the sort of comfort and reassurance that only another's arms can provide. "What did I say before you woke me up?" Karen asked, wanting to know just how much of the situation she'd given away. Enough," George replied quietly, not wanting to make her feel more weak and vulnerable than she already did. They held each other close for a time, George gently running her fingers through Karen's hair. "What time is it?" Karen asked into the silence. "Nearly quarter past five," George said, glancing over at the bedside clock. Then, hitting on the inspirational British answer to any crisis, she said, "Would you like a cup of tea?" Karen gave her a ghost of a smile. "Yes please." Giving her one last affectionate squeeze, George got out of bed and walked out of the room. Glancing back, just before going downstairs, she saw that Karen had switched on the bedside lamp, clearly not wanting to be left alone in the dark.
Whilst George was downstairs, Karen briefly huddled under the goose feather duvet. She wasn't sure if George was aware of it, but that dream had frightened the bloody life out of her. She had become used to occasional dreams of Fenner, ever since the night he'd raped her. If she'd been at home, in her own flat, when she'd woken up from that dream, she could have cried, or thrown up, or allowed herself to react in any other perfectly normal way. But not here, not with George. She quailed at the thought of revealing any of her vulnerabilities to this sensitive, beautiful woman. But hadn't she already done that, by letting George in on the case against Fenner? Partially, perhaps, but George really didn't know the half of it. It was stupid, she knew, but she couldn't prevent her eyes from continuously flitting about the room, as if to make sure that Fenner really wasn't hiding in a corner somewhere. That's why she'd put the bedside light on, to stop the darkness smothering her, to stop the dream from taking over her again, just as Fenner himself had done.
When George returned, she was carrying two mugs of tea, a packet of cigarettes balanced on top of one of the mugs, and a lighter clamped between her teeth. Karen gave her a warm smile. "Talk about initiative," She said, taking one of the mugs. After putting the other mug and the cigarettes down, and retrieving the lighter, George picked up the clean ashtray from the dressing table, and slid back under the duvet. "Do you mind being asked a very odd question?" Karen asked, after taking a swig of the hot, sweet tea. "Everything at this time of the morning is odd," George replied matter-of-factly. "So feel free." "Have you ever held a gun?" Ignoring the possible implications of the question, George answered immediately. "When I was a child, one of Daddy's favourite pastimes was shooting. So yes, I probably have at some point, though I don't remember it. Why?" She asked, realising that there had to be more to this than a mere enquiry. "I dreamt that I shot Fenner." "I see." Then, after lighting a cigarette, she asked, "Will you tell me something?" At Karen's raised eyebrow, she clarified. "Tell me about the day he died." A brief look of scorn crossed Karen's face. "Do I need to remind you that you're a barrister, and as such, I really oughtn't to give you any details of the one and only time I perverted the course of justice, and witnessed someone else aiding an abetting a criminal?" "You'll make me think I'm in bed with John in a minute," George said with a small smile, after which she became serious. "Karen, I've known for an awfully long time that you and Yvonne and god knows who else were guilty of either one or the other of those crimes, all three of us have, myself, Jo and even the Deed. Yet we've never even considered having the matter investigated or pursued in any way." "Why?" The question seemed to take George by surprise. "Why? I'd have thought that was obvious. What would have been the point in landing you and Yvonne, plus any number of the rest of you, behind bars? That would have caused far more problems than it would have solved. But to get back to you specifically, you didn't ask to be put into that situation. Whatever happened on that Sunday afternoon, was not by any design or intention of yours, do I make myself clear?" "Now who's talking like John," Karen quipped mildly, to cover up how touched she was, at the way the three of them had thought their way round such a complex web of facts and hidden secrets. "Well, then, would it be such a bad thing to tell me?" "No, I suppose not. But let it be understood that I'm definitely going against my better judgment."
After lighting a cigarette of her own, Karen tentatively began. "It's very odd how, just before something so horrific happens, you can be doing the most normal thing imaginable. I remember Yvonne going through a load of videos, looking for something we were going to watch, and getting more frustrated by the minute, because none of them were labelled." George smiled. "When Lauren returned from, from what she'd been doing, she was filthy. She was carrying the gun with the sort of casual familiarity with which someone might hold their favourite cricket bat. But the thing that really shocked me about her, was that the look in her eyes reminded me far too much of Shell Dockley. I've never seen someone blatantly high from committing murder, not in nearly fourteen years in the prison service. But that's exactly what she was. I remember wondering if she'd taken a hit of crack or speed, but that was no artificial high. She was proud of what she'd done, and told Yvonne that if she was a real Atkins, she'd be proud of it too. The way she held the gun, you could see that she'd been familiar with one for years. When she removed the bullets before dropping it on the coffee table, as though it was an empty fag packet, Yvonne made her hand them over. It was when Yvonne realised that one was missing, that Lauren told us what she'd done with it. She didn't provide any details, just said that she'd killed him. But she was quite happy to tell me why. Yvonne made her put everything she was wearing in the washing machine, and then sent her up for a shower. I think I remember Lauren demanding to know if Yvonne was putting her under house arrest, which I suppose, in a way, she did for a while. When Yvonne actually took notice of what type of gun Lauren had used, she realised that Lauren had forgotten to pick up the empty cartridge case, which I'm told, is always left behind when a pistol is used. Jesus, I've learned more about guns over the last fortnight than I ever wanted to know. That seemed to bring Lauren down to Earth. It was only after this realisation, that Yvonne seemed to remember I was still there. She said that she'd have to clean the gun, and I stupidly said I'd stay, if she wanted me to. She warned me that getting rid of evidence wasn't nice, as if I couldn't have worked that out for myself. I'll never forget that smell, that almost overpowering aroma of gun-cleaning solvent. Yvonne cleaned that gun on a sheet of newspaper on the kitchen table, as if it was the most normal thing in the world." George couldn't help smiling at this. "That's exactly what my father used to do," She said, momentarily breaking in on Karen's story. "I remember once, I think I was seven, Daddy and my mother having an argument, because he'd come back from a day's shooting, and had started cleaning his gun at the kitchen table, just when she wanted to cook dinner. That smell always brings back fond memories for me, though I expect it wouldn't for you." "No, but they'd be surreal memories rather than just bad ones. Yvonne was utterly committed to her task of eradicating as much of the evidence as she possibly could. I think what really shocked me, was the way she could so easily slip back into who she'd been before Larkhall."
When they'd both stubbed out their cigarettes, George put the ashtray down on the bedside table, and they slid back down under the duvet. When they came together this time, George seemed to wrap herself round Karen, almost as if to protect her from what she was determined to get her to talk about. "Someone had to put Cassie and Roisin in the picture," Karen continued. "So I left soon after Yvonne had finished cleaning the gun." "Call me a nosy old cow if you must, but is there slightly more to what Lauren has with those two than just close friendship?" "I think so," Karen said with a smile. "What made you ask?" "Just a feeling, that's all." "The odd thing is, I think it started a few weeks before Fenner was killed." "Will you tell me something?" George asked with deceptive innocence. "That depends," Karen replied, not trusting her an inch. "How did you feel when you found out he'd died?" Karen's whole body immediately stiffened, as though to prevent the words from escaping. "I think my most pressing concern was the crime itself, not the actual victim." George saw this for exactly what it was, the avoidance of anything remotely personal. "Is it such a bad thing," George said with extreme care. "To say that at the very least, you didn't know how to feel?" "No, under normal circumstances, it wouldn't be. But we both know that you have an ulterior motive in setting me on that very slippery slope." "I suppose I deserved that," George said with a rueful laugh. "But it might actually do you good to talk about it." "And I suppose when John tried to make you face your demons, you just gave in and let him drag it out of you, bit by bloody painful bit." "No, of course not," George said patiently. "I fought like hell, and in the end I made a deal with him, because there was no way I was going down on my own." This brought a brief smile to Karen's face. "Then you'll understand why the last thing I want to do, is to show you just how weak and stupid I can be sometimes." "Of course I do. But do you know what John is always telling me? He says that you can't help the things you feel." "He would come out with something like that," Karen said dryly. "Oh, I know, and I took it with a pinch of salt for a very long time. But I'm slowly beginning to think he might just be right, and don't you dare tell him I said that." "I didn't understand why I couldn't feel relieved that he was gone," Karen said, without any further prompting. "I should have been so relieved that the biggest torment of my life was finally out of the picture, but I couldn't." Karen turned onto her back, with George's arms still round her, because she wanted to be able to turn her eyes away from George's gaze if the need arose. "Roisin said that it was perfectly normal to grieve for the time I was happy with him." "And did you?" "I'm not sure even now, what I felt during those few weeks after his death. I loathe the person I was when I loved and lived with Fenner, and it's maybe that, rather than what he did to me, that tainted anything I felt about him when he died." "On Tuesday, when we came out of court and Helen tried to talk to you, was what you said to her really true?" "Oh, yes," Karen replied with grim certainty. "Marvellous, isn't it. The first thing I should think about as I waited for him to fall asleep, were the words of the one person I'd refused to listen to all along. "He's been playing you since day one, Karen," and oh, how right she was. I can remember it as if it were yesterday, the two of us standing in the number one's office, because Helen was acting number one until they found Simon's replacement. She said those exact words with that firm, Scottish inflection of hers, which can crush your illusions with the force of a crowbar. Only, I didn't listen to a word she said, not until it was too late. I remember, when I was getting dressed and he woke up, I told him that Helen Stewart was right. Jesus! Why did I do it? Why did I listen to every bloody word he said, and take it as if it was gospel." "Because just occasionally, it's the lesser of two evils," George said quietly. "Entirely different situation, I know, but I used to do exactly the same thing when I was married to John. I didn't want to acknowledge the fact that he was playing away at every possible opportunity, because that would mean having to ask myself why, when deep down I knew it was my fault. So, I ignored it. Well, until Jo." "But John isn't anything like Fenner." "No, not in the vast majority of cases, he isn't. But when you first took Jo through the events of what happened with Fenner, and when I read the transcript of that conversation, something you said came a little too close to home for both of us. You described your initial impression of James Fenner, as 'Charm personified.' It occurred to both of us, that this was really quite a perfect description of John."
After a short silence, Karen turned the conversation back on George. "Why did you think his playing away was your fault?" George was taken by surprise, but after a thought or two, she answered. "I didn't really enjoy bed for quite a long time after Charlie was born. All the guilt I had inside me about her, made me feel that I didn't deserve to be happy, and that John was loving me under false pretences. He didn't understand why I didn't want him near me, or if I did, why I couldn't enjoy it. So, he played away to make himself feel better. It never even occurred to me to pretend to John in those days, but sometimes I wish I had. I couldn't tell him why I was so unhappy, and because I knew I was hurting him, it piled the guilt on even more." "Which is why you ate less and less," Karen finished quietly. "Yes, wonderfully vicious little circle, isn't it. The day he finally realised what I was up to, and when he dragged the reason for it out of me, that was definitely the worst day of my life. I didn't think it was possible to feel worse than I already did, but it was. John would hardly let me out of his sight for over a week. I think he thought that if he did, it would be the last he'd ever see of me." They held each other close for a while, both thinking that they'd definitely met their match when it came to hidden demons.
"Do you often have dreams of what Fenner did to you?" George asked into the silence, finally reaching the heart of why they were awake, and discussing such deep and hurtful things in the early morning, with the sun not yet risen. "Was it that obvious?" Karen asked quietly. "Very," George replied softly. "It depends how stressed I am. But I've had more of them in the last fortnight than I've had for quite a while." "The trial was bound to bring out a few unwelcome things you thought you'd buried." "Not quite the right word in the circumstances," Karen said with a small smile. "I keep doing that," George replied in half disgust, half-nervous laughter. "I noticed that, the first time you came to the pub with us." "It's an odd thing," George mused. "But I've never felt quite so at home, than I have this last couple of weeks, with a group of ex-cons, for want of a better word." Karen smiled. "And two governors if you please." "Those with a clean criminal record, taken as read." "I know what you mean, though. When Yvonne was released and we started spending a lot of time together, I got to really know Cassie and Roisin as well, plus Barbara and Crystal, and whoever else came along, and it's always felt right. I've never questioned it, not even once. Every single one of them were as legally crooked as you can get when they were inside, but there's nothing they wouldn't do for each other, or anyone they think of as one of them." "When you do dream about Fenner," George said, getting back to the matter in hand. "How vivid is it?" "A bit too vivid," Karen replied unsteadily, having been taken off her guard. "It's as though he's really there, really... George, I can't do this," She ended desperately, turning her face away in hope that George wouldn't see the tears that had risen to her eyes, and which she was having great difficulty restraining. "Yes, you can," George gently encouraged, taking the hand she'd been softly stroking. "No, please," Karen persisted, making an attempt to get out of bed, to flee from the thing that scared her most. "Am I really so frightening?" George asked quietly, realising exactly what the problem was, but wanting to get Karen to voice it herself. "No," Karen said bitterly. "But letting go, dropping all my barriers, is. I don't want you to see that." "Why?" George persistently probed. "Because I don't want to frighten you off," Said Karen, some of her control visibly slipping. "Because I don't want you to regret getting to know me. What Fenner did to me, it makes me feel as though he's left me with a mental version of HIV, or something else equally destructive. But instead of being in my body, it's in here," She tapped her forehead. "And it's not something I can get rid of. The only positive about his being dead, is that he'll never again be able to do to anyone else the kind of thing he did to me, to Helen, to countless others. But that doesn't make it any easier to deal with. I'm sorry," She added, suddenly noticing the tears that were, despite her best efforts, coursing down her cheeks. "You don't need to be sorry," George said, tears in her own eyes for the corrosive torture she could see emanating from Karen's every pore. "But you need to let it out, because the longer you keep it hidden away inside, the more damage it will eventually do." "But this isn't me. Letting someone in just isn't what I do." "Then maybe it's about time you did," George insisted gently. "I used to be like you, never revealing who I really was to anyone, and do you know where it got me? Twice in my life, it's almost been the death of me. The only reason I came out of my last seriously downward spiral, was because both John and Jo pulled me out. If Jo hadn't all but forced me to start opening up, that day I fainted in court, I probably wouldn't be here now. So I am not letting you do the same. Is that clear?" "You're a stubborn cow sometimes, aren't you," Karen said affectionately through her tears. "Yes," George said firmly. "John will testify to nine years of my stubbornness, and my father to even more." After some time of just holding each other, their tears dried. They were safe and warm in their little haven, wrapped in each other's arms and huddled under the soft, thick duvet. "You know," George said into the silence. "There's one thing I really ought to do this weekend, I ought to tell John about us." "Are you sure you're ready for that?" "The longer I leave it, the harder it'll be, and it's something I really ought to do on my own, though I'm sure he'll have plenty to say to you at some point." "Oh, how I will look forward to that little exchange of words," Karen said dryly. "Is that all right, if I put him in the picture?" "Of course. I've no wish to keep him in the dark longer than necessary. Has Jo been okay about it?" "Oh, she's fine," George said with a broad grin. "She wanted to know what it was like, sleeping with a woman, so I told her to try it." "Poor Jo," Karen said with a soft, fond laugh. "We got talking about her and John last week, and I told her to have an affair with a woman, because that was a sure way of keeping him on his toes." George laughed. "Oh, dear. I don't think she'll take our advice though. It's a pity, because that really would give him something to think about."
Part Fifty Three
George had gradually become aware that Karen was tossing and turning, murmuring in her sleep, clearly in the middle of a dream. She didn't let it bother her, because she knew that on occasions, she did something similar herself. But when the edge of fear in Karen's voice reached George's ears, she became wide-awake. Karen was fighting some inner demon, desperately trying to free herself from some inner torture. But it was when Karen's words became more distinct, that George realised exactly what she was dreaming about. "No, Jim, please stop!" Putting out a hand, George gently shook Karen's shoulder. "Darling, wake up," She urged, wanting to break this nightmare as quickly as possible. When Karen's eyes eventually snapped open, the sheer terror in them made George almost recoil from her in shock. Karen stared at her, not immediately registering who she was in bed with. "It's all right," George strove to soothe her. "It's me, George." The relief in Karen's eyes was almost imperceptible, her fear that Fenner was in fact there, somewhere, not yet assuaged. Her eyes flitted around the room, searching as far as she could see for any sign of her nocturnal tormentor. "Darling, he's really not here, I promise you," George affirmed, knowing that however irrational Karen's distrust of his absence might be, it was very real to her at the moment. Karen slowly began to relax. "Oh, I know," she said bitterly. "He's six feet under somewhere." Lying back down, George took Karen's hand and began gently chafing the fingers, compromising between giving her some comfort, and affording her as much physical space as she might need. "I'm sorry I woke you," Karen said after a while. "That's all right." George couldn't for the life of her come up with anything else to say. She had absolutely no idea what, if anything, she could do. "You don't have to look quite so worried," Karen said with a smile. "Though I wish you hadn't seen that." "Do you often have dreams like that?" "Not really, and it's probably my own fault I had that one. The effect of visiting one of Fenner's crime scenes on Thursday, obviously hung around longer than I thought it would. But then, when you're trying to excise any kind of disease, it's going to get worse before it gets better." "And who told you that little piece of received wisdom?" George asked with a smile, letting Karen stay on the surface for the moment, allowing her to talk about only what she felt comfortable discussing. This didn't mean, however, that George was about to lose sight of the real problem, of how to persuade Karen to talk about what had been haunting her. "It's just something I've learnt over the years." "Darling, what did you dream?" Immediately she'd voiced this question, George could feel an instant retreat in her. There was no physical change in Karen, no drawing back, no removing her hand from where it still lay in one of George's, no actual attempt to run from the fear-laden words that would pour out of her if she wasn't careful. But George could feel the erecting of all Karen's most formidable barriers, betrayed only by the switching of her gaze between the picture above the bed, and the lamp on the bedside table. "Please don't ask questions that, I can assure you, you really don't want answers to." "Karen, you need to get this out," George insisted vehemently. "If you don't, it'll come back to haunt you again and again, and slowly drive you mad." "I said no," Karen replied firmly, the bitter edge of steel providing the underlying force in her tone. "All right," George said gently, seeing in an instant that she needed to tread extremely carefully, if she didn't want to push Karen away completely. After a moment's silence, Karen gave George's hand a squeeze. "I'm sorry. It's just, dealing with my own reaction to a dream like that is hard enough, without having to explain it to someone else as well." "If you were on your own at home, what would you do now?" "That's easy, get up and do some work, or watch TV, anything to stop me from going back to sleep." "So, as you're not at home, what would make you feel better?" "Would a cuddle be too much to ask?" "No, of course not. I just thought you might need some space, that's all." "I know, and it is appreciated, believe me." But when George moved to put her arms round her, Karen said, "It probably sounds stupid, but do you have something I can wear?" George stopped and thought for a moment. "Nothing of mine will fit you, but I can probably find you an old T-shirt of John's. Will that do?" "Yes. It's not that I..." George held up a hand. "Darling, after the kind of dream I'm fairly certain you had, not wanting to be naked in bed with anyone, is perfectly understandable." Slipping out of bed, George put on a pale blue, cotton nightie, and after digging in the bottom of her chest of drawers, she handed Karen a worn but clean T-shirt that had clearly, at one time, belonged to John. When Karen slipped it over her head, she could smell a comforting mixture of John's aftershave and George's perfume. When George returned to bed, they moved instinctively together, Karen desperately needing the sort of comfort and reassurance that only another's arms can provide. "What did I say before you woke me up?" Karen asked, wanting to know just how much of the situation she'd given away. Enough," George replied quietly, not wanting to make her feel more weak and vulnerable than she already did. They held each other close for a time, George gently running her fingers through Karen's hair. "What time is it?" Karen asked into the silence. "Nearly quarter past five," George said, glancing over at the bedside clock. Then, hitting on the inspirational British answer to any crisis, she said, "Would you like a cup of tea?" Karen gave her a ghost of a smile. "Yes please." Giving her one last affectionate squeeze, George got out of bed and walked out of the room. Glancing back, just before going downstairs, she saw that Karen had switched on the bedside lamp, clearly not wanting to be left alone in the dark.
Whilst George was downstairs, Karen briefly huddled under the goose feather duvet. She wasn't sure if George was aware of it, but that dream had frightened the bloody life out of her. She had become used to occasional dreams of Fenner, ever since the night he'd raped her. If she'd been at home, in her own flat, when she'd woken up from that dream, she could have cried, or thrown up, or allowed herself to react in any other perfectly normal way. But not here, not with George. She quailed at the thought of revealing any of her vulnerabilities to this sensitive, beautiful woman. But hadn't she already done that, by letting George in on the case against Fenner? Partially, perhaps, but George really didn't know the half of it. It was stupid, she knew, but she couldn't prevent her eyes from continuously flitting about the room, as if to make sure that Fenner really wasn't hiding in a corner somewhere. That's why she'd put the bedside light on, to stop the darkness smothering her, to stop the dream from taking over her again, just as Fenner himself had done.
When George returned, she was carrying two mugs of tea, a packet of cigarettes balanced on top of one of the mugs, and a lighter clamped between her teeth. Karen gave her a warm smile. "Talk about initiative," She said, taking one of the mugs. After putting the other mug and the cigarettes down, and retrieving the lighter, George picked up the clean ashtray from the dressing table, and slid back under the duvet. "Do you mind being asked a very odd question?" Karen asked, after taking a swig of the hot, sweet tea. "Everything at this time of the morning is odd," George replied matter-of-factly. "So feel free." "Have you ever held a gun?" Ignoring the possible implications of the question, George answered immediately. "When I was a child, one of Daddy's favourite pastimes was shooting. So yes, I probably have at some point, though I don't remember it. Why?" She asked, realising that there had to be more to this than a mere enquiry. "I dreamt that I shot Fenner." "I see." Then, after lighting a cigarette, she asked, "Will you tell me something?" At Karen's raised eyebrow, she clarified. "Tell me about the day he died." A brief look of scorn crossed Karen's face. "Do I need to remind you that you're a barrister, and as such, I really oughtn't to give you any details of the one and only time I perverted the course of justice, and witnessed someone else aiding an abetting a criminal?" "You'll make me think I'm in bed with John in a minute," George said with a small smile, after which she became serious. "Karen, I've known for an awfully long time that you and Yvonne and god knows who else were guilty of either one or the other of those crimes, all three of us have, myself, Jo and even the Deed. Yet we've never even considered having the matter investigated or pursued in any way." "Why?" The question seemed to take George by surprise. "Why? I'd have thought that was obvious. What would have been the point in landing you and Yvonne, plus any number of the rest of you, behind bars? That would have caused far more problems than it would have solved. But to get back to you specifically, you didn't ask to be put into that situation. Whatever happened on that Sunday afternoon, was not by any design or intention of yours, do I make myself clear?" "Now who's talking like John," Karen quipped mildly, to cover up how touched she was, at the way the three of them had thought their way round such a complex web of facts and hidden secrets. "Well, then, would it be such a bad thing to tell me?" "No, I suppose not. But let it be understood that I'm definitely going against my better judgment."
After lighting a cigarette of her own, Karen tentatively began. "It's very odd how, just before something so horrific happens, you can be doing the most normal thing imaginable. I remember Yvonne going through a load of videos, looking for something we were going to watch, and getting more frustrated by the minute, because none of them were labelled." George smiled. "When Lauren returned from, from what she'd been doing, she was filthy. She was carrying the gun with the sort of casual familiarity with which someone might hold their favourite cricket bat. But the thing that really shocked me about her, was that the look in her eyes reminded me far too much of Shell Dockley. I've never seen someone blatantly high from committing murder, not in nearly fourteen years in the prison service. But that's exactly what she was. I remember wondering if she'd taken a hit of crack or speed, but that was no artificial high. She was proud of what she'd done, and told Yvonne that if she was a real Atkins, she'd be proud of it too. The way she held the gun, you could see that she'd been familiar with one for years. When she removed the bullets before dropping it on the coffee table, as though it was an empty fag packet, Yvonne made her hand them over. It was when Yvonne realised that one was missing, that Lauren told us what she'd done with it. She didn't provide any details, just said that she'd killed him. But she was quite happy to tell me why. Yvonne made her put everything she was wearing in the washing machine, and then sent her up for a shower. I think I remember Lauren demanding to know if Yvonne was putting her under house arrest, which I suppose, in a way, she did for a while. When Yvonne actually took notice of what type of gun Lauren had used, she realised that Lauren had forgotten to pick up the empty cartridge case, which I'm told, is always left behind when a pistol is used. Jesus, I've learned more about guns over the last fortnight than I ever wanted to know. That seemed to bring Lauren down to Earth. It was only after this realisation, that Yvonne seemed to remember I was still there. She said that she'd have to clean the gun, and I stupidly said I'd stay, if she wanted me to. She warned me that getting rid of evidence wasn't nice, as if I couldn't have worked that out for myself. I'll never forget that smell, that almost overpowering aroma of gun-cleaning solvent. Yvonne cleaned that gun on a sheet of newspaper on the kitchen table, as if it was the most normal thing in the world." George couldn't help smiling at this. "That's exactly what my father used to do," She said, momentarily breaking in on Karen's story. "I remember once, I think I was seven, Daddy and my mother having an argument, because he'd come back from a day's shooting, and had started cleaning his gun at the kitchen table, just when she wanted to cook dinner. That smell always brings back fond memories for me, though I expect it wouldn't for you." "No, but they'd be surreal memories rather than just bad ones. Yvonne was utterly committed to her task of eradicating as much of the evidence as she possibly could. I think what really shocked me, was the way she could so easily slip back into who she'd been before Larkhall."
When they'd both stubbed out their cigarettes, George put the ashtray down on the bedside table, and they slid back down under the duvet. When they came together this time, George seemed to wrap herself round Karen, almost as if to protect her from what she was determined to get her to talk about. "Someone had to put Cassie and Roisin in the picture," Karen continued. "So I left soon after Yvonne had finished cleaning the gun." "Call me a nosy old cow if you must, but is there slightly more to what Lauren has with those two than just close friendship?" "I think so," Karen said with a smile. "What made you ask?" "Just a feeling, that's all." "The odd thing is, I think it started a few weeks before Fenner was killed." "Will you tell me something?" George asked with deceptive innocence. "That depends," Karen replied, not trusting her an inch. "How did you feel when you found out he'd died?" Karen's whole body immediately stiffened, as though to prevent the words from escaping. "I think my most pressing concern was the crime itself, not the actual victim." George saw this for exactly what it was, the avoidance of anything remotely personal. "Is it such a bad thing," George said with extreme care. "To say that at the very least, you didn't know how to feel?" "No, under normal circumstances, it wouldn't be. But we both know that you have an ulterior motive in setting me on that very slippery slope." "I suppose I deserved that," George said with a rueful laugh. "But it might actually do you good to talk about it." "And I suppose when John tried to make you face your demons, you just gave in and let him drag it out of you, bit by bloody painful bit." "No, of course not," George said patiently. "I fought like hell, and in the end I made a deal with him, because there was no way I was going down on my own." This brought a brief smile to Karen's face. "Then you'll understand why the last thing I want to do, is to show you just how weak and stupid I can be sometimes." "Of course I do. But do you know what John is always telling me? He says that you can't help the things you feel." "He would come out with something like that," Karen said dryly. "Oh, I know, and I took it with a pinch of salt for a very long time. But I'm slowly beginning to think he might just be right, and don't you dare tell him I said that." "I didn't understand why I couldn't feel relieved that he was gone," Karen said, without any further prompting. "I should have been so relieved that the biggest torment of my life was finally out of the picture, but I couldn't." Karen turned onto her back, with George's arms still round her, because she wanted to be able to turn her eyes away from George's gaze if the need arose. "Roisin said that it was perfectly normal to grieve for the time I was happy with him." "And did you?" "I'm not sure even now, what I felt during those few weeks after his death. I loathe the person I was when I loved and lived with Fenner, and it's maybe that, rather than what he did to me, that tainted anything I felt about him when he died." "On Tuesday, when we came out of court and Helen tried to talk to you, was what you said to her really true?" "Oh, yes," Karen replied with grim certainty. "Marvellous, isn't it. The first thing I should think about as I waited for him to fall asleep, were the words of the one person I'd refused to listen to all along. "He's been playing you since day one, Karen," and oh, how right she was. I can remember it as if it were yesterday, the two of us standing in the number one's office, because Helen was acting number one until they found Simon's replacement. She said those exact words with that firm, Scottish inflection of hers, which can crush your illusions with the force of a crowbar. Only, I didn't listen to a word she said, not until it was too late. I remember, when I was getting dressed and he woke up, I told him that Helen Stewart was right. Jesus! Why did I do it? Why did I listen to every bloody word he said, and take it as if it was gospel." "Because just occasionally, it's the lesser of two evils," George said quietly. "Entirely different situation, I know, but I used to do exactly the same thing when I was married to John. I didn't want to acknowledge the fact that he was playing away at every possible opportunity, because that would mean having to ask myself why, when deep down I knew it was my fault. So, I ignored it. Well, until Jo." "But John isn't anything like Fenner." "No, not in the vast majority of cases, he isn't. But when you first took Jo through the events of what happened with Fenner, and when I read the transcript of that conversation, something you said came a little too close to home for both of us. You described your initial impression of James Fenner, as 'Charm personified.' It occurred to both of us, that this was really quite a perfect description of John."
After a short silence, Karen turned the conversation back on George. "Why did you think his playing away was your fault?" George was taken by surprise, but after a thought or two, she answered. "I didn't really enjoy bed for quite a long time after Charlie was born. All the guilt I had inside me about her, made me feel that I didn't deserve to be happy, and that John was loving me under false pretences. He didn't understand why I didn't want him near me, or if I did, why I couldn't enjoy it. So, he played away to make himself feel better. It never even occurred to me to pretend to John in those days, but sometimes I wish I had. I couldn't tell him why I was so unhappy, and because I knew I was hurting him, it piled the guilt on even more." "Which is why you ate less and less," Karen finished quietly. "Yes, wonderfully vicious little circle, isn't it. The day he finally realised what I was up to, and when he dragged the reason for it out of me, that was definitely the worst day of my life. I didn't think it was possible to feel worse than I already did, but it was. John would hardly let me out of his sight for over a week. I think he thought that if he did, it would be the last he'd ever see of me." They held each other close for a while, both thinking that they'd definitely met their match when it came to hidden demons.
"Do you often have dreams of what Fenner did to you?" George asked into the silence, finally reaching the heart of why they were awake, and discussing such deep and hurtful things in the early morning, with the sun not yet risen. "Was it that obvious?" Karen asked quietly. "Very," George replied softly. "It depends how stressed I am. But I've had more of them in the last fortnight than I've had for quite a while." "The trial was bound to bring out a few unwelcome things you thought you'd buried." "Not quite the right word in the circumstances," Karen said with a small smile. "I keep doing that," George replied in half disgust, half-nervous laughter. "I noticed that, the first time you came to the pub with us." "It's an odd thing," George mused. "But I've never felt quite so at home, than I have this last couple of weeks, with a group of ex-cons, for want of a better word." Karen smiled. "And two governors if you please." "Those with a clean criminal record, taken as read." "I know what you mean, though. When Yvonne was released and we started spending a lot of time together, I got to really know Cassie and Roisin as well, plus Barbara and Crystal, and whoever else came along, and it's always felt right. I've never questioned it, not even once. Every single one of them were as legally crooked as you can get when they were inside, but there's nothing they wouldn't do for each other, or anyone they think of as one of them." "When you do dream about Fenner," George said, getting back to the matter in hand. "How vivid is it?" "A bit too vivid," Karen replied unsteadily, having been taken off her guard. "It's as though he's really there, really... George, I can't do this," She ended desperately, turning her face away in hope that George wouldn't see the tears that had risen to her eyes, and which she was having great difficulty restraining. "Yes, you can," George gently encouraged, taking the hand she'd been softly stroking. "No, please," Karen persisted, making an attempt to get out of bed, to flee from the thing that scared her most. "Am I really so frightening?" George asked quietly, realising exactly what the problem was, but wanting to get Karen to voice it herself. "No," Karen said bitterly. "But letting go, dropping all my barriers, is. I don't want you to see that." "Why?" George persistently probed. "Because I don't want to frighten you off," Said Karen, some of her control visibly slipping. "Because I don't want you to regret getting to know me. What Fenner did to me, it makes me feel as though he's left me with a mental version of HIV, or something else equally destructive. But instead of being in my body, it's in here," She tapped her forehead. "And it's not something I can get rid of. The only positive about his being dead, is that he'll never again be able to do to anyone else the kind of thing he did to me, to Helen, to countless others. But that doesn't make it any easier to deal with. I'm sorry," She added, suddenly noticing the tears that were, despite her best efforts, coursing down her cheeks. "You don't need to be sorry," George said, tears in her own eyes for the corrosive torture she could see emanating from Karen's every pore. "But you need to let it out, because the longer you keep it hidden away inside, the more damage it will eventually do." "But this isn't me. Letting someone in just isn't what I do." "Then maybe it's about time you did," George insisted gently. "I used to be like you, never revealing who I really was to anyone, and do you know where it got me? Twice in my life, it's almost been the death of me. The only reason I came out of my last seriously downward spiral, was because both John and Jo pulled me out. If Jo hadn't all but forced me to start opening up, that day I fainted in court, I probably wouldn't be here now. So I am not letting you do the same. Is that clear?" "You're a stubborn cow sometimes, aren't you," Karen said affectionately through her tears. "Yes," George said firmly. "John will testify to nine years of my stubbornness, and my father to even more." After some time of just holding each other, their tears dried. They were safe and warm in their little haven, wrapped in each other's arms and huddled under the soft, thick duvet. "You know," George said into the silence. "There's one thing I really ought to do this weekend, I ought to tell John about us." "Are you sure you're ready for that?" "The longer I leave it, the harder it'll be, and it's something I really ought to do on my own, though I'm sure he'll have plenty to say to you at some point." "Oh, how I will look forward to that little exchange of words," Karen said dryly. "Is that all right, if I put him in the picture?" "Of course. I've no wish to keep him in the dark longer than necessary. Has Jo been okay about it?" "Oh, she's fine," George said with a broad grin. "She wanted to know what it was like, sleeping with a woman, so I told her to try it." "Poor Jo," Karen said with a soft, fond laugh. "We got talking about her and John last week, and I told her to have an affair with a woman, because that was a sure way of keeping him on his toes." George laughed. "Oh, dear. I don't think she'll take our advice though. It's a pity, because that really would give him something to think about."