Cath Staincliffe - Crying Out Loud

And Jamie slept right through.

The day was thick with fog; the air smelt sour and matched my mood. It was the weekend so the kids would rise late. Even Jamie slept until seven thirty.

Before I got downstairs, I heard Ray call Digger and take him out. I was relieved not to have to face Ray while I fed the baby and got my breakfast. Was he the same? Sneaking out to avoid me? The issues between us were too prickly.

Maddie came down and helped herself to Weetabix. Jamie had hiccups again. I thought Maddie might be amused but I’d not allowed for her growing disdain for the interloper. She cast a scornful glance at the baby, her lip curling in an impressive sneer.

‘What would you like to do today?’ I asked her. Even though I knew my day would be dominated by Ray’s return visit to Laura’s and the consequences.

Maddie shrugged.

I cast about for suggestions. Tried a few: ‘The park, the cinema, baking?’

‘The Arndale,’ she proposed, with a pleased little nod.

I hated shopping malls as much as she loved them. ‘Perhaps,’ I said weakly.

She smiled.

‘But we won’t stay long. Is Tom still asleep?’

‘Yes – and he’s snoring.’

‘Well, see if he wants to come when he wakes up.’

‘I’ll wake him!’ She dashed out.

‘Maddie-’ I called to stop her but she ignored me, her feet drumming up the stairs.

Ray got back from walking the dog. I steeled myself as he came into the kitchen.

‘Ray, I was thinking,’ the words were clotted in my mouth, ‘Laura’s number – someone where she works might give you it.’

‘It’s personal information,’ he said coldly, peering into the cupboard, ‘they’ll hardly hand it out on spec.’

‘I just thought-’

‘Christ, Sal!’ He slammed his hand on the counter. ‘I’m going round there, I told you last night. Just give me chance.’

‘Don’t shout at me!’ I yelled.

Digger barked and skittered into the kitchen, ready to defend his lord and master. Jamie jerked; startled by the noise, her lip began to tremor. My phone rang.

I swore and picked it up, slid it open. ‘Hello.’

‘It’s Chloe.’

My heart sank. I didn’t want to talk to her or discuss her flaky brother’s chances at the moment. ‘Chloe, this really isn’t a good time,’ I said quickly. ‘Can I ring you Monday?’

‘It’s Damien,’ she said, her voice odd. Then, in a rush: ‘He’s dead. They found him hanging in his cell this morning.’ And her voice cracked. ‘He’s killed himself. He’s gone and killed himself.’

Chloe’s house was busy with well-wishers. Neighbours or family, I’m not sure. No one introduced me. There was an atmosphere of shock, accompanied by that sudden intimacy of strangers in the wake of any disaster.

‘Is she here?’ I asked the woman who answered the door.

‘In the back.’

I went through the living room, where the hum of conversation was louder than the muted TV. Chloe’s kids were there in front of the set, another child beside them and on the sofa and assorted chairs maybe half-a-dozen people.

There were people crammed in the kitchen and others smoking in the backyard. Chloe was seated in the same place at the kitchen table. She looked up, relieved to see me, and someone stood up to give me their seat.

Chloe looked washed out, her eyes red-rimmed. Like Damien’s had been.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I told her, ‘it’s a terrible thing.’

She nodded, biting her lip, and then sniffed hard. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said, her mouth working. ‘The stupid-’ She hit at her forehead with the heel of her hand. I put a hand out and caught her wrist. Felt the heat there.

‘How was he?’ she asked me. ‘You saw him.’

I recalled Damien’s fingers dancing on the table, his mercurial shifts of attitude. ‘Restless. He told me more than he had done before, remembered more.’

‘Did he say anything?’

I knew what she was asking. I cleared my throat; my mouth felt dry. ‘He said he couldn’t get it out of his head. And that he couldn’t do time. But he’d booked to see a doctor.’ That last image of him: his head on the table, drained. You don’t believe me , he’d shouted. I hurried on. ‘Chloe, if I’d had any idea.’

She raised her hand to stop me. ‘He was only twenty-two,’ she said. ‘Barely a man. His whole life-’

Someone behind me murmured agreement.

‘I still want to clear his name.’ Chloe stared at me. ‘Did he tell you anything new? Stuff we can use?’

I hesitated. ‘Bits and bobs. I’m not sure.’

A change came over her face and she drew back a fraction, her eyes hardening. ‘You don’t believe him,’ she accused. The atmosphere in the room bristled and people stilled. I could hear people talking outside and someone coughing.

‘You can deal with all this later, Chloe,’ an older woman spoke gently. ‘You’ve enough on.’

Chloe ignored her. ‘Well?’ she asked me.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, I do.’ She was shaking. She took a breath. ‘He left a note, right. A note saying he didn’t do it. That he was innocent and he just couldn’t stand it any more.’ She blinked and tears splashed from beneath her lashes. She wiped them away with both hands and blew her nose on a tissue. ‘That’s proof,’ she said hoarsely. ‘You’re not going to lie about something like that if you’re going to end it all, innit.’

‘It counts for a lot,’ I agreed. Deathbed confessions do carry weight. People don’t want to depart the world wreathed in lies.

‘Will you see his lawyer; tell her what he told you?’

‘Yes.’

That satisfied her. Someone put a mug of coffee in front of her and a pack of tablets. ‘There’ll be an inquest, sometime,’ she said. ‘They’ll want to talk to you.’

‘Yes.’

I thought of all she had to deal with: registering the death, the funeral arrangements, collecting his possessions from the prison. And Damien’s mother – would she know about her son’s death? Was she still alive herself?

There was knocking at the front door, then voices, businesslike. A man came through from the living room. ‘Chloe? It’s the BBC, local news. Want to know if they can talk to you.’

Chloe thought for a second and made her decision. ‘Yeah, bring ’em in.’

Should I have been able to tell how fragile Damien’s state of mind was? Wouldn’t the prison officers, his fellow inmates, be better placed? They’d seen him every day; I’d visited twice. I didn’t want to blame myself. But no matter how determined I was not to get into any guilt trips there was some fickle part of my soul that was whispering in the wind: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa. You ’ re trying to trick me , he’d yelled. I can ’ t do time . The weal on his arm. You don ’ t believe me .

Would it have made any shred of difference if he’d left that room thinking I did?

Libby was still my client and I needed to let her know what was happening, to talk to her before she came across it on the news. She was doing a site visit at Tatton Park, a large estate with a stately home, a deer park and an impressive lake fifteen miles to the south of the city. She’d be there for the next hour and a half but after that had a family lunch to get to. It made sense for me to drive down and meet up with her there.

We rendezvoused in one of the car parks inside the park. The rolling heath land was planted with stands of Scots pine and broadleaf trees, shrouded in mist. The air was cool and moist and smelt of damp wool. I got out of my car and Libby waved me over to hers. A few hundred yards away three large marquees were being erected. Trucks stood by with more scaffolding and planking which would be used for the floors.