Sam Carrington - One Little Lie

‘Long time no speak, Con,’ the overly cheerful female voice said.

Connie reached forwards to delete the message before it played out, her finger hovering over the button. Curiosity prevented her from pressing it.

‘I know this might be a long shot,’ Jen paused, and Connie heard a sigh before she carried on. ‘But we’re in the shit here, really. You know how it is: lack of staff, too many prisoners to assess, parole board breathing down our necks. We’re swamped.’

A worm of dread began its journey through her stomach. She knew where this was heading.

‘So, anyway. The psych department has had permission to draft in some help, by way of independent psychologists popping in to carry out some of the backlog of reports. Obviously, I thought of you. You’re local, know the job, the prison. It makes sense. There are only a few men to assess, but the money will be good.’ There was another pause. ‘I thought perhaps you might appreciate a bit of extra income at the moment?’

Yes. She would. But, there was no way she’d be returning to HMP Baymead, no matter how much they paid her.

‘Think about it, eh, Con? Would be great to see you. Give me a call!’

‘It might not be such a bad idea,’ Lindsay said, sitting on the sofa with one leg tucked under her, both hands nursing her second mug of coffee.

‘Really? After everything that happened there? After leaving because of the fallout?’ Connie took a long, drawn-out breath. Even thinking about it was increasing her anxiety levels. Although if she was being honest, those levels had been elevated ever since listening to Jen’s message yesterday. The decision to leave her lead psychologist position at HMP Baymead had been the best move for her – she’d been off sick for months before she resigned, the fear of making another error of judgement too much in the end. She’d needed to feel as though she was contributing to something good, so made the focus of her new practice counselling those who’d been affected by crime. Victims, not offenders.

‘Think about it logically. And, you know – financially …’ Lindsay raised her eyebrows so they disappeared beneath her red fringe.

‘Yeah, I need the money. But I’m really not sure it’s worth putting my well-being at risk by going back in there. When I left, it was for good.’

‘Okay.’ Lindsay shrugged. ‘Say no, then.’

Connie narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you trying reverse psychology on me, Wade? That’s not your area.’

‘No. Although, I am quite good at it. Picked it up from the best.’ She wrinkled her nose and smiled.

‘Well, stop it.’ Connie got up from the sofa and walked to the window. A crisp, white layer of frost covered the ground. She shivered. She wasn’t ready for this. Not ready, nor willing to go backwards.

‘How many reports is Jen asking you to complete?’

‘A few.’ Connie made quotation marks with her fingers.

‘So what’s that, in terms of time within the prison walls?’

‘Three, maybe four days. I’d only need to see each prisoner for two sessions, I reckon. Then the rest could be done at home.’

‘So not even a week. Easy money, then.’ Lindsay’s voice softened. ‘I’m here, you know, to support you. It wouldn’t be like before.’ She got up and strode towards Connie, embracing her in a quick, tight hug. ‘I must get going – don’t want to be late for the morning briefing. Mack will take the lead without me, and I can’t have him feeling too important.’

Connie listened as Lindsay’s footsteps hurried through the house, grabbing her coat and bag. She heard the jangling of keys, then the slam of the front door. She didn’t relish the silence of the house when Lindsay wasn’t in it. She watched from the window as Lindsay got in her car and drove off, waving, as she always did.

Lindsay didn’t understand the battle Connie was having inside her head. Not fully. It wasn’t only the thought of going back into the prison causing her anxiety, it was the responsibility of compiling the written reports. What if she got it wrong again? And by worrying about being too positive about the prisoner, she’d probably err on the side of caution and perhaps not give a balanced, objective report. Just in case. Whatever way she played it, she would be wrong. And she wasn’t prepared to chance having another person’s life – or death – on her conscience.

Connie flung herself back on the sofa and lay with both arms crossed above her head. The money would come in useful. Lindsay was right about that. Having her as a support, knowing she’d have someone other than her mother to lean on, was reassuring. Lindsay hadn’t let her down – she’d been through the Hargreaves situation with her. She’d been the detective inspector on the case, and, after the initial frostiness between them, they’d come together for the common cause.

And then Lindsay had saved her. Literally saved her life.

She trusted Lindsay implicitly.

Connie pushed herself up. She’d give herself another day or two to consider it before calling Jen. For now, she had her own work to focus on. Her new client yesterday had been a woman whose son had been convicted of murder four years ago, and she’d presented with huge guilt issues. Her life had been upturned, she’d been hounded from the town she’d lived her life in, and although she was making progress in Totnes, she couldn’t get over the knowledge her own flesh and blood – a boy she’d brought up – could’ve ever committed such a heinous crime.

After the initial consultation, it had become clear to Connie that she had an ethical dilemma on her hands. Her new client, Alice Mann, had spoken of her son’s crime and an alarm of recognition rang in her head.

Her son was Kyle Mann.

And Connie knew him.

My knees are wobbling. I’m glad I chose a long skirt – only I know they’re shaking as I reach to press the doorbell. I know it’s working because I can hear the tacky tune it plays within the house. I wait for movement, looking through the patterned glass of the door. I lick my lips; the roughness catches my tongue. I can’t swallow either, all moisture has left my mouth and throat.

Maybe no one is in.

I’m not going to be able to ring again. My heart is already dancing along at a rate that can’t be good for me. This is my second attempt. At least I managed the bell this time. Last week I only got as far as the gateway. This is progress.

I turn, and, disappointed in my weakness, walk away from the house.

I see a flutter of a curtain as I pass by the house next door. A nosy neighbour, no doubt. I wonder if they saw me last week, too.

Oh well. Doesn’t matter if they did. I’m not doing anything wrong. In fact, what I’m trying to do is make things right. It’s all I want. I’m doing well so far, I reckon. I’ve set up the support group, I’ve even begun therapy myself. I’ve made huge leaps.

None of it was my fault. I didn’t make him do it.

I repeat this mantra a lot. I cannot be held responsible for his actions.

But I am accountable for my own. And while I didn’t make him do it, I didn’t stop him either. That’s what they said in the newspapers. What people gossiped about at the post office, in the local shops. I saw it, heard it.

It’s always the mother who gets blamed. Something she did, or didn’t do, when the child was growing up; some sort of neglect during that delicate stage of development. Lack of attention, lack of love, lack of stimulation. The list is endless. Who even decides this stuff? Who has the right to question the parenting skills of others? Probably some stuck-up university toff. What do they know about parenting?