Sam Carrington - One Little Lie

Alice

I think that went well. Connie is going to be helpful, I feel sure of that. I must be guarded, though. Be careful not to tell too much; think about how I’m saying things. She’s smart – she’s going to chip away, use her psychological knowledge to get under my skin. Attempt to get to the root of my issues. I want that as well, to a degree. But I need to protect my son, still. I know what he did is bad, and to some, unforgivable. But he’s my flesh and blood. A product of me. And him .

We created him, and I nurtured him. Despite what I try to tell myself, it’s my fault he’s turned into this monster.

The walk back to the house is slow. The sun is shining, and it’s quite pleasant – a mild day for February – but I feel heavy. Cumbersome. I stop a few times, looking into random shop windows. I know I’m not really seeing anything. My eyes don’t focus on the displays. It’s like I’m looking past them into the distance. Into my past. My future. Both are equally messed up.

I need to jolt myself out of this mood.

Should I attempt another visit to her house? I think getting to the next stage will pull me out from under this dark cloud. It’s been over a week since I was last there. Standing at her door full of dread, but with an inkling of hope.

Hope is what I need right now.

I turn and head back to the lower end of town. I’ll get the bus, go there while I’m feeling bold. No guarantee she’ll be there, of course. I should try to figure out her schedule so I don’t waste these bursts of courage by getting there and her being out.

I need to be more organised if I’m to achieve what I want.

Connie stared at the phone, one hand twiddling a piece of her sleek black hair around and around her fingers. She’d just looked at her accounting records – it didn’t make for good reading. Her client base was growing, but slowly. She needed an injection of cash for advertising.

A piece of A4 paper was placed next to the phone with two columns: one showing the ‘pros’, one showing the ‘cons’ of going back to Baymead to do the reports. Connie picked it up. The only thing in the pros column was ‘extra money’. Not really the best reason for stepping back into the lion’s den, she mused. Maybe another pro could be that by going back, facing her demons, she’d be able to move on more successfully. Had she really put everything that happened behind her or was she avoiding anything that brought the memories back?

Connie had often thought about her actions, examined them, considered what else she could’ve done – should’ve done – and, each time, she concluded that she wouldn’t have handled Hargreaves any differently than she had back then. She wasn’t the last gatekeeper either – as the psychologist, she’d merely handed her report to the parole board for them to make the final decision of whether to release him or not.

Still, Connie never shook the feeling that her favourable report gave considerable weight to proceedings, and ultimately led to the rape of a woman. The ripple effect of her involvement had caused so much hurt and pain. If she went back, would something similar happen again? But then, could she go through the rest of her life worrying about whether a single action of hers could cause something bad to happen?

It had in the past , she reminded herself.

She sighed and tried to refocus. If she did take up Jen’s offer of work, and nothing bad happened, maybe she could finally put her paranoia to rest. She pushed the competing thoughts from her mind and, without analysing it any further, dialled the number on the Post-it note she’d had tucked beneath her fern desk plant for the past week.

‘Hi, can I speak with Jennifer Black, please?’ Her voice shook.

She cleared her throat, and sat up straighter, waiting for the person on the end of the phone to speak. Connie hoped Jen was in the office; she wasn’t sure if she’d have the nerve to call back again.

‘Just a moment, I’ll transfer you,’ the voice said.

There was silence for what felt like minutes, then a click.

‘Jennifer Black. How may I help?’

Jen’s ‘professional’ voice was one they’d always mocked when Connie had worked at HMP Baymead. She always put on a posh voice to conceal her strong Plymothian accent when speaking on the phone. She’d moved from Plymouth to Torquay when she was a teenager, but never managed to fully escape the accent.

‘You can drop the fake accent, Jen – it’s just me.’

‘Connie! Thank God. I didn’t think you were going to return my call, you’ve taken so long. I hope this means—’

‘Slow down, slow down. I’m calling to find out more details, that’s all. Don’t get too excited.’

‘Oh, come on. You’ll do it. You wouldn’t have phoned otherwise.’

Connie shook her head. Damn this woman. Her abruptness, her perceptiveness and her knack of getting to the point quickly was what made Jen one of the best managers the programmes department had ever had. You always knew where you stood with Jen.

‘Seriously, Jen. I need to weigh up the pros and cons of doing this – coming back in after …’

‘Pah! Water under the old bridge, Con. You know … we know, you did nothing wrong. You acted in line with every protocol. It was you who blamed yourself.’

‘Er, I think you’ll find it wasn’t just me. I didn’t see anyone else being dragged through the papers, and there wouldn’t have been a capability hearing if the governor didn’t think I’d messed up Hargreaves’ risk report.’ Merely talking about it again caused Connie’s heart rate to increase and her armpits to tingle with sweat.

End the call. This isn’t worth it.

‘Look, I know things went downhill rapidly for you after Hargreaves, but you shouldn’t let that stop you from coming in and completing a few assessments.’

‘Are they high-risk prisoners?’ Connie was immediately mad at herself for asking; it sounded as though she was seriously considering the offer.

‘Not really. None are up for parole. It’s their progression through the system we need to focus on. Some of the guys have been here a long time, and we have a fair few refusing to do any of the offending behaviour programmes. We’re under pressure to get arses on seats so they can move forwards in their sentence plans, get them into a Cat-D establishment.’

‘Nothing new there, then.’

‘Exactly. Our group numbers are actually falling. Anyway, point is, you can come in, do the assessments, and get out. You can write the reports at home. That’s the extent of your involvement. I wasn’t kidding when I said it was easy money, Con.’

Connie exhaled loudly and sat back in her chair. Risk-wise, these prisoners weren’t up for release, so her reports would only be used as evidence for the decision to move them to an open prison, or not – or recommend action, such as attending further offending behaviour programmes. An open prison would mean there was a chance of the prisoner absconding though, so she could still get a backlash if she wrote a favourable report and then something bad happened later down the road.

‘And how many would I be assessing again?’

‘Only three. We have another psychologist coming in as well, so between us all, we should catch up on the backlog. Might have to spread it over a few weeks though.’

Connie’s shoulders sank. She’d been hoping, if she were to do it, that it would be over in a week. Realistically though, she’d known deep down it wasn’t likely to be possible.

There was one other thing that was bothering her.

‘I need to ask something.’

‘Shoot,’ Jen said.