Harry had been the love of her life, and the person who had killed her.
Fran! Christ! He pushed the thought away. He couldn’t deal with that nightmare. Not yet.
Randomly he picked one of the messages and read it. It was daft nonsense about a teacher at college. He selected another. It was an exchange about some coursework. The next, a terrible joke about a frog. Had he got it wrong? Were they simply closer friends than he’d thought? No. The next message he read contained arrangements for meeting up one evening, including details of the lie they agreed she should tell, to cover up where she really was. He scrolled back in time – more ‘hook-ups’, more lies concocted. The sign-offs to each text left no space for doubt: Missing you, can’t wait to be together; love you, love you back; thinking about you, can’t wait till I see you again…And more: Sorry you were sad today, you can always talk to me. I’m here for you, I always will be. And worse: I want you, I need you, I love the feel of you, I want to—
He stopped. He couldn’t read any more, didn’t want to, but at the same time he did. He felt shoddy for invading Jess’s most intimate thoughts and feelings, but couldn’t put the phone down. He went to her photo gallery. There were thousands of images: people, food, drinks, clothes, places she’d visited, lots of shopping and laughing and hanging out and partying. Plenty of photos of her friends, many of whom he’d last seen at her funeral. But as he trawled through the gallery, he saw one face above all others – Harry. Harry and Jess, arms around each other. Harry on his own, looking broodingly handsome and absolutely a fully grown man, not the young lad of Marcus’s frozen recollection. Harry in action, playing cricket. Since when did Jess ever go and watch cricket? Harry posing. Harry smiling. Harry goofing around. Harry serious, his eyes looking directly at the camera, and at Jess, and now – through the scratched phone screen – at Marcus.
Jesus! How had they missed it? How had they not noticed the change in her? How had they loved their daughter and not realised that she was in love? Sleeping with Harry. Lying to them.
‘Why, Jess? Why didn’t you just tell us?’ Marcus’s voice startled himself. Her room absorbed, but couldn’t answer, his questions. He was left to guess. Embarrassment? Fear of their judgement, their disapproval – of her having a boyfriend, of her having sex, of her being with Harry? Did he disapprove? Would he have? He hadn’t ever thought of Harry like that, as the choice of his lovely, sparky, opinionated feminista of a daughter. He couldn’t say what he felt about the thought of them being together. The ache in his heart expanded. He missed her so badly. He had let Jess down. She obviously hadn’t felt able to be herself around him or Fran.
Not giving himself time to reconsider, Marcus switched her phone to loudspeaker, dug his own phone out of his back pocket and pressed her number. The ringtone clattered around the room. He waited. Six rings, then the buzz as it went to voicemail. Her voice – loud and joyous – spilled out of the phone: ‘Hiya. You’ve reached Jess. I’m either busy or actually ignoring you, but you can leave a message either way and I’ll get back to you when I can.’
The silence went on for what felt like for ever, then the screen faded.
Marcus re-dialled and listened to her voice four more times, before gathering enough courage to leave his daughter a message she would never get.
Chapter 57
SOME MORNINGS Harry woke with an erection, which surprised him. Being locked up with three hundred and fifty other men, suffocated by the overpowering smell of testosterone, was not conducive to feeling horny; neither was being lonely and depressed, but try telling his body that. When it happened, he turned his face to the wall and jerked off quickly, keeping his mind blank. A mechanical act, his brain not engaged. He didn’t want Jess or Tish – or any of the girls he’d slept with – involved. Not here. At least he’d been put in a single ‘bunk’. The shame was bad enough as it was, without an audience.
His days inside were regimented, controlled by the buzzer and a series of very clear instructions – which was actually okay. There were worse things than being told what to do all day. He was told when to shower, when to exercise, when to eat, when to work and study, when to socialise. It gave a structure to his days, and that was a relief compared to the desolate period after the crash and before he was sent down. Of all the injunctions, the pressure to socialise was the most wearing. The rec room in his wing was a minefield of shifting allegiances and antagonisms that were hard to read and navigate. Hanging around on your own was regarded with suspicion by the other lads, and by the guards. The latter tried to encourage him to participate, by suggesting that he join in with the poker games or by starting loud conversations about football, demanding that he voice an opinion – like that was going to endear Harry to anyone.
He preferred to sit and watch the old-fashioned TV in the corner. It was sealed inside a Perspex box, a sensible safety measure – people had been known to take vehement issue with the decisions of the judges on talent shows. He’d watch whatever was on, anything for a quiet life. There was a preference among his fellow TV addicts for wildlife programmes – no irony there. They especially seemed to like the shows where antelopes were chased down by lions, or water buffaloes got snapped up by crocodiles. They’d pick sides and cheer and holler, as if their passion could somehow influence the outcome. Though it wasn’t all blood and chewed sinew. They had their softer side. One evening they’d watched a film about a baby penguin that had lost its mother in a blizzard. That had reduced most of the room to a silence filled with throat-clearing.
After rec, it was lockdown.
They were put to bed early, like naughty children. Most of them accepted it with grumbles and dragging feet, again like little kids. Harry didn’t mind being sent to bed. Though he hated the sound of the doors being locked, it was always a relief to be on his own. At least in his room no one was watching. The rest of the time he was very conscious that the staff were monitoring him. He knew that concerns had been raised about him by more than one of the screws. He guessed that Jim had been one of them. Jim was older than most of the other officers and more tattooed than most of the inmates. An old-school officer – ex-army, Harry guessed – Jim had a mean-looking face and hands like Wreck-It Ralph, but most of the blokes afforded him some respect, and that was a rare commodity on the inside.
The interest in Harry, and the inside of his head, by the officers had come as a surprise. He had not expected prison to be about his state of mind. The only person who had ever expressed much interest in that, before now, had been Jess. Keeping them out was proving exhausting, especially during the one-to-one sessions. Talking. What was the point? Yet there was no denying that there was a pressure building inside him, which was getting worse. The routine, the smell, the noise, the sense of being part of a herd, the confinement, all that was as bad as he’d expected; but the need to keep his thoughts and his feelings to himself was far harder. He wanted no one inside his head. He tried his best not to go there himself.
But at night, when his cell door was locked, there was nowhere else to go.
He prepared for the mental onslaught by taking the toothbrush from the tiny shelf above the sink, smearing a small amount of toothpaste on it and sitting on his bunk, holding it, ready.