How dare she?
Fran swung round, and Kerry let go. This was not in the carefully rehearsed plan, with all its emphasis on mutual understanding and respect.
‘Fran, please?’ Kerry looked shocked, her face ashen. Fran didn’t care. She owed this woman and her colleagues nothing. This had always been about getting something back for Jess; it had never been for Harry’s benefit, his rehabilitation, his grasp of the consequences of what he’d done – they were by-products, outcomes that the state wanted, to justify all the time and expense. She didn’t care about Harry. Not any more. How could she? How could she accommodate any thoughts about his wrecked life, his grief, his guilt, when she had an ocean of pain inside herself? She had walked into this bleak, bland room for one reason only – to get close to her daughter, by getting close to the person who had taken her away.
But it hadn’t worked. The more Harry had talked, the less it had been about Jess. He’d sat there, staring at his feet, dribbling out his self-pity and self-justification, and they’d expected her to just sit there, an audience for his performance. They had nodded and encouraged him, even praised him, as if his ability to string a sentence together was an achievement. I drank, but not much. Sympathetic smiles all round. I drove while drunk, but I’m sorry. Round of applause. I lied, or we both did. Indulgent nods. I cheated, but it meant nothing. Good on you for acknowledging the error of your ways. I broke Jess’s heart, but I didn’t mean to. Pat on the arm. I crashed the car, but it’s not my fault. We understand.
I loved her.
No, you did not! You used her. Humiliated her. Hurt her. Then you killed her.
Fran stood over Harry, watching as red finger marks appeared on his cheek, itching to hit him again. He didn’t move. He just sat there with his face raised, accepting his punishment.
Kerry stepped into the impending threat. ‘We really need to take a break. Jim, perhaps you could take Harry out for a while? Check that he’s okay. I think we all need to take some time to reflect and calm down.’
The officer tapped Harry’s arm, prompting him. He got to his feet slowly.
Fran suddenly wanted him to stay put. He’d had his say. She hadn’t. She wasn’t finished with him. She grabbed his arm. Harry stopped. She felt the muscles in his arm beneath her nails, the strength in him, but also the lack of resistance. His eyes were fearful.
‘Fran, this really is totally unacceptable. Please let go of Harry, immediately.’ There was no calmness in the moderator now. ‘Fran!’
She finally found her voice. ‘No! He needs to hear me. He’s ripped my life apart. He has to listen.’
Still Harry didn’t pull away. Their faces were close. She could see the dark shadows under his eyes, and how pasty and unhealthy his skin looked.
‘Fran. I’m not going to ask again. Let him go! If you don’t, I will be forced to ask the officers to intervene.’
She could smell him. Deodorant. The taint of stress on his breath. He was taller than her. His shoulders wide. A man.
Harry and Jess. Together. No, no, no! Fran recoiled at the thought and let go. Jim hustled him out. The door was pulled shut behind them.
She didn’t listen to the debrief. Didn’t drink the tea they fetched her. She might have nodded in response to their considered comments; she couldn’t remember. She didn’t care any more. When they felt she’d been chastised and sympathised with enough, she was escorted out of the prison through the various locked doors and gates. She found herself outside, standing next to a chronically embarrassed and panicky Natalie, whose lipsticked mouth kept moving. More empty words. Fran waited stoically for her to shut up. It was only when Fran went to her car, got in and shut the door that Natalie’s monologue finally ceased.
Natalie stood there, for at least another minute, looking distressed, before she finally shifted her bag onto her other shoulder and turned towards her own car. She would no doubt have to write a detailed report about why the session had gone so badly wrong. It would not go down well with her superiors. A black mark. Fran didn’t care.
Fran watched Natalie put her coat and bag in the back of her car, climb in, readjust her seat and her mirror – why would she need to do that? she hadn’t shrunk in the past two hours – and finally set off. Her departure was a relief.
It was over. It had been a disaster. Fran felt worse, not better. Months and months of lobbying and planning and preparing for this day, believing that it would change how she felt by changing what she knew. But it hadn’t helped. She pushed the car into gear and drove out of the car park, following the satnav instructions that would lead her back onto the A1, to a life made worse by the visit.
Chapter 73
FRAN PUT her foot down and overtook a lorry. She was furious, blindingly, bitterly furious. Restorative justice! There had been nothing restorative about it. It had been corrosive. Poisonous! And as for justice, there’d been no justice in what had happened inside that room. Harry had sat there, hanging his head, wringing his hands – the picture of contrition – spilling out his self-pity and his lies, making it all about him. And Kerry, the moderator, the person who was supposed to be the impartial adjudicator, had nodded and made her sympathetic little noises and comments.
They’d positioned the meeting as Fran’s opportunity to get answers, to face Harry with the consequences of his actions, to arrive at closure. In practice, they’d ripped the wound of Jess’s death wide open, then expected her to sit and bleed out quietly while he got to talk, and talk, and talk. A confession, at last, of his drinking, his lack of attention, his responsibility for the crash, his disloyalty. All those careful, softly spoken words, with the bleating undertone of himself as the victim.
And it had worked. They had been sympathetic to him, angry with her.
They’d wanted a polite, civil, conciliatory meeting that ticked a box and earnt points for the judicial service. Jesus! – she undertook another car that was dawdling along in the outside lane – the meeting would probably help his case, earn Harry extra points for showing remorse. It was all a sham. How dare they blame her for the breakdown of the session? How dare they have the audacity to cut her off, censoring her feelings and her words? So much for the voice of the victim; the only voice that had been heard was his.
Fran drove on, her emotions rolling and roaring inside her.
They didn’t get it. Couldn’t. They hadn’t had their daughter taken from them, broken apart, killed by Harry’s arrogance and carelessness. Her fury bounced from him to the liaison team, to Marcus.
Marcus had left her to face the ordeal alone. He’d totally abdicated his responsibilities as a husband and a father. How could he do that? He should’ve been there at her side. The thought of having to explain to him what had happened, when she got back, was too much. He had no right to know, because he hadn’t stepped up. But if she didn’t tell him, didn’t talk to somebody about it, she feared she would go mad.
She took the exit.
And as for what Harry claimed about his relationship with Jess. She ragged the gears from fifth down to fourth. How dare he? No. Fran couldn’t bear to think about it. Not Jess. Not her cool, confident daughter. Jess, whose heart she’d known. No. She would never have had a secret that huge. Harry had been like a brother. Fran had half-raised the boy. No, it wasn’t possible. But the idea of them together as a couple swelled and pulsed inside her head, releasing a slew of unwanted images. Harry at the hospital, looking shell-shocked. Harry standing at the back of the chapel at the funeral, his face wet with tears.