Guilty Innocence (2 page)
Joshua Barker. Impossible to tell how old he is when he receives the letter. She wonders what offence he’s committed. What has been bad enough to get him sent to Vinney Green? A crime so terrible his own mother rejects him? So awful she doesn’t even tell him herself she’s moving away, changing her name?
Then Natalie remembers. The vague stirrings of memory when she reads Joshua Barker’s name on the envelope coalesce into a sharp, stabbing thrust in her mind, one causing her to recoil in denial, shock, revulsion. A possible reason as to why her boyfriend has this letter forces its way into her consciousness. It all comes together in a millisecond in her horrified brain, causing her to fling the letter across the room and sink to the floor, hugging her knees. Her stomach churns and she wonders if she’s going to puke; eject the vileness of her thoughts in one long stinking stream of vomit. If only it were that easy, she thinks.
Joshua Barker. Another name bursts forth from Natalie’s memories to join it. Adam Campbell. Pictures connect with the names in her head. Two photos, first seen fourteen years ago on television and whenever they’ve merited news time since then. Both of boys with dark hair, although one wears it longer and more unkempt. That particular boy is unsmiling and sullen, clearly unwilling to pose for the camera. The other looks nervous, a rabbit before a wolf, his expression uncertain. Natalie can’t be sure which is Joshua Barker and which is Adam Campbell, although she thinks Unkempt and Sullen might be Adam. Which means Rabbit Boy is Joshua Barker. The boy so summarily rejected by his mother. Did Adam Campbell’s mother react the same way, Natalie wonders. Was he similarly dismissed from his parents’ lives, abandoned to a secure detention unit, like Joshua? Rejected because, together, at the age of eleven, still children themselves, they committed a crime so shocking and sickening it hardly seemed possible. Not for two eleven-year-olds, anyway; an older man, perhaps, some twisted loner from a tortured background, but not two young boys. Not children brought up in stable home environments, with no known abuse.
Kids of eleven don’t lure a two-year-old child, blonde and pretty Abby Morgan, from her home and first batter then stab her to death.
Except, fourteen years ago, in the case of Adam Campbell and Joshua Barker, that’s exactly what they did.
Nausea wrenches at Natalie’s stomach again.
Her memories zoom back to Rabbit Boy, all wide-eyed and worried, and then shoot forward to Mark Slater. She pictures his hair, his eyes, so similar to Rabbit Boy’s, and desperately hopes she’s mistaken. That the two aren’t the same, and that a perfectly innocent explanation exists as to why Mark has Joshua Barker’s letter in his possession. Other than the obvious, hideous, too painful to be contemplated reason.
That Mark Slater is Joshua Barker, fourteen years older. And that she’s been dating a child killer, who’s protected by a new identity.
Natalie hauls herself to her feet. She can’t bear to be in the same room as the letter a minute longer. Her nausea forgotten, she resorts to food, the way she always does when upset. She walks through into the tiny kitchenette, pulling the fridge open, seeking rich soothing carbohydrates, shelving all concerns about her excess kilos. She takes out whatever comes to hand, slapping butter thickly onto bread before pressing several slices of ham on top. She yanks a stool out from the breakfast bar, ploughing into the sandwich, her jaws chewing furiously, the taste of the food unimportant. A packet of chocolate biscuits catches her eye and she grabs them. She’ll need every ounce of carbohydrate comfort the sandwich and biscuits can offer if she’s to confront Mark. Will she, though? Natalie squashes down an inner voice, the alarmist one, telling her how someone who can batter and stab a two-year-old to death may not take kindly to having the lid ripped off his new identity, his fresh start. Especially by a girlfriend who’s resorted to snooping through his possessions.
She glances around her as she crams the food in her mouth. The kitchenette is as neat and orderly as everything else in Mark’s flat is. No plates left to drain in the rack, no dirty coffee mugs on the table, no overflowing pedal bins. The scent of lemons drifts over to her from the sink. So clean, so organised, unlike Natalie’s own kitchen, where the fridge is a place for food to die and the tea towels are always grubby. She’s frequently teased Mark about his penchant for tidiness. He always shrugs, telling her that’s just the way he prefers things.
Now she considers his sterile surroundings symbolic of how little she knows about the man she’s been dating. Mark’s never been one to talk much about his past. From what he’s told her, his mother and father are dead and he has no other family. How, as a child, he had an ordinary upbringing here in Bristol. If he’s really Joshua Barker, then that’s a lie. Natalie remembers both of Abby Morgan’s killers come from Exeter. Same as the letter. As for his parents being dead, well, his mother certainly intends to be exactly that where her son’s concerned. Natalie’s not sure any longer whether she blames the woman for deserting him.
The letter. Natalie recalls how worn the creases are, how often it must have been read over the years. What emotions does it evoke in Mark each time he unfolds it? Those stark words, revealing a mother’s rejection of her son. Small wonder, she thinks, Mark has always been reluctant to discuss anything that hints at them having a future together. He’s been concealing the capacity to murder a child, a defenceless two-year-old, and she’s been considering having kids with him. Such a man has no business being a father.
You’ve got to admit it, Natalie
, the voice within her berates.
You’ve picked some turkeys in the past when it comes to men, but this one beats them all. A child killer? Really?
Some small part of her protests, however. She remembers moments of tenderness, rare and thus precious, from Mark. Sometimes he seems like he’s holding his emotions on a leash before temporarily setting them free, his smile soft and warm as he bends down to kiss her. Moments like these have kept her going every time he’s shied away from her hints about seeing each other more often, perhaps getting a place together. They’re now insisting she allow Mark a chance to explain. Either give her some credible explanation as to why he has Linda Curtis’s letter to her grandson in his bedside cabinet, if he’s not Joshua Barker. Or, if he is, explain Abby Morgan’s death to her. How he was just a child at the time; how he never intended anything so dreadful to happen.
Natalie looks at her watch. Four o’clock. Mark won’t be home until six. Decision made; she’ll wait, and confront him when he walks through the door.
She’ll have to skip any more comfort food, though. She recalls again how she’s hoped this man will father a baby with her, and with that, the image of a bloodied and battered Abby Morgan forces its way into her brain. Her stomach clenches and heaves and she only just makes it to the bathroom in time. A vile mess of bread, ham and biscuits surges up from Natalie’s guts as she retches over the toilet bowl, one thought hammering through her brain.
Dear God, let it be a mistake. Don’t let him be Joshua Barker. Please.
2
SEVEN, EIGHT, LAY THEM STRAIGHT
‘We need more sacks of bonding compound, the twenty-five kilo ones. Ditto for six-mil gravel. Sort it before you leave, would you? Twenty of each should do us for the Wilson order.’
‘On it, boss.’ Where the hell is his order pad? Anxiety rises in Mark Slater, flooding him the way it always does when he’s mislaid something, the order in his cubbyhole office mirroring the neatness in his flat. As does the lack of dust, the scent of lemon air freshener. Natalie, ever the untidy one, likes to tease him about being a neat freak, as she calls him. He can hear her in his head now, the laughter in her voice as she speaks. ‘A place for everything and everything in its place,’ she mocks. ‘Just like me. Or not, as you’ll have realised now you’ve been to my flat. Did you get this from your parents?’
Mark’s at a loss when Natalie asks questions about his life before her. Often his only refuge is a lie. ‘Yes,’ he replies, not caring to be more specific, changing the subject, understanding Natalie is only teasing and doesn’t expect anything more than a joking response. She’ll never know his answer isn’t true. OK, his mother always demanded tidiness from him, but the urge for greater regularity comes later on for Mark, after her flinty brand of maternal care no longer features in his life. For him, methodology represents a desperate attempt to impose control on a world that so far has proved unpredictable.
He finds the missing pad under some invoices in his filing tray and breathes out the tension he’s been holding. All is well in his world again. He glances at the clock. Nearly five; just enough time to order the gravel, file the day’s paperwork and then head for home.
Once he’s off the phone, he tears off the completed purchase slip and places it on top of the others he’s done that day, squaring the edges up so they align perfectly.
Seven, eight, lay them straight,
he chants to himself in his head. He batches them in groups of ten, a nice, round comforting number he likes, and lines them up in his hole punch as close to the exact middle as possible. He squeezes hard, and then slides out the purchase slips, sticking reinforcements over the holes before filing everything away in date sequence. Order has been imposed once more on his office, meaning Mark can breathe more easily.
‘You got anything planned for tonight, mate?’ It’s his boss, Steve Taylor, again. A good guy, someone prepared to take a gamble on him four years ago. Something for which Mark’s always been grateful. Steve hasn’t a clue who his assistant manager really is, beyond knowing he’s an ex-offender, but the man has grown to trust him. As have his colleagues. The official story is that Mark has served time for burglary offences and nobody’s ever enquired too deeply. Not the most exciting of jobs, working at Steve’s building supplies firm, but Mark, at twenty-five, has had enough excitement in his life, and he’s quietly proud of the way he’s transformed himself from raw ex-offender to assistant manager in four years.
‘Going for a run, as per usual.’ He doesn’t mention his plans with Natalie. Mark’s never told Steve about her. If his boss wonders why his employee never mentions dating women, thinks perhaps he might be gay, he never says anything, never poses awkward questions. Truth is, Mark’s had a slew of women since his release from prison four years ago, his body eager to catch up with the fantasies he’s had to make do with throughout the long years of incarceration. He doesn’t allow his innate shyness to hold him back when he’s first let out; although not classically good-looking, he’s got that certain something that reels women in, and they’re not shy about coming forward about it. They drool over his cropped mahogany-hued hair and his matching eyes. They like his height, all six feet of it. They’re partial to the tuft of dark hair peeking over his T-shirt, promising a manly, hairy chest. Mark gives the impression he knows how to deliver a good fuck, even though he’s clueless when first released. With practice, though, his level of expertise rapidly rises.
He never allows himself to get too close to any particular woman, though. Too risky. He’s bound under the terms of his release to inform Tony Jackson, the police officer who monitors him, if he gets into any relationship that goes beyond a few quick shags. Mark realises that if he does, Jackson will grill him relentlessly about the woman concerned. Why? Because preserving his anonymity is crucial.
His new identity. He’s only been Mark Slater for the past four years, ever since his release from the adult prison he’s transferred to after Vinney Green. Joshua Barker vanishes that day, replaced by Mark Slater, the name effectively erasing all traces of his old life. A transformation contingent on him severing all ties with the past, including his family, although of course everyone involved in creating his new identity is aware his father is dead and his mother long gone. Only his grandparents, Roy and Linda Curtis, remain, assuming they’re still alive. As a result, Mark’s always been as tight-lipped as a clam about his past. The threat of vigilante action hangs over him like a malevolent cloud, along with the need to avoid even more taxpayers’ money being used to forge a second fresh identity.
As for personal relationships, any woman he dates has to be someone who won’t go running straight to the press if she ever finds out the truth. Mark’s not allowed to tell her, of course. He’s supposed to mention he’s on the Violent and Sex Offenders Register, at which point most women will run in the opposite direction. Prospective partners need to deal with the fact that, although Mark’s unable to give specifics, he’s either a violent offender, a sexual predator, or both. Not many women are prepared to accept a skeleton as big, ugly and undefined as that in someone’s past. Tony Jackson has always stressed this point. So every month when they meet, Mark gets asked whether he’s dating anyone on a regular basis. He always assures Jackson he’s playing the field, long and hard, an answer that satisfies the other man. Another box on his list ticked.
It’s been true up to recently. Four months ago, he met Natalie Richards, though, and since that day, everything’s changed.
He should really tell Tony Jackson about her. She’s definitely more than a convenient fuck buddy; he realises he’s in deep emotionally with this one. Besides, she’s made it plain she wants more from him.
More than he’s able to give, though.
Mark sighs, and heads off for a piss before the walk home. He chooses a stall rather than one of the urinals, simply so he can sit for a minute and clear the crap of his working day out of his brain. That way, he’ll be fresh for his daily seven-mile run. Head in his hands, breathing in the lingering whiff of urine in the air, he thinks more about Natalie.
He’s seeing her tonight. Nothing fancy, just Mark going to her flat after his run. They’ll order in Chinese, watch a DVD and later they’ll fuck. He hopes like hell she won’t press him about moving things between them forward, not that she’s ever overly pushy about it. No strident demands, thank God. Not Natalie’s style. Merely the odd hint now and again, about seeing each other more often, getting a place together someday. As well as mentioning how much she loves babies. Mark’s pained by the hurt in her face when he abruptly turns the conversation once the pin’s been pulled from that particular grenade. He’s clocked her insecurities long ago, along with the comfort eating. Might explain why he’s taken to her so much. They’re alike, he and Natalie, he reckons, both as messed-up and fragile inside their heads as each other. She’s pretty, of course, which obviously helps, even though she doesn’t believe in her own attractiveness. Natalie views the extra kilos she carries as ugly; Mark sees them as soft and squishy flesh, resulting in her large boobs and the gentle curve of her belly. Flesh that’s delicious to squeeze, to stroke, to savour. Far sexier than some woman who may have a medically acceptable body mass index but whose stomach doesn’t provide the comforting cushion Natalie’s does. He tells her, in the warm afterglow of sex, what a lovely shade of brunette her hair is, shiny as a ripe conker; how he has a thing for chocolate eyes like hers. She always looks embarrassed, but pleased, when he talks that way, and Mark knows he should say more of that sort of thing.
