My Last Confession (3 page)

Jeremy Bagshaw had spent most of the previous two weeks trying not to cry. It wasn’t okay to cry in Sandhill. In fact, it was the opposite of okay. Tough guys going for you, officers laughing at you, and worst of all, other criers assuming closeness and seeking you out.

‘I know how you feel,’ a scar-faced emaciate had said to him the previous day.

He’d looked back and thought, ‘No, you don’t.’

For the whole two weeks, he’d been alone in his cell twenty-three hours a day. He spent the other hour
walking
in a concrete circle, wondering why he’d bothered to leave his cell at all – what with the rain, the hateful looks of the officers sitting watching, and the imminent threat of death from the toughs who circled the quadrangle like piranha.

He’d seen prisons like Sandhill on television, but he hadn’t expected it to be quite so grim – five stone ‘halls’ in a row, each a cavernous rectangle bordered with closed steel doors three storeys high: brick and stone and steel, all hard and cold like the officers who dotted the landings.

Inside his cell was a bunk bed, a desk, a television, a junkie (invariably) and a toilet. Jeremy was thankful for the latter when he learnt that only two years earlier he’d have found a swirling bucket of shit instead.

For twenty-three hours each day Jeremy stared at either the television or the underbelly of the top bunk, and thought of Amanda.

Amanda, whose Scottish accent had lured him from one end of the Stoke and Ferret to the other, then from one end of the country to the other. She was sitting drinking cheap cider when he first clapped eyes on her, and by the end of the night she was dancing in Kensington Gardens and singing ‘Flower of Scotland’ louder rather than better.

‘I have chocolate at mine,’ Amanda said, flopping down on the grass beside Jeremy.

‘Then we must go and get it,’ he said, standing up and pulling her towards him.

The B & B was a small, grotty building nestled between two large hotels. Amanda unlocked the front door, led Jeremy through the hall, into the kitchen, and rummaged through the cupboards. There were baked beans, tinned tomatoes, bread, but no chocolate.

‘You lured me here under false pretences,’ Jeremy said.

‘Indeed,’ she replied, pushing him against the fridge and kissing him violently.

Jeremy fell asleep beside her later that night. And when they woke in the early hours they were surprised to find each other even more attractive sober, surprised also to find that they were naked and that a woman in her twenties was staring at them from her bed under the window.

‘Hello,’ Jeremy whispered, looking into Amanda’s eyes.

‘Hello,’ Amanda replied.

‘I’ve never met anyone quite like you,’ Jeremy said.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I’ve never met anyone quite like you. Say my name.’

‘What is it again?’

‘Jeremy.’

‘Jeremy,’ she obeyed.

‘Say it again.’

‘Jeremy,’ she said bluntly, then more softly,’ … Jeremy.’

‘Jeremy and Amanda …’ – he paused – ‘… are being watched.’

The room-mate’s cat-eyes were shining with unashamed voyeurism.

‘Let’s go get that chocolate!’ said Amanda.

They got dressed and walked four blocks in search of Lion Bars and Crunchies. Eventually, a twenty-four-hour supermarket appeared and as if by magic it had Lion Bars, Crunchies and seven different types of condoms.

Jeremy was taken aback when they got to the B & B and Amanda put the Crunchie in his mouth before
kneeling
and putting the condom on his penis, because the woman in her twenties was still in the room, sleeping in her bed under the window, only two or three feet away.

Jeremy saw the room-mate wriggle and he tried to warn Amanda, but there was now a Lion Bar in his mouth, one which had been elsewhere first and which did not taste the better for it. He could not say, ‘There’s a geeky type over there, and we’re naked except for a
well-travelled
chocolate bar.’

But he didn’t need to warn her because Amanda knew the girl was there, knew she was pretending to be asleep
in the bed but readying herself with the bristles of her soft rubber hairbrush.

‘Sally?’ Amanda said, but the girl’s eyes remained shut. ‘Sally?’ Amanda said, crawling over to the bed under the window and placing her head under the duvet.

Jeremy was in love! He watched the bump under the duvet sway and grind and then watched the girl’s head do the same, her eyes open now and beckoning him.

He was in love. What man wouldn’t be?

‘You’ll never handle her,’ the room-mate said flatly when Amanda left to ablute afterwards.

Jeremy covered himself up, suddenly self-conscious.

When Amanda came back in, she jumped onto the bed with such energy that Jeremy found himself saying, ‘I love you!’

She snuggled into him and wondered if he would be like every other guy – who loved the whacky side of her that fucked like crazy and jumped onto beds, but after a day or two started to find her insatiable desire for adventure exhausting and irritating.

But Jeremy wasn’t scared off like the other guys. He didn’t think she was crazy or whacky, just honest and spontaneous. If she wanted something, she found a way to get it.

‘I want to drop E at the Chelsea Flower Show,’ she said a few days after they met, and together they wandered through flowers so glorious they’d wanted to cry.

‘I want to have chicken and champagne in Hyde Park at 5 a.m.,’ she said, and so the bubbles rose with the sun.

And if she needed something, she asked for it.

‘Please hold me.’

‘Please make me some soup.’

‘Please stand up and sing me a love song from
beginning
to end.’

Jeremy felt alive with her. They explored the city together. They went to the movies. They took buses to unknown places, breathed in the world, saw and did new things. He watched her jump naked onto the bed at least twenty times after their first encounter, and reckoned he could have watched her jump naked onto beds for ever.

‘You can have your own room!’ Jeremy told her when she said she was getting sick of her room-mate a few weeks after they met. ‘And separate washing baskets!’

Amanda moved into Jeremy’s Islington flat the next day. Physically it wasn’t hard. All she had was a rucksack filled with clothes that were stiff and fusty from three months of hand washing. Emotionally it was agony. Amanda was a runner, always on the go. She’d left her Glasgow home at the age of sixteen and moved to Edinburgh, then travelled around Europe, then Asia, then moved to London. A few months here, a few there, always leaving before interesting new friends became needy.

It was two months ago that she’d arrived at Liverpool Street. She got a part-time job doing manicures and had twice won employee of the month. It was fun, as fun as anywhere else, but she knew it started to concern her when her room-mate Sally, during a late-night
conversation,
declared Amanda to be ‘the best friend I’ve ever had’. Amanda stayed awake all night with the worry of it.

It wasn’t that she was seriously damaged by any
childhood
trauma, or that she had no family, or a bad one.
Quite the contrary. It was something else that made her drift. Some unfinished business in Glasgow that was too hard to face, for now.

But then she met Jeremy, and everything changed. He was a wonderful combination of danger and safety and he made her feel ready to face anything.

He looked after her, bought her things and took her places. ‘I’ll pick you up,’ he’d say, after her evening shift at the salon, and he’d always be on time, parked in his Alfa with his music on and a big smile as she walked towards him in her short white uniform.

‘I’ll make you dinner,’ he’d say, and the meal would be delicious and beautifully presented.

Jeremy wasn’t just paternal. He was exciting: he liked driving fast on country roads, walking barefoot through fields, and he greeted her unusual ideas with enthusiasm. He was clever: he read poetry and the
Observer
and enjoyed discussing issues over dinner. He was handy: he knew how to make things, and in fact presented Amanda with a beautiful hand-crafted chestnut jewellery box on their one-week anniversary. Not least, he was sexually daring: he knew about Purr Parties, held in the homes of the members, where single girls went to meet couples. The two of them went several times in the two months that they weren’t married and made rules – never one without the other, the third always jointly chosen.

So Amanda was in love too. What girl wouldn’t be? A rich property developer, tall and blond, handsome and not averse to rimming. She wondered how she’d had managed to pull him. She couldn’t wait till her family and friends met him. They wouldn’t believe what she’d
managed
. A drifter like her, with him!

‘Will you marry me?’ Jeremy asked only seven weeks after the night of the Lion Bar.

And that was that.

Soon after, they tied the knot in a register office in Camden. And that night Amanda jumped naked onto the Savoy Super Kingsize bed and said: ‘I’m taking you to Glasgow!’

I planned my afternoon to a perfection. First, visit sex offender’s parents’ house. Second, attend pre-release case conference for said sex offender. Third, interview Jeremy Bagshaw.

Mr James Marney’s parents lived in a high-rise flat on the south of the city. All four other high-rises were
boarded
up, ready for demolition, and number 99 – having thus far escaped the battlefield of rejuvenation – lay wounded in the middle. The Marneys lived on the
thirteenth
floor, so I had two options: dodge the shit and needles on the stairs, or take my chances in the lift. I chose latter, staring at the buttons as they failed to light up, and praying the doors wouldn’t open en route to let someone get in to stare at me, rob me, smash me over the head.

I exited safely at the thirteenth floor, and walked the scabby corridor until I found number 13/7. It took a while for Mrs Marney to answer the door, and when she did she didn’t open it very far. She was a clean,
earthy-looking
woman in her sixties. Before responding to my introduction, she closed the door even further and yelled to her husband: ‘Frank, the social work’s here! Frank! Social work!’

Through the tiny crack in the door, she checked my ID card very thoroughly and asked repeatedly about the
reasons for my visit. A moment later, her husband Frank, not so earthy-looking (angry, I’d say, scary even), came to the door and ushered me inside.

The flat was a shock after the filth of the lift and landing. It was neat and perfectly clean, with prints of hunting scenes on the wall, embroidered cloths on the arms of the couch, and a ridiculously large television set complete with DVD player and a huge collection of movies in the corner. I’d done loads of home visits in child protection, so I knew the score – surprise visits are often more
fruitful,
don’t accept crusty mugs of tea or coffee, sit on a non-fabric seat if possible, and take notice of everything. These rules in mind, I took out the list of questions I needed to ask, which Danny had kindly printed off for me, and fired away.

They lived alone. They were pensioners. They were more than happy for their son to live with them after his release. They had his room ready. They would co-operate with supervision, as long as we phoned first. They had one other daughter – single, no children – who lived in the north of the city. They felt terrible for their son, who was not allowed to see his children unsupervised – James junior and Robert now lived with their maternal
grandmother
in Stirling. Oh, and they were absolutely sure he was innocent. James junior, they argued, had made a silly comment at nursery, and was then tricked into
fabricating
an elaborate tale. ‘Just nonsense,’ Mr Marney said. ‘He’s an excellent dad. Brought the kids up by himself after Margie died, God rest her.’

‘You know you won’t be able to have the children to visit while he’s here, not unsupervised,’ I said.

‘We never see them,’ said Mr Marney.

‘Well, if you want to, we need to okay it first. The police will need to approve the address too, and visit
regularly.
You understand?’ I said, scouring the room and taking note of the DVD collection.

‘Aye, but there’ll be no need.’

‘Do you mind if I use the loo?’ I asked.

This was one of the ploys I’d used in childcare. Find a way to snoop. As usual, it worked.

‘You were saying you never see the kids,’ I said, taking my non-fabric seat a few minutes later.

‘Aye, it’s a shame,’ Frank said curtly.

‘So it’s you who uses Teletubbies toothbrushes?’ I asked. ‘And watches Pingu?’ I gestured to the penguin, who was hiding among the pile of DVDs next to the gigantic television.

Their faces were white as I stood up. ‘Can I see the bedrooms?’

Of course, they didn’t want me to see the bedrooms.

Frank started yelling at me: ‘Who the hell do you think you are, stopping a good man seeing his kids?’

Mrs Marney tried to escort me to the door.

The kids in the bedroom started crying, then James junior managed to get the door open.

‘Hi, kids,’ I said, peering into the bedroom where two gorgeous little boys had been hiding since my arrival. The room looked well lived-in, with bunk beds, Ikea children’s furniture, clothing, and piles and piles of toys.

I didn’t get a chance to explain what would happen next. Truth be known, I wasn’t sure anyway. Mr Marney told me to get the hell out and slammed the door in my face.

I’m great at this job
, I thought to myself as I headed off to Sandhill. This guy had intended to live with his children, his victims. He was happy to lie to social work, the parole board and the police, and he had the
wholehearted
support of his parents.

Sandhill gave me the shivers. I’d been there before,
visiting
Chas, and the smell and look of it made me ill to the stomach. Mothers with babies smoked at the front door, white vans drove in and out, ferrying men to or from court, grumpy visits officers checked names on sheets and escorted people into the visits area.

I gave my name and took a seat in the foyer between two cheery-looking women.

‘How’s he doing?’ one of the women asked the other.

‘Och, it’s his first time,’ she said. ‘He’ll be better next time.’

Another world, Sandhill. Normal to most of its visitors, an expected part of life.

Eventually, a young gum-chewing admin worker escorted me through the staff entrance, where my bags were scanned and my ID checked. I followed her along a pretty garden area with a smokers’ hut, through a huge steel gate, past the halls and into a Portakabin.

In a small room, four men sat at a table. A prison social worker, a prison officer, a policeman and Mr James Marney.

Shit, he was already there. I had no time to prep the others about my home visit.

Mr Marney was just what I expected. He had what I call the paedophile aura, a yellowish colour that coated
his smug, normal, good-guy respectability. When he looked at me, I felt as though he’d spotted a victim and could see my past a mile a way. He seemed to smirk at me. I hated him. I hated sitting next to him. I hated being anywhere near him.

The prison officer introduced everyone and began
rambling
on about how well Mr Marney had done in prison, completing group work for sex offenders, responding particularly well to the victim empathy module, getting on well with fellow inmates, and working hard in the joinery shed.

‘Can I stop you there?’ I interrupted. ‘I’m just back from visiting the proposed release address.’ I gestured to the police officer. ‘I understand you haven’t been out there yet? It’s clear Mr Marney’s children are living with his parents.’

Penetrating Mr Marney’s yellow cloud with steely eyes that warned
I am no victim
, I continued. ‘You and your family appear to have misled us, and because of this it seems improbable that you would co-operate with
supervision.
Also, in my opinion, releasing you to the given address would place James and Robert at a very high risk of harm.’

The prison officer and the prison social worker were shocked. The police officer smiled from his end of the table. He looked like a forty-year-old Sean Connery but his voice was unfortunately very squeaky, which let the whole 007 thing down a wee bit.

‘My, my. Is that so?’ squeaked PC Bond.

What followed was an uncomfortable interrogation by Bond that eroded Marney’s calm, and his story, piece by piece.

I never knew … They must’ve been visiting … The
in-laws
are arseholes … I wouldn’t let them stay there … They miss me … They love me … I never touched them … He’s fucking lying … Why the hell can’t I live with my own kids? Why should I find somewhere else to live?

‘Well done, Krissie,’ said Bond on the way out of the case conference.

‘Cheers,’ I said.

The prison social worker, Bob, escorted me back over to the Agents’ visits area. He was beautifully dressed and very well groomed, and he knew everyone. En route, we spotted the priest, the rabbi and the minister, who were walking back from lunch.

‘So what’s the punch line?’ he asked them.

Bob schmoozed the gate staff as we entered the main foyer, and spoke so rudely to the receptionist that I thought she might kill him (‘Love the skirt! Primark or TK Maxx?’). Instead of killing him, she simply slapped him on the arm with a ‘See
you
!’ Bob obviously had a way with people. He could tell the receptionist he’d shagged her husband and get a laugh. Mind you, he
probably
had.

Bob left me to wait in the Agents’ area to interview Jeremy Bagshaw. With my first pre-release meeting fresh in my mind, I felt on top of the world, ready for anything.

Hell, I was shit hot.