At last, I saw the doors and was able to get out. But the mall was crowded, now, and my ears throbbed with the clamour: squeals of laughter from a group of women, a screeching child in a pushchair, and behind it all the tinkle of piped music.
It was hot, so hot, and, head down to hide the tears that had begun to sting my eyes, I made for the main doors. As I reached them, a teenage boy charged through, bashing hard into my shoulder. The stab of pain brought me back to my senses and I made myself stand for a moment to get my bearings, then headed for the seafront.
On the promenade I stopped, leaned on the rails, and looked out over the calm water, slowing my breath to match each rhythmic sweep of waves back and forth. You’re not in prison anymore, I told myself, and the woman was trying to help you. That’s what people do outside. Five years of learning to fight, to meet aggression with aggression, to show everyone you’re hard so they won’t bully you. To make sure you never let anyone near your precious spends, or your few belongings. That was something I had to unlearn if I was to be fit for normal society.
Back at the house, I felt in my bag for the keys, my breath catching when I couldn’t find them.
‘Here, I’ve got mine out already, let me do it.’ It was the young woman with her pushchair. The red-faced baby, head slumped, asleep.
‘I’m Nicola, Nic, and you must be Alice’s sister. It’s Clare isn’t it? She said you’d be moving in soon.’ I managed a nod as she opened the door and together we dragged the pushchair inside.
‘Honestly, the nursery phones me at work,’ she said. ‘“Your Molly’s been sick you need to come and get her.” By the time I’m there she’s playing and laughing with her little mates, but they still make me take her home. Any excuse.’
Her chatter helped to calm me and I found my keys easily enough.
‘Let’s have a coffee sometime,’ she said, hauling the baby into her arms. The little girl was blonde, like her mother, her hair curling at the nape of her neck, chunky legs hanging down. So vulnerable.
In the flat, I made some tea, cradling the warm mug. Tea was Ruby’s remedy. At one session in prison, the therapist, Mike, asked us to write and read out an account of our lowest moment. For Ruby it was when her pimp threatened her children if she didn’t work that night. She stabbed him. ‘But the kids are safe with my mum and they know I did it for them.’ Mike sat po-faced, as the rest of us clapped.
I couldn’t bring myself to read my account and Ruby told me I needed a cup of tea. I gave her the paper and afterwards there were tears in her eyes to match my own.
I killed my family. That was what I’d written. My father, my husband, and my darling son. And my darkest moment was when I finally had to admit I must have been to blame. I couldn’t remember the crash and although some people thought that should be a comfort, Ruby realised it only added to the agony.
It was my cousin Emily’s wedding day, in the Lake District. I’d never driven Dad’s Mercedes before and I enjoyed the contrast of its smooth comfort to the bumps and grunts of my own rust bucket. But it was further than we’d realised, the roads narrow and winding, and we were only just in time at the small, stone church. It was next to the farm where the reception was to be held, overlooking one of the smaller lakes, and I remembered thinking how beautiful it was; the day one of those cloudless rarities so precious in that part of the world.
Dad sat next to me in the passenger seat and Steve was annoying me by tickling our giggling eight-year-old, Toby. I told my son to calm down; he was going to have to behave in the church. He answered in a voice bubbling with hysteria. ‘Don’t tell me, Mum. It’s Dad’s fault. Tell him.’ And that’s where the memories stopped.
At first I’d hoped, and dreaded, that I would recover the rest eventually, but only the odd flash returned. In hospital, Alice had tried to fill me in on the facts she knew and of course I’d heard plenty more during the trial, but nothing seemed to explain what had happened when I crashed the car on the way back that night, or how I managed to crawl free leaving the others to burn.
Or why my bloodstream had been full of amphetamines.
Next day, I had to see my probation officer. The office was not far and I made sure I arrived early. I wasn’t surprised to have to wait for what seemed ages on an uncomfortable plastic chair, but the woman who came to get me was brisk and smiling. ‘Nice to meet you, Clare,’ she said, leading me to a stuffy cupboard of an office and glancing at her watch as she closed the door. Apparently I could call her Sophie and she was sure we would get on well.
She had an open file on her desk. I looked away from it, didn’t want to read anything about myself there.
‘I’m going for a job interview later today,’ I said, knowing that was what she wanted to hear. Her eyes strayed to the clock on the wall and she said we would need to meet weekly for a while, but that could probably be reduced soon.
‘If you do get work, let me know and we can organise our meetings to suit your hours. But you must make sure you attend regularly.’ She glanced at the file and her index finger grazed the top page. ‘And of course you must stay clear of drugs,’ She beamed up at me. ‘But I know you’ll do that, Clare.’
The room was suddenly silent and, although she continued to smile at me, all I could see was her finger still moving back and forth, no doubt tracing the words of my conviction: causing death by careless driving under the influence of drugs. I swallowed. Careless had always seemed to me such a strange way to describe something so terrible.
Outside, I stood taking deep breaths of fresh air and longing to head back to the flat, but instead I forced myself to turn towards the shopping mall. I managed to find a dress and some sandals and at home I took a shower and put them on. I didn’t dare look in a full length mirror, but they seemed to fit and made me feel fresh and clean. My hair stayed as unmanageable as ever, but after struggling with it for an hour I gave up and finally got myself out of the flat, my insides churning.
Bunches was on one of the narrow streets of the Old Town, just a stone’s throw from the flat. I paced up and down, a few yards from the place, willing myself to go in. Once, I had my hand on the door but then turned away to study some second-hand books on a rack outside the neighbouring shop. Finally, I forced myself to go back, but I might have run away again had the door not opened and an elderly man stepped back to usher me in.
It was a tiny, old shop with a low ceiling and uneven, tiled floor. Tall vases and metal buckets stood near the walls, each one crammed with the flowers and greenery that filled the place with damp, peaty odours. A red-haired girl stood behind the counter. She looked up with a smile as the old-fashioned bell over the door jangled at my entry. ‘Can I help you?’
I swallowed, tempted to walk out again. But thinking of my promise to Alice, I said, ‘I’m looking for Mrs Lucas – Stella?’
She opened a door behind her and I glimpsed a small room, another door at the back open to the sunshine. More buckets of blooms crowded the floor and a long table was covered in loose flowers, ribbons, and coloured paper. ‘Mum, someone to see you.’
An older and curvier version of the girl emerged, removing gardening gloves and pushing red curls back from her face. ‘Hello. You wanted me?’
Once I’d introduced myself as Alice Frome’s sister she was all smiles. ‘Harriet, I’ll be upstairs for a bit with Clare. Try not to disturb us, will you?’ She ushered me through a side door and up a narrow staircase, explaining as we climbed that Harriet had been helping out since the last girl left but she was off to university in September. ‘So there’ll be a definite full-time vacancy, then. At the moment we need someone who can be flexible. It’ll