‘Yes, I remember that – those one-way conversations with him were so frustrating.’ Connie raised her eyebrows at the recollection.
Jen’s forehead wrinkled. ‘Why can’t you see him now?’
‘Ethically. His mum is a client of mine.’ The only reason she’d decided it wasn’t unethical seeing Alice Mann was the fact Kyle had never spoken a word during any of Connie’s previous encounters with him. It was ironic she was now concerned about seeing Kyle because of her sessions with his mum.
Jen sat up straighter, her mouth gaping. ‘Oh! Um … well, to be honest, Con, I don’t reckon it’ll matter much. He still hasn’t uttered a word to any of us. We need his report doing, but I’m not expecting any great things. It’ll be compiled on what we already have in his file, and info from the wing records, his personal officer and whatnot. I mean, I could swap him for another, but we’ve all started the assessments on the other guys …’
Connie pursed her lips. If Kyle had not spoken to any of the psychology or programmes team before, he was unlikely to now. Maybe it wouldn’t be unethical. She’d literally be going over old ground, things she’d already known before. She weighed it up in her mind. If he didn’t speak, then it wouldn’t take very much time to get his report done. That was a bonus – she could get out of the prison even more quickly than she’d hoped if she didn’t have to start from scratch with a new prisoner with lots to say.
‘His risk is going to remain high if he doesn’t comply, doesn’t commit to doing any offender behaviour work. He does know that, right?’
‘Con, he’s been informed many a time. There are a lot of refusers, he’s not the only one, and it would appear they don’t care whether it’s keeping them from progressing through the system.’
‘I bet he’s the only one who’s never spoken, though?’
‘Yes, that’s true. Four years of silence is some accomplishment. I just can’t understand why he won’t talk.’
Connie delved into her somewhat hazy memory of the case. ‘Wasn’t there a suspicion someone else was involved with the crime?’
‘There was something like that.’ Jen moved to her keyboard and opened the OASys database, which kept records and assessments of all the offenders in the establishment. She scanned through the various pages, searching for the details of the offence. ‘Of course, this didn’t come from Kyle Mann – it says here that police suggested due to the nature of the abduction and murder that it was improbable that a single individual was able to carry it out. The police pushed Kyle for details, but he went down the no comment line, and they didn’t have any substantial proof, so …’ Jen clicked on another page in OASys: ‘the only hard evidence they had was all stacked against Kyle and it was enough to safely convict him of the murder of Sean Taylor.’
‘He was only eighteen.’ Connie frowned. ‘Such a terrible crime for someone so young.’
‘Poor bloody victim, though. Jesus, have you read the file?’
‘I did originally, back when he first came to us, but haven’t refamiliarised myself yet. When I saw the name, I thought it best I should mention it.’
Jen tapped her pen against her bottom lip. ‘It’s not like your client is the victim’s mother – then I’d definitely say not to carry out his assessments and report. But I don’t see a conflict of interest here. As long as you don’t disclose anything of your work here to Kyle’s mother, and vice versa, then there’s nothing to worry about. And anyway, like I said, it’s not like we’re going to gain new information from him, is it?’ Jen held the file up.
Connie took it from her. ‘Okay. No problem, I’ll get to work.’
‘Deborah.’ I hear the voice, but somehow it sounds far away, like a distant echo, rather than directly behind me.
I carry on walking, entering the building.
‘Hey, Deb!’ It’s more insistent. She knows I hate being called Deb. I guess I can’t really ignore her now. It’ll be obvious I’ve heard that harsh yell.
My muscles are all tense. What does she want?
I slow and, reluctantly, turn to face Marcie. My boss.
Her face is flushed, but otherwise she’s the usual picture of perfection. She’s half my age, practically, and runs the marketing business with her brother.
‘Didn’t think you were going to stop,’ she says, her breathing rapid.
‘Miles away, sorry. Just keen to get to work, you know me,’ I say with a smile I know is disingenuous.
‘I wanted to catch you before we reached the office. Have a quick chat.’
My pulse dips. This can’t be good. This’ll be a ‘you’re not pulling your weight’ kind of chat. My mind has been preoccupied of late; I’m here in body, but my head has been AWOL. I’ve been in this job for seventeen years – I was here at the beginning, when her father, George, ran the place. I’d secured and managed some of the company’s biggest client accounts. George had often told me I was indispensable. I’d loved the job back then – and although I can’t say that with conviction now, I still need it; it’s my home from home.
Before I realise what’s happening, Marcie’s arm is looped through mine and she’s gently steering me back to the door, against the throng of people entering the foyer. I catch sight of Andrew and Marcus; they stare questioningly at us as we exit the building. This will set the office gossips going. They will be thinking I’m about to get the sack.
Oh, bloody hell. Am I about to get the sack?
I need this job. I can’t do without it. Not only the money, but the time outside of my own head – when I can focus. It’s what keeps me going.
I swallow the rising panic. Take a steadying breath.
‘What’s this all about, Marcie?’ I say as she guides me into the Costa a few feet away.
‘Coffee and a heart-to-heart.’ She grins. Her teeth are a perfect line of white squares. She gets them whitened. Everything on this woman is falsely enhanced: teeth, eyelashes, eyebrows, hair, boobs, the lot. I suddenly feel old and ugly in her presence.
But at least I’m real.
And a cosy heart-to-heart with this young, business-driven woman is really not what I need right now. I still remember her prior attempts to get me to open up. I easily brushed aside her offers to chat. But now – almost four years later – she’s actually managed to ‘trap’ me. It’s futile, though. This chat. How is she likely to understand what I went through? What I’m still going through? Every single day is a struggle. A struggle to stay in this life.
I sit at a table at the back of the coffee house, waiting for her to bring the drink I don’t want. I used to love people-watching. It was one of my favourite pastimes. Not any longer. I don’t care enough about them to watch. Their lives are of no interest to me.
I watch as Marcie heads towards me with two lattes on a tray. I don’t even like coffee.
I can hear my own heartbeat.
I lean my elbows on the table, clasping my hands together to stop them shaking.
‘Thank you,’ I say as she places the drink in front of me.
‘Right. So, Deborah, how are things for you at the moment?’