Broken Places (13 page)

‘Eric, you amaze me! I mean, you’ve clearly been through hell and back, and had to suffer all this monstrous inefficiency, yet you make out it’s just nothing.’

Hardly nothing. She didn’t know the half of it – perhaps no one ever would. There were limits to what you could actually admit. ‘I told you, I was lucky. Not just because I was spared a mum who was violent or
unbalanced
or high on crack-cocaine, but because I had someone in my early life who saved me from the scrapheap – a woman called Miss Mays, who worked at the public library. She took me under her wing, supervised my reading and gave me a set of values I’ve upheld to this day. I suppose she saw I had a bit of talent but no one to encourage it, so she took a personal interest in me, stopped me acting up or playing truant. She even invited me back to her home and helped me with school projects and stuff. And she was determined to correct my accent, on the grounds that, if I “spoke proper”, it would help me get a better job. I have to confess I was a common little brat before
she
came on the scene. No one had taught me manners, you see, and I’d got into the habit of swearing like a trooper, because everyone around me swore. By the time she’d polished me up, though, I was becoming quite a toff!’

Mandy was looking puzzled. ‘But how could just one person effect such a transformation?’

‘It only needs one, Mandy, so long as that person’s really dedicated. And Miss Mays was single, with no children or dependents, which meant she could devote a lot of time to me. She was a principled woman, with a social conscience and very high ideals, so maybe she wanted a sort of … mission in life. The library was her passion, of course, but she had energy to spare and I suspect she was looking for some cause with more personal involvement. And she did genuinely believe in me and thought I had a future, which is extremely rare for any kid in care, so naturally I responded. It wasn’t easy, mind you. Often, I felt caught between two worlds – her genteel, middle-class one and the rough, tough one I knew. But every time I went through a delinquent phase, she intervened in a really forceful way, and made me—’

‘I’m sorry, Eric,’ Mandy interrupted, ‘but I just can’t believe you’ve ever been delinquent.’

‘You’d be surprised! I got in with the wrong crowd and started sniffing glue and taking gas and poppers and—’

‘But you seem so … so squeaky-clean.’

‘Far from it! When you’re cooped up in an institution with thirty other kids, there’s always someone egging you on to take drugs, or bunk off school, or nick cash from the staff, or sweets and stuff from people’s rooms. I actually started drinking and smoking at the ripe old age of twelve. We used to make “prison-ciggies” from filter-tips and fag-ends picked up from the street and, as for booze, it wasn’t beyond our wits to break into the local off-licence and make off with quarts of cider. But, despite my petty crimes, I knew at base that if I didn’t take this one big chance offered by Miss Mays, I’d end up as a dead-end kid – achieving nothing, constantly in trouble and being excluded from school, most like.’ He shuddered at the memory of just how low he might have sunk.

Mandy shook her head in bemusement. ‘Well, all I can say is your Miss Mays must have been a saint, if not a miracle-worker.’

‘She was both – and more besides. The only thing she couldn’t do is protect me from the bullies. Bullying’s rife in children’s homes, and I was a natural target, being small, red-haired and bookish. And when I tried to change my accent, I was taunted so badly for “talking posh”, that, in the end, I adopted two completely different kinds of speech – one for the home and one for elsewhere. It was quite tricky to keep switching between them, but I reckon it saved me a lot of thrashings! Mind you, I sometimes felt I couldn’t win, because even if I brought books back from the library, I’d be set upon again and beaten up. It was fatal to like reading because then you were classed as a geek, a sissy and almost certainly gay.’

‘But that’s plain daft, as well as cruel.’

He shrugged. ‘The same attitude’s around today, to some extent. But, you know, I only became a librarian because of Miss Mays’ influence. And it was the perfect job, of course. Most foundlings know zilch about their origins or parentage, so it was always a huge draw for me to be surrounded by certainty and knowledge – all those solid, indisputable facts,
encapsulated
in books.’

‘I’d like to meet this wonder-woman. Is she still alive?’

‘No, alas, though we always kept in touch. She died four years ago, and I honestly think I was more upset than anyone else at the funeral. So I
was
fortunate, you see. Most of the kids I grew up with had no one rooting for them, so it wasn’t really surprising if they messed up their lives and went to
the bad. And a lot of the girls got pregnant and often had their babies taken into care, just as
they’d
been, earlier. And some went on the game as young as twelve or thirteen, simply to make a bit of pocket money.’

Mandy got up and walked slowly to the window. ‘I feel thoroughly ashamed,’ she said, tracing a squiggly pattern on the cold and misted pane.

‘Whatever for?’

‘Because I’ve been so spoilt in comparison – I mean, coming from a happy, normal family, with two loving parents and a whole tribe of other relatives, to prevent me going off the rails. I wasn’t even
allowed
in a pub till I was officially eighteen!’

Yes, he thought, most normal folk took such things for granted: their family tree, family photos, family traditions; even their genetic inheritance. It required an imaginative leap to envisage how it felt to have no idea who you were, where you came from, or what sort of people your parents were. His mother might have been a duchess or a slag; his father a CBE or a thug. When the other kids said casually, ‘My dad’s a builder; my mum works in a hair-salon,’ he could hardly add his own version: ‘My dad’s a mystery; my mum’s an unknown quantity’. Indeed, sometimes, as a child, he had felt so insubstantial he’d become a sort of x-ray picture, with no colour or solidity and with all his bones and innards vulnerably exposed.

Suddenly he caught sight of the clock; horrified when he saw how late it was. He’d been banging on for hours and they hadn’t had their lunch yet, let alone their supper. The omelette would be ruined; Mandy’s plan for a cosy little meal in bed totally disrupted. ‘Mandy, I’m so sorry. I must have bored you rigid, going on about myself like that, when it’s
your
life I want to hear about.’

‘No, mine’s the boring one! Yours is just … amazing. And that
ambulance-man
was right, you know. You
are
a Victor. I mean, to have gone through all that trauma unscathed makes you a true hero.’ Returning from the window, she pulled him up from the sofa and put her arms around him. ‘Darling, I want to hear much more – every single detail of the story and how—’

He scarcely heard the rest of the sentence. It was the ‘darling’ he was fixated on; rolling it around his mouth; sucking it like the most delicious sweet. He was ‘darling’ again – and, even more momentous – for the first time in his cowardly life, he was a victor and a hero.

Eric padlocked his bike and stood looking up at the huge, fortress-like building opposite, suppressing a shudder as he recalled the gallows here, dismantled only in 1993. The thought of it induced a choking panic, as if
he
were the hapless bloke being bound and gagged and hooded; the noose closing round his neck, as he prepared for the dizzying drop. And, yes, it could have been him, he reflected – just as he, too, could be banged up here with the other 1400 men. His whole background and experience had taught him that those inside and those out were separated only by a hair’s-breadth, and whether you were fêted as a good, upstanding citizen, or condemned as so-called scum, was often just a matter of circumstance and fate.

Having unstrapped his case from the carrier on his bike, he crossed the road, dwarfed by the intimidating presence of the massive ramparts now rearing up in front of him. Pausing for a moment, to try to get his bearings, he located the main prison entrance up a flight of steps. However, once he’d humped the heavy case to the top, he was instructed to go down again and report to a second, smaller entrance, up a different set of steps. He was already feeling somewhat disoriented as he entered a bleak and featureless lobby and joined the queue at reception.

‘Yes?’ said the man behind the glass security-panel, when, at last, it was his turn.

‘My name’s Eric Parkhill and I’m here to attend the prison book club.’

The bloke checked through the visitors’ book, only to shake his head. ‘There’s no paperwork for a Mr Parkhill, which means you’re not expected.’

Eric frowned in consternation. ‘But I confirmed my visit yesterday – with the prison librarian, Abi Ayotundi.’

‘Abi’s not here.’

‘Not here? But he’s running the group this evening and he arranged to meet me an hour and a half before.’

‘Sorry, he’s not on the premises. That’s the information I’ve been given.’ The man consulted his book again. ‘In fact, there’s no paperwork for the book club either, so I reckon you must have got the date wrong.’

‘Look,’ said Eric, irritably. ‘I spoke to Abi in person less than twenty-four hours ago. And I’ve put off another engagement, in order to be here this evening.’

Despite the man’s dismissive shrug, Eric stood his ground. He’d be damned if he’d cycle all the way back to Vauxhall, on one of the coldest days of the year. ‘Can’t you ring through to the library and see what’s going on?’

With an audible sigh, the guy picked up the phone. ‘No reply,’ he reported; a note of almost glee in his voice. ‘I’d say they’ve all gone home.’

‘Well,
I’m
not going home. I was invited here for five o’clock and I want this sorted out.’

‘In that case, you’ll have to wait. I can’t keep all these people hanging around.’ He indicated the queue that had built up again in the last few minutes. ‘Take a seat over there.’

Reluctantly, Eric moved away and sat on the only chair – an
uncomfortable
thing in rigid plastic and positioned opposite the open door. Cold night air was blasting in from outside, threatening to numb his hands and feet, but, as he got up to close it, the man behind the desk yelled out a reprimand.

‘Hey! We leave that open deliberately, to keep the exit clear.’

Eric returned to his seat, fuming inwardly, He had expected a slightly warmer welcome, having gone to quite some trouble selecting books for the group, and turned down free tickets from Mandy for a special screening of
Mamma Mia
! tonight (not quite his cup of tea, but who cared, with her beside him?) Except the subject of Mandy was strictly banned for the
duration
of the evening, since it would only distract him from the job in hand. He actually regretted having confided in her at all, because of the storm of insecurities his confession had unleashed. Always before, he had kept a lid clamped firmly on his past; using suppression and concealment as tools to help him cope. But since prising off that lid, he seemed to be swamped in a toxic overflow, bubbling up from childhood. And he had made himself more vulnerable by revisiting those memories, as if he had shed a layer of insulating skin.

He could certainly do with insulation in this icebox of a lobby, where he continued to sit for an unaccountably long time, watching various people take their turn at the desk. He envied the fact that they seemed to be
expected and were treated with civility, not as intruders or impostors. Eventually, he concluded that he must have been forgotten and so went back to reception, to remind them of his existence.

There was now a second man on duty, wearing the same uniform of white shirt and smart black epaulettes. ‘Know where Abi is?’ the first guy asked his colleague.

‘Nope!’

‘And know anything about a book club?’

‘Nope!’

A third guy suddenly materialized from a small room at the back. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’ll be the lady from Roehampton University. She runs the club, along with Abi. In fact, I’m sure I’ve seen the paperwork.’ He grabbed the book and began riffling through the pages. ‘Yeah, here we are – Linda Lewis.’

‘That’s her!’ Eric cried, relieved.

‘But it doesn’t start till six-thirty – that’s what’s written here.’

‘I know, but, as I keep explaining, Abi asked me to meet him beforehand, which means you should have my name too.’

‘What
is
your name?’

Eric spelled it out again, beginning to feel distinctly Kafkaesque.

‘No, nothing here under Parkhill.’

The second guy now leaned over and consulted the book himself ‘That name rings a bell. Yes, Eric Parkhill. You’re meeting Abi at five.’

Which is what I’ve been trying to tell you for the last half-hour, Eric refrained from saying, pointing out instead that it was now twenty-eight minutes past.

‘And Abi’s not here anyway,’ the first bloke chipped in, helpfully.

‘Is he the sort of person likely to forget?’ Eric asked, with some anxiety. He had not yet met the fellow; had no idea whether he was reliable or not. All he knew was that Mr Ayotundi was six-foot-three and Nigerian.

‘Couldn’t say.’ Another casual shrug. ‘If I was you, I’d simply sit and wait. Nothing’s happening till six-thirty, so let’s hope this Linda person turns up then, and you can check the whole thing out with her.’

‘Well, perhaps I could sit somewhere a bit warmer.’

The man looked dubious. ‘Have you got identification?’

‘Yes. I was told to bring three different forms.’ Eric pushed his debit card through the slot in the glass partition, followed by his medical card and a recent electricity bill. For normal mortals, a driving licence or passport
would have sufficed, but he didn’t possess either, and even his birth
certificate
was one he preferred to conceal.

Several minutes passed, while all three items were studied with a high degree of suspicion. ‘OK,’ the bloke said, finally. ‘Though I’ll need to keep this until you’ve left the premises.
And
your mobile phone. And if you’re carrying a pager, or any type of Chubb keys, leave those with me, too, please.’

Eric handed over his keys and phone. What next? His shirt and trousers?

‘Right, go through that sliding door behind you.’

The door in question appeared to be locked, resisting all attempts at entry. Eric rattled the handle – in vain. Apparently even an insensate door was determined to keep him out.

‘Hang on!’ the fellow called from the desk. ‘If you give it time, it’ll open automatically. Don’t force the thing or I’ll be in trouble.’

Once he did get through, Eric found himself in a second lobby, a little larger and warmer than the first, but equally uninviting; containing nothing but a couple of chairs and a row of metal lockers. Again, he took a seat, aware that his stomach was rumbling. Getting here by five meant he hadn’t had a minute to grab a cup of coffee, let alone a sandwich. Yet he realized now that he could have taken his time; found a nice warm café and eaten a leisurely meal.

As he sat resignedly waiting, suitcase at his feet, legs twisted round the chair-rungs, he was suddenly reminded of arriving at Grove End, as an uprooted kid of seven. They, too, had kept him waiting; hadn’t been expecting him; had muddled up his paperwork. All at once, his horror at the first sight of the building came surging, seething back; a grim, forbidding pile, with stern stone walls and air of real malevolence. ‘Go away!’ it seemed to shout. ‘You’re not wanted here, not welcome.’

But he wasn’t wanted by his foster-parents either, which meant it must be
his
fault that he’d landed up in such a prison of a place. His foster-mother had shouted at him constantly; his foster-dad dished out whacks and blows, but at least they’d been his mum and dad, and at least it had been home. The huge, stony-hearted building could never be a home – he knew that in his gut – and, once he’d crossed the threshold into the oppressive
entrance-hall
, with no carpeting or cosiness and very little light, he felt he’d been swallowed up for ever.

Having been marched along to an office, he was told to wait outside while they tried to sort out the confusion, although he had to wait on his
own, because his social worker was chafing to dash off somewhere else. He sat for what seemed hours, sending up a desperate prayer that it would turn out to be a mistake and he could return to the house in Cedar Road. Whatever its deficiencies, that small, shabby semi was familiar and safe; not hideously scary like
this
hateful institution.

His prayer remained unanswered, as did most prayers, he found. When, at last, he was called into the office, he was confronted by a big-boned, frightening female, who barked instead of talked, and had very short, straight hair and seemed more like a man.

‘I’m Mrs Barnes. I run the home. Your key-worker will be Alison, but she’s off sick today, so Tracy will look after you – although she’s only here till five, then Kenneth will be on tonight. Tea’s at five-thirty, and your bedtime will be half-past eight, and we’ll need to get your bedroom sorted out and see about the …’

She spoke so loud and fast, he couldn’t take it in, and was also worried by so many different names: Mrs Barnes, Tracy, Kenneth, Alison – would they all be cruel?

‘Now what’s your date of birth, Eric? And where do you go to school? And have you any brothers or sisters? And…?’

Each time he tried to answer, she had rushed on to another question – although she should have known the answers, since they were all written in his file. But perhaps it had gone missing, as things always seemed to do, because the whole time she was talking she was searching through a pile of papers that overflowed her desk. Never once did she look at him, although he was actually quite glad, because he knew she’d have the sort of eyes that could pierce through skin and bone.

Then, suddenly, the phone rang and she kept shouting at the caller and saying it simply wasn’t good enough and she didn’t intend to stand for it. And, once she’d banged down the receiver, she seemed surprised to see him there still, and began asking him the very same questions she had put to him before. When he was finally let out, another scary person appeared, to show him round the house; her big black shoes click-clacking along the corridors.

‘This is our playroom, Eric.’

He had stared in at the scuffed lino, the lack of any toys. No one had ever played here – that was very clear – but then grown-ups always lied. Next, they’d gone down a dark passage, which led into the kitchen. Kitchens should be small and warm and kind, not vast and cold and cruel. And they should smell of frying bacon or hot cakes, not of disinfectant and boiled cabbage.
This one even had a mousetrap in the larder.
He
was a mouse – a tiny,
powerless
creature, with a steel trap closing round him, about to crush him to a—

‘Excuse me, are you Eric Parkhill?’

A small, fair-haired man, dressed funereally in black jeans and a black anorak, came rushing over, clearly out of breath. Eric made a desperate effort to leave Grove End behind; to reinhabit his adult self and try to work out who this was – certainly not a six-foot-three Nigerian. ‘Yes,’ he said, jumping to his feet. ‘But—’

‘Great to meet you, Eric! I’m Sam – Sam Hodgkinson, and I’m standing in for Abi tonight. I’m afraid he was rushed to hospital in the early hours this morning. I’m really sorry to keep you hanging about. I hear you’ve been waiting ages.’

‘Don’t worry – not a problem. But that’s bad news about Abi. Is he going to be all right?’

‘Yeah, fine. It was appendicitis. But they operated straight away and he’s doing well, the hospital says. But look, let me show you the library. You’ve been sitting here quite long enough.’

‘Yes, I’ve brought some books for the group.’ Eric gestured to the
suitcase
by his chair.

‘Shit! You can’t take that inside. We’ll have to go back to security and have it checked.’

Eric’s suppressed a sigh, guessing – rightly – that there’d be more delay and more suspicion.

‘Are you taking those books out with you again?’ the balding bloke enquired – the one who’d originally given him short shrift.

‘No. They’re for the men.’

‘Yes, but will you be taking them with you when you leave?’

‘I’ve just told you – no.’

‘So you’re giving them to someone inside?’

Couldn’t they understand plain English? ‘Yes, to the members of the book club.’

‘Be that as it may, you’re forbidden to take cases into the prison.’

Eric bristled. Having risked life and limb transporting them on his bike, he was determined they should reach their destination. ‘Well, I’ll put them in a carrier bag. Would you have one somewhere?’

‘You can’t take bags in, either.’

At this point, Sam intervened, having spotted a small, see-through plastic crate on top of a cupboard by the door. ‘Mind if I take over?’ he asked Eric.

‘Delighted.’

Opening the case, Sam began unloading the books into the crate, ignoring the remonstrations of Baldie’s younger colleague, who clearly regarded books as the equivalent of bombs. Then, leaving the offending case at the desk, Sam somehow obtained clearance to pass back into the second lobby through the automatic door. There, he handed the crate to Eric, pulled up his anorak to reveal a bunch of keys chained around his waist and unlocked a narrow door that led out again into the cold night air. Yes,
definitely
Kafkaesque, Eric thought. All that kerfuffle, yet here they were outside once more, apparently back to square one. He followed Sam down some steep stone steps and across a concrete yard, where the wind blew with such icy force, his eyes watered and his nose ran, although it was impossible to do much about either, weighed down as he was by the books.