Heartless (14 page)

Dolly Dalton was a prize fuck and after that little performance, Roache was going to enjoy every last minute that he spent with her before she was released.

***

Once the mayhem in the canteen had died down and the prisoners were able to go back to their cells Sophia strode through the busy corridor, eager to get back to her friend to check that she was alright and to fill her in on the horrific confrontation she had just witnessed. Even though the officers had finally intervened and dragged Ruth away, it was too little too late. Imelda’s badly scalded skin and pulped face was a vision that wouldn’t leave Sophia’s mind anytime soon. The attack had reminded Sophia of how vulnerable they all were in here, and picking up her pace she just wanted to get back to her cell.

Seeing Roache coming out of the door as she approached, Sophia hoped that the dirty bastard hadn’t tried his luck with Dolly: they had been gone long enough. Sophia was sure that Dolly would be able to handle herself, but she wouldn’t put anything past Roache.

“Slow down, O’ Hagan, I can’t see any fire,” Roache cautioned as he saw Sophia rushing towards him.

Sophia eyed the guard with suspicion as he grinned at her.

“There’s no fire, but there was a crisis. The canteen has been on lock-down since you left. Ruth Parker just kicked off and napalmed poor Imelda Grey. Last I heard they were carting her off to the hospital and the governor was looking for you. She didn’t look very happy that you were on the missing list,” Sophia said coldly, hoping that he would get bollocked for his disappearing act. Just the look of Roache’s fat smarmy face and his beady little eyes made Sophia feel sick. “And if you have done anything to Dolly, and I mean anything then, I’ll be letting the gov know,” Sophia spat.

Roache pushed her against the wall.

“The governor won’t give a shit about you or any of the bullshit that you spout,” he threatened. His face was puce and spittle escaped his lips as he spoke through gritted teeth. “Dolly and I have an agreement, and you better keep your fucking frigid nose out of it. Just you remember, O’Hagan, you’re out in a few days. You won’t be able to protect her then. One word of trouble from you and I’ll make sure that Dolly gets passed around in here quicker than a cold. Do you understand?” He let her go, looking around to make sure that no-one of any relevance had witnessed his loss of temper.

Hearing another member of staff call out Officer Roache’s name over the tannoy, Sophia pushed past his chubby frame and went to see how her friend was.

Chapter Twenty-One

Dolly was used to being devoid of sleep now. Two weeks in, and her body-clock had adjusted fully to her new routine. If it wasn’t her cell mate’s nightmares that kept her awake, it was the cries and shouts that carried up and down the wing, echoing in her ears. Some inmates weren’t very good at coping anyway, and the long nights locked away in darkness made things seem even bleaker. Desperate cries, angry shouts and manic hysterical laughter were just some of the noises that filled the air each night.

Tonight Dolly was listening to a new inmate, a lifer apparently, as she frantically begged and pleaded to see her children. Dolly felt sorry for the poor cow. The first night in here was the hardest and with such a long sentence ahead of her, the officers probably had the woman on suicide watch.

The days in here weren’t too good for Dolly either. Roache had kept his promise and every day that he had been working, he had made sure that they had sex. She hated it. He was the type that could only satisfy himself if he was causing someone pain.

Sophia had her suspicions but Dolly couldn’t confide in her. Roache had already warned her that if Sophia got wind of their ‘little arrangement’ then she would tell the governor and Trevor would kill Dolly for jeopardising their arrangement and not paying back his debt. Dolly hated lying to her friend, but she didn’t have a choice.

Hearing Sophia talking in her sleep once more, Dolly propped herself up onto one elbow and listened. Sophia was mumbling and kicking the covers around. Every night without fail was the same. It was as if she was struggling to get up, as if she was being held down. A couple of times Dolly had heard the odd word, but she hadn’t been able to work out what it was that was upsetting Sophia so much. And Sophia always changed the subject as soon as it was broached. The nightmares had gradually got worse, though, and last night’s outburst had worried Dolly sick: at one point she had thought she was going to have to call one of the officers to help her.

“Get off,” Sophia shouted as she clawed the covers then kicked them off.

Dolly went over to Sophia’s bed. It was their routine now. Sophia would kick and scream and cry, and Dolly would be there for her when she awoke, stroking her hair and reassuring her that she was going to be okay.

“Please,” Sophia begged as she swatted her arms about, as if fighting off invisible attackers and almost hitting Dolly square in the face as she did. “Please take it away. I don’t want it.” Dolly saw fresh tears cascade down Sophia’s cheeks as she continued to fight her night terrors. Her words were clearer tonight, and Dolly felt uncomfortable about hearing what she was sure Sophia wouldn’t want her to. But what else could she do but try and help?

“Sophia,” Dolly said gently, shaking her arm as she tried to rouse her.

“Take it away. Please. It’s evil,” Sophia shouted hysterically this time.

“Sophia, darling, it’s me Dolly. Wake up, babe, you’re dreaming.” Dolly shook her harder. Sophia’s fear was hard to bear; it was as if she was trapped in some parallel universe, like her nightmares were real.

As Sophia woke, she gasped for air as if she had just come up from being submerged under water. She panted, before bursting into tears and clinging to her friend as if for dear life.

“Shush,” Dolly soothed. “It’s okay.”

It was Sophia’s last night; if Dolly couldn’t get to the bottom of what was causing Sophia so much pain and anguish tonight, she may never find out. Dolly felt so close to Sophia, she just wanted to help her. Maybe now Sophia would finally confide in her.

“Sophia, whatever it is that’s upsetting you, I just want you to know that I’m here for you, babe. You can trust me. You don’t have to tell me, but I think maybe it will help. Bottling whatever it is up clearly hasn’t.”

Sobbing, Sophia hugged Dolly tightly. Finally, after eight years of denial, Sophia gave in and spoke about the one thing that up until now she had tried so desperately to block out.

Dolly listened to her as she spoke of finding her father dying on her bedroom floor. Sophia wept as she spoke of her then-boyfriend Tommy, who when she was just fifteen she had fallen in love with. She spoke of how they had met that day at the river and of how horrible and mean Tommy’s brother, Jonathan, was.

Once Sophia started to speak, it was as if a dam had been broken and she just couldn’t stop, the words kept pouring from her mouth.

Then she went quiet. Dolly squeezed her hand to encourage her to continue.

Sophia felt ashamed as she went on to explain how Jonathan tricked her, how he had made her believe he was Tommy at her birthday party and how she had slept with him.

Dolly was silent as she listened. Sophia had held all this in for far too long; it would do the girl good to get it out of her system once and for all.

“There’s something else, isn’t there? You can tell me Sophia, whatever it is,” Dolly said softly.

“I had his baby, Dolly; I had Jonathan’s baby and then they took her away.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

When he heard the doorbell chime, Stanley Jenkins was already in a foul mood. He had been pushed to his limits today. As he stepped over the bright yellow paint that had been smeared on the carpet and up the walls, he cursed as he realised that he had stepped in it. Wiping his shoe with a cloth, he dipped his hands into a bucket of warm soapy water; he swished them around then he dried them off and went to see who was at the door.

“I told you last time, Stanley, that if it happened again I would be ringing the police...” Geoffrey ranted as soon as the door opened, not bothering with the usual neighbourly niceties.

Stanley stood with his mouth open, unable to get a word in.

“That young’un of yours has only gone and bloody done it again. Look at poor Harry, I found him this morning. Lying dead on the floor of the aviary he was. And don’t try and make up excuses. I’ve had enough.” Geoffrey held out his hand to show Stanley one of his lovebirds, which was splayed out lifelessly in his palm. “This is murder, Stanley, murder. How’s our Sally going to cope without him? Lovebirds depend on each other, Stanley. That girl of yours is out of control...” Geoffrey tried to remain in control of his emotions, but he loved his little birds so much, each and every one of them had a special place in his heart.

Stanley grimaced as he looked at the tiny bird’s head hanging loosely from his crooked neck. He leaned back, the sight of the lifeless bird making him feel queasy.

“Look, Geoffrey, I’m sorry about your bird, really I am. But it’s like I told you last time: you have absolutely no proof whatsoever. So by all means ring the police but unless you have concrete evidence, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t come around here throwing around unfounded accusations.” Slamming the door in the disgruntled neighbour’s face before he had a chance to respond, Stanley leaned up against the wooden frame and closed his eyes in despair. In the pit of his stomach, he knew that Geoffrey was right. She had done it. But he had had about as much as he could take for one day from the little madam, so he’d have to deal with this new crime another time.

“Who was that?” Bernie came bustling in from the garden to check the progress on the paint spillage that her husband had been clearing up. Stepping carefully over the bright splodges on the carpet, she could see by the look on her husband’s face that something else had happened.

“That was Geoffrey from next door: again,” Stanley said in a controlled tone. “‘Somebody’ has killed another one of his birds; snapped its neck.”

Bernie instantly felt her heckles rise as she recognised her husband’s accusing tone. Trust him to believe the neighbours over one of his own: typical. Bernie could just imagine Geoffrey’s head turning the colour of a beetroot while he blamed one of his birds’ unfortunate deaths on to a small defenceless child, whom he only disliked because of her natural high spirits; well, not this time, she wouldn’t let him get away with it. And Stanley should know better than to believe it.

“That man is a bully. How does he know that the bird didn’t die of natural causes? Maybe it broke its neck when it fell off its perch,” Bernie reasoned angrily. “He’s got nothing better to do with his time than make up lies. Nasty little man. ”

Rubbing his temples, Stanley was at his wit’s end about how blinkered his wife could be when it came to that child and he knew that there was absolutely no point in arguing with her. Bernie thought the sun shone out of the girl and nobody in this house was allowed to even think, let alone say otherwise.

“Well, expect a knock on the door from the police because Geoffrey is fuming, and I don’t blame the man. Twice in one week his birds have been killed, someone’s got to be bloody responsible, Bernadette.”

“Don’t swear at me,” Bernie said, shocked at how angry her husband must actually be, not only had he raised his voice but he had addressed her by her full name.

“Swear? I’ll do worse in a minute. That kid’s nothing but a nuisance, Bernie. Look at the state of the house. ‘Oh, I accidently dropped some paint... I accidently started a fire in Grandad’s shed... I accidently nipped next door and snapped the heads off Geoffrey’s precious bloody birds
.
’” Stanley was shouting. He was sick of having to suppress his feelings when he was with his family, and it was about time that Bernie faced the truth. The kid was troubled.

Bernie rolled her eyes at her husband, whose cheeks were flushing red as his voice increased in decibels with each word. As far as she was concerned, if anyone in this house caused problems it was him. Where was his loyalty? He was no better than their neighbour.

“When will you just admit that there is something not quite right with her, Bernie? Seven years old and killing our neighbour’s birds for fun! We ignored all this once before if you remember rightly and look where that bloody got us,” Stanley said in despair as he referred to the videos they had found in Jonathan’s room years ago, which Bernie had destroyed and refused to talk about ever since. Surely Stanley wasn’t the only one that could see that history was once again repeating itself.

“She isn’t right in the head, Bernie,” Stanley pleaded, hoping that his wife would stop denying what was become clearer with each passing day.

“Problem?” Jonathan had appeared in the hallway.

Stanley’s words hung awkwardly in the charged air; he and Bernie had been too engrossed in the argument to realise that their son was standing there listening to the conversation.

“No, darling,” Bernie lied. “No problem at all, love, your dad was just ranting about the paint, that’s all.”

Stanley stared at his wife in disbelief. She was doing what she always did, sweeping all their problems under the paint-stained carpet so that she could pretend that everything was perfect. When the reality was that everything was far from perfect.

Sick to death at the pretence, Stanley glared at his son furiously: this was all his fault. Everything was his bloody fault.

“Do you know what, just forget it. I’m going for a few pints.” Grabbing his jacket from the hook behind the front door, Stanley tugged it on while avoiding eye contact with both his wife and son. There was no point in discussing the situation with either of them any further. The pair of them were pig-headed.

Over the years Stanley’s dislike of Jonathan had grown so much that he could barely stand to be in the same room as the boy anymore. The fact that Jonathan had never left home made that extremely difficult. Sharing a house with a son that he had never been able to bond with was near-on impossible.

Jonathan may have grown into a handsome man, standing at almost six foot tall with the chiselled looks of a model, but Stanley felt not an ounce of pride in his son. He could see right through Jonathan’s carefully groomed exterior and there was a lot more than met the eye with that one. He couldn’t stand the sight of him: not after what he had done. Jonathan had torn the family apart. It was because of him that Tommy had left, and for that Stanley would never forgive him.

“You can’t just swan off out, Stanley. What about all this paint?” Bernie looked at the streaks on her pink floral wallpaper. The carpet was ruined, too: caked in the stuff. They would have to get it replaced. Maybe she could use this as the excuse she needed to get the hallway redecorated.

“Well, I’ll tell you what, seeing as you two seem to be under the illusion that Rosie is Little Miss Perfect, why don’t the pair of you clear up her bloody mess?” And with that Stanley pulled the door shut behind him, so hard that Bernie was surprised that the glass panels didn’t shatter.