Humber Boy B (6 page)

And then, another big question, how would she discover the answer to that question when the likelihood was that Ben didn’t even know it himself? If he ever had, it would be so deeply repressed by now that she may never find it.

The phone rang. Dot’s voice was even but quick and highly assessing.

“Cate? Your lad’s arrived. Still looks like he could run for the exit at any second.”

“Hi Ben. How are you enjoying life on the out? Feeling settled?”

“I’m getting there.”

Cate wondered if Ben knew about the Facebook page,
Find Humber Boy B
. The latest picture posted by Noah’s mum had been a scan of the artist’s sketch of Ben as he was during the trial. In it he had a swollen face, a bruised eye. He looked so damaged, so out of control, that the young man seated before her seemed like an imposter.

“I’ll be honest with you, Ben, I’ve worked with people who’ve been in prison for years, but none who went there when they were ten. I can’t even imagine how strange everything must feel.”

She could see him silently weighing her up, wondering if she could really help him. He must have met so many professionals over the years, the whole gamut.

“I bought a star fruit,” he said, something that would be odd ordinarily, but she could see that for this young man such a purchase was a miracle of sorts.

“Good,” she smiled at him. “But go easy on the exotics until you get a job. Okay?”

“A job,” he said in wonder, then his eyes narrowed with suspicion that he was being mocked. “Who’ll employ me?”

“Plenty of people, actually.” Cate raised both eyebrows, acknowledging the irony that usually she had trouble placing offenders in work, but as Ben’s past had been erased he would be a cinch. The only question was his skill set. “You passed a lot of exams inside, very impressive. Of course you can’t work with children… ” He gave her a hurt look, as if this was a surprise. “But other than that you have lots of options. Where would you like to work?”

She could see him marvelling at the question, the many varieties of job jumping around his brain, too fast to control.

“I like animals,” he said, cautiously. “I worked with the horses at my last prison.”

“Okay. What else?”

“I also worked the laundry, but that gave me eczema.” He bit his lower lip and looked up shyly. “I’d really like to learn to cook.”

“Right, well, give me a bit of time, and I’ll see what’s available. I might start with the Community Punishment department, get you some unpaid work experience. If we can build your CV, just get you a few hours’ work each week until you get settled. How does that sound?”

“I’d like that.” He smiled for the first time, and she saw that his adult teeth hadn’t grown straight and weren’t gleaming, prison not being known as a haven for excellent dentistry, but his smile was broad and genuine.

“It would be really good to get a job. Thanks, Cate.”

“Thank me when I’ve found something. In the meantime you just get used to Ipswich, okay? And no contact with anyone from Hull, no family or friends. I can’t stress that enough. There are people out there who would hurt you given half a chance. You can’t risk anyone finding you, especially now when your case is bound to hit the press.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re free, Ben. And that is headline news.”

12

Ben

“Yeah, man. That’s the first thing I’ll do when I’m free.”

I heard it again and again. Wherever the secure unit, whichever the prison, the other lads all spoke about getting out and what they’d do. You’d think they’d be planning on going to college, or being married and having kids, something big and life-changing, but mostly they talked about getting a burger, a proper one, from McDonald’s.

I never told any of the others that I’ve never tasted a Big Mac or a McFlurry, it was too shameful to admit. McDonald’s existed when I was a kid, so maybe I did go, but if so, I can’t remember it. I can’t remember us ever going for a meal anywhere, what with Mum always being strapped for cash and two hungry boys to feed. Sometimes one of her boyfriends might chuck us a couple of quid to get us out of the house and we’d buy chips with extra scraps that we’d eat in the shop, but that doesn’t really count as a restaurant. Stuart could have taken us out, I suppose, but he always came home from the Arctic carrying his own weight in fish so when he was back it was fish pie, fish stew and towards the end of the supply it was curried fish. Stuart said fish was good for us, and he liked to be fit. He said his strength was what kept him alive when he was reeling in those massive nets while being battered by twelve foot waves, so when he was home he lifted weights too. He kept them in the bathroom and when he was gone they’d just get in the way. I’d fall over them when I went to the loo in the night but I never dared move them because I knew he’d be back, and if he thought I’d touched his things there would be trouble. At least when Stuart was around we ate, even if I got so sick of fish just smelling it made me gag. It was better than when the cupboards were empty. Adam would search down the sofa for some money and then it was economy bread and beans, washed down with milk nicked from someone else’s doorstep.

But no Maccy D, not ever.

What this meant was that when the other prisoners described the thin yellow fries and the thick juicy burgers with sloppy cheese and gherkins (whatever they are) my mouth learned to water and I would agree and say, “Me too. I’m going to go large.” It was their desire, but I made it my own.

I feel like I owe it to them, to do what I said I would, and find a McDonald’s.

Three days since I left prison and so far I haven’t been far from the flat, only to the post office for money and the supermarket for food, and I’m guessing I’ll have to go right into Ipswich town centre. I’m nervous about it, because I don’t know this town, I’ve been to the probation office but that’s not in the centre. I can’t shake the feeling that I look like I am, that even the person who serves me fries will be able to see right into my tar-black heart. I push the thought aside and start walking, in the same direction as the line of cars that must be heading for the busy part of the town. It’s twelve o’clock and lunchtime, or at least it would be in the prison, so my stomach is growling and I walk quickly.

The cars seem to be driving too fast, and even though I’m on the pavement I flinch when I hear the revving sound that means yet another car is just yards away from my back. My legs feel wobbly and I’m breathing hard, the sun seems to be right above me and I’m wearing my thick hoodie, my first pair of new jeans. In prison the uniform was thin and worn-in by other bodies, so these jeans feel stiff. But I love the hoodie, the thickness and feel of its fleece layers, even though it’s wrong for this weather. Sweat gathers in my hairline and I wish I was fitter. The PE teacher at school always said I was useless, a wimp, and no-one ever wanted me on their team in games. PE was a big thing in secure unit too, and the popular boys wore the coloured bibs over their T-shirts and got to pick the team. I was always last to be chosen, and if I could get out of PE, volunteer to help in the library or give one of the teachers a hand, then I would.

I know I’m not strong, not in that way anyway. But I survived, I got through eight years and there were others who didn’t make it. Suicide was an occupational hazard in prison, the posters were tacked up everywhere, and I’ve known boys end it with a shoelace or a sheet. It was something I never considered doing, though you’d think I would have, especially after Stuart told
The Mail on Sunday
that he wished I’d never been born, that I ruined our family unit and led Adam astray. But for me it was always about surviving, I knew there were people out to get me, that some would kill me if they had the chance, and maybe the fact that my existence was so uncertain removed the question of whether I’d end it myself.

I reached the finish line six weeks ago, it was the final meeting. I’d already been told I’d won my parole, but this was the official announcement, and everyone involved in the case was invited down to Suffolk to discuss the release. That’s when I found out that Noah’s mum had set up a Facebook page to try and find me.

My personal officer, Kevin, had written my parole recommendation and he got the job of breaking the bad news. We went to one of the education rooms before the meeting, just the two of us, and he unlocked his iPhone. When he showed me the page I was shocked. There I was, a headshot of me in my Bramsholme Primary uniform, missing two teeth at the front, pale skin and scruffy white-blond hair, blue eyes staring out at the camera like it was a gun. I hated having my picture taken, and I was shocked at how malnourished I looked.

“She’s asking people to look for you, Ben. You’re going to have to be very careful when you get out.”

Kevin scrolled down the page, and there were other photos, ones she’d cut and pasted from other websites, some she’d taken during those few weeks when Noah and me where inseparable.

I had to go back into the meeting, my joy at getting parole suddenly damned by fear because I knew that the outside world was still interested in me, that no-one had forgotten, they were waiting for me to walk out. In that meeting the talk was all about the danger I was in.

Mum said that wasn’t news to her, she’d been living it for eight years. She said people had spat on her in the street, someone had put dog shit through her letterbox. Then she glared at me, because it was all my fault. “You wait,” she said, as if she was looking forward to me finding out just how unpleasant the world was. I think she thought I’d had it easy, while she’d had to face the flack.

Right from the start Mum didn’t visit me much, but she came to that final meeting because two Hull police officers came too, the one who first interviewed me after Noah died and another who brought me cans of coke during the long hours I spent at the police station. I sometimes wonder if it was his own money he used, he seemed so kind. Until my solicitor arrived and told me to say ‘no comment’ to every question, and then he changed. There were no more cokes then.

They wanted to be sure I wouldn’t be returning to Humberside, and they drove her down. Maybe Mum wanted to see me, or maybe she just fancied a day out, but at least she came even if she barely looked at me. The kind officer said they’d been in contact with Noah’s mum, and they’d told her that if she posted anything to incite violence then they would prosecute her. Mum pulled a face.

“I bet that went down well. Jessica Watts is our local saint, people would go ballistic if you arrested her.”

The police officer said there was nothing else they could do about her page, I had to wait until someone posted a death threat or something. It didn’t sound promising.

Even without a death threat the page was a problem. Noah’s mum had shared all those pictures hoping that someone would recognise me. Mum got upset, then angry, and said the page shouldn’t be allowed but the police officer just sighed. “Even if we asked her to take it down,” he said, “another will come along, then another. This is the world we live in and we have to manage it as best we can.”

It wasn’t the world I lived in. I’d never had a mobile or a laptop and had only used a computer in the education block for lessons. It was all a bit of a mystery to me, all I knew was that Noah’s mum hated me and I was in danger. The other police officer spoke then, he said that they believed Mum was also in danger, that if they couldn’t find me she’d become a target. She’d stayed in Hull, despite the dog shit and spitting, and brazened it out but once I was released they thought pressure would build, so they had a proposal for her. I realised then that this was why they had brought her here, to the Suffolk prison. To place an offer on the table.

“Once Ben is discharged he’ll be starting a new life in another part of the country. We’re offering you the chance to go with him.”

“Where?” Mum looked suspicious.

“We can’t say. It’s best if you know as little as possible, but it will be to a town with no connection to you or to his crime. A totally fresh start. If you choose, we could make it a fresh start for you too.” They looked at Mum hopefully, and I could see they thought that she’d say yes, especially with me in the room. They assumed that she loved me.

“Any road, what would I do?” she asked, folding her arms over her bony chest. “In this new town?”

As she spoke I felt my heart get heavier as the prospect of having my mum – really having her, in a way I never had before – became less and less likely. I could see from her face, her posture, she’d already decided. Mum would never leave Hull. Not for me, not for her safety, not for anything.

“You do realise,” the police officer said, “that Ben won’t be able to visit you? There can be no contact. He won’t be allowed into Humberside at all.”

Mum looked at me and her sad but cold eyes told me that she’d lived nearly eight years without me in her life, what would the rest of it matter? She was always a pragmatist.

“Can’t Adam come with me?” I asked the officer, even though I knew it was impossible. My brother was also my co-defendant and I had more chance of fitting into my new world if I was on my own. But I was holding on to this last scrap of hope that Adam would give up his life in Hull for me. Mum may not love me, but he did.

“You need to wash your ears out, our kid,” Mum snapped, irritated so much that her face reddened and beads of sweat appeared around her nose. “You can’t move in with Adam. You can’t even see him, or any of us. This is goodbye, and there’s nowt more to be said.”

I don’t want goodbye, so I push the Congratulations card into a red post box. I didn’t write much, just that I’m safe and that I’ve been shopping. But I write my address too, because what if Mum changes her mind and then she can’t find me?

By now I’ve reached what must be Ipswich’s high street with its shops and delicious-smelling roasted nut stands, too many people, mothers forcing sunhats onto babies’ fat heads, men in suits walking alone, shouting and mad-looking until I see an earpiece and realise they’re on a phone. No children, of course, they will all be in school. There are a group of men, all wearing red tabards, holding clipboards. One sees me looking and I realise my error when he makes a bee-line for me, holding his clipboard like a shield. “Can I tell you about the work we’re doing for child soldiers in Africa?” I put my head down and walk quicker, but not so quick that I can’t hear him say “Wanker” to my back. In my haste I knock the shoulder of an old man who has paused to take off a jumper, “Watch it!” he tells me.