Slip of the Knife

I

Paddy put her hand on the bonnet of a silver estate car that looked vaguely familiar, feeling for warmth. She’d been halfway around the car park, had felt so much cold metal that her fingers were numb and she couldn’t really tell if the engine had been running recently. She didn’t care if other journalists were here, hiding and waiting for Callum. She didn’t care about Callum at all or whether Bunty found out she was up here at the gates of the prison, planning to come home with no story, just doing her duty as the only person Sean knew who would be any kind of support.

She pulled her coat collar up. It was always colder at the coast. The chill came from the vicious North Sea and the glassy granite, locals said, from the cold hard stone under the rich black sod.

The thirty-foot-high wall was blackened and bleak. The roof of the main building was just visible, peering over it, the small barred windows like the eyes of a malnourished child. She knew this car park well, even though she’d never been here before.

One of the biggest scenes in Shadow of Death was set here but she’d been heavily pregnant as she finished it and had used file photos from the News library and showed them to Patrick Meehan on the pretext that a lot had changed at the prison since his day, could he just tell her what was different. Meehan was smart, not especially personable but he was fly. No real changes, he said, pretty much the same as it was on the day of release. He had a prisoner’s talent for spotting weaknesses in others. He knew she couldn’t be bothered going up there. He forgot, of course, that the railway to the quarry had been dismantled and several outbuildings had been added. He only remembered at the book launch.

No one else noticed the flaws in her retelling. The press were too interested in their role in his release, looking for themselves in bit parts. The public simply weren’t interested. Paddy’s book was the seventh written about the case and tastes in true crime had moved on from local miscarriages of justice to sex murderers and serial killers.

The day Patrick Meehan got his royal pardon a gray mist rolled in from a threatening sea, bringing the sky so low over the heads of the waiting pressmen that they cowered in their cars, expecting a deluge of rain. The Express had the deal sewn up: they paid Meehan tens of thousands for an exclusive, no one knew quite how much, and even years later he wouldn’t disclose the exact sum. Back then, before the details of a footballer’s sex life were considered a leader, the papers made stars of gangsters and murderers and Meehan was the ideal story. He was a gentleman criminal, a peterman of the old school, and wrongly convicted of a vicious attack on an elderly couple. He had been protesting his innocence for seven long years, had appeal after appeal knocked back by the judges while the real killers touted their story to the newspapers. The campaign for his release began in the papers, so everyone who’d ever written an article about him felt that they owned a little bit of him and his story.

Naive about the value of the man, the prison service gave all the details of his release in an official statement, so the mob outside the gates that morning could have constituted a Parliament of the fourth estate. It was the wait that caused the trouble.

Had they released him first thing in the morning, at seven fifteen, just as the night shift went off and the day officers came on, those who arrived overnight wouldn’t have had time to plan their moves. As it was, the gate opened at ten thirty and Meehan stepped out of the small door punched into the big metal gates, straight into the hot hands of the waiting press. A riot broke out.

The Express grabbed him by the arms and threw a jumper over his head so that no one else could get pictures. Jostled and battered by the crowd, he was bundled into the back of a car where his wife was waiting to be reunited and interviewed with him. They locked the car doors, shouting at him to get down on the floor. Meehan complied, lying flat, his face obscured by a gray jumper. The Express men jumped into the front seats of the car and started the engine as the crowd closed in around their bonnet. Excited that they had managed to pull it off and thrilled at the envy on their rivals’ faces, they drove into the crowd a little too fast, rolling over a snapper’s toes and causing a senior journalist from the Mail to fall awkwardly and bang his face on the car park surface.

Outraged that the Express men were looking so smug and had damaged a couple of them, the rest of the press didn’t stand by and watch the car roll out onto the main road. They leaped into their own cars and gave chase. Meehan told Paddy that he saw a guy on a Triumph motorbike coming up the side and the Express driver shouted at him to get down, it was a snapper, cover yourself and get down. He was pulling the jumper over his head when he saw the Triumph veer too close to the side of their car, get a fright, overcorrect and swing out, crashing into a ditch. Paddy knew the guy; he’d shattered his ankle, still walked with a limp, and swore that the car had bumped him.

The Express car and its pursuers roared down uneven back roads to a field, and still covered with a jumper, Meehan was made to run blind to a waiting helicopter. God, they had budgets in those days, but not a lot of access to weather forecasts: almost as soon as it took off the chopper was forced down in a field by the heavy mist, and they had to hitch a lift to the hotel they’d booked for the interview. Luckily for them, they didn’t meet anyone on the way and secured their exclusive.

Telling her about it afterwards, Meehan managed to imply strongly that everyone was at fault but himself, that his advance hadn’t been as much as everyone said, and that he somehow had a right to sell his story exclusively to a newspaper. A bloody farce, he said of it, but he was always angry about everything, and the details of the day got lost in the list of his other complaints.

That was how motivated other journalists were and Callum Ogilvy was just as big a story as Meehan. Journalists from all over Britain had contacted Sean and sent letters to Callum, offering money and the chance to tell his story. They suggested he could blame it all on James. Callum told them he didn’t want the money and he didn’t want to talk. They offered more: higher rates and a picture with his eyes blacked out. He didn’t want it. He wrote back to some of them, always saying the same polite thing in a childish scrawl: he wanted to live within a loving family unit and to work in a factory. One of the papers printed the reply under the banner “Our Letter from a Murderer.”

Paddy did a second tour of the car park. No one was hiding, as far as she could see, but they would only find out for sure when Callum came out of the gate. She made her way back to the News car.

Sean was eating his sandwiches, laboriously peeling back the top slice and extracting a limp lettuce leaf with a pinched thumb and forefinger, holding it up as if it was a dead slug, cursing Elaine under his breath.

Paddy watched as he dropped the leaf out of the car window. “She worries because of your folks.”

“They died young because they’d a hard life.”

She looked out of her own window at the big gray sky. “I think you’ve forfeited the right ever to slag that woman off again, after what she’s doing for you.”

“It’s not that big a deal.”

“She’s got four kids.”

Sean closed his eyes patiently. “They wouldn’t be letting him out if he hadn’t changed.”

Paddy didn’t answer. The prison authorities were letting Callum out because they couldn’t keep him in. A sudden gust of wind buffeted the side of the car, rocking them slightly. Sean reassembled the sandwich and held it up, glaring at it spitefully. “ Turkey ham. What is that anyway?”

Paddy considered the sandwich. “It’s turkey made to taste like ham.”

“Why couldn’t she just get ham?”

“It’s cheaper than ham. It’s better for you.”

“I don’t want stuff that’s better for me.” His brow darkened.

She pulled herself upright. “You want to make your own fucking sarnies then. A guy came to my door last night. Creepy guy who stank of fags and was something to do with the IRA.”

“What did he want?”

“Dunno. Called himself Michael Collins.”

“Maybe that’s his name? Lots of people are called that.”

“No.” She looked out of the window and bit her nail. “I think he was trying to scare me.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Dunno.”

The car phone trilled abruptly, making them both start and laugh at how jumpy they were. Sean picked up, straightening the mangled coil of flex.

“Aye? No, I’m at the Makro for my missus. I’ll get Beefy onto it.” He looked at Paddy. “Yeah, I’ll see her later. OK, I’ll pass it on.”

He hung up, holding the flex away as he set the phone carefully back on its cradle. “A lawyer rang the work for you.”

“A lawyer?” She immediately thought of Burns and the child support. “What about?”

“Terry Hewitt. His lawyer. You’ve to ring back.”

She might have to arrange his funeral; maybe being his next of kin gave her the obligation. But the police wouldn’t be releasing the body until they got someone for it so it couldn’t be that. Terry might have left her a note. She hoped to fuck he hadn’t. It would mean she was his last thought and she found that unbearably intimate, definitive, as if he was carving himself into her life forever. She could refuse to read it. She could refuse to arrange his funeral, but the rest of the press would think she was a skank if she did that.

“Can I call the office from your phone?”

“No, they’ll know we’re together. The car phone makes a weird crackle when they pick it up.”

A red Vauxhall was cruising slowly towards them, checking carefully through the cars, looking for a space. Paddy and Sean slid down in their seats as it approached, checking out the driver. It was no one they knew. Finding a space near the compound fence, he parked, gathered his things, and when he stepped out they saw that he was wearing a prison officer’s uniform. He strolled past them, checking his wallet for something.

“Nah,” Paddy whispered at the dashboard. “A hack wouldn’t be here on his own.”

“The photographer might be in the car,” said Sean. “I’ll go and have a look.”

He waited until the prison officer was skirting the wall and climbed out of the warm car, blanching and staggering at the unexpected wind. Walking casually over to the Vauxhall, he glanced in at the cabin, shaking his head to himself when he found nothing there.

She saw a man carrying a plastic bag of shopping at the far end of the long gray wall, heading towards them. Shift change maybe.

Sean came back to the car but stopped outside, looking away from the prison, taking the air and stretching his legs, his hair flattened to his head by the wind.

The man with the shopping bag was cutting across the car park, coming towards them. A gray bomber jacket, too short at the cuffs, a sweatshirt with “Wrangler” written on it, a crease across the front where it had been folded in the packet, brand-new, and dark blue denims, creased across at the knee. It was a strange look, all new clothes, like a costume.

Paddy recognized the hair first. Black and wavy, a little long over the ears. And then his face: heavy black eyebrows, a broad nose, gray skin, features more square than she remembered them. His jaw was solid, muscular from the habit of being clenched tightly. What she didn’t recognize was his height and the width of his shoulders: he was six three at least and built like a dray horse.

It was Callum Ogilvy.

She leaned over and threw open the driver’s door, catching Sean on the thigh.

“It’s him, it’s him, it’s him.”

“All right,” he said, jumpy because she was. “Calm down.”

And he turned to meet his cousin.

II

Fifty-three steps so far, another eight to get to the side of the car, nine maybe. The distances between cars, sky and ground were too far, everything spaced out so much that there was nothing to cling to. In nine years he hadn’t been farther than twenty feet from a wall; even the exercise yard was narrow. The wind that had ruffled his hair when he was inside walls now skirled unkindly around his face, jagged, sharp. Here it was unbridled, unstoppable. He felt he might blow out to sea at the next gust, drown, salt water flooding his sorrowful lungs while people watched from the shore, happy to see him go. And who could blame them.

His toe hit a break in the concrete and he stopped, the plastic bag containing everything he owned slapping against his leg. Dizzy suddenly, he stood still, staring at the ground, calculating whether it would be less painful to move again or just wait here to die. The muscles on his arms and legs were so taut that he was twitching.

The mind can only hold one conscious thought at a time.

Fifty-three steps so far, fifty-four, fifty-five. He looked up and saw Sean at the side of the car, his cousin, his family. A woman was with him. He’d said there would be a woman with him. A friend of the family. Their family.

The woman had seen him now, he could tell by the way she moved in her seat, sitting up tall, straining to catch a glimpse when he lost them behind a car. She reached over and opened the driver’s door, talking to Sean, keeping her eyes on Callum.

Sean looked up.

Fifty-eight, fifty-nine. They stared straight at him. Not the way screws looked: screws saw you, looked away, and then looked back again, thinking about you and what a bad person you were, muttering to each other. Killed a baby. Quiet. Weirdo. But Sean and the woman looked straight at him, their expectations drawing him in like a tractor beam.

Sean turned to meet him, the vicious wind blowing his hair flat. He looked small outside the visitors’ room.

Sean’s face was open and his arms rose from his sides in greeting. He was smiling hard but his eyes were full of reservations.

Callum didn’t know what to do. He stood stiff while Sean put his arms around his shoulders and hugged him. He was smaller than Callum, not as wide. When Callum tried to respond he twitched a big nod, accidentally butting the side of Sean’s face. Touch. Sean’s arms were tight around him, his cheek brushed Callum’s briefly and the warmth stung his skin.

When Sean let go, Callum wanted to grab on to him, make him do it again, but the woman was beside him, hands rising, expecting a hug as well. A woman. Callum blushed at the thought that her tits might press into his chest like when he masturbated, that he might hold her low on her waist. Ashamed, he cast his eyes downwards and she saw what he was thinking. She extended a hand.

Nice to see you again.

He looked at her. Big arse on her and a coldness in her eyes like the nurse in the infirmary. He knew her, remembered a cold room a long time ago, before the dark night, ripped wallpaper hanging off walls, and feeling ashamed that everything in the house was dirty. Ashamed of his mother, drinking. Clean people sitting around, wondering when they could leave.

“You were at my dad’s funeral.”

“I was.” She looked kinder then. “And I met you in hospital, Callum, d’ye remember? Your wrists were bandaged.”

He didn’t want to remember that time. It was after the night in the grass, before the trial, and no one had ever talked to him about it. It was a time that belonged only to him, his footprints were alone through that. The grass from that time was up to his chest. When he went there in his head he felt it suck the breath from his lungs.

He found himself looking at the prison. It was OK now he was next to a car. The big gray wall blocked the view of the sea. For the first time he felt glad to be out of prison.

Let’s get in out of this wind.

Sean smiled up at him, hopeful, nervous. He held the door open for him, and dipped down to look at Callum after he got in.

I’m awful glad to see you out, pal. Come on, we’ll go home.

The car had a phone in it and room for his legs. He hadn’t been in a car for nine years, not since the dark night. It was always vans after that, prison vans, police vans. The last time he was in a car his feet hardly touched the floor.

The woman got into the front passenger seat, Sean in the driver’s. Sean started the engine and they rolled slowly out of the car park.

Callum was watching them, looking at the sides of their faces. Sean opened his mouth a couple of times before they hit the main road, as if he was going to say something but decided not to. The woman was looking out of the window, her elbow resting on the sill, her hand over her mouth. She didn’t look happy. When they got to the junction she turned to Sean.

That went well, anyway.

Sean nodded and looked to the left for cars coming down the road.

“What went well?” Callum couldn’t quite believe he’d said it so casual and normal.

“Well, to be honest,” she turned to look at him, “we thought there might be other journalists in the car park. Hiding, you know, waiting for you.”

“Why?” He’d done it again, normal, real.

“They’d be looking for a photo of you. It could be worth a lot of money so there’s going to be a bit of a competition. You should be ready for that in the coming weeks. I don’t think there’s any way of stopping them from getting close to you. Most of them have guessed you’ll be at Sean’s house so they’ll probably stake that out. You should be careful who you talk to.”

She ran out of breath and looked away for a moment. But Callum hadn’t been listening to her. He was still back at the first thing she’d said.

“Other journalists?”

The woman shut her eyes, blinking too long, shuttering him out. She cleared her throat. “Um, aye. Other journalists.” She looked at Sean but he shrugged a shoulder. “I’m a journalist. Don’t you remember, we spoke in the hospital?”

She was Paddy. He had met her before.

“You have a SON,” he said, too loud at the end.

She turned her head quickly towards him, angry.

“PETER.”

She looked furious and turned away.

He swung his head at the window. They were traveling down a wide road, few cars on it, flat fields on either side, a tractor in one of them, a long way away. Sean’s eyes were reflected in the rearview mirror, narrow, hiding something. The skin on his cheek twitched.

Callum looked back at the prison, a speck now on the horizon. Panic rose in his chest. Sean had brought a journalist with him. Was that normal? Was he taking money? Act normal. Behave normal.

My wife made sandwiches.

Still keeping his eyes on the road, Sean leaned over the back of the car seat and showed him a plastic box with bread and an apple in it. Callum lifted it and found a can of fizzy juice on the floor under his feet.

He pulled the tab on the tin of juice and drank it in two gulps, to show that he was grateful, to fill his mouth, stop him shouting or saying anything that would make them turn around and drive him back.

He opened the box, ate the sandwiches, sitting with the empties on his lap, not knowing what else they wanted him to do.

Sean had brought a journalist with him. And who could blame him. Callum supposed there had to be something in it for Sean but he hadn’t expected this. Maybe he should have known, maybe it was obvious. It wasn’t enough just to be family: he’d had a family before and nothing was for nothing, not for him. For children in storybooks, maybe, but not for him, not for him.

I want to live in a loving family unit.

He was shouting, bits of the dry sandwich scattering on his knees.

The woman spun to look at Callum and found him crying, a trickle of red-juice saliva at the side of his mouth. Alarmed, she looked at Sean.

MY DREAM IS TO WORK IN A FACTORY.

His loud voice rang around the hollow inside of the car.

Sean didn’t look at him. He slowed the car, gently easing over to the side of the road and pulling on the handbrake.

He was going to put Callum out, make him get out and leave him there for shouting in the car. And who could blame him.

He’d freeze because of the wind and no walls, moving would be so hard he’d have to wait there until he died. His heart was hammering in his chest. He could feel his pulse on his cheeks, on his nose, in his eyes.

The woman wasn’t looking at him anymore. She had her hand over her mouth again, was turned away from him, looking out of the car at the side where he would be left.

Sean undid his seat belt and turned, taking Callum’s hand in one of his and stroking it with the other. “Pal,” he said as Callum gasped for breath, “we’re going home, where it’s warm. Together. Look at me.”

Callum forced his eyes from the woman’s neck to Sean’s face. He was nodding slowly, like he wanted Callum to nod back. “OK? Are you going to be OK?”

Callum nodded. Sean stroked his hand again. “It’s natural to feel this scared, OK? Perfectly normal.” He let go of his hand and turned, pulled the belt back on and restarted the car, checked to look out of the side window for a car coming and then pulled back out into the road.

They were going home. Where it was warm.

A journalist. The woman’s dark hair pulled up on top of her head, exposing the soft skin on the back of her neck. The necks he saw as the protected prisoners were crocodiled to work or the canteen were always leathered or spotty. Gold chains dangled from her ears, swaying with the motion of the car, never touching her neck.

Exhausted, Callum sat back on the seat, slowed his breathing, and reminded himself of the one thing he knew for certain: everything smells the same when it’s burning.