The Sinner Read online

  Pearl shrugged. ‘Something about boys as well.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I didn’t think you needed to hear that bit.’

  ‘It’s OK. He’s already given me that speech.’

  ‘Right. But how are you holding up, really?’

  Lila took a sip of tea. It was still too hot but she wanted to drink it anyway. A psychological thing, she thought. ‘OK. I’m used to looking after myself.’

  ‘I know you are. But that’s not what I meant. And I don’t think it’s what he meant, either. He just wanted to make sure you felt safe here.’ Pearl paused, looked straight at Lila. Hoping her unspoken words would be understood.

  They were. Lila had been in trouble when she met Tom. And despite his insistence that those troubles were gone, she still woke up screaming at the things she had done to gain her freedom. The nightmares had become less and less frequent as time went on, but they hadn’t completely left her alone.

  ‘I’m OK,’ said Lila then felt something else was needed. ‘But thank you.’

  ‘No worries.’ Pearl looked round the kitchen, clearly thinking. She found her tea, drank. ‘Listen. I’ve been thinking. Instead of you being here on your own, you could move into the pub with me.’ Pearl looked at Lila expectantly. Lila said nothing. Pearl continued. ‘There’s plenty of space since Mum and Dad moved out.’

  Pearl tried to keep her voice as neutral as possible while she said those names, but Lila knew what kind of pain was behind those words. At that moment she felt a kind of kinship with her. A sisterhood of pain and disappointment. Of being let down by those you should have been able to trust absolutely.

  Pearl continued. ‘I mean, you’re on your own with no one to talk to—’

  ‘I want to stay here. This is my home. This is where I live.’

  Pearl nodded. ‘Fair enough. OK. I understand.’ She looked round the kitchen once more. ‘But you know, it’s not just you. On your own, I mean. I am as well.’

  Lila looked at her curiously.

  ‘I miss him. Lots.’ She reddened. ‘He’s my friend too, you know.’ She placed a strange emphasis on the word ‘friend’. ‘And it’s lonely in the pub without Mum and Dad around. And him especially.’

  Lila knew what she was saying. For the first time since she had met this woman, Lila felt as though she understood her.

  ‘I said I don’t want to move into the pub.’

  Pearl nodded. ‘Right. Sure.’ Head downcast.

  ‘But . . . you could move in here if you like.’

  Pearl looked up at her. Smiled.

  Lila felt her own cheeks redden. ‘I mean, just while he’s away. For company. And that. You know. Like you said. Safer together.’

  ‘That’s great. Girl’s nights in. Drinking tea, watch Netflix. Whatever.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky to get Netflix here,’ Lila told her. ‘We barely have electricity.’

  Pearl laughed. ‘Thank you. Look, I know you’re still not sure about me, for whatever reason, because of what happened, and yeah, I understand that. But . . .’ She sighed. Continued. ‘We’re on the same side. Always have been.’

  Lila looked at Pearl over the table. Remembered what Tom had said about looking to the future with confidence, trusting things to grow again.

  ‘It gets cold. Better bring some warm jumpers. And some wood for the burner.’

  Pearl smiled. ‘Deal.’

  ‘And some boxsets.’ Lila smiled too. ‘Got to find some way to fill these long dark winter evenings.’

  ‘You can count on it.’

  They both drank their tea. And chatted. Like new friends just getting to know each other.

  10

  The doe was lined up perfectly. Grazing, away from the rest of the herd, which was usual in this cold weather. Just walking in the woods, coming in and out of the trees, head down looking for food. Then a few quick upward jerks, around, left, right, then, satisfied she was alone, back to foraging.

  Quint had spent most of the morning waiting. He had built a blind for himself out of ferns, twigs and branches. Now he sat inside, unmoving, barely breathing. Wearing his weather-resistant camo gear. Just watching. Waiting. Like he had been trained to do.

  Looking down the Schmidt and Bender scope atop his Tikka TX3 Hunter. Perfect in low light, which was all there was in this winter forest, even in the middle of the day. It had a range of nearly half a kilometre and he was well practised in its use. Nothing escaped him when he was hunting.

  He looked at the deer once more. Lined her up in his sights. That thin black cross, its apex coming to rest on her neck, then moved up ever so slightly, gently, to rest on her head, just behind the ear . . . a clean shot – only one – and it would be over for her. The sound would ring out around the forest, scare away birds, other deer, but it would echo away to nothing. Fading as quickly as the deer’s life. Just one shot.

  His finger tightened on the trigger.

  Just one shot . . .

  He took his finger away. Breathed in deeply. Not today. She was lucky. She would live. Go back to the herd, her children, oblivious to how close she had come to the end of her life.

  Quint still watched her. Observed her movements. A hunter could learn more about their prey by watching them than by killing them. It made the conclusion of the hunt more satisfying, more complete. A single bullet wasn’t always the correct way to do things. Each hunt was individual, it called for an individual kill. Some called for involvement, some for distance. Some led to that incomparable feeling of emotional nourishment, others, unfortunately, not. Most of them didn’t, if he was honest. But that didn’t stop him hunting. It just made that rarefied high all the more intense when he finally experienced it. And that was what drove him on.

  Sometimes, like today, it wasn’t necessary to kill. It was enough just to know that he could, that the power of life and death was within him, to use when he wanted to.

  A gust of cold wind blew through the forest, moving debris on the forest floor, the branches in the trees. The doe looked round, suddenly skittish. As if sensing her own vulnerability she turned, moved quickly back to the rest of the herd. Quint took his eye away from the sight. Looked up. Rain was on the wind, slanting in towards him, hitting him side on.

  He stood up. There was nothing else to be gained from sitting here now. He had proven his point to himself, and anyway, the moment was broken. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he walked back to his tent.

  He completed his security tests to ensure no one had tampered with anything. He examined his motorbike. No one had touched it. He walked all round the tent, checking that the patterns of branches and twigs he had arranged hadn’t been disturbed. They were still intact. Then finally he opened the tent. Inside was everything he needed to survive in the wild. The large metal box was still locked. He took the key from around his neck, opened it, inspected its contents. Two handguns. One assault rifle. Ammunition. It was all there. And a manila folder on top. He took the folder out, lay the contents on the bed. Two photographs with names attached. He placed them side by side, studied them.

  Pearl Ellacott.

  Lila Killgannon.

  He nodded to himself, gathered up the written information that went along with them. Read it once more, familiarising himself with it. Then, once he was sure it had sunk in, he picked everything up, put it back in the file, placed the file back in the box and locked it.

  The rain hit the outside of the tent like hard pellets fired from an air rifle. Quint was hungry. Thirsty. He took out the camping stove, went about making himself something to eat and drink.

  Once more way of measuring out time’s passing.

  11

  Night fell early in prison, at any time of year. The thick, brick walls and tiny barred windows on Tom’s wing made daylight’s attempts to penetrate feeble so its absence wasn’t greeted with much fanfare. If it hadn’t been for a certain shift in the attitudes of the inmates, the passing of time would have gone unnoticed. Even
in the short while Tom had been inside he had noticed it. The same shift animals feel at the zoo after the visitors have stopped staring and left. A collective stillness, not calming or tranquil but tense, coiled. A tightening of muscles, a hardening of features. Eyes looking beyond what could be seen. The inevitable realisation that, assuming you’d been allowed out of your cell that day, your tiny bit of freedom was about to be taken away. The cell doors would once again be locked, and you would be back on the wrong side. And when the lights went out, the talking stopped, the cries and shouts died down, you would lie there, locked in the even deeper prison of your own head, alone with only your thoughts, emotions and fears for company.

  Tom understood why there were such high rates of mental illness amongst prison inmates.

  He looked out of his cell window. Blackmoor stretched out onto the horizon, uninviting and bleak. The perfect place to build a prison. Just looking outside was an escape deterrent. A challenge: think prison’s tough? Get out and come and meet me. A direct counterpoint to his claustrophobic cell. But no less frightening.

  He turned away. Cunningham lay on his bunk. The cell door was open and out on the wing other inmates were having their evening association time. Tom had decided not to join in.

  *

  The day had been all about his induction. Tom, as part of a group of new inmates, had sat through lectures and presentations about prison rules, behavioural guidelines, visiting information and the courses that were on offer. Cleaning, cooking, business accounting, none of these appealed to him. He filled in a questionnaire for the education department listing his qualifications and what he might want to study while he was there.

  The irritating inmate from the sweatbox, Clive, had been in Tom’s group. He had tried to attract Tom’s attention, nodding and waving. Tom had replied with a stoic nod, but Clive persisted. He contrived to sit next to him through it all.

  ‘Thought that was you, Thor. How you settling in?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘What wing you on?’

  ‘Not sure yet.’ Something about the man made Tom not want to trust him.

  ‘I’m on Heath.’ He shrugged. ‘Not bad. Least it’s one of the newer ones.’

  Tom said nothing. Clive, trying to break the silence again, looked down at the questionnaire Tom was filling in.

  ‘Know what you want to do, mate?’

  ‘What?’ Tom hoped his irritation was showing.

  ‘Put down art. That’s a good one in here. Lot of privileges attached to that. Trust me, it’s worth it.’

  Tom just stared at him.

  ‘It’s good, mate, makes the days go quicker. Very therapeutic. And there’s competitions. National ones. You can win things. Get out for the day. Get some decent food.’

  Tom ignored him. Put down astronomy instead, looked at Clive, a challenge in his eyes.

  Clive couldn’t look directly back at him. His eyes dropped away. Tom relaxed, placed his pen on the table. Clive quickly picked it up and, too fast for Tom to stop him, ticked the box for art on Tom’s questionnaire. Tom stared at him.

  Clive gave a simpering smile. ‘Trust me, you . . . you’ll want to do it.’ Nodding, desperate to be believed.

  Tom didn’t know what Clive’s game was but didn’t have time to do anything about it. The questionnaires were collected. Clive slunk away back to his own seat.

  ‘See you later,’ he said.

  Tom stared at him, wondering what had just happened.

  Rounding the day off was a visit to the prison chaplaincy where a vicar talked to them. He had short grey hair and a wide smile on his weathered, suntanned face. His shirt fastened at the cuffs but didn’t hide his tattoos or his well-muscled frame. Ex-army or ex-biker, was Tom’s guess. He explained about religion in prison, how all the major ones were catered for. Tom knew that. Also knew how inmates had miraculous conversions if it meant extra time out of their cells on Sundays.

  After that Tom was returned to the wing. With Cunningham away doing whatever it was he did during the day, Tom went back to his cell. He tried to make use of the time, so he went through Cunningham’s belongings. There wasn’t much there. Toiletries, clothing, underwear. All prison issue. A couple of well-worn tabloids left on his bunk, crosswords attempted with letters heavily gone over and altered. No books or magazines. No notebooks, diaries, letters. Nothing. Tom had more stuff with him.

  He lay back on his own bunk, thought of home. Of Lila and Pearl. Hoped they were looking after each other. Tried not to miss them too much, told himself it wouldn’t be long before they saw him again.

  Tried to make himself believe it.

  *

  Tom turned away from the window. Cunningham still lay on his bunk, eyes staring at his wall of angels, lips moving with words only he could hear, reciting prayers or hymns to them. He looked again at the open cell door, went out on to the wing.

  It was what he had expected it to be. Victorian, he guessed. All worn red brick and heavy metal pipes. Small barred windows looked out onto darkness. The top level that he was on was separated by a metal walkway and landing. A net strung between it and the ground floor.

  Men milled about in grey or maroon joggers and sweats, chatting with others. Broken features, wounded eyes hardened with cataracts of fear and violence. All sizing Tom up, giving him a provisional place in the wing hierarchy.

  Someone nodded at him. He nodded back. Another couple looked up from the game of cards they were playing as he passed. One bald and covered in tattoos crafted by an artist more enthusiastic than talented, the other tall with greying blonde dreadlocks.

  ‘Just got in?’ the tattooed one asked him.

  Tom nodded. ‘Overnight yesterday.’

  The dreadlocked guy looked towards the cell Tom had just left. ‘Put you in with him, have they? Moaning Myrtle?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  They smiled between them. The dreadlocked one’s teeth seemed to have been assembled from other people’s cast-offs. ‘You’ll see. Well, you’ll hear.’ Another look round then as if by secret, tacit agreement, Tom was asked if he wanted to join the game.

  ‘Yeah.’ He pulled up a chair, sat with them. He wasn’t a natural card player, had always dismissed it in the army as a waste of time, but he knew how important it was now. Bonding, sizing each other up. Isolation on the wing could be dangerous.

  They asked him questions, he stuck to his script. He asked them questions in return and received equally rehearsed replies. Life stories edited down to short stories, learned off by heart. Painful pasts minted into polished anecdotes. He didn’t learn anything of interest but it did him no harm to mix.

  He watched the steady stream of inmates queuing to use the wing phone, wondered whether he should call home as well. Decided not to. Lila would be missing him. He was missing her too. And he didn’t think it would help to be reminded of the outside world. Not just yet. So he stayed with the card players.

  Eventually it was time for lock-up. They all got up, and with a minimum of argument, went back to their cells. Tom did the same.

  The door slammed shut. Echoed away to nothing. Tom sat down on his bunk.

  ‘Where’d you go?’ asked Cunningham.

  ‘Onto the wing for a look round.’

  Cunningham grunted, turned towards the wall.

  ‘Didn’t want to join me?’

  Cunningham grunted. ‘Nothing out there for me. Nobody I want to talk to.’

  ‘Because they’re scared of a murderer?’

  Cunningham didn’t answer.

  ‘Just thought it might pass the time. Make things go quicker.’

  ‘Things don’t go quicker or slower,’ Cunningham told him. ‘Things are what they are.’

  Tom detected a quaver in Cunningham’s voice. He dismissed it, picked up his book to read.

  ‘I’m going to read till the lights go off,’ said Tom. ‘Goodnight.’

  Cunningham didn’t reply.

  It wasn’t long before the cell was i
n sudden darkness. It took Tom by surprise, but Cunningham audibly gasped. His breathing became heavier, more agitated. Tom closed his eyes. Tried to go to sleep.

  *

  The whimpering and sobbing woke him. He had no way of knowing what time it was, how long he had been asleep. From the uncomfortable position of his neck and the heaviness of his eyes, he didn’t think it had been too long. Cunningham was thrashing about on the bunk above.

  Tom had no idea if the other man was asleep or awake but he knew now why the other inmates had called him Moaning Myrtle. Tom closed his eyes, tried to ignore him. But all he could hear was Cunningham’s crying, his pleading with whoever was in the dark with him to go away, leave him alone.

  Tom again tried to tune out.

  As he eventually drifted off into a disturbed, uncomfortable sleep, a thought struck him: how long would he be in here before his own night terrors struck?

  12

  The cold cut through Tom as he made his way along the tarmacked path. He pulled his sweatshirt around him, turned up the collar on his cheap denim jacket. Mist had settled all around. He could barely see as far as the razor-wire-topped high fences, certainly no further. The prison looked foreboding and abandoned. A sprawling old mansion ripe for a haunting.

  He was amongst a group of prisoners being escorted to the education block, ready for the day’s lessons. Two officers hurried along with them, clearly wanting to be done as soon as possible, to get back on the wing with a hot cup of tea inside them. The weather stopped much conversation. Tom liked it that way.

  Most of the men he had seen and spoken to the night before were there. He seemed to have been accepted by them, or was at least on friendly nodding terms. Good. He didn’t need any unnecessary complications.

  The dreadlocked guy, Darren, walked alongside him.

  ‘Moaning Myrtle keep you awake?’ he asked, displaying his random teeth.