Toby waits for Laurel in the private room he has requested for the purpose, away from the cacophony and chaos of the main prison-visit cattle pen. The room has walls painted a dirty cream; the table is stained and chipped. It is at least quiet, overheated but calm. Outside, a downpour is reaching biblical proportions. The sound of it is a white-noise hum, washing against the wrap-around window that runs around the top of the walls. The halogen light above emits a stark, unattractive glare. Toby’s bald head is illuminated like the top of a boiled egg, his jowls and eye-bags cast into sinister shadow.
‘Jeez, you look rough, Uncle Toby,’ Laurel observes accurately as she enters the room. ‘I thought I was the one who should be shitting themselves about today: not be able to sleep, off my food . . . I’m all right, though, as it goes, but you . . .’ Her voice trails off as she sits down opposite him. ‘Well, let’s just say, you’re not going to be winning any sexy solicitor contests any time soon.’
Toby sighs, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He knows he looks a sight. Ever since his last hospital visit, on the day of Laurel’s hearing, when he was told there was no hope and that the cancer had progressed too far, weight has seemed to drip off him like candle wax. His face is haggard and sunken. It is as if his body overheard what the consultant said and has immediately put the truth of it on display. Rogue thoughts of food, which used to dominate his waking hours, now make him irreversibly nauseous.
‘It’s only a joke,’ Laurel says. ‘I’m being a bitch. Sorry.’
‘It’s fine. Don’t fuss yourself. How are you feeling about today?’
Laurel shrugs. ‘Don’t feel anything.’
Toby raises his eyebrows.
‘Seriously. Now I’ve got used to the idea, it’s all right. It’s about time, I suppose.’ Laurel’s lips are thin, her eyes dark as currants.
‘You know, I’m still not entirely convinced it’s a great idea. What with the full hearing of the judicial review happening soon, I don’t want anything to jeopardise that.’ He leans forward, frowning. ‘But look . . . maybe it might help to have her on side. To resolve things finally. Anyway, I suppose, you’re damned if you do, damned if you don’t, right?’ He gives a short laugh then stops abruptly as Laurel looks at him, her face expressionless.
‘It’s just . . . you have to be calm, Lulu. Right? The purpose of the visit is closure. Or that’s how she’s presented it. She misses you. Wants to see how you are. You don’t have to fight her—’
‘Why would I fight her?’ Laurel interrupts. ‘She only hasn’t bothered having anything to do with me for nearly twenty years.’
‘This is what I mean.’ He wags a finger at her. ‘I know you have a lot of anger. But if you don’t deal with that – demonstrate that you’ve dealt with it – you’re really going to struggle with the parole board. They need to see that you are now rehabilitated. That your demons have been exorcised and you’re ready to return to society.’
‘Rehabilitated?’ Laurel says. ‘I haven’t been in a supermarket since I was ten years old. I can’t drive a car. I don’t know how to use a bank account, for fuck’s sake. How am I supposed to return to society when I was barely in it to begin with?’
Toby purses his mouth, looking at her. ‘And that is exactly the kind of thing you have to stop saying, Laurel.’
‘My name is L.’
‘L, then. L!’ Toby slaps the table with both palms. ‘Please! Work with me here, L. I’m trying to help you. The advice I give you, it’s not to piss you off. It’s not to try and make your life even worse. It’s to get you out of this place. On the outside . . . where we can help you. Help you adjust to living. But first I need to get you out! If you stay in here for the rest of your days, what’s the point of any of it? Come on, you know that. Please.’
They sit in silence, looking at each other. Laurel takes in Toby’s appearance, his normally mild-mannered face now creased with worry and strain. This man who has come every month without fail to visit her. Brought her presents, sent her Christmas cards. He has never been paid, he has never asked to be paid. Laurel feels her stomach dip, an unfamiliar contraction in the back of her throat, and wonders, surprised, if she is about to cry. Because it is Toby who has been her father all of these years. Her own father, long-since disappeared, went scurrying off with her mother to burrow down into the dank earth, far from their responsibilities, from what they had produced. But Toby has always remained.
‘You’re not going to be there, though, are you?’ Laurel says at last. ‘On the outside.’ She juts her chin at him. ‘I mean, look at you. How long have you got?’
He glances down at his lap. ‘I’m having an operation,’ he lies. ‘Soon. The prognosis will be good after that. I still have hope.’
‘You don’t look very hopeful,’ Laurel observes with her sharp eyes fixed on him. She throws back her head, gazing up at the ceiling and exhaling in a whoosh of air. ‘Fuck, this place is shit, isn’t it?’ she says, looking back to meet his gaze. ‘I’ll be a good girl,’ she says at last. ‘For you.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
Thunder rolls above them and the rain hardens as she says, ‘May as well bring her in then. Let the fun begin.’