Mary drove home with all the windows open and with tears streaming, freaking out every time she saw a police car or heard a siren. The first thing she did when she got in was light a pre-rolled joint, which she held with a violently shaking hand and sucked the life out of. The landline was ringing. The landline never rang. Mary moved towards it as if she were a young blonde in the first scene of a horror movie.
It was Roddie. He’d been worried about her for days, had finally managed to cancel his last events and was on his way home. ‘I know what’s happened. I’ve spoken to Jack. He’s fine. Turn all your devices off. Don’t read any of it. It’s nonsense and you’re going to be okay. You’ve done nothing wrong.’
Roddie existed: thank God. It took her a while to make a word. ‘Promise?’
‘I promise. Tagging you was his manipulative grande finale. Prize arsehole. I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon. Go to the doctor first thing, please. Stay in and rest till I’m there.’
‘I’ve got a report and a visit.’
‘You’re leaving! You don’t need this bullshit anymore. Boarding, gotta go. Don’t go online. I love you Mary Shields.’
And with that, her name sounded light again.
Mary woke to Samantha’s operatic orgasm. Sex and the City had been on repeat all night.
8.30 a.m. Shit. As usual for the last eighteen months, her pants and vest were dripping wet, a creek flowing through her new cleavage and pooling on her new tummy. She scraped her drenched clothes and sheets off and put them in the wash, peed, showered, tossed on jeans and a t-shirt, and headed to the kitchen to begin gathering the day’s essentials. A three-quarter empty bottle of Sangiovese, sitting on the floor next to the bin, triggered a memory from a hitherto forgotten last night. Mary had decided to throw the wine in the bin, but must have been side-tracked, perhaps with the jigsaw puzzle. That was right. She’d turned all her devices off, as Roddie had advised, and become a little intoxicated. A pair of scissors, now spread-eagled on the table, had been used by Mary to amputate several family homes in Vernazza, which she had then forced into un-natural bonds with villagers in Monterosso. A large pile of ashes, and some fragments of the hardcover copy of Cuck, lay in the hearth. She’d had a book-burning ceremony too, which had turned out to be quite hypnotic. Mary grabbed her phone, charger, bag, ID, and work-issue Blackberry, chucked them in her work satchel, and headed to McKinley’s.
Minnie hadn’t shown yet. It was ten past nine, and the wait had weakened Mary’s resolve to avoid the internet. Her personal mobile was charging, and she was reading the texts on her work-issue Blackberry. Catherine, her boss, wanted her to call urgently, so she tried, failed, left a message. Minnie texted: In light of yesterday, let’s reschedule. Hope you’re okay.
Bugger. She’d come all this way. Wasted an hour already. Could’ve written a full CJSWR, at least done the LS/CMI or whisked off a few CPORs. If she’d known. What a waste of time. Mary didn’t waste time, which is why she was knocking on McKinley’s door.
As usual, he was holding on to his Zimmer. No ball/s this time, but a wet spot on his boxers, which Mary must not think about for many, many years to come.
‘Put some trousers on.’ Mary had never used this tone with McKinley before. She followed his saggy bottom as he shuffled through the hall.
‘Where are your trousers kept?’ She’d entered his bedroom without permission, which was stupid of her, especially considering he and the Zimmer were now at the door, blocking her exit.
‘Top drawer.’
Mary grabbed a neatly ironed pair of pyjama bottoms. Nothing dodgy in the drawer, as far as she could see. She walked towards the door, assuming Jimmy would move out of the way. He didn’t.
‘Get out of the way, Jimmy.’ Mary put her hands on the front bar of his walker and pushed. He pushed back for a while, like a dad pretending to arm-wrestle his child, then, thankfully, shuffled back and out of the way.
Safely in the hall, Mary said: ‘So where did you put it?’
‘What?’
‘The child sex doll.’ She’d said doll not robot deliberately, to enrage and entrap him.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Jimmy said.
‘Where is Emily?’
‘Who?’
They stared each other out as she moved towards him. ‘Really?’ She wouldn’t have blinked first if she’d had time to wash off yesterday’s mascara. ‘Go and put these on, Jimmy.’ Mary pried one of his hands from the walker and placed the pyjama bottoms in it. ‘We’ll wait for you in the living room.’ By ‘we’, Mary meant her and the Zimmer, which she yanked from McKinley out of badness. Let the fucker fall over.
Mary parked the Zimmer beside McKinley’s armchair, and the wheels slid into a pair of grooves in the carpet. This was its place. The armchair, with extending leg and retractable back, was McKinley’s place. Mary scanned the room for signs of deviance, like Emily, and got madder each second. To look her in the eye and say: ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ She was too emotional, too angry. She shouldn’t be here alone; she should leave. She steadied herself by holding the rubber handles of Jimmy’s walker, one of which was coming loose. Mary found herself pulling at the loose handle, which came off easily. She looked inside the hollow metal tube. There was something there, but her fingers were too fat to get a grasp. She lifted the Zimmer and wriggled.
A pen drive.
She should ring the police and wait for them to arrive before confronting Jimmy. But she had to be at Lowfield for 10.00 or some kid would stay in jail another three weeks. She should ring the police and let them know, but that’s what she did when she found Emily. Look how that had turned out. Mary put the pen drive in her jeans pocket, replaced the rubber handle, and raced to the door.
‘I have to go, Jimmy.’ She was in her car in four seconds max.
Just Thursday, Mary said to herself as she started her car. Thursdays were always awful. Monday Social Worker always believed too strongly in the ability and energy of Thursday Social Worker, and it always ended in severe discontent. Just Thursday. Just Thursday. Just Thursday, Mary chanted, engine on, sweat dripping from her chin and ears. Her mobile beeped, and if she hadn’t looked at it, maybe that’s what today would’ve been: Just Thursday.
She drove home immediately and worked quickly: sweeping ashes and bits of pages into plastic bags, flushing three full buds of green down the loo, taking bags of bottle-clanging rubbish to the bins. She’d read enough on her phone in the car to expect a knock on the door soon. She was all over the internet. ‘Manhater should be done for manslaughter’, Derek McLaverty and his lions were arguing, and people were hearing them roar.
‘Misandrist Mary called me last night’, Derek had somehow posted from his cell, ‘all weepy, weepy, trying to get me on side. But I know her game, that emotional manipulation. Typical woman, asking questions all nicey-nicey but really it’s a trap. When she hung up, she shopped me for needing a hug from my boys, and now I’m locked up again. Because my best friend was murdered and I needed to hug my sons.
‘Funny fact: Mary-Contrary’s son, Jack Shields-Lawson, hates her guts! We welcome you, Jack, to our movement. Things have to change, folks. Liam’s dead because he wanted a life, and I’m inside because I love my children.’
She shouldn’t have clicked on the video of Derek being interviewed on YouTube, winning every argument with the presenter, who passed articulate and collected £200 in round one, and subsequently said all the wrong things, just as Mary was now thinking all the wrong things, like Derek McLaverty was the scum of the earth. That cool demeanour, that designer suit, that bullshit USP – being a devoted dad of two when he couldn’t even set aside an hour a week to see them.
Whatever. Later. She had to be at Lowfield in fifteen minutes. Drugs defo gone, windows open, sex toys in drawer, laptop search history deleted, she reached for her key, and remembered the pen drive in her pocket. Shit, the pen drive. She should deal with that as a matter of urgency. She couldn’t take it to prison. Mary raced back into her bedroom, opened the rarely used drawer under her bed filled with heeled boots she wanted to wear but never did because they didn’t suit her, and placed the pen drive in one of her favourites. From River Island, they were – kind of retro, maybe if she tried them with a maxi skirt.
On the way to prison, she left a message asking Minnie to call her, and another with her boss, Catherine. She arrived at Lowfield at three minutes past ten.
A drop of head sweat fell on the officer’s shoe while Mary was being scanned, but she was kind enough to ignore it, and escorted her through to the agent’s area. John Paul hadn’t been processed yet, so she had time to look at the court report, compiled two months ago by Sylvia, sixty-three, who refused to type her own reports, dictating into a tape recorder for a typist to finish off. She was regularly called to meetings for referring to the business-support workers as typists. Sylvia’s oration was far from flowing – the business-support workers’ goodwill and hearing seriously deficient – making the end product rarely meaningful. John Paul was in court two months ago for police assault, and Sylvia’s account of the offence read thus:
‘Mr O’Donnell informed the writer that on the night of the offence he had consumed three pints of lager and spent approximately eighty pounds on cocaine, which he had earned selling furniture on Gumtree, which he also consumed. When he presented at the police station around 2.00 a.m. he was by admission probably intoxicated. He informed the writer he recalls losing his phone sometime around getting a chippy at approximately 9.00 p.m. and the next thing finding himself with his shirt off at Govan police station yelling his phone number, over and over, 0734382459, 0734382459, et cetera. While Mr O’Donnell did not deny that he probably committed the offence in the interview with the writer, which is why he pled guilty, he found it difficult to express remorse because he (his words) ‘cannae mind for f *’s sake close inverted commas.’
No wonder Sheriff Mackay hated social workers! Mary scanned the background section for anything that made sense.
‘John Paul’s mother died of a heroin overdose when he was a baby.’
‘Lived with his Grandpa Joseph, a road worker, and was very happy till he carked it.’
‘Got into music with his grandpa, still into it.’
His grandpa was Joseph O’Donnell! In Mary’s mind, John Paul’s grandpa was an elderly man behind a tobacco counter, but he was Mary’s age, or would be if he hadn’t been run over by a truck when John Paul was fourteen. Fourteen: bad age, for a boy. If shit goes down at home and you happen to be fourteen, you’re fucked.
Mary had been a big part of Joseph’s life for a year after he took over the care of JP, as they called the baby then. During one of Mary’s manic clear-outs, she gave Joseph her vinyl collection as a prize for doing everything right and therefore being free of social work forever. Joseph put on Dire Straits, held baby JP and danced round the living room singing with joy. Mary remembered the baby’s bright eyes and his meaty chuckle. He was inclined to be happy, that kid.
The baby, now twenty-one, was approaching. His eyes were still bright, but for different reasons. He did not look inclined to be happy. He sat with a grunt, spread his legs as wide apart as possible and crossed his arms.
‘Hi there, I’m Mary Shields.’ She extended her hand to shake John Paul’s, having decided many years ago that she’d rather risk getting hep C than be an arsehole.
Eventually, John Paul unlocked his arms and offered his hand, which was shaky, and dripping with sweat. ‘How long will this take?’
Men often entered these rooms angry, filled with distressing problems that it was too late to get help with, fully expecting another telling-off, another putting-down. Last week, she interviewed accidental murderer William Smith, for example. When he walked in, he looked like he could have murdered again, on purpose this time. William had crossed his arms and remained silent for five minutes. At the fifteen-minute mark he was crying because Mary had asked and listened and was coming up with some ideas. Angry didn’t scare Mary. You could do something with angry.
‘It’ll take three, three and a half hours. Why, do you have a date? In D Hall?’
‘Ha ha.’
Perhaps he was inclined towards happiness after all.
‘Just I have an AA meeting at eleven.’ He looked like every twenty-one-year-old she’d met in this place: a raw, angry, terrified kid trying his best to get on with his first stint in an adult jail, fully expecting it would not be his last.
‘You can refuse the interview if you like. I’m not forcing you.’ Please refuse! Then she wouldn’t have to do it. Why wasn’t she home in bed?
‘No, no, just that. It’s good, the AA and all that. Don’t want to miss it.’
Mary laid out her papers on the table and clicked her pen. ‘I’ll be as fast as I can. Mostly we need to talk about the offence and sentencing options. I have a recent report here, so I don’t need to go through your whole history. Just tell me about the fishfingers and we’ll take it from there.’ She wrote his name in capitals at the top of her pad: ‘No hyphen, two n’s, two l’s?’
John Paul was looking at the prison officer in the corridor. ‘Can I check with Dawn about going straight to AA?’
Cocaine or thereabouts had shrivelled his pupils, and Mary wondered if the wriggling meant prison piles, which might be a thing.
‘You can check with Dawn in a few minutes, okay? John Paul? Can you please look me in the eyes, just for a moment … at me. Ooo, way too long. Left, up, right, back a bit, good. You’re off your face, and I don’t blame you. I’d do the same. But if we don’t get this report done you’ll get a custodial tomorrow. Or do you prefer prison?’ Mary asked this question all the time and, sadly, more than fifty percent of respondents, including John Paul, said something like: ‘I’d never admit to that.’
Most folk would write off John Paul as a benefits-sponging user, but Mary distrusted most folk far more than the likes of John Paul. Plus, she knew his grandpa.
‘We’ve met, actually,’ said Mary. ‘You were a baby. Your grandpa and I used to take you to the duck pond.’
‘Yeah?’ He tightened his arms, a leg fidgeted.
‘He always said you made his life make sense.’
John Paul gulped, brought his legs in a little. ‘Were you his probation officer?’
‘Not for long.’ Joseph was sentenced to twelve months’ probation after driving under the influence of alcohol. His daughter, John Paul’s mother, had just died in hospital of an overdose. He went to the pub on the way home. Mary had rooted for grandpa in the report she did and helped him get his life together afterwards.
John Paul uncrossed his arms.
‘He was impressive, your grandpa.’
He smiled.
Even on shitty weeks like this, one case blowing after another; even with a glamorous suicide, online trolling, and a looming fatal accident inquiry, she was still champion at speed rapport-building. ‘Let’s have a look at your record, shall we? Usually tells me all I need to know.’
And it did.
Age fourteen, after his grandpa had died, and he was taken into foster care, John Paul needed to drink and vent, thus: assault, breach of the peace (×5), assault to severe injury, assault with offensive weapon (metal toilet-brush holder. According to John Paul it was very offensive).
During his first stint in a secure unit he needed a boost, hence: possession class A, possession class A.
When his dalliance with Charlie turned more serious, he needed money: theft by shoplifting, fraud, reset, theft, attempted housebreaking.
When he lost his phone: police assault.
And when, having just turned twenty-one, he had no friends to steal from or with, as well as requiring a hundred pounds a day himself, and owing Kevin-the-Fucker four hundred for coke he’d been told was free: intent to supply, class A – the index offence for which he would be sentenced tomorrow.
‘The indictment says you were in possession of three thousand pounds’ worth of cocaine in your freezer.’
‘Aye, street value.’ John Paul reported that he had agreed to repay Kevin-the-Fucker the four hundred pounds he owed by storing large quantities of the drug in his newly acquired throughcare flat.
‘And you decided to put the cocaine in the freezer?’
‘Aye, cos me and my mates never use it, ever.’
‘In fishfinger packets.’
‘Aye, I bought a dozen packets for the gig, cos me and my mates never eat fishfingers.’
John Paul had taken half of the fishfingers out of each of the twenty-four fishfinger packets, and distributed the score bags among them.
‘Then I got remanded,’ he said. ‘And the fridge-freezer was switched off.’
‘Why was it switched off?’
‘Cos me and my mates never use it.’
Two and a half weeks into his three-week lie-down, John Paul’s downstairs neighbour phoned the cops to complain about the terrible smell.
‘When you think about it, John Paul, which decision do you think landed you in here?’ It’d be a difficult choice with so many options, but Mary believed there was always one moment, one conversation, one look, one picking-up-of-a-knife, one drink, one drug, one decision, that changed everything. ‘Pick one.’
He thought hard. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t check if the freezer was on.’
Insight: nil.
Offending: escalating.
Risk assessment: very high.
Custody: almost certain.
Mary had written three pages of notes and was now wrapping up. ‘Whether you like it or not, I’m going to push very hard for a non-custodial sentence, John Paul. If you keep this shit up, you’ll never feel better than you do now, and I know you don’t feel good. I’m recommending twelve to eighteen months supervision, with drugs and alcohol counselling as a requirement, potentially a stint in turnaround. There’ll be lots of support to help you get work and friends and purpose, and, I’ve got to warn you, a fair amount of eye contact. I’ll put together a good argument when I get back, so you can head off to AA. It’s five to eleven now, but don’t get up yet. Sit, sit. I need to ask you one last thing before you go, and I need you to stay still, no reaction, when I ask it. I’ll keep writing notes as if we’re just chatting away about normal stuff like how bad you are at cocaine-dealing. What did you put in my bag?’
‘Sorry?’
‘About twenty minutes ago, around the time I was writing your name, you slid something into my bag. What is it? Try to look normal. Not too normal!’ Mary moved her hand an inch towards her bag, which was on the floor at the end of the table. ‘Shall I take a look?’
‘It’s four grams of cocaine, cut to shit, mind.’
‘Oh,’ was all she could say, the scenarios forming in her suddenly boiling to a head. None of them made sense; all of them awful.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Someone persuaded me to land you in it.’
‘Who?’
‘No-one.’
‘Shall I call Dawn?’
‘No, no! My co-pilot, arrived last night.’
‘His name Derek McLaverty, by any chance?’
‘He’s going to give me two more of my own when I get back.’
‘Is he? How is that going to work exactly? I’m confused.’
‘The plan is I go out before we’re finished and tell the officer you tried to give me the stuff.’
‘But I was searched on the way in, so they’ll know it’s from you. In fact, weren’t you searched your end? How’d you get it in?’ As soon as Mary asked, she realised: in his arse, hence the wriggling. He had somehow managed to retrieve a package from his anus right in front of her, and right in front of the cameras. ‘Your excrement is also in my bag?’
He nodded a shame-faced apology. ‘I eat healthy in here.’
‘John Paul, as ever there are significant flaws in your decision-making processes. The packet is covered in your DNA. You could get a year for this. Did Derek say why? Did he say anything about me?’
‘He said you killed his best friend. He said you put him in here, and because of you he might never see his Oskar and Freddie again.’
‘Listen, I won’t be searched on the way out. Smuggling drugs out of prison isn’t hard.’
‘I can walk out of here with my bag, no problem.’
John Paul was thinking very hard. ‘Can I put it back in?’
‘Your best plan is to take the package out of my satchel and reinsert it into your anus while chatting to me?’
‘Maybe I could snort it, under the table.’ He was understandably excited at this idea.
‘Tell Derek I said hey.’ Mary packed her paperwork into the satchel and covered the small, soiled balloon with a tissue. She stood and shook his hand. ‘You look just like him, you know.’
Mary was right. It was easy to smuggle drugs out of prison.
She hadn’t looked at her phones all morning and wouldn’t until she’d emailed John Paul’s report. She had to focus, get it done. She managed to get it off in an hour, thanks to a fair amount of copying and pasting.
Getting on with it was the only option in social work. If you stopped getting on with it, you drowned. Mary had been through worse weeks than this. Twelve of her clients had killed themselves on her watch, two of them in the young offender’s institution. She’d been ripped to pieces at three fatal accident inquiries, scolded at MAPPA on a monthly basis, torn apart at breach proceedings, sworn at in children’s hearings, spat on by angry mothers, followed by desperate probationers, threatened by rapists.
Things had often seemed so horrible that Mary couldn’t imagine ever feeling safe again. But disasters blew over in social work. Probably because management didn’t have time to deal with this week’s disasters. They were only just dealing with last year’s.
It was 1.00 p.m. when Mary collapsed on her bed and pressed ‘play’ on her laptop (Are We Sluts, season three, episode six). Her eyes were getting heavy, her legs were getting heavy, her body was becoming part of the bed.
She woke to the intercom buzzing. It was still light, but Mary had no idea what time it was. Before answering, she raced round, looking for somewhere to hide the cocaine. Her decision to put it in her River Island Boot made her wince because it reminded her that she had also hidden a wad of child abuse images in there, probably. She’d never wear those boots again; take them to Oxfam after all this was over. Mary took a breath and answered the intercom.
‘Is that Mrs Shields?’
‘Ms.’
‘It’s the police, can you let us in please?’