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I worried how safe it would be to stay in Birmingham before my journey up to Merseyside. However, it had to be safe and I saw staying there as an experiment.
No one could realise who I was. I knew from the letter Charlotte had sent me that she was in California, and the chances of bumping into Liam were infinitesimally small. As I’d locked myself away in a new identity and obsession, Liam had padlocked himself away in his new den. As the thought of confronting Hemmings moved me on, Liam’s work, his art, consumed him, sucking out part of the grief that devoured both of us.
What did Charlotte have to tell me about Liam? That he had a girlfriend? Was she the same one he’d been seeing before Joe died? Whenever I thought of Liam, I thought of Joe. And whenever I thought of Joe, I thought of Liam. Like a missing piece of a jigsaw, it bothered me, nagged at me, plagued me.
Hemmings’ letter lay crumpled inside my bag. I made my way to a pub near the bus station. The beer garden was half-full and, finding a seat in the shade, with a large glass of lemonade held in an unsteady hand, I read the letter and felt the bile bubble upwards from an empty stomach.
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My dear Amanda,
It was great to get your letter. I’m very sorry to hear that your friend died and in such a terrible way. It seems you felt a lot for him – your sympathy for a person in such a position is encouraging for me, as you would guess.
I read with interest your plan to visit England, and it would be great if you were able to come and see me. I have a good relationship with the nurses who take care I don’t escape! They read my letters, Amanda, so I’m unable to say everything I’d like to say. But I’m sure that you visiting will only be seen as a positive experience for me, so I hope to be welcoming you soon.
You mention your children. How wonderful that you have them to help you through such a terrible time – his death, losing your home. And, of course, the awful treatment you received from your late husband. I look forwards to hearing about this and hope that you might come to view me as a friend and someone who you can talk to. Really talk to.
There are things inside me that I’ve never been able to tell anyone; I think though, dearest Amanda, that I might be able to tell you. One day, after we have become proper friends.
My best wishes for now.
Love, Michael.
A roiling sensation began in the depths of my stomach, spreading through my body. The thing that hit me was the faultless handwriting and the politeness, as if he’d written the letter from an armchair in the local vicarage. The almost perfect grammar taught to him by Margaret. The use of ‘love’ at the end of the letter. The cloying friendliness that shone from the page. I’d always questioned his supposed insanity and what no one seemed to comprehend was his cleverness – as Margaret had gone to great pains to point out. I folded up the paper.
As I pushed it back into my bag I realised there was another letter from him in the same envelope. A hastily scribbled one, and one which robbed me of breath.
Hemmings was awaiting his second tribunal, he told me, and it was highly likely he would soon be moved to a step-down unit. Less secure than Littleworth and the beginnings of freedom. I sat forwards on the pub bench. This is what had spurred me towards Poland and Marek; to London and Stanley.
Hemmings in a less secure unit would make the success of my final aim more achievable. I had to ensure Hemmings’ move worked for me.
—
I took a bus to Coventry to post the letter back to Hemmings, deciding that was where Amanda was staying. In the letter I told Hemmings the plan for my first visit, and that I was now in England. I wondered if it was enough time for him to respond, but respond he did, hinting that the relationship he had with one of the institution’s nurses had made it easy for him to reply quickly. He was expecting Amanda.
After returning from Coventry I spent days perfecting everything Stanley had taught me, honing my accent. Nearly every shop worker asked me if I was on holiday, and why in Birmingham. I was even brave enough to go into my old internet café. Veronica didn’t flick an eyelid. She had no idea it was me, although I did wonder if she’d have remembered Rachel, anyway.
Inside my head I spent a lot of time in Ohio, in the farmhouse with a broken door and dilapidated sheep enclosures. The smell that Mary Lou had evoked so simply in her letter would stay with me forever. It was the antithesis of the popcorn smell but both, disturbingly, brought images of Joe.
I walked around the city, and every so often caught my reflection sideways in the mirror of shop glass; watching my posture, knowing my height was unusual, and noticing the large breasts that helped with my forming stoop. As Stanley had assured me I could, I lost a good two inches as I developed a curve in my back. The pain after days of doing this was dull, aching and annoying. The weather remained unusually hot for the time of year and the heat caused my bra to rub uncomfortably on my ribcage, causing an angry rash. My breasts were too big; Marek had been right, and I smiled grimly. Added to this was the ache in my neck. As I wasn’t continually staring at the chewing-gum-covered pavements, my head poked forwards at a strange and alien angle, enabling me to look only downwards at people’s knees, and I found out that a stooped posture together with big breasts leads to neck pain. I went for several torturous runs. I could keep up with my pre-surgery times but everything hurt. Inside and out.
I made myself live with it. It was the least I could do for my son.
And Joe didn’t come to see me.
—
At New Street train station I boarded the 8.55 to Lime Street in Liverpool. My gait was transformed. Not only did I look a few inches shorter; I also looked a few years older. Although I guessed that Michael Hemmings wouldn’t care about my appearance. In the last letter he had sent he alluded to the question I knew wouldn’t be far from his lips. Had any of my ‘children’ accompanied me (Amanda) on my visit to England? In my reply I didn’t answer that. I was still working out that line of my tale during semi-conscious moments in the bland Birmingham hotel, often becoming confused with the delineation between Amanda and Rachel.
After this, after Hemmings, I would lose Amanda but remember her for the pain she had suffered, the mental anguish she’d endured.
Just under two hours later, I arrived at Lime Street.
Two hours after that I was inside Littleworth, waiting for the hospital security guard to search me.
I chewed gum and tried not to smudge the heavy black mascara I’d applied. I’d left my dark hair greasy and managed to scrape it into a ponytail. When I’d checked the mirror in the Ladies at the station I looked like a woman with truly nothing to lose.
‘I’m afraid I have to check you for weapons. Anything that might be construed as harmful. And anything else that shouldn’t be in here.’ The security man searched my face. ‘You haven’t visited before, have you?’ He glanced at his computer-printed sheet. ‘Amanda McCarthy. American? You’re lucky your visit was okayed, I can tell you that.’ He grinned and a small amount of saliva made its way down the crease on the left side of his lower lip and chin. ‘Hemmings should be in a good mood today – you’ll meet him for the first time at his best.’
I took the gum from my mouth and held it out towards him. ‘Don’t suppose you could get rid of this?’
He attempted to gather up the spit from his mouth with a loud sucking sound. ‘Disgusting habit.’
I smiled. ‘You think? So why’s ma future boyfriend in such a good mood today?’
‘Well, that’s confidential, that is,’ he said.
Mr Saliva was around fifty. And, apart from having a problem controlling his oral secretions, it was also evident as he felt my crotch in the search for a hidden weapon or drugs, that he had a problem controlling most things. He was too close, and I barely stopped myself from reeling away from his alligator breath.
He watched me with both hope and scorn. I pulled at the front of my blouse, revealing a red bra. ‘They’re new.’ I touched my left breast. ‘Had them done for Michael...’
I am not Rachel.
He looked towards the door furtively. ‘Hemmings won’t give a fuck about your tits, love.’
I nodded, buttoning up my blouse. With the uncertainty of what I was about to face, cramps began in the pit of my stomach.
‘You’re free to go into the visitors’ room,’ he said. ‘A Mr Abbs will be taking care of you from now on.’ He rubbed his groin. ‘I hope you get to visit again, before Hemmings’s shipped off.’
I turned away, not wanting to look at his face.
I sat in the visitors’ room with four others. Three women and one man. The room was too hot. The male visitor fixated on my breasts, the red bra acting like a beacon for sex, underneath the blouse I’d purposely washed with something black at the laundrette to give it a tinge of un-housewifely-like grey.
A small-framed man appeared in the doorway. Greasy hair, a slim adolescent physique. It also looked like he’d spent the previous ten minutes squeezing the spots that covered his forehead and chin. He looked around the room, and his eyes found me quickly. I wondered if this was the nurse who was helping Hemmings. My guess was yes. I knew he’d read my letters. Amanda’s letters.
He looked at the male visitor. ‘Here to see Gerald?’ he asked.
The man nodded. ‘I am, Mr Abbs.’
‘You three go through, another nurse will take care of you,’ he said to the man. Finally, he looked towards me. ‘I take it you’re Amanda McCarthy? Alone, no minors with you?’
‘Yep, just little ol’ me.’ I stood and Abbs took me by the elbow.
‘You’ve come at a good time as far as Hemmings is concerned.’
I nodded, waiting for the information that Mr Saliva hadn’t imparted.
‘What d’ya mean?’ I said.
‘He’s had some good news. I can’t say, but if he likes you he might well tell you himself.’
‘That’s good.’
‘I’ll take you through to Montford ward. You can see him there.’ He looked me over. ‘If I think it’s OK, the two of you can take a walk in the garden, go and look at the new gazebo, Mrs McCarthy.’ He seemed pleased with this.
‘That’d be nice. Call me Amanda, Mr Abbs.’ I tried to emphasise his authority.
‘And you, Amanda, can call me Toby.’
He whisked me off. I hoped Abbs couldn’t see my thundering heart underneath the cheap cotton of my greyed shirt.
I hoped Hemmings would not see my hatred.
In the ten minute walk to the other end of the institution I changed fully into the role of Amanda. I told myself that Joe’s peace depended on it. After all this I would be able to let my Joe go, let myself go. Allow Joe to stop visiting me in the dead of night because I sensed he didn’t want to. Joe wanted to go to a place of which I had questioned the existence, but he told me about the ‘place’, whispering of its peace and serenity. But also he told me in fragmented and hushed tones about the other place. A place he was not destined to go.
To allow love, is what would free him, Joe had said. Or did I say? This isn’t so, Joe, I told him. Told myself. I have to do this.
Last night, my seven-year-old son kissed me on my burning cheek in the cold hotel bed, and murmured something I did not catch. I was so sure of the kiss. The rest of the night I’d tried to decipher what he’d said. But it was gone. As was Joe.
If ever he’d been there.
—
I didn’t see Michael Hemmings. I scanned the ward, noting the homeliness of each bed section, the wonderful light that fell in through oblong, clean windows, but I could not see him.
Abbs saw my confusion. ‘Thought you’d have seen a photo of him ... at least.’
‘It was grainy.’
‘Over there, at the end. Hemmings has the best spot, next to the window.’
Joe’s murderer sat on the edge of his bed. Long blond hair cascading onto his shoulders. ‘There?’ I nodded towards him. He’d aged, looked almost a different person. Face thinner, eyes watery and sunken deep into a blank-looking face.
‘Ah, I see,’ Abbs said. ‘Yes, he wears a wig. Changes it every so often. But always blond. You probably saw a picture of him bald. Like a baby.’ He watched me. ‘Hemmings is no baby, though.’
‘Oh, I get it. Well, he sure looks better with hair.’ The wig was a different style from the ones he’d worn in court. Lines covered his cheeks, his skin grey. But he was leaner, and as his face looked older, his body appeared younger. I’d not been the only one who’d been working on their fitness.
Abbs looked at me. ‘I wouldn’t be getting any ideas.’ His eyes strayed towards the red strap of my bra. ‘You’re a woman. I read your letters, Amanda. Michael’s interested in your past. Feels like you could do with a friend.’
We approached the bed. Hemmings looked up nonchalantly and smiled at Amanda’s forehead and in the reflection of the big window, I saw her. Back curved. Too much make-up. Large breasts. Skinny hips. The antithesis of Rachel. The antithesis of Margaret.
And then he looked me directly in the eyes.
‘At last. Amanda.’ He got up and held out his hand. I was sure Amanda wouldn’t shake hands. I felt my left arm move. Just a flicker. Then I moved towards him, ignoring his hand, and hugged him slightly, kissing him on the cheek. He smelt of semen and cigarettes. He was taken aback but gathered himself. ‘Touchy feely, are we?’ He threw a look towards Abbs. ‘She’ll fit in well here, won’t she, Toby?’
Abbs coloured, his entire face matching the cochineal red of the volatile acne. ‘Maybe. Don’t get carried away now, you two. You have just under an hour,’ he glanced at Hemmings.
It was difficult to see who was the patient (Abbs had informed me all the inmates were patients – this is an NHS hospital, don’t forget that, he’d said) and who was the carer; the line undoubtedly smudged.
I flung a curious look around the ward, taking in the other patients, and tried to hide my disgust when I saw an old man in a bed at the far end of the room openly masturbating; the man from the waiting room sitting in the chair next to him seemingly oblivious. Although it wasn’t this public display that shocked me, but the viciousness of the man’s handling of himself. Blood apparent on his hands, and on ruffled sheets that hid nothing.
Like the man, Abbs ignored the massacre. ‘I’ll be in the office if you need me, but I’m sure you won’t.’ He hung around for a few more seconds. Hemmings raised his eyebrow and Abbs strode back up the ward, disappearing into an office.
Hemmings was now perched on the end of his bed, legs jutted out straight. He’d put the tip of his thumb in his mouth. I rearranged my blouse.
‘So, Amanda McCarthy from Ohio.’
The thumb remained and he stared at the floor. When, finally, he did lift lifeless eyes an undisclosed fear shot through me. Michael Hemmings looked straight into me. What do I want? Why do I want to do it?
‘Yep, that’s where I’m from,’ I said shakily.
His gaze moved towards my cleavage. ‘I don’t want sex.’
I felt the rapid blinking of my eyes and knew if I could see my pupils they’d be fully dilated. ‘I fig ... figured that, not from me,’ I stuttered.
‘You do know what I want, don’t you?’
‘To tell you about my dead fucking husband, what he did to my youngest son?’
‘You said he didn’t touch your children?’
What had I expected? Small talk? That was not why he had agreed to see Amanda.
‘Well now mister, I didn’t tell ya everything.’
I’d found it impossible to write about Noah. It was a step I was unable, and unwilling, to take.
He moved forwards on the bed. ‘Well, that’s not very nice, is it?’
A strand of hair fell over my eyes; I pushed it away. Hemmings watched my left arm move back to my side. Damn. ‘Well, sir, I didn’t wanna tell you everything, had to leave somethin’ now, didn’t I?’
Disconcertingly, he continued to make eye contact. My right eyelid began to flicker. I pressed it hard. This wasn’t going well.
‘As long as you don’t leave too much out ... Amanda.’
I couldn’t stand his gaze and flung my eyes around the ward. The old man now lay stroking a flaccid, bloodied penis. The man visiting him was reading a magazine. ‘Nice place here.’
‘Does old Gerald over there bother you?’
‘No. Seen worse.’
‘Or heard of worse?’
My eyelid carried on twitching uncontrollably. ‘Seen and been through worse, Michael.’
The mention of his name seemed to cause him to finally look at my forehead.
‘Ah ... yes, now you must tell. It’s stopped raining. Shall we go into the garden, have a chat? And maybe, if you’re a good girl, I might tell you about what I did.’
I wavered, bit my lip, wanting to kill him there and then. I said, ‘That’d be great.’ He sounded like a vicar inviting his parishioner out for a stroll to talk about the flora. I struggled. And wondered where Amanda had disappeared to.
On the walk to the gazebo she found me. Amanda would be able to cope with what Michael Hemmings contemplated telling me.
But he didn’t tell me about his crime. Thank God. He listened intently as Amanda told him about her dead husband and the boyfriend from death row. He was ravenous for every detail, and Amanda delivered. In the damp and gaily painted gazebo, in the grounds of a psychiatric institution, she told him. Time went too slowly and, after what seemed like an eternity, Michael Hemmings seemed satisfied.
‘That’s all really fascinating, we must talk again soon.’ He stopped, registering the approach of Abbs. ‘You might be able to fit another visit in here.’
‘Might?’ The moment I felt the jubilation that he was going to confide in me was the same instant I wished he would not.
‘I’m out of here soon, it seems.’ Again, he looked at Abbs who was now standing in front of us. ‘Isn’t that right, Toby? I’m off?’
Abbs gaze was on Hemmings, and the look of entrapment in the young man’s eyes both saddened and repulsed me.
‘That’s right. That was Michael’s news, Amanda. Mr Miller’ll see you off the ward. Security will check you on the way out.’ He looked back at Hemmings. ‘Come on, Michael.’
I watched as the two men walked away.
‘You would like to see me again, wouldn’t you Michael?’ I shouted to their backs but they didn’t hear, or ignored me.
I made my way outside the institution and the fresh, strong wind hit me with a welcome ferocity.