Simon leaned back and closed his eyes. His hands were damp, and he could feel his hair flat with sweat. It was warm – a dozen men packed into a small room and the only window locked. Emotions were always high in the group and he had relied on his own tension at concentrating on his story and on telling it with conviction to make him blend with the others. He had the basis of the legend which he and Jed had worked on so carefully. ‘When you get to it, the detail will take care of itself,’ Jed had said, ‘but the trick will be to remember that detail afterwards. Try not to give so much that it isn’t possible.’
He had told them about Johnno Miles’s attraction to small girls, from the time he was a teenager, and how he had at first been puzzled by it, then perturbed, how he could never talk to anyone at all but had to keep the secret locked up inside himself, which caused him great stress and anxiety. He had told them how he had learned there were thousands of others like him out there, and how he had started to make contact, but very warily. And then the Internet had come to help him, as it had helped them all, and opened an Aladdin’s cave of websites, forums, secret meeting places online. Shared information and assistance had converted him from a solitary, troubled paedophile, into an active, even aggressive one. He had told them that he had begun to believe children could be groomed to enjoy abuse, that sex with children had been a part, often an accepted part, of life in past civilisations and that as long as you stuck to certain rules, there ought to be no shame in it.
He told them how he had joined groups of like-minded men. He told how he had converted thought and desire to action. He told about the first time he had had misgivings, because of the reaction of the child, and from there how he had tried to control his behaviour and failed, how he had started to ask himself if he had to stay as he was, missing out of normal adult relationships and even marriage and a family.
He had told his story so well that he found himself shaking, and having to stop and take deep breaths before going on. He had started to sweat and a couple of times the therapist had suggested he take a break, have a glass of water. Adrian had patted him on the shoulder.
He felt drained and exhausted but he could not relax. He had to be wary, watch himself, remind himself all the time except when he was alone in his room that he was Johnno Miles. He was beginning to understand Johnno’s complex personality, his motivation and, above all, his self-deception.
He felt as if he had sat there with his eyes closed for a very long time. The room had gone quiet as they digested his story and thought out their responses.
‘Did you honestly believe all that about kids enjoying the abuse? Did you? Let’s face it, what we’ve done is bad in every way but pretending it’s OK is like – like pretending women enjoy being raped. I know because that’s what I told myself.’
‘I don’t believe it now,’ Simon said. ‘I just went through that stage. And it is a point of view out there, there’s plenty of guys can argue from history – ancient Greece. You know.’
‘No, mate, I don’t, I didn’t go to your posh school.’
‘Will did.’
A laugh.
Will’s face reddened.
‘You don’t think there’s a bit of you that still likes to believe kids are enjoying it?’
‘No. I saw enough – I’ve … no.’
‘What got to you, Johnno?’
‘It all got to me.’
‘Must have been something, some kid, some time … when you woke up to it. You with me?’
‘Yes.’
‘When was it?’
‘When … once when I looked at … when I just thought, I was six years old again and it was happening to me. Remembering – what it felt like.’
‘You ever talked about any of that, Johnno?’
‘No. I can’t.’
‘You got to.’
‘I can’t.’
‘We’ve all had to face up to remembering stuff. Nothing unusual about you.’
Simon stayed silent, head down, looking at the scuffed blue floor.
‘There’s something I want to say to you.’ Brian.
Simon raised his head. ‘Sure.’
‘No offence and all that.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘All right – everything you just said … this story you told us … I don’t know … you’re covering something up, aren’t you?’
His stomach lurched but his head remained completely clear and as he reacted he was working out his strategy.
Someone else jumped in. ‘You only just started this therapy, and you’ve gone straight into what’s the hardest bit, in my view, and that’s working out what they felt – and then what you feel about what they felt. That’s a bloody great leap into the deep end and respect for that.’
‘Thanks. Thanks … I … trouble is, for me it isn’t the deep end, well, not the deepest. I – I don’t feel out of my depth, if that makes sense.’
‘And you’ve got to. You’ve got to feel yourself drowning and panicking.’
‘I know. That’s …’
‘Scary.’
‘Very.’
Brian leaned forward and looked at him. ‘OK, maybe I was being a bit hard, but I just got a feeling you’d rehearsed all that, got it off pat, knew what you were going to say, and you said it, but it all felt a bit like you were skating over the surface, like you hadn’t had a shock yet.’
Simon relaxed. ‘Right.’
‘You wait till you get to the play-acting. That’s when it strips you down to nothing.’
‘I’m not sure how I’ll take it.’
‘You’ll sweat blood, mate, but you’ll get nowhere till you do. I found that out.’
‘Didn’t notice you sweating anything. Stop making out you’re sorted when you know what happened last time, big-head.’
‘All right, cool it, Pat. This isn’t a competiton.’
‘Never said it was.’
Simon leaned back, the pressure off him.
An hour later, after a WCM about job assignments and some complaints about the plumbing and the bad taste in the last lot of tea, they were outside. A five-a-side football game had been started but it was too hot for the play to become very energetic. Those who were looking after the kitchen garden were already out there, harvesting potatoes and beans. There was nothing now until pod duties started at four. He lay on the grass. The place was set on a slight rise, from where he could look towards a circle of trees. Otherwise, this was flat land, still scarred by its past as a wartime airfield. There was brown dust and chalk dust, broken-up strips of concrete. Nothing grew for miles beyond the perimeter fence.
‘Nowhere to hide,’ Will said, dropping down beside him. ‘You OK after that grilling?’
‘I can look after myself.’
‘Sure you can.’ Will was sitting up. ‘Prison camp.’
‘Must be a bit like it. Worse food then.’
‘I miss a good steak.’
‘Fresh salmon. Crab. Mussels.’
‘You could hike from here, get some, have a swim, walk back.’
‘Bike.’
‘Rather walk. Or ride. You ride?’
‘Funny that.’
‘What?’
Will shrugged. ‘Just have assumed.’
Simon picked it up quickly. ‘Oh God, did all that bloody pony stuff as a kid and then had a bad fall at a fence. By the time I was out of hospital the fear was rooted.’
‘Surprised they didn’t just bung you back on.’
‘They tried. I was no pushover when I was ten.’
‘Did you know the Gregorys? Lived at Barkford? The Cheney-Knowles lot? Six girls then David? You must have – all those bloody sisters …’
Simon hesitated just long enough. ‘Rings a bell …’
‘The dad was killed flying a small plane over to Paris for lunch with his mistress.’
‘Nope, don’t think I do then. Why?’
‘Oh, you know … mutual acquaintances.’
‘They close friends?’
‘Kind of. Knew them when we were kids. Met up again in London – as you do. Ten, twelve years ago. Through Andrew Morson.’
‘Right.’
At last? Will had been cagey about his past, except in a general way, mentions of the odd thing to do with school, Oxford. No names.
‘Andrew. Barrister. Top man.’
‘That’s where I’ve heard the name then. Andrew Morson, QC.’
Will gave an odd laugh.
They sat up and watched the game without much interest. The football standard was usually high but the best players spurned five-a-side knockabouts.
Simon watched on. Waited. Nothing.
‘Was he your brief?’
‘What? Oh, Andrew? No.’
Nothing.
Nothing until the bell rang for the pod team to go in to work.
There was no official lights-out time but not many stayed up beyond midnight. The games and recreation rooms were locked at eleven. Simon was exhausted at the end of every day, mainly because of the stress of keeping up his role, never relaxing his guard. Work in the pod was tiring, with the constant heat from the cookers, steamers, dishwashers.
‘You awake?’
‘What is it?’
‘Can I come in?’
He sighed. ‘OK.’
Will slipped in, barely opening the door. The security light from the corridor was only a few feet away, so that Simon could make him out in the yellowish glow.
‘I’ve got a joint.’
‘Don’t be so fucking stupid, Will.’
‘Oh, come on. Don’t tell me.’
‘Whatever, if you smoke a joint in here and they find out, which they will, you’re out, feet don’t touch the ground.’
‘So?’
‘What are you messing about for? You told me how long you’d waited to get in here and you want to blow it?’
Will did not move.
‘Go on.’
‘To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t give a fuck if it got me out. I can’t hack it, Johnno. Thought I could. Can’t.’
‘You’d rather be back in Wandsworth? You’d rather be having to watch out every time you go for a shower in case they’re waiting to pin you to the wall and break your nose while two of them keep guard? You’d rather –’
‘Shut up.’
‘I don’t get you.’
‘No, I wouldn’t rather.’
‘So, what are you bringing a joint in here for? Where did you get it anyway?’
‘Easy when you know.’
‘Bloody stupid.’
‘Are you going to snitch?’
Simon laughed. ‘Snitch! Seriously, stop playing silly buggers and get to bed.’
Seconds later, Will had jumped him and they were wrestling on the floor, trying not to make a noise, laughing as they would have laughed if they had known one another as boys and teenagers, muckers and mates, same background and mores, same lifestyles. Simon threw him over eventually and had him pinned down.
‘Bloody hell,’ Will said, ‘you’ve got me in a vice. Where’d you learn that?’
Simon let him go and they both struggled up, winded, calming down.
‘God, what are we doing in this dump?’ Will said.
‘Christ knows.’
‘I need a drink.’
‘Bad luck. Can’t even make a cup of tea at this time of night.’
‘Good behaviour for six months gets you a kettle in your room. You have to buy it yourself of course.’
Simon swore.
‘Can I trust you?’
‘What with? Your sister, sure.’
‘A plan.’
‘What sort of plan?’
‘Shut up …’
Footsteps. They didn’t usually do night patrols here. ‘Shit.’
If Will’s room was found empty the alarms would go off.
Footsteps. A long silence. The men had held their breath and now exhaled.
‘Jeez. You get back while it’s clear.’
‘Right. Just wanted to ask if you kept secrets.’
‘Depends what, but for Christ’s sake, Will …’
‘Going.’
He slipped out of the door.