(2002) Deception aka Sanctum (30 page)

2. Often have had an unhappy first marriage at a young age, often to violent alkies.

3. Unstable upbringing, authoritarian father.

4. Recent death in family, often of abusing parent.

5. Low self-esteem and attachment to someone they think powerful.

6. When move to be closer to prison (usually six months to a year) lose all social support and become more vulnerable.

* * *

All of which absolutely do apply to Donna. Apart from the last one. She moved up before she had even met him.

PROFILE OF MURDERERS:

1. Alcohol often present in commission of offense (not Gow).

2. Motive for marriage by prisoners: having stable relationship creates better basis for parole board (not applicable; D&G were engaged even before there was any possibility of parole).

3. These men are strivers in prison, often take degrees (not Gow).

4. Grandiose and narcissistic (yes Gow).

5. Killers exude self-confidence. Lack empathy and refuse to take responsibility for their behavior— blame others, often the victims. Claim victim status for themselves— killers victim of system. The whole relationship focus becomes saving poor man from victimization by the system (yes to all of this re Gow).

* * *

It is astonishing how many hits the woman who wrote this book made with Gow and Donna. It would be nice to write to her and let her know, but I can’t be bothered. I was thinking about Donna moving up here before she was even sure she had permission to visit Gow, which kind of makes me wonder what she was moving from. If Donna did murder those women for Gow, then she must have killed the first one (Nicola Hall) before they were even married. Maybe she wanted to kill someone all along and getting Gow released was her excuse.

* * *

It’s one-thirty and I’ve got to sleep. I’m glad I’ve had my hair cut. I hope I don’t look awful in the photographs on Monday. I hope to God that Susie’s all right. I hope they’ll give her some sleeping pills and she isn’t hassled by anyone on the Big Blue Bus.

Everything on earth feels precarious tonight. I’ve been down and looked in on Margie four times. On the way back up with a cup of tea, I was struck by the conviction that Yeni had buckled under the strain of having an affair with her employer and hanged herself. I couldn’t resist the urge to look in on her to make sure she was okay. I just stood at the door to her room and peeked in with one eye. I hope she was asleep and doesn’t know I did that.

chapter thirty

DRINKING STRAIGHT FROM A COGNAC BOTTLE IS NOT EASY WITH A half-frozen face. Let me correct that. Drinking straight from a cognac bottle is not economical with a half-frozen face. I had to take my new coat off in case I spilled any on it. I hung it behind the door. It is beautiful. I’m not going to drink any more tonight so that I can put it back on.

It is done. I went to court this morning and Susie was given life and taken away. Then I went straight to the dentist and had the tooth prepped for the cap. I sat for an hour with two people’s hands in my mouth, let them grind my tooth, and then paid handsomely for the privilege. Can there by anything more counterintuitive than voluntarily subjecting yourself to dentistry? I slept so badly last night that I almost nodded off while my tooth was being drilled.

I came straight up here and have been reading reviews in the State Literary Journal for over an hour to try to bore my mind into a state of quiet.

Yeni has been wonderful. She looked after Margie all day and then let me come straight up here to be alone. She hasn’t questioned me about my day, but she must have seen it all on TV. When I came home, I went into the kitchen and Yeni stroked my arm, but I think it was to feel the fabric on my new coat rather than to touch me. Maybe she just doesn’t have the vocabulary to ask about the niceties of procedure in my murderous wife’s sentencing. I’d smash this room up if I didn’t like it so much and wasn’t worried about messing up my lovely coat. I’m fucked right off.

* * *

I slept for about three hours last night and woke up at five-thirty, breathless with anxiety. It was the thought of facing the press again. I know that’s self-obsessed and selfish, given the awful thing that was just about to happen to Susie, but it’s the truth. I couldn’t bear the thought of being seen by them, of them photographing me and making me ugly again. I feel all right when there’s no one looking. When Yeni’s looking at me, I feel handsome and funny and able, but when the press look at me, I feel ugly and pathetic and unlucky, like those grim photos they always print of a victim’s family.

Anticipating being unable to drive when I came out of court again, I arrived early and left the car half a mile away in a long-term parking lot. I had thirty minutes to kill before I went to meet Fitzgerald, so I sat in the car and listened nervously to the radio. I definitely didn’t want to have to hang around outside the court with the old women and the man who smelled of mustard. I was too jumpy to sit in the car— I kept thinking that the lot attendant was watching me from his little booth— so I got out and went for a circuit of the block, telling myself calmly, calmly, smooth blue ocean, smooth blue ocean, walk slowly and don’t build up a sweat. Courts have the heating up high because they’re sitting still for so long, whatever the weather outside. The day of Susie’s bail hearing I had hurried in, arriving with a thin film of sweat on my face, and after five minutes I was peeling my shirt from my back. I was left distinctly rank.

I walked around the corner, shortening my stride, and came across the Armani shop. Nerves made me misread the sign as the Armor shop and that attracted me to the door. I went inside and walked about in the soporific gray light, finding myself involuntarily slowing down. A shop assistant slithered over to me and inquired in a broad-voweled Italian accent whether he could help me. I thought of Yeni and smiled. I must have had a strange look on my face because he said, “Very well,” and withdrew without prompting. Working out that it would take ten minutes to walk around the corner to the court and five to find Fitzgerald and get seated, I decided to leave at a quarter to, which gave me ten minutes to look around the shop. I found myself checking my watch every thirty seconds but managed to get it down to intervals of two minutes before I left.

Initially there didn’t seem to be much to look at. Everything was gray and black and white, but when I looked more closely, I realized that these were incredibly expensive clothes, very well made. Even the T-shirts felt beautiful. I caught sight of myself in the mirror, and the overhead lights highlighted the rain creases between my lapels and shoulder pads. My hair didn’t look bad, though. I was almost in front of the coats. I picked out a gray one and pulled at it, but there was a security chain along the arm. The assistant had to come over, unlock it, and stand there, staring at me as I tried it on. It’s three-quarter-length with four buttons and a black velvet collar, like a frock coat. I looked great in it, slim and tall and cool. The lining is sky blue. The Italian guy was watching me, so I couldn’t preen in the mirror or grin delightedly. Just before I threw my wallet in the air and shouted take what you need, you Italian fop, I slipped the coat off, the exquisite silky lining sliding gracefully down my shirtsleeves, and I looked at the price. Fuck me blind. It cost more than I used to live on in a year. But then I thought of the day ahead and of the comfort of wearing something that didn’t make me feel like a two-bit loser creep, and I bought it anyway. I was glad I did, glad I had some armor on. The assistant had me pegged as a time-waster and was surprised when I said I’d take it. He tried to wrap it in tissue, but I said I’d wear it and put my old coat in the bag.

I walked around the corner, catching glimpses of myself in the windows of shops. Realizing that it would be grotesque to show up in court with a shopping bag, I dumped the Armani bag with the old coat in it at a charity shop.

There was no crowd at the court. No one thought of this as anything more than a formality. I found Fitzgerald around the back corridor, and he greeted me coldly. I don’t know why he’s so snooty to me. I’ve been perfectly nice to him and we pay him on time and everything. Maybe he’s annoyed that he’s lost the case, but that’s hardly my fault. I saw him looking at my coat and was glad I’d dumped the bag. He said he liked it very much, that he hadn’t seen me wearing this one before. Was it new? When I said yes, it was new, he looked away sharply. He asked me if I wanted to make a statement to the press afterward, because there were a couple of journalists kicking about. I said no, I didn’t really want to. He told me to wait in the public galleries. I think he was jealous of my coat.

In the dark public gallery the mustard-smelling man was sitting next to two of the older women. I sat down in front of them, nodding hello. The dark gallery looks out onto the bright court, a proscenium arch framing the justice system for us viewers. I noticed as I sat down that the lady who brought the scones was missing from the gang. One of the other ladies leaned over to tell the mustard man that their friend had suffered a stroke since they were last here, and I turned without thinking and said, “Oh dear, how is she?” Not very well, apparently, but her friends looked shocked that I’d asked, so I turned away. My coat felt conspicuously wealthy and decadent in a world where wives were sentenced to life imprisonment and old ladies with scones had strokes. Still, my wondering whether I looked good or bad was a welcome break from thinking about whether or not the mother of my child was going down for life.

They brought Susie in from the side cells, and she looked awful, broken. The nice gray suit doesn’t fit her anymore, she’s lost so much weight around her hips. I thought of plump, sexy Yeni and felt a shooting pain of guilt. She caught my eye, and I suddenly realized that I must be looking dismayed. I smiled and waved. She ignored me and frowned at my overcoat. It was quite a light color for the court. Everyone else was wearing black or washed-out tones of green or pink or slate.

They sat Susie down, facing away from us. She straightened her back and, in a gesture of inarticulable grace, raised both hands to the nape of her neck and gathered her dull black hair, twisting it into a tidy rope and letting it drop. I felt suddenly unbelievably sad. I knew it was over, that Susie was gone, and by the time she got out of prison, I’d be gone, too. Margie would have done most of her growing up, would rebel against her pudgy old dad, and would always be wary of Susie. We were all three lost to each other, and there was nothing to be done but give witness to the unfolding disaster.

I’d left my handkerchief in the old overcoat pocket. I couldn’t sniff because it would draw attention to me, and Susie would be pissed off. So I undid the cuff on my shirt and pulled the sleeve out, dabbing my nose with it.

God, I am fucking sick to death of being fucking miserable. Look at Morris: he thrashes about, fucking everything that moves. He fiddles his practice accounts and drinks too much, and he’s happy. I’m sick of Susie looking at me as if I’m some sort of fucked-up weirdo freak. I wasn’t the one who followed a serial killer and his ugly bride up north.

* * *

I stopped for a smoke there. I’ve cooled down.

* * *

Anyway, we were all sitting in the court, the journalists waiting and watching Susie, chatting to each other, smiling sometimes but never taking their eyes off her. She looked out-gunned sitting there between the two big male guards, suddenly small, like Margie. Eventually the judge came out, and after a bit of whispering among the lawyers and passing around of papers, he addressed Susie directly. Yak yak, he said, look at me up here in my big chair, yak bloody yak. He told her she had previously been of good character, was a successful psychiatrist, and had a small daughter. He was starting to sound like a miraculously insightful stage psychic when he said it was a shame she’d let herself down by committing this murder and ordered her to serve a life sentence with a recommended minimum of ten years.

I saw Susie slump in the chair; her hair slid forward over her shoulder, baring her neck to the ax. I was reminded of the photograph she took of Donna’s neck, the white, white skin and tiny black freckle sitting between taut and slender ligaments.

The two big men on either side almost carried Susie out of the court. She didn’t even look back at me. Everyone in the public gallery was staring at her and muttering about the state she was in. I watched and realized that I wasn’t as involved with her as I had been. As for my indiscretion with Yeni, it wouldn’t be so bad if only I had waited for six months. Susie would have been gone awhile, all her toiletries would be gone from our bathroom, her clothes would be washed and mothballed and packed away in the suitcases in the attic. I could justify it all much better to myself if I’d waited. What I’ve done is unforgivable, a peculiarly unkind and brutal kind of betrayal; I’ve staged a mental retreat from her just as she is broken. I’ll keep looking for grounds for appeal. I owe her that much, but I have retreated from her. I feel nothing approaching the devastation I experienced at the trial. I knew I’d be fine to drive.

Outside the courts, a couple of journalists were gathered at the bottom of the steps. They were smoking, actually, and I wouldn’t have known they were press if one of them hadn’t shouted questions about my wife. He wasn’t even asking questions, really, it was more like he was shouting abuse at me. I got flustered. The press have been intrusive and difficult, but there was always a sense that they knew I was having a hard time through no fault of my own. There was always an underlying sympathy. Now it seemed I was no longer privy to even this small courtesy.