But the real memories are never the ones that make the highlights reel. The real memories were of quiet afternoons watching Bethany work. The skill with which she found and told stories. The small jokes, the private looks, the squeeze of the hand every evening when they were ‘Five seconds to air’。 Every day, ‘Anything from the canteen, Mike?’ ‘No, thanks, Beth, my body’s a temple.’ The Twix she would then bring him back.
Not rollercoasters, not skyscrapers, just the accumulation of small moments that turn acquaintance into friendship.
Mike finds it hard to cry, because he started having Botox treatments before they’d really got the hang of them, and his tear ducts are blocked. But he knows the tears are there, and he welcomes them. The tears only exist because Bethany existed.
Can he really trust this ‘Thursday Murder Club’？ Mike has the peculiar sensation that he is being manipulated, but in such an enjoyable way that perhaps he will stay on the ride for now? See exactly what they’re capable of.
He freezes the picture in front of him. Bethany’s face. It’s not a smile, or a laugh. He freezes it on a look of calm determination, eyes staring directly into his. He checks the code onscreen and sees this is a week before Bethany died.
When you look backwards, everything is inevitable. Looking at her face, Mike knows that one week later Bethany would be dead. Mike leans forward and looks into those eyes. Did they know? He could swear now that they did. What on earth had she got herself into?
The edit door opens.
‘Thought I might find you here,’ says Pauline, walking in with two cups of tea.
‘Just wanted to remind myself,’ says Mike. ‘That Bethany was a real person, and not just a story.’
Pauline nods. ‘I know you loved her.’
‘She could have done all sorts, couldn’t she?’ says Mike. ‘So full of ambition, full of ideas.’
‘Would have left us behind, wouldn’t she?’ says Pauline.
‘You’d hope so,’ says Mike. ‘Do you remember those notes she was getting? No one wants you here. On her desk, on her windscreen, all of that?’
Pauline shakes her head. ‘Made you a cuppa.’
‘Thanks,’ says Mike. ‘What do you think happened though? I mean really happened?’
Pauline puts her hand on his. ‘You know you might never find out, Mike? You know you have to prepare yourself for that?’
Mike looks at Bethany’s face on his screen once more. Looks into those eyes. He’ll find out all right.
Pauline opens her bag. ‘Let’s watch some more together, shall we?’
Mike nods.
Pauline pulls a Twix out of her bag and puts it next to his cup of tea.
16
Remand prisoners at Darwell Prison are often kept in their cells for up to twenty-three hours a day. Connie Johnson reflects on how inhumane and unproductive that is, as she walks past all the locked cell doors on her evening stroll.
One of the warders doffs his cap to her as she makes her way along the steel walkway to Heather Garbutt’s cell, the clang of her Prada loafers echoing through the cavernous building.
Connie knocks, then swings open the cell door without waiting for a response. This is exactly the Heather she thought it was. Dark hair turning grey, skin loose and pale, but nothing a bit of Botox wouldn’t fix. Connie knows someone who can come in and take a look at her if needs be.
Heather Garbutt, sitting on a plastic chair at a metal desk, gazes up at Connie with unhappy eyes. No shock or surprise. Connie knows the life of a prisoner is one of unexpected visitors and unwanted interruptions. The life of a normal prisoner, at least. Connie has got a doorbell.