Chapter Forty-Six
Forty-Six
The guard hit the switch and the fluorescent lights flickered on.
If there was one criticism to be leveled at prison visiting rooms, it was the lighting.
Too bright. Yes, yes, this is a correctional facility but there is such a thing as cruel and unusual punishment.
Come on, she thought. No one looks their best here. Dim the lights.
The twenty or so inmates each shuffled to a table. They were all so young. It happens so quickly. One minute you’re the new kid, next you’re the little old lady in the corner, the one who’s seen it all before.
The guard on the other side of the room opened the door, and the visitors made their way in.
Some nervous, taking it all in, tears already flowing.
How had it come to this? Some on their thousandth visit.
Just another errand, another day in the month, the one where you visit Stephanie, your daughter, the one who shot the postman.
Carol heard her visitors before she saw them. Geoffrey was admonishing a guard for the lax security. “I could be smuggling any number of things in my downstairs cavity but you wouldn’t know, would you? Why? Because you didn’t check.”
Carol gave them all a smile as they arrived at her table. A guard helpfully found an extra chair so there were enough for three.
They were silent for a moment, contemplating the events that had led them to this.
“How are you?” said Margaret.
“I’m good,” said Carol lightly. “The menu’s changed. Used to be pasta on a Thursday. Now it’s chicken curry.”
“Oh dear,” said Margaret. “Any good?”
“Oh no, it’s an improvement. Can’t complain.”
“Well, that’s nice.”
Margaret filled Carol in on all the gossip.
Belinda and Marco were no longer a thing, Belinda having decided that she wasn’t ready to settle down.
Polly had gone cold turkey, made a return to writing, and had a new book coming out later in the year.
A murder mystery set in a retirement home.
There was a market for that sort of thing now, apparently.
DCI Bob Beattie had been arrested for murder and “given up smoking.” Detective Sergeant Laura Welsh was now Detective Inspector Welsh and hoping to find time for a beach holiday.
Margaret had heard she was dating a man and said it would be nice if they got married so her accent didn’t clash with her surname anymore.
Catherine said not everyone took their husband’s surname now.
Margaret said she’d be silly not to, “unless his name is English!” and they all laughed.
Shep and Helen Newsom had bought Sheldon Oaks and were running the place.
Shep’s expensive lawyers had managed to help him get away with a suspended sentence on the grounds that he was too dim to realize he’d invested in a drugs business.
Nothing much had changed in the home, really.
Karaoke night was still a thing, and with Jim no longer the star, Geoffrey had plucked up the courage to sing, specializing in national anthems, to give the evening an educational element.
There had been the odd death, as always, but they tended to be a lot less dramatic these days. Agatha had fallen to lung cancer.
“Apparently her lungs were black,” said Margaret.
“Well, she wouldn’t have liked that,” said Carol.
Tyler was in some prison up north, awaiting trial. Wakefield, Margaret had heard.
“Do you see Elisa at all?” asked Margaret.
“Oh, yes, didn’t I tell you? We’re sharing a cell,” said Carol.
“She told me to say hello, by the way. Didn’t want to come out today.
I think she’s a bit embarrassed. I keep telling her, just because you’re a killer, it doesn’t make you a bad person.
She’ll be okay. I’ve been showing her the ropes. ”
Geoffrey was jumpy, feeling he should be doing something, helping out the guards somehow. Catherine was quiet.
“Oh! Oh!” Margaret was getting excited. “Show Carol the ring!”
Catherine, blushing, put her hand on the table.
Carol’s eyes widened. “Is this…?”
“Yes,” said Catherine. “We’re getting married in the spring.”
“Geoffrey!” said Carol.
“Well, you know, she’s up the duff, so I thought I better do the decent thing!” He said it loudly so the whole room could hear, letting out a massive laugh.
Catherine hit him.
“We’re all getting a bit bored with that joke,” said Margaret.
Catherine took a deep breath and looked Carol in the eyes. “Thank you. I’m so…” Her voice quivered as she said it. “Grateful.”
“I know,” said Carol.
“No, Carol, I don’t think you do.”
“Catherine, it’s okay. You belong out there and I belong in here. Everything in its right place.”
“I don’t accept that,” said Catherine. “I’m so sorry.”
“It is what it is,” said Carol.
“But…” Catherine whispered, tears on her cheeks. “You didn’t kill Jim. I did.”
“Friends help friends, don’t they?”
“I’ve already set things in motion to appeal the sentence,” said Margaret. “If you’re insistent on taking the blame, there’s still a very strong case for self-defense. I’d say you have three rather reputable witnesses who’ll speak in your favor.”
“Reputable?” laughed Carol. “Is that the word for it?”
Catherine was right, of course. She had killed Jim.
Sometimes, when she’d first come back to prison, Carol had wondered if she’d done the right thing.
She’d fought so hard to clear her name, to stop herself from ending up back here, and then she’d given it all up by taking the blame for a murder she hadn’t committed.
Now she knew she’d done the right thing.
The four sat in the moment, enjoying each other’s company.
“Are you sure you want me on the outside again? I do get itchy. I’ll probably kill one of you eventually.”
And then, after Carol Quinn, one of Britain’s most notorious serial killers, had told her best friends that she’d most likely kill one of them one day, they laughed and talked about a new recipe Margaret had just seen for lemon meringue pie.
Apparently the secret was to use sour cream, which they all agreed was the most shocking thing they’d heard in years.