A fat woman from Falkirk tried to talk to her. Susie said she swung her big red face over to her and said all men were bad news, kept calling her “my friend.” Her new chum complained that the police had put her into a cell with a sleeping man. Evidently, they were confused as to her gender. Susie did a great impression of her accent. “I says to the polis-man, ‘Fit’s this oen ma chest, well? Them’s tits!’ ”
Susie was so glad to get bail and be allowed to go home. She went for occasional meetings with Fitzgerald, but other than that we just stayed in. Mostly we sat around and watched TV, and she came down from this study to eat with us. She wouldn’t let me touch her, though, and she didn’t want to talk about any of it. Every time I asked about Gow or Donna or her going off to Durness, her eyes would fill up and she’d say, please, Lachie, please, just till after, be my friend. I am your friend, Susie, but I want to know, I need to know. I’d plead with her, stroking her hand, afraid I was begging. Please, Lachie, please, just leave it. And then she’d punish me by hiding up here for hours at a time.
I wish she were downstairs, sleeping, breathing deep and slow, feeding on the air inside our safe, dark house. And in the morning I could take her up a big milky coffee and toast and apricot jam and open the window and let the smell of the garden in.
Shit shitshitshit shit shitishitshit shit shit.
I can’t think of Susie today without seeing her in the Vale, walking endlessly back and forth across grass in the shitting rain, being forced to sit through disappointing talks, told to expect nothing ever again, and trained in the disappointed walk. Maybe she can’t get to a phone. Maybe they don’t let them phone out when they’re in the induction course.
I’ve got to find something for this appeal. I’ve emptied out two boxes of receipts into a bag and I’ll use them to keep potential appeal papers together.
Box 1. Formal papers: Gow’s prison file, plus all the formal papers from Susie’s trial.
Box 2. Less formal stuff from plastic bag under this desk: Susie’s collection of newspaper and magazines articles re Donna, the wedding, and Gow, plus video and cassette tapes.
I’m afraid Gow will be on the video and it’ll creep me out, knowing he’s dead and how he died. I’ve hidden the tape under the papers in the box. I will watch it, but not just now.
Box 1 Document 1 Indictment
It is hereby charged that you, Susan Louise Emma Harriot, née Wilkens, of 7 Orchard Lane, Dowanhill, on September 26, 1998, did assault Andrew Alfred Gow, then residing at The Firs, Lenzie Road, Kirkintilloch. It is charged that you did stab him in the chest and throat, remove his tongue with knives and pliers or similar instruments at The Bothy, Inshore Loch, Cape Wrath, or elsewhere in Scotland, to his severe injury, and you did murder him.
It is further charged that you did assault Mrs. Donna Helen Gow, née McGovern, there or elsewhere in Scotland and you did murder her.
This whole second para was crossed out.
Mum phoned this morning and left a shrill message. She heard about the trial on the news and said she’ll come over if I don’t call her at once. I heard Dad coughing furiously in the background. I need a visit from my parents like a twisted testicle.
They’ve never liked Susie, they don’t understand children, and they complain about not being warm all the time they’re away from Spain. But they do worry about me. They’ll read the papers and the speculation about the sentence, which was all exaggerated, of course.
I hope none of their friends out there saw the photos of me. I often feel that I’ve gone from being their son to a thing they boast about to their friends, a form of social leverage. A doctor? No, qualified as a doctor but got out before all his friends. Saw it was a career trap- leave out the reason: that I couldn’t stand the incessant contact with random people. Leave out the fact of my disenchantment with working, my house-husbanding career, and skip straight to- wife’s a doctor, of course, dear Susan, a psychiatrist, so clever. Mum often asks me to send a BIG card to Dad or phone friends of hers I’ve met once or twice to inquire after their grandchild/trip home. It’s all about appearances. It would matter so much to them if I’m in the papers and recognizable. I’d hate to shame them, especially Dad. They’re dejected at my progress as it is. I haven’t the confidence to tell them about my writing in case nothing ever comes of it.
I went back into town to pick up the car this afternoon. It’s been there for two days. Miraculously, it didn’t have a ticket on it, but someone had scratched a long line into the paintwork on the driver’s side. It was bizarre being back there. It seemed very quiet. Bits of paper fluttering through the narrow streets. Pink vomit on the pavement. People walking past me without a second glance. I felt invisible enough to walk up the steps of the court. This is how it’ll be now. My days of being a minor, provincial celebrity are over and no one’ll remember except those sick fucks who take an interest in such things. I’d like that very much. I stood at the top of the stairs and looked out over the green. The view’s completely different when you’re standing upright.
When I got back home, a few camera crews were sitting in folding metal chairs outside the wall, watching the wooden door to the garden. They weren’t here during the trial and don’t seem to have noticed the back door to the alley. Maybe they do know about it but can’t get their trucks down there. They saw the garage door open before they noticed my car and scrabbled around, shouting at each other, pulling the cameras off the tripod and running over to the car. The automatic door seemed to take forever to open. Just as they were halfway across the road I took my foot off the brake and let the car roll in, pressing the remote button so that the door began to shut. I almost clipped the back of the Saab. One of the crews was Japanese. Why on earth would the Japanese be interested in this? They’re probably still out there, filming the garden wall.
I’m beginning to realize how ill-equipped I am for this. I’ve been waiting for Susie to ring and tell me she’s arrived and settled in safely, as if she’d gone to a professional conference or a hen weekend in Dublin. I can’t get my head around her being away. I went to the shop on the way home and bought Jesti-jesters. I’ve got a cupboard full of Susie’s favorite biscuits, and she won’t be home for ten years. I’m still sleeping on one side of the bed, putting the lights out as soon as I lie down in case I wake her.
We’ve got to win this appeal. I’ve been sorting out the big plastic bag of papers and newspaper clippings and tapes under her desk. There’s the copy of GLT magazine with the interview they printed with Susie (bastards), a Dictaphone tape, clippings about Gow’s case that look quite old, as if she’d been gathering them for some time, and masses of notes about Donna. She must have every single interview Donna ever gave to the papers.