‘I think, objectively, I am skilled,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Do I have self-doubt? Yes. Do I believe I have helped many people? Also yes. Have I helped you?’
Connie is now working on the second finger of her KitKat. She gestures to Ibrahim with it. ‘Let me tell you a story.’
‘May I make notes?’
‘Will the police ever see the notes?’
‘No.’
‘Then you can make notes,’ says Connie, and settles into her tale. ‘A girl pushed in front of me in the lunch queue today –’
‘Oh dear,’ says Ibrahim.
‘Mmm, oh dear. I suppose she didn’t know who I was. Sometimes the younger ones don’t. Anyway, she elbows her way in, so I tap her on the shoulder and say, I’m terribly sorry, you appear to have taken my place.’
‘Were those your exact words?’
‘They were not,’ says Connie. ‘So she turns to me and says, Apologies, but I don’t queue, and if you’ve got a problem with that, then you’ve got a problem with me – again, not exact words. And then she pushed me.’
‘Oh dear,’ says Ibrahim again. ‘Does she have a name, this young woman?’
Connie thinks for a moment. ‘Stacey, I think the paramedics called her. So there’s silence all around, of course there is. Everyone looking. You can start to see she realizes maybe she’s pushed the wrong person –’
‘How would she have realized that?’
‘One of the warders was coming over to intervene, and when I sent him away he just nodded and mouthed, “Sorry,” to her. I think that’s when the penny dropped. So I take a swing and she drops to the floor.’
‘OK,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Is there a point to this story? I don’t really like it.’
‘The point is what happens next,’ says Connie. ‘I see her there, sprawled on the lino, and I’m just rolling up my sleeves and getting ready to really teach her the error of her ways, when I hear your voice in my head.’
‘Goodness,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Saying what?’
‘You were telling me to count down from five. Do you feel in control? In this moment do you feel at peace with yourself? Who is in charge, you or your anger? What is the rational course of action?’
‘I see,’ says Ibrahim. ‘And what answer did you find?’
‘I couldn’t see what would be achieved by kneeling on her chest and continuing to pummel her. Like, that one punch was enough, and my point had been made. Anything extra would just be for my ego.’
‘And you are not your ego,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Or not solely your ego, at least.’
‘And this girl,’ says Connie. ‘I have to hand it to her: it takes guts to jump a queue in prison, so she must have something about her. Her lesson’s learned, I can see that, so I simply stepped over her, got my lunch and got on with my day. And I felt proud of myself, and I thought, “I bet Ibrahim will be proud of me too.”’
‘And the girl?’ asks Ibrahim. ‘How is she now?’
Connie shrugs. ‘Who cares? So are you proud of me?’
‘Up to a point, yes,’ says Ibrahim. ‘It is a progress of sorts, isn’t it?’
‘I knew you would be,’ says Connie, beaming.
‘I wonder if one day,’ says Ibrahim, ‘you might even reconsider the initial punch?’
‘She pushed in, Ibrahim,’ says Connie.
‘I remember,’ says Ibrahim. ‘And, without thinking, without hesitating, your reaction was swift and immediate violence.’
‘Thank you,’ says Connie. ‘It was pretty quick. Now let me help you down from your high horse, because I think you wanted to ask me about Luca Buttaci?’
‘Well …’ says Ibrahim.
‘Here’s me,’ says Connie. ‘The bird with the broken wing, paying you to heal me, to lead me from the path of violence and ego, to find some meaning in a life lived in chaos – these are all direct quotes, by the way –’
‘I know,’ says Ibrahim, touched.
‘But every session you drag me back in. How would you kill someone, Connie? Can you steal something from a cell, Connie? And now, do you know one of the South Coast’s biggest heroin dealers?’
‘It’s unorthodox, I will grant you that,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I’m sorry.’
Connie waves this away. ‘Doesn’t worry me – stops you being too sanctimonious. I just want you to take a look in the mirror once in a while. You come in here, asking a vulnerable patient about a lowlife criminal and that’s OK. I tell you a story of how I hit someone only once, instead of thirteen or fourteen times, and, I’ll be honest with you, Ibrahim, you didn’t look that impressed.’
‘I accept my flaws,’ says Ibrahim. ‘And if I wasn’t sufficiently impressed by your punching a young woman so hard she had to receive medical attention, then I apologize.’
‘Thank you,’ says Connie. ‘Yes, I know Luca Buttaci. Know who he is.’
‘And would you have a way of getting in contact with him?’
‘I would,’ says Connie. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘We have a lunch invitation for him,’ says Ibrahim.
‘I think he only eats what he kills,’ says Connie.
‘It’s a carvery on a Sunday,’ says Ibrahim. ‘It’s very good. You must come, if they ever release you. And if you promise not to kill Ron. Do you think I might get Luca Buttaci’s number?’
‘Remind me how this is therapy?’ says Connie. ‘You do remember I’m paying you?’
‘Therapy is always a dance,’ says Ibrahim. ‘We must move to the music.’
‘You are so full of it,’ says Connie. ‘It’s lucky I like you. I can’t give you his number, but I can pass on a message. His brother-in-law works here.’
‘In the Prison Service?’
‘I know, they seem so squeaky clean around here, don’t they?’
Ibrahim looks down at his notes. Time to change the subject.
‘Elizabeth wondered if you might have a view about the murder on Saturday?’
Connie breaks off a third finger of KitKat. Out of character – she normally eats two in the session and takes two back to her cell with her. It is Ibrahim’s job to notice things like this.
‘Who was murdered?’ Connie asks.
‘Dominic Holt,’ says Ibrahim. ‘One of the men you told us about. Are you enjoying that KitKat?’
‘Huh,’ says Connie. ‘Comes to us all, I suppose.’
There is a buzz on Ibrahim’s phone. It is common practice to confiscate the phones of all visitors to Darwell Prison, but if you mention Connie’s name they let you keep it. He checks his message. Donna.
‘You have another regular visitor?’ Ibrahim asks.
‘I’ve got a few,’ says Connie. ‘Sports masseur, tarot reader, Spanish tutor.’
‘Woman in her early forties,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Started appearing a few weeks ago?’
Connie shrugs. ‘There’s a florist who comes in from time to time. Cells can get very drab.’
‘I don’t think she’s a florist,’ says Ibrahim.
‘It’s a mystery, then,’ says Connie. ‘Now anything else you need from me, or can we get on with some actual therapy?’
‘You are telling me everything, Connie?’ Ibrahim asks. ‘Everything you know?’
‘You’re the expert,’ says Connie. ‘You tell me.’
47: Joyce
Well, we found Kuldesh’s lock-up without a great deal of bother. Don’t get too excited though.
Elizabeth wanted to find it before our ‘summit’. She also wants to pay a visit to SIO Regan tomorrow, I don’t know why, but I shall look forward to finding out.
I say ‘we’ found it. Elizabeth had the bright idea of pretending to be Kuldesh’s widow and turning up at the Fairhaven Council offices.
She gave them the works. Grieving widow, lost the number of the lock-up. Full of family photos and mementos. It took a good five minutes or so, she was really getting into it. Every now and again the woman from Fairhaven Council – she was called Lesley – would nod sympathetically. Elizabeth finished with a flourish, throwing herself on the mercy of Lesley, and of Fairhaven Council, and of the gods themselves.