This story took a long time to evolve.
The core was there for years, but I wasn’t comfortable with it. A reading in
the Writers’ Circle helped to identify elements that wouldn’t work. After
several rewrites, it was finally published in Costa TV Times in 2010.
GIVE ME A CHANCE, WILL YOU?
Nik
Morton
“It’s a challenge, Joseph,” the Governor
had said.
Just
like the times before, Joe promised he would make an effort.
Now,
weak grey eyes squinting in the summer sunlight, Joe Clancy stepped through the
prison gate and looked back over his narrow sloping shoulders at the only home
he knew.
Reluctantly
he ambled away and hesitantly viewed the outside world again.
At
least inside he had status. A
regular. The psychologist called him a
recidivist, which didn’t sound as good.
The
deep rumbling sound of the prison door closing was as familiar as a
nightmare. Ever since being sent down
he’d dreaded hearing that.
He
was already uncomfortable and sweating.
But he remembered his promise.
“I’ll really try this time, Governor.”
It
was easy to make that promise while safely locked in HM Prison, but once he
faced the reality outside, the streets teeming with people, he was frightened.
Of
his fifty-four years, he’d done bird for thirty-two. Mostly for petty crimes. He was not a violent
man. Just a simple one.
But
he kept coming back because he needed the security. True, it wasn’t like the old days. There was
a much nastier sort of criminal now. But
he still yearned for the place and its predictable schedule.
The
“economic climate” was a problem. Why offer a jailbird a job when there were
plenty of unemployed honest citizens?
Then, amazingly, he got the caretaker’s job at Wetherington Warehouses.
Soon
there was a spring in his step, and he held up his head with pride. He locked offices, cleaned toilets, and did
an hourly fire and security check. He
was left alone, and nobody bothered him.
The
pull of his old home, the prison, lessened.
Then,
one morning, he was confronted at his boarding house by two detectives. His emotions were suddenly scrambled. A
familiar flock of butterflies gyrated in his stomach. Here was the prospect of
going back, surely? The reasons why
didn’t much matter.
He
soon realised that he had been hired as a scapegoat. Possibly it was an insurance swindle. He
didn’t care. They’d done him a favour,
by giving him a chance to serve another prison sentence.
However,
the judge claimed the prosecution had produced insufficient evidence.
Joseph
was staggered. “But, your Honour!” he
protested. “You can’t let me go! I don’t want to be free!”
The
judge leaned over solicitously. “I have
studied your rather unique record, Mr Clancy, and I am of the opinion that you
still haven’t been able to come to terms with life outside prison walls.” He shook his white-wigged head. “I urge you to try. I’m sure that, given time, you’ll find an
honest niche in society.”
Trembling,
Joseph left the court, eyes downcast.
The other accused people sitting in the corridor looked enviously at
him. If only they knew!
“Excuse
me, Mr Clancy...” A woman’s quiet, gentle voice.
He
backed off, risked a glance. The blonde
woman was about thirty. She didn’t have a wedding ring but the mark on her
finger suggested that at some time she had worn one. Her blue eyes showed
concern. For him? Surely not?
“My
name’s Mrs Donovan - Lynda... I’m your new probation officer,” she explained,
brushing aside a stray wisp of hair from her flushed cheek.
He
lowered his gaze. “I don’t want to
talk,” he murmured. Turning, he hurried
for the entrance.
But
Lynda kept up. “Joe, give me a chance,
will you?”
He paused at
the door to let a barrister in.
“Anyway,” she
persisted, “I’m going past your digs.
I’ll drop you off.”
He
couldn’t be rude. She meant well. She obviously didn’t know he was a hopeless
case. Most of the other probation
officers had tried with him, and failed.
“All
right. But no fancy sneaky questions,
all right?”
They
approached her Ford Escort. “Here we
are, Joe. No sneaky questions -
promise!”
Then
he noticed a movement on the back seat.
He froze, hand on the door-handle.
A little girl, about five years old, in a pretty blue dress. Blonde hair
almost reached her waist.
He
let go of the door and was about to go round to the front passenger seat.
“Don’t
mind my daughter, I had to pick her up from playschool early today.” Lynda opened the rear door for him. “Go on,
she won’t bite!”
“My
name’s Clair.” The child held out a
small hand.
The
door clicked shut and his world seemed confined, but he didn’t feel safe. He was not good with relationships, of any
kind. Joseph hunched into the seat’s corner and nodded curtly. “Joe,” he
grunted, folding his arms and shunning her hand.
As
Lynda pulled out into the traffic, Clair said, “Are you really a bad man, Joe?”
His
lower lip trembled. Sitting next to such
innocence disarmed him. “I - I - Yes...” he finally managed, throat abnormally
dry.
“Well,
you don’t seem so bad to me. I think I like you,” Clair declared. Eyeing him sideways, she giggled, “You’ve got
a big nose!”
“Clair!”
Lynda exclaimed.
Joe
smiled into the rear-view mirror.
“Clair’s right - I have.”
Clair
leapt up and grabbed the back of her mother’s seat, startling him. “Mummy, can we stop at the park?”
“Well,
we’re dropping off Mr Clancy...”
Clair’s
face crumpled in disappointment.
Joe said,
“It’s all right, Mrs Donovan - I’ll walk the rest of the way – it isn’t far...”
Get out, be alone again, that’s what he wanted...
His
heart jumped into his mouth as Clair grabbed hold of his clammy hand. “Come with us, Joe!”
The
car stopped and Lynda let her daughter out. They stood by the kerb,
waiting.
But he held
back.
“Come
on, Joe,” Lynda urged, holding Clair’s hand.
If
he had married, he’d have wanted a daughter just like Lynda. He wondered what had happened to little
Clair’s father – dead or divorced? Probably divorce, otherwise she would still
wear the wedding ring. Unless she never married; one of those single mums who coped somehow... More than he did, cope... Whatever, Lynda was coping while holding down a job. He
thought, God, why can’t I keep a job?
He
peered through the park railings. The
shimmering lake, the lush green grass and the sycamore trees. Birds were
singing. Strangely, at this moment the open spaces did not seem to pose such a
threat. A little apprehensively, he
clambered out of the car.
Lynda
slammed the car door after him, and it echoed in his memory like the prison
doors.
Clair
ran up to him. “You could be sort of
part of our family,” Clair said seriously, arms akimbo. “Like an uncle or something, couldn’t you?”
He
could almost hear his heart beating now.
“An honorary uncle.” He glanced
at Lynda for reassurance and she nodded, smiling. He said, “I - I’d be proud to
be part of your family.” He smiled as
Clair turned and started taking small steps towards the lake.
“Go
on ahead,” Lynda suggested.
‘You’re
sure?” he asked.
“Yes. Since her grandfather and father died, she
hasn’t had a male figure in her life. You’ll be good for her, I think.”
The
butterflies in his stomach abruptly migrated and all he felt was a warm
glow. He might be good for someone,
after all.
Joe
soon caught up with Clair. She skipped
along by his side. He breathed in the fragrant flowers and actually felt
trusted again.
This
recidivist, he vowed, isn’t going back.
***
Copyright Nik Morton, 2014
***
My short story
collection Spanish Eye featuring Leon Cazador, private eye in 22 cases is
published by
Crooked Cat Publishing.
Canada: http://amazon.ca/dp/B00GXK5C6S
UK: http://amazon.co.uk/dp/B00GXK5C6S
France: http://amazon.fr/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Germany: http://amazon.de/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Austria: http://amazon.at/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Italy: http://amazon.it/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Spain: http://amazon.es/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Japan: http://amazon.jp/dp/B00GXK5C6S
