Then those three little bitches ruined it all. It was their evidence that put him away. And that little tart Frankie Hooper, he hated her the most after she simpered on, elaborating on the truth.
Historic abuse! Pah! Her little tale of woe was the nail in his coffin and the jury lapped it up even if they had no physical proof, mainly because the photos he’d taken of her got burned to a cinder when that raving psycho Dennis Mills set his shed on fire. If they’d found Herbert’s collection of photos, hidden inside an empty emulsion tin, he’d have been in more trouble and no doubt Caravan Frank, the local supplier of images to suit certain tastes would have been banged up too.
And why had that bloody nutcase Dennis got off with a caution? Storming round to Herbert’s like a frenzied pyromaniac, threatening all sorts. Because he was a traumatised grieving father and off his head on drugs, that’s why. Dennis played his sympathy card and won. It was all so very unfair.
Nobody felt one bit sorry for Herbert, though, the man who’d spent most of his life being victimised, bullied and laughed at, mostly by women who saw him as inadequate. God, he hated them. Talking of God he hated him too, and told him to his face. Actually he told the statue of Jesus that stood by the altar in the prison chapel, hoping he’d pass the message on.
And you really wouldn’t want to mention what Herbert thought about Mother Mary, or what he wanted to do to the smug virgin because that was guaranteed to get another year added onto your sentence. Those thoughts were best kept to oneself and Herbert saved them for taunting God, and lonely nights in his cell while he tweaked his fantasies and, if the mood took him, himself.
Herbert’s heart was racing, not because he was getting aroused – he’d have to take a blue pill for that. You could get anything inside if you could afford it, phones, drugs, photos, so when the pressure built he liked to treat himself. There was no end to the useful contacts, someone always knew someone, even on the outside if you wanted a fake ID or a passport, the address of a good brothel, stuff like that.
What currently irked him was what he’d miss out on once he pegged it and how his life had been thwarted by others, they were the ones to blame. This thought consumed Herbert as he battled to contain the restless spirit within. It took practice, learning how to channel one’s emotions as did the art of presenting a faux face to the world, holding so much inside, giving away only what you wanted, when you wanted to. There was a time and a place to let it all out. That’s why to the prison board, the shrink, the chaplain, the quack and the few prisoners who gave him the time of day, he was churchy Herbert, the bible-bashing murdering nonce who kept his head down and said nothing much.
Saying nothing much… that summed it up, how he’d always been, even as a boy. His upbringing was strict, cold, loveless, with a regular thrashing from his mother thrown in for good measure. She said it kept him on the straight and narrow.
In truth, using him as a whipping boy was her release. The crack of a leather belt eased her tension when the shame and hurt took its toll. Being left in the lurch by a philandering husband was the catalyst. The sherry in the bread bin didn’t help, and neither did the men she took to her bed who were always gone in the morning. Herbert lived in fear of being sent to the Children’s Home, a fearful place described in vivid detail by his mother and where he would end up if she was taken away because he had blabbed.
Herbert knew what people said about his mother: the curtain twitchers missed nothing and spread their salacious gossip around the estate as smoothly as soft butter on warm bread. Still, these good Christians didn’t come running to help when they heard what they heard when they pressed their ears against the wall. His mother could scream like a banshee, throw ornaments with turbo-powered accuracy, crack that belt like a cowgirl. Surely they knew what was going on, even if they couldn’t hear his silent screams. That’s why he hated them all: they didn’t try to help. And that’s why when the teachers at school asked about the bruises, Herbert never told anyone.
There must have been good times, he was sure of it. But they had happened so long ago that any fond memories had faded. At primary school he’d muddled along. He’d been happy then, he ran about and played games and had friends for tea. They’d all been happy until his father left.
By grammar school the rot had set in. Here he was studious, solitary, the confidence knocked out of him. Herbert was bullied mercilessly thanks to his dear mother’s reputation, but it helped him to develop a thick skin, adding layer upon layer of resentment as he retreated into his own world.
At home he was expected to be the man of the house, carer for an alcoholic who was no longer functioning and it was a burden Herbert didn’t want to bear. Friendless – it wasn’t as though he could take anyone home – he became his own best company and learned to counsel himself through life’s trials and tribulations where an inner voice of calm told him not to complain, push on through, his time would come. So again he said nothing.
Unsurprisingly, Herbert was most relieved when he returned home to find a police car and ambulance outside his house, to be told by the sombre officer that his mother had put her head in the gas oven and killed herself. It had happened while he was at the cinema with a nice lady he’d met through the lonely hearts column.
In the questions that followed, while Herbert sipped strong sweet tea made by the two-faced hypocrite from next door, he told the officer that the last time he saw his dear old mum was when he popped his head into the lounge to say he was off out.
‘Yes, she looked fine, a tad sullen but that’s the norm when it’s notCoronation Streetnight.’ And, ‘No I didn’t suspect she was suicidal, depressed perhaps, and she’s been drinking ever such a lot lately.’
The voice in his head was laughing throughout, wondering what the neighbours would think if they pressed their upturned tumblers to the wall of his skull. The police and, in due course, the coroner were convinced. A verdict of suicide was pronounced and the sad matter was closed.
Herbert smiled as he left the county court, and said nothing.
He continued living under the radar. At work he was a reliable bookkeeper; in the village a pillar of the community: a stalwart of the church, avid rambler, excellent organist. The portly, grey-haired man with tortoiseshell glasses was unremarkable, dressing well in his corduroy slacks and tweed jacket. He still didn’t particularly stand out in a crowd. Had you occasion to chat, you’d have noted he spoke correctly, with a faint Derbyshire lilt, and decided he was polite and amiable, a good egg.
All fake.
That was a lifetime ago. Currently he was just another con doing time, keeping his head down, attending chapel and – as he’d told the parole board – thoroughly repentant of his sins. At the ripened age of sixty-one, Herbert was finally coming to terms with the heinous nature of the crime he’d committed. This pleased the panel and the shrink immensely.
That was on the outside. The real Herbert lay buried deep and nobody knew who he was, and never would. On the inside he was spewing hate, often thinking only in expletives, such was the bitterness that flowed through his veins. For the women.All women.
For his slattern of a drunken mother who wielded the belt too freely.
And those women he’d tried to woo, who laughed in his face or behind his back at school and college.
Those depraved beings, women he’d met on the deserted streets of Nottingham who’d done things to him he abhorred and adored all at once.
Those women who’d looked at him in church and saw a bumbling, lonely man to ponce off, a fiver here, a flash of your knickers there.
Or the hitchhiker in the yellow dress who saw only sad old anorak-man, and couldn’t even be bothered to say hello or politely pass the time of day.
And the midwife who was changing her tyre by the road in the rain, who accepted his help but forgot to say thank you. Rude and so very annoying.
That man was the real Herbert, tough enough to kill with his bare hands, knock seven bells out of sneering tarts. That was the one he liked the best.
Sighing, he opened his eyes and asked a question out loud.Why me?Then he smiled, realising the answer. It was his fault, that bastard upstairs, God. Paying him back for all the things he’d said about the Virgin Mary and the vile messages he’d given Jesus to pass on. Well, if that’s how God wanted to play it, so be it. Herbert looked at his watch. Time for evening prayer. He would proceed to the prison chapel, his favourite place to contemplate and contaminate with blasphemous and heinous thoughts.
