Page 8 of Parker

Chapter five

HM Prison Cornton Vale

Nicky

Today will be a key date in my life. The day I walk free after ten years of incarceration, nearing my thirtieth birthday.

I’ve missed out on so many milestones in my development.

Part of me has matured—I’ve dealt with so much during my years in jail—but the other part is still extremely juvenile and looking for direction.

I am adrift. Lost in the possibilities of life, while balancing the horror of the past.

My mother arrives to collect me. She hadn’t really wanted to, having washed her hands of me after the trial, but there was no one else I could ask. So, she reluctantly agreed.

“You can stay with me for three months, but after that, you need to stand on your own two feet. The area is buzzing with news of your release. I can’t stand the watchers, you know that,” she says bluntly. “My daughter. The murderer.” She presses her lips together in disgust.

She had known about my father’s affair all along.

It was something she came to accept because in her mind, she had a good life and didn’t want to rock the boat.

When she came to see me after the trial, she told me all about their long-term open marriage.

I’d sat open-mouthed as I listened to her normalize and justify their relationship.

My stomach churned at the thought. We sat directly opposite each other, both holding a phone to our ears and looking through the thick glass.

“I’m so ashamed of you, Nicky. I can’t believe my daughter could behave in such a deplorable way. Your father was a good man, and you killed him with your obscene behavior.” Her expression never faltered. There was intense truth in her words. She believed them. I didn’t.

“But I was protecting you,” I whispered into the handset, desperate for her to understand. She narrowed her eyes and shook her head.

“Don’t use my feelings to rationalize your actions. You’re dead to me. I no longer have a daughter.” With that last statement, she had replaced the handset on the hook and left the prison without looking back. I watched my mother walk away from me at my lowest point, when I needed her most.

She didn’t even flinch. No hesitation. Just walked. Like I was never born. I didn’t cry then. I was too stunned to feel anything at all.

Now, ten years later, we’re sitting side by side in a car driving away from that awful place.

It took her nine years to reconnect with me, even though I wrote every week to update her on my progress.

She never responded until I told her I was preparing to move back into society.

We didn’t discuss the abandonment, although perhaps it’s something we could do now that I’m out.

The coming weeks will be tricky to navigate.

Rain batters off the windshield as we drive through the dull Glasgow streets.

Dark tenement buildings line the roads. We crawl along looking for a parking space, with cars parked nose-to-tail on both sides of the road.

She squeezes her tiny hatchback between an ancient Range Rover and a Ford Escort; both have seen better days.

After my sentencing, my mother sold our family home to release funds and bought herself an apartment with the proceeds.

As I walk toward the red sandstone block of the apartment, I notice litter fills the pavement, and someone has dumped a double bed on a pathway, blocking access.

Groups of teenagers hang about, drinking from brown paper bags with their baseball caps pulled low over their faces.

This place is more terrifying than jail.

My mother’s apartment is on the third floor.

Urine stinks up the communal staircase, and needles are strewn about like stones.

There’s a child’s bike lying in the corner of the landing.

Someone slashed the tires and defaced a cartoon character decoration with a drawing of a penis.

I climb quickly up the concrete stairs, desperate for the safety of a locked door.

When I was in prison, the time being locked in my cell was comforting.

No one being able to access my space, except me and my cellmate, meant complete relaxation.

Lying on my bed, I let my mind wander and imagine life beyond the walls.

An unlocked door kept me constantly on edge, anticipating an attack from another inmate. I preferred lock-down and lights out.

My mother and I sit in the dismal living room, both of us keeping our eyes trained on the floor.

The furniture is all recognizable from our family home.

It’s crammed into the small space, each piece almost piled on the next.

Family photos hang on the walls, but it’s an enormous portrait of my father above the rusted gas fireplace that knocks the air from my lungs.

I haven’t seen his face since the police interviews, since they laid his photo on the table and told me my actions killed him. My feelings haven’t changed; I still despise him, though I wish things had worked out differently. I wish I could’ve managed my anger back then.

There’s an eerie presence in the room, thick with everything unspoken over the years. Neither my mother nor I are comfortable with the situation.

“Nicky,” she says, then pauses. “I’m prepared for you to be here short term.

But you must be out by the first of June.

That’s three months to get yourself sorted.

I’m only doing this because you’re my daughter by blood.

But I stand by what I said. You’re dead to me.

” She rises from her chair and gestures for me to follow her. “Come, and I’ll show you to your room.”

My heart sinks even lower with her warning. I heard her the first time, but I’d hoped it wouldn’t come true. I hoped once here, in her home, she would want to support her daughter. That reality hurts. She doesn’t care.

Weeks pass, and we live around each other, not speaking. Each day, I scour the paper and websites for jobs and rooms to rent. Unfortunately, potential employers and roommates crush my hopes when I tell them I’ve been recently released after serving ten years in jail for manslaughter.

***

It is an early summer evening in late May when things change. My mother is out on the back green hanging washing on the line, when a group of youths attack her, holding her at knifepoint. They march her up to the flat, ransacking the drawers and cupboards.

Lost in my music with my earbuds in, they burst into my room.

A skinny, dark-haired boy stands at my door, his face covered in yellowed spots and scars where he’s scratched the skin raw.

A creepy smile spreads across his face as he approaches me, calling over his shoulder to his friends.

“Lads, check out what we have here. This could be fun.” He waggles his eyebrows, and my skin crawls.

After spending a decade living with criminals, I’ve learned to be prepared. I keep the baseball bat hidden between my mattress and headboard. Having a weapon is a habit that is hard to break, and right now, one I’m glad to have.

“Come on, gorgeous,” he says with a sneer, pulling at his crotch with stubby fingers. “Going to show me a good time?”

Cautiously, I feel for the handle of the bat.

His friends appear in my doorway, and he turns to them.

Taking the opportunity of him being distracted, I swing the bat with all my strength, and it hits him across the back.

He sprawls onto the floor, star-fished in front of his crew.

The cowards run, grabbing their grubby mate and legging it down the stairs.

Brave until someone fights back; pathetic.

That night, my mother asks me to stay. She is terrified of living alone, especially in this area. Before my eyes, she recedes back to the hollow, terrified woman I remember from childhood. The one that cried over my father and accepted his piss poor love.

Though my encounter with the gang has solidified my living arrangements, it destroys my sobriety.

In prison, I attended an alcohol support group every week without fail, using my time detached from society to better myself.

Tonight, after the attack, I allow myself to disappear into the bottle, desperate to wipe the experience from my mind.

A quick trip to the liquor store is all it takes to find relief, one bottle at a time.

The next morning, I wake with a thumping headache and a belly full of regret.

On knowing this couldn’t happen again, I find the nearest group and attend that very day.

The walk to the old church, only one kilometer from my mother’s apartment, is calming.

It feels good to be getting back on the wagon straight away.

I won’t be letting the demon of drink capture me again.

Only six of us sit around in a circle. There are a few empty chairs.

Rhona, a tall, lean woman, is the leader.

Her red hair is pulled back, and she wears a floor-length flowy-style blue dress secured with a scarf.

She scans the room with bright-blue eyes and smiles genuinely at us all.

As she opens her mouth to speak, confident footsteps echo around the hall.

I look up to see the most stunning man walking across and sitting on a chair directly opposite me. He’s breathtaking, more magazine pin-up than inner-city alcoholic. Dressed exquisitely in a sharp suit and perfectly pressed white shirt, he looks ready for any boardroom debate.

“Apologies, Rhona. I got held up at work,” he explains.

“No need to apologize, Joel. I’m glad you’re here.

We have a few new members today, and it’s always good to hear from someone like yourself.

” Her eyes twinkle as she speaks to him.

She must be twice his age, I think, rolling my eyes at her open flirtation.

But the exchange is kind of cute. He smiles sweetly, accepting the compliment without comment.