Worst Case Scenario Read online

  Holly hadn’t looked at Mary once since they took their seats in the ICM suite. Her hatred had obviously matured over the last six days.

  Mary’s, on the other hand, had evaporated. Holly was just a vulnerable young girl, drowning here in a sea of testostefuck. Mary should never have done the home background interview in the mood she was in, but there were good reasons for her straight talking; it was tough love. Could the girl not see they were on the same side?

  At the head of the table, as if he was prime minister, sat Dr Liam Macdowall, chatting away to the alcohol counsellor like they were old pals. This felt more like a marketing meeting than a pre-release, but Mary would put things right. As she poured herself some water from the bottle on the table, she imagined she was in that car again, looking at a killer, and not in a Portakabin, looking at a smile.

  Mary had ensured she’d chair the meeting and went about it efficiently. ‘Before we introduce ourselves, I want to remind everyone that this is a pre-release meeting for Mr Macdowall.’ She deliberately said Mr, hoping he’d correct her with ‘Hmm, hmm, it’s Dr’.

  Instead, he said: ‘Liam’s fine.’

  He murdered his wife. Remember the car, remember he got out. ‘This meeting is not about the release of your book. This meeting’s about how to manage the likely risk you present to the community. With very high-risk offenders like you, Liam, it’s my job to imagine the worst case scenario, and to work backwards to make sure it never happens.’

  ‘And that is?’ The lawyer wore a purple, velvet designer jacket with gold trim, a red-and-orange checked tie, pink Argyll socks and fabulous brown cowboy boots. A clever distraction Mary would never fall for.

  ‘That Mr Macdowall murders another woman he’s close to.’ That shut him up, the dick; she’d ask him where he got the boots after. ‘To get things going, as you can see in my home background report, I don’t approve of your proposed address. You can’t live back at the family house, with your daughter.’

  ‘Such bullshit,’ Holly said.

  Liam reached over and pressed a calming hand onto his daughter’s, but she was furious. ‘I told you when you visited for that report that I am not at risk. You think Dad’ll hurt me? I saw what Mum did to him, I was there all those years.’ Holly held up the report and addressed the rest of them. ‘Do you know what she said to me when she visited for this “assessment”? She said: “Your dad’s a dangerous misogynist, he hates women so much he kills them. Get him out of your life.”’

  Mary might have pulled the girl up on her inaccurate quotations if she hadn’t had the gist spot on. But what exactly had she said at the home visit? She couldn’t remember. The girl must have made her overheat, and it was happening again now.

  ‘I put in a complaint about her,’ Holly continued. ‘I did some digging and apparently she’s about to be sacked; that right, Mary? For cheating the system. She told me she’s sick of jargon and trickery, tired of trying to help men who should be locked up.’ Holly tossed her copy of the home background report on the table. ‘So much for rehabilitation. Can’t we take this back to the parole board? Surely a feral feminazi social worker should not have this kind of power.’

  Many responses raced through Mary’s brain: like the list of letters that followed her name. Few folk understood why someone who’d completed a degree in law would choose to be a social worker, but Mary could give a good answer: by accident – her Higher results made her do it. One semester in, though, she realised she wouldn’t feel good about herself as a defence lawyer, and that she was not capable of bowing to men in wigs.

  Mary had been in more difficult meetings than this, and Holly was right, she didn’t give a damn anymore. A twenty-six-year-old with daddy issues wouldn’t scare her. She handed another pile of complaint forms to the girl. ‘I’d fill in another one if I were you. You think I’m incompetent, you should check out head office. Ask the lawyer, Holly; he’s sitting right there with legal advice inside his bright head just waiting to get out. What say you and your qualifications, Mr Harding? Do I have this kind of power? Should Liam appeal my decision about the address?’

  Lawyer man whispered to Liam, who whispered to Holly, and their defeated expressions prompted Mary to continue. ‘I was saying that I don’t approve of you living with your daughter, Liam, because you murdered a known adult female and the risk assessments conclude it is highly likely that you will be violent to a woman you are close to or intimate with if a few factors come together the way they did ten years ago. The risk factors are all explained in the parole report.’

  ‘Factors like Mum fucking about?’ Holly scowled. ‘I told you she was screwing around for ages. She was on other affair websites, you know, not just Eat.It.Too. She treated him like shit. I saw her hit him over the head with an egg whisk, but whoever talks about that? Did they think to mention that in court? No, because Dad wanted to protect her memory.’

  Her dad intervened. ‘It was a pestle, hon.’

  ‘A pestle?’ Mary couldn’t stop herself saying. ‘I hear those things can really mangle your peppercorn.’

  Macdowall ignored her; probably sensible. ‘I have a backup plan housing-wise.’

  The labels were piling up around this Liam Macdowall: entitled, manipulative. Eyes.

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘A private furnished let in Shawlands. I can give you all the details. It’s a well-managed flat in a secure close, and there are no “known adult females” in it.’

  Thank God she’d only have to supervise the guy for a few weeks. She wouldn’t tell him that yet, though, not until a new worker was allocated, which probably wouldn’t happen before she left.

  Mary gave everyone a couple of minutes to talk about their role or concerns. When it was Holly’s turn, her anger dwindled, and she became tearful. Holly felt terrible that the house was now hers, and that he was not allowed to live in it.

  Liam calmed her. ‘You have a lot to work through yourself, honey, and I won’t be far away.’

  What a stunning mess of a girl. She mangled Mary’s head. ‘If things go well, I might approve the address for an overnight now and then, but that’s a way off. Now, before we wrap up, is there anything you’d like to say, Liam?’ Mary felt certain he’d have something prepared. He was a showman, her life licensee.

  Liam slumped his shoulders so that he’d look smaller and began: ‘I want to do everything possible to be no risk. I’m going to abstain from alcohol altogether – shouldn’t be too hard after ten years without, but I’ve asked Tracy to breathalyse me each week. Isn’t that right, Tracy? And I’m managing my antidepressants very well; have done for ten years. I will not be coming off sertraline, ever. I want to make good decisions and I’m at your command. I want your help.’ Encouraged by the positive vibes from his audience, Liam straightened his shoulders again.

  Mary took back control by summarising her powers: ‘I must approve your address. I must know where you’re working and when. I will visit you at home – announced and unannounced – and you will attend my office weekly to check in and tell me what you’ve been doing and who you’ve been seeing. I want to know about any potential relationships before they get intimate, and you should know that I may disclose your offence to that person if you don’t. I need to know if you have any intentional contact with children, and if you do, an assessment will need to be made by my childcare colleagues. You can’t go anywhere overnight without my approval. I will undertake structured domestic-abuse sessions with you called “What Were You Thinking?” on an individual basis in the office. You will abstain from alcohol and attend counselling weekly, where you will be breathalysed. I will liaise with Tracy regarding the results. I’ll check in with your GP about your mental health and medication management. We’ll review the licence every three months, see how things are going, if anything needs to change. Failure to comply with any of the above, or with any reasonable instructions I give you in order to promote your rehabilitation and protect public safety, can result in your immediate recall to prison. Get it, Liam?’

  ‘Got it, Mrs Shields.’

  Ms. One syllable. Like Miss. Simpler than Missus, by a factor of one. Not difficult at all unless you are a complete fuckwit. And breathe. ‘It’s Ms Shields.’

  ‘Mzzz Shields,’ Alt-right Derek piped up. ‘If Liam meets a girl in a bar he has to ring you before taking her home?’

  She knew this instruction would cause problems, might even be newsworthy. She didn’t give a shit. ‘That sounds like a good idea.’

  ‘You’re wanting Liam to check in with you before he has sexual relations?’ Derek said. ‘How many hours before the first kiss: twenty-four, seven? Three seconds? Or is it before second base, if he’s about to touch a breast?’ Everyone but Mary laughed. ‘Takes the romance out of it, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Murdering your wife can do that,’ Mary said.

  Holly stood, which was not allowed. ‘Excuse me! Excuse me! Anyone else think this woman is FUCKED IN THE HEAD?’

  The prisoner, the lawyer and the alcohol counsellor walked into a bar. No, they didn’t. They stared at Holly, so out of place here with her symmetrical face and use of capitals.

  Everyone froze, unsure how to respond.

  Except Mary. ‘Sit down, Holly. Listen, if I have to breach you, Liam, you’ll get a chance to argue your case with the board, as will I. But it’s not what I want. I want you to be law-abiding and happy.’ It was half true.

  Holly sat down eventually but tried to make it look like her decision.

  They were all raging. Must be awful, being told what to do by an idiot social worker.

  ‘But why are you talking about children?’ Derek said. ‘Why would your colleagues have to get involved if there is a child? Liam’s not a paedophile!’

 
Mary was bored with the constant nit-pickery and conflict. Every day she had to make up scenarios and make up protective restrictions and then make up answers like this: ‘Mr McLaverty, if you met someone online, say, then had a date or two, introduced him or her to your kids, and you all really have a nice time, you think this is gonna go somewhere, and it does, and you start falling in love with him or her as much as the children are. Then you find out the new love of your life killed his or her spouse. I wouldn’t like that. Social workers wouldn’t like that. They’d want you to have all the information you need to ensure the safety of your children. Shall we move on?’ She hoped no-one could see the sweat dripping down her chest.

  Holly and the lawyer had all crossed their arms but not as tightly as Derek.

  Liam was the only one still maintaining composure. ‘If happiness seems imminent, you’ll be the first to know.’

  It’d be quite easy to pounce across the table and stab him in the eye.

  And breathe.

  ‘Okay.’ Mary exhaled. ‘So as long as I’ve checked out and approved the Shawlands flat, you’ll be released on life licence this Friday, so I’ll see you at twelve noon, Friday, Kenneth House, 10 Grange Road.’

  Derek had turned to page one of his hefty PR itinerary. ‘But Liam’s doing an interview.’

  Mary opened the document. The 2.00 p.m. radio programme was the first of about ten events happening every day over the next month. She closed the itinerary and the meeting.

  ‘Ask for me at reception.’

  When she got home, Mary gifted Roddie a Skype-gasm. He was obviously behaving himself – all she needed to do was show him her boobs, the only part of her body that had improved in recent months.

  It was only 9.00 p.m. when Mary settled into bed with her laptop and a book. She Googled the novel’s title – Cuck – and was surprised to discover a world of porn hitherto outwith her radar, an author pic of Liam Macdowall in the mix. She raced to the kitchen for some mega-fresh AAA batteries.

  This might well have been the day, the hour, the minute, the moment, that she made the decision that ruined her life. She opened the book at ‘Letter Nineteen’, which she had read several times already, switched on her bunny, and set the consequences in motion, chanting out loud as she reread: I must not think about that, I must not think about that.

  2

  CUCK, by Dr Liam Macdowall

  The Nineteenth Letter

  Dearest Bella,

  Rab is masturbating in the bottom bunk. I believe he prefers to do it when I am lying above him. I am trying hard to distract myself, hence another letter to you.

  I feared prison before I was sentenced, but I don’t anymore. I made an excellent decision on day one, which gave me immediate status and has kept me safe. I beat up a paedophile. I knew coming in how I would be treated here – a woman killer, and with money too, not that I have that anymore. I was sitting in line at the health centre when two officers began questioning the man beside me, rather loudly I must say. There is no privacy in prison. The first officer asked him if he felt like killing himself, and it surprised me that he answered honestly. The other officer asked if he had made a plan, which was also a yes.

  ‘No wonder,’ said the first officer, ‘after what you did, you paedophile prick.’

  I was next in line, because I too would have liked to kill myself at that time, and word had somehow got out. The officers went into the office and closed the door, leaving me alone with the beast, and I took the opportunity to crack his clavicle. He fought only with paedo tears, even when I moved his jaw an inch left with my prison-issue trainer. Staff members took their time to intervene. It was a defining moment, Bella, the first time in my mature life that I’d been violent, and the best decision I ever made.

  God, no, it was the second time. Obviously. It’s amazing how little I still know myself, after three years working on it in here. Amazing. Beating the beast was the second time I had been violent as an adult. The first was when I killed you.

  The upshot is that Rab is scared of me. Will he ever finish? He needs a better memory. I almost feel I should give him mine, which is of you, Bella, the first time I saw you. Student Union, 2.00 a.m., intoxicated and dancing to ‘Rasputin’. Your outstretched arms made your little dress head to the skies, and I saw your pants and for some reason had to tell you immediately. ‘I’ve seen your pants,’ I whispered, and you giggled and kept dancing. I leaned in to breathe on you: ‘We have to kiss, you have no choice.’

  You liked my tattoos, I know you did. And my accent – same as yours but poorer. And my dancing, which, as you know, is excellent, me swinging you about as if you weighed nothing. You liked the working-class lad made good, my overpowering audaciousness.

  ‘Because if we don’t kiss immediately…’ I placed your hand on my chest ‘…I will set off the device that is wrapped around my chest, underneath this shirt. Can you feel it?’ Risky strategy, I know. You told me later that even though you couldn’t feel anything under my shirt, you should have run for your life rather than kiss me.

  I wish you had.

  I’m afraid Rab and I climaxed at the same moment. I do hope it’s not because I made noises thinking about you, but, Belle, how can I be quiet when I think about you? My regret is noisy, my grief is noisy, my desire for you is noisy.

  3

  Mary closed chapter nineteen, threw the book on the floor, and messaged Roddie:

  —I just fantasised about a client for the first time ever. I need to leave that fucking job.

  —I shoulda reciprocated earlier, soz. The author guy?

  —The wife-killer guy.

  —Well he could do it for me, too. Look at that pretty face in amongst all those naked threesomes.

  —You’re Googling him?

  —I Googled ‘cuck’.

  Roddie copied and pasted:

  —cuckold, (kuck-uhld), noun: the husband of an adulteress, often regarded as an object of derision. Online, particularly 4chan, the term is used to insult a man who is considered to have ‘sold out’ or who sacrifices his dignity for female approval.

  —Hon, don’t beat yourself up over him … ever again. Shall I send you a cock pic?

  Mary gave it some thought.

  —That’d be lovely, thank you xxx.

  It was ten past twelve, Friday, and Liam Macdowall was a no-show. Mary dialled the governor of Lowfield on her ancient work-issue Blackberry.

  ‘Tell me you changed your mind, K. You’re keeping him in?’

  The governor wasn’t usually on first-name bases with social workers, let alone first-letter, but Karen and Mary went way back to the glory days, when terrorists had luxury wings and better food, and when sex offenders wore sex offender-coloured polo shirts. K and Mary had met ten years before in the staff gym, when overweight K was thrown from her runaway treadmill. The unfortunate incident had been on replay in security ever since. And ever since, Mary and Karen had attended the pub on Fridays.

  ‘Nup, he’s your problem now,’ Karen said. ‘But he’s been waylaid by a flock of adoring misogynists and some loud lesbians.’

  ‘Any cute ones?’

  ‘Not a one. You in the Toyota shite-mobile? I’ll make sure you get through to the G4S entrance, and we’ll get you to him, then head off left, not the motorway. Get him out of here.’

  Police cars and media vans filled the Lowfield driveway. An officer spotted Mary’s car, which was stuck halfway along, and cleared the way through to the G4S entrance, which was beside the steps to the main door. To the left of the steps was a group of women, and a few skinny men, yelling, ‘Women hold up half the sky, Women hold up half the sky.’ Mary had never heard that expression before and she wondered why her arms weren’t better toned if it was so. The women’s banners read: Cuck off; Infidelity is not an excuse for murder; Domestic Violence IS about gender; and Stop the slaughter.

  On the other side of the entrance were the men – about forty of them – holding placards:

  Men need protection from abusive wives; 90% of suicides are men and You want gender equality? Good, I don’t want to pay, I don’t want to open doors, I don’t want to go to war, I don’t want to die to save you.