6. Prison Visitor Sandra Bellamy

THE ACCUSED Part 6

When Mrs Sandra Bellamy woke up in the morning, she dreaded what the day would present her with. Firstly, she had to get over the hurdle of James’s moods.

He isn’t a bad man, she told herself, just that he has these sleepless nights…

And she knew they were real. She could tell by his breathing when he was lying there searching for sleep which wouldn’t come, and then, when he got up in the mornings he was grumpy.

It isn’t his fault…

But really it was. He had developed a habit of winding himself up over some trivial issue, some small event at work, maybe some chance comment the boss had made, and then he let it fester all night.

He ended up with a scowl the like of which he never used to make, not even on their honeymoon when he discovered that she was experiencing a heavy period and unlike many a man before him he’d actually saved himself for a precious new discovery. And that wasn’t the worst. He swore a lot. A great deal, language even a savage would blanch at.

Her one way out, once he’d gone to work, was to find something she thought might be even worse than James’s sleepless moods, and she decided to be a virtuous woman trying to make the lives of prisoners less likely to end in depression or, as she knew perfectly well, suicide. She became a prison visitor.

In a way it helped alleviate the torment that was James. Oh, he never raised a hand to her or threatened her, neither physically nor, he hoped, mentally, but unbeknown to him that latter was exactly what he did do. Not every morning. He did sleep quite well, sometimes for weeks on end, and that was a blessing. But when something got onto his mind and wrapped itself around his logical self, feeding him with superstitions, and even sometimes if he did manage to drift off for a few minutes it commandeered his dreams, she feared the dawn.

There were quite a few women she was hoping to see on this particular day, and in particular, one she hadn’t met before. It was a police detective fallen out of grace, and it intrigued her. She wanted to discuss it with the woman, to find out what might drive an honest and honourable citizen to commit the most heinous of crimes.

So she did her face. Being the wrong side of fifty, her age was starting to show, and she disliked the fact that she was growing older with precious little to show for it.

She was shown into the presence of Rosie Baur.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she began, “and you can always refuse to see me. There are no rules that say you must. Our meeting must be as personal or impersonal as you want it, and I assure you I don’t take any decisions about you with me into the big wide world.
The Detective Inspector smiled warmly at her before saying, “I have nothing whatsoever to hide.”

That was an odd start to a conversation, thought Sandra, because surely everyone charged with a crime must harbour something in their minds that they want to keep out of public knowledge.

It wasn’t normal for her to discuss the offences that those she visited had been charged with, there were plenty of other topics, like what good books those she gushed at might find to be a really good read. Or one of her favourites, their concerns for spouses left at home, and often children as well, and how they might be suffering in her absence.

“I wondered what you might be interested in,” she murmured, venturing onto more personal territory.

“Truth,” replied Rosie Baur, “the plain, unadorned truth devoid of prejudice and dislike. Let me tell you a little something about my case…”

“We’re advised not to do too much digging into offences…” warned Sandra.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to mention anything remotely like any offence I may have been responsible for, only that a woman died unnecessarily even though it was she who was holding the knife and threatening me with it.”

“I read about it in the papers…” put in Sandra, unintentionally.

“Then you will be aware that every detail of that event, when studied with a sort of twisted hindsight could be, and was, open to vastly inaccurate interpretation,” said Rosie with a small frown.

“I suppose quite a lot is,” agreed Sandra, “take my husband for example. We’ve been married for thirty two years and for all that time he’s found sleep difficult. It’s not that he wants to play games with me in bed, though we’re not totally, er, without our more basic needs. But he can’t sleep if something gets on his mind. It’s his sort of hindsight, if you like, but it keeps him tossing and turning for hours.”

“Well, this is different,” Rosie told her, “it concerns a man who has an instinctive dislike of women. As far as I can make out it’s all women, though he is married to a strong minded and rather dour lady. I should know: I’ve met her several times and find her frown more common than her smile. Added to that prejudice, there are racial undertones. He is of the brigade best described as white suprematist. And just look at the tone of my skin.”

“It’s beautiful,” sighed Sandra, “you’re a very beautiful woman even in here.”

“Well, you might see my problem,” sighed Rosie, “take a for instance which has nothing to do with what happened. Imagine two boys are on their way to school, joshing along, laughing and joking, and one of them accidentally pushes the other onto the road just as a car is hurtling past well beyond the speed limit. It can be looked at from different perspectives: boys in their grey shorts playing a foolish game or a speeding driver paying insufficient attention to the road conditions, especially on a road that is linesd with children on their way to school. In my book the driver is responsible for the death of a schoolboy, but others might convincingly argue that it had nothing to do with him and that the child’s friend was one hundred percent guilty because he pushed him.”

“I see,” murmured Sandra.

“Well, in my case, did I trip when being threatened by a knife in an angry woman’s hands, or did I pull her quite deliberately until that knife penetrated her flesh and stilled her heart. I know, and this is as honest as I can be, that if it was anything it was an accident inspired by her anger, one that most probably was aimed at stabbing me. But the misogynist boss of mine chose to look at the cold facts from a jaundiced angle. And that’s why I’m here.”

“I see,” murmured Sandra, “Would you mind if… I’m not supposed to, but I feel I ought, think through what you’ve just told me.”

“Feel free,” replied Rosie, “the truth will never hurt me, but downright lies will.”

© Peter Rogerson 19.04.21

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