Friday’s Child

Today

     Jason had missed Mum’s funeral on account of the murders.  Time was his greatest loss over the last thirty years, he decided, sitting on the bed in his cell.  Add another loss, now Mum was dead.  He looked at the clock on his shelf and wished he could turn back time.

Again his parole eligibility date had come up, attracting the usual press ranting and raving.  Previous applications had failed three times, so he’d been wary, not raising his hopes; but his new solicitor, Zena Foyle, had persuaded him to apply.  He’d been honest with the independent psychiatrist, his offender manager and his prison advocate.  He’d seen the dossier provided to the panel and it was bordering on upbeat apart from the typically rabid victim statements.  

Everything hinged on today’s oral hearing with the panel.  Zena, briefed him, “You know what they’ll ask.  What risk do you pose now compared to 1985?  How have you changed?  How will you cope in the outside world?  What support networks exist for you? Usual guff.”

Looking at the clock he saw it was approaching eleven am, nearly time.  He heard footsteps on the metal stairs and stood, contritely bowing his head.

“Weaver!”  A prison officer opened his cell door and Jason gave a nervous smile, “Bet you’re shitting yourself?”  The officer let Jason pass onto the landing amid the chattering hum of prison routine.

“Nervous?”

“Yes,” Jason said quietly, keeping pace as they passed rows of barred cells to the steps, and down to the admin wing.  

Stopping at a closed polished wood door, the guard knocked,

“Give us a minute,” a woman called.

“Better park your arse there,” he nodded to a chair and Jason sat, hands on his lap, calmly waiting.

Avril Letby was a judge on the local circuit and experienced at chairing parole hearings.  She was pleased retired police chief Kashmir Singh was with her and hadn’t previously met, but heard good things about, Pierre Bellot, a psychiatric expert advisor.

Weaver’s dossier was one of the most watertight she’d seen.  Zena Foyle, eyeing career progress, was pushing with aggressive velocity and had pulled out all the stops.  Every impassioned victim statement was met with equally passionate testimonies from Weaver’s prison governor, psychologist and probation team.  He’d completed qualifications, attended courses, sat on prison boards, worked in the library.  A model prisoner.

Letby looked across at Singh and Bellot, “Any final thoughts before we bring him in?”

Singh huffed, “I think we’ll be hard pushed to say no.”

“Let’s see how he responds, shall we?” Bellot seemed dubious.  “I want to see his face, his body language, how he reacts to our questions.”

“I want my lunch, so don’t drag it out.”  Singh tapped his pen on the desk.

“I’ll get him.”  Letby circled the desk and opened the door, “Jason?”

17 May 1985

9.50

     Jason entered the classroom behind the loud scrum of fifteen and sixteen year olds.  He sat at a corner desk whilst the rowdiest boys commandeered a group of tables towards the back.  Warily he took his exercise book out of his bag as the volume in the room grew, hoping he could just get through the lesson without any problems.

     “Quiet,” shouted Elaine Sharp, gearing up to teach English literature to thuggish and bored kids.  She waited until the volume decreased; that table of boys needed to be split up otherwise the entire lesson would be a lost cause.

     “Coppack, Dodd, go and sit at Jason’s table.”

     Jason’s guts churned as the two boys dragged their chairs over, throwing their bags down, sniggering to each other.

     “Bet you’re glad two hot lads are sat with you?” Coppack sneered.

     “Better watch your arse Coppack,” Dodd whispered loudly for the rest of the class to hear and a howl of jeering laughter and cat calls kicked off.  Jason felt sick.

     “Enough!” shouted Sharp, “Take out the text books and go to page seventeen.”  She looked across at Jason, a frail and red faced victim.  Poor little sod, she thought, stands no chance in this hellhole.

     “Oi, Weaver, you read this book?”  Coppack nudged Jason in his skinny ribs with a beefy elbow.

     Jason quietly nodded.

     “Good, because if I get asked anything you’ll give me the answer.”  Coppack placed a meaty hand around Jason’s wrist and said with a sneer, “Otherwise I’ll break your arm.”  

     Sharp began to quote from the book, a huddle of girls on the table behind Jason passing notes and giggling.  One of them, Sandra Parry, who often stuck up for Jason, gave Dodd a slap as he reached out to grope her leg under the desk.

     “Keep your hands to yourself,” she hissed.

     Dodd leaned over to Coppack, bragging about his fumbling assault, both of them erupting in laughter.

     “You two, what’s so amusing?”  Sharp put her book down, glaring at the disruptive pair.

     “We were just telling Weaver to keep his hands to himself, miss!” Coppack replied.

     Predictably the room exploded with laughter and jeers, Sharp having to work extra hard to keep the lesson afloat.  God, she thought, I hate my job sometimes.

     Jason shrank, his face reddened further as the entire class got behind his suffering.  Not that this was a novel situation, far from it.  Each lesson, every breaktime, on the bus to and from school, an endless round of verbal abuse with the odd physical assault: Coppack the ring leader, Dodd his wingman.

     “Quiet, or the entire class is on detention, and I mean it this time,”  Sharp didn’t and they knew it. “Back to the book.” 

     Coppack put his face close to Jason’s, “You’d love that wouldn’t you?  Everyone gets detention because you’re such a queer.”  Coppack licked his lips, enjoying Jason’s agony.

     Each night Jason lay awake wondering why he had to endure such persecution?  The root of the bullying was obviously his sexuality, so he tried to bury it; dressing like the other boys, kicking a ball about, not doing homework, avoiding clubs or groups perceived as ‘cissy’.  The more he concealed his real self, the worse he felt, growing increasingly unable to repress his mounting hatred and anger towards fellow classmates, and the depth of his pain.

     “Jason?” Sharp called, “Could you read the next paragraph, please?”

     Jolted from his numb state, Jason fumbled to know where to start, standing with head down, agonised at being forced to face the room.

Today

     “What I need to know,” said Singh, “Is whether you still present a risk to society?”  So far he’d been impressed by Jason’s candour, his confidence, his evident remorse and contrition.  Jason Weaver certainly wasn’t the same kid he was when he got sent down.

     Jason smiled and looked the panel in their eyes, one by one.  Zena Foyle had made sure he’d done plenty of trial runs.  Judge Letby had an engaging smile and Mr Singh seemed happy with Jason’s answers.  He couldn’t really read Dr Bellot’s face, recognising the professional scrutiny the man was undertaking.

     “I grew up in prison.  Since I was sixteen I’ve never lived outside.  If anyone’s been institutionalised I have and that’s not to say that’s a bad thing.  Every aspect of my life, my interactions, my learning and development, has been professionally and rigidly managed to get me to this state now, where I’m an acceptably functioning man, conditioned to deal with the same challenges anyone else would.  I’ve never once been involved in disputes or fights since I was imprisoned.  I’ve walked away from taunts and abuse.  Coping mechanisms I’ve been taught are so deeply embedded they’re second nature.  I’m a different person.”

     Letby looked to Singh who gave a smile deep within his beard, wrinkling his eyes.  

Bellot jotted notes and turned to Letby, whispering, “I’d like to ask one last question.”

     She nodded, “Just one more, please?” Lunch beckoned.

     “Jason,” Bellot sat forward in his chair, “If you could turn back time, what do you wish you could do?”

17 May 1985

9.55

     Jason stammered, his voice quiet.

     “Speak up Jason, you usually read very well.”

     Sharp ignored a chorus of quiet derision from the class, and hoped Weaver would rise above it.

     Jason’s eyes flicked back and forth from the page to the class to Coppack and Dodd, leering at him, mouthing ‘queer’ and ‘bender’.  He couldn’t focus on the passage, letters swimming.  He felt anger mounting, edging aside his humiliation and self-loathing.

     Jason suddenly sat down, to the surprise of the class and Sharp.

     “Jason, I didn’t say you could stop.”

     He ignored her.  He was rigid, hands under the table, gripping his thighs, eyes fixed on the desk.

     “Jason?”  Sharp saw his evident distress.

     Other members of the class began to whoop and cheer, as if Jason’s little act of defiance was the cue to launch an attack.

     “You’re such a fucking freak,” Dodd laughed.

     Sandra leaned over to Jason’s ear, “Jason, ignore them.  Are you alright?”

     Coppack gave Jason’s upper arm a light punch, “You even need girls to stick up for you!”

     Jason reached down into his school bag and felt for the knife he’d brought. He stood, holding the handle the way he’d practiced, took a step behind Coppack’s chair and with a clean stroke slit the boy’s throat.  Blood instantly gushed and Coppack’s astonished scream became a rasping gurgle.

     There was stunned silence before several of the girls screamed and chairs fell clattering around the room.  Dodd sat frozen, his mouth an ‘o’ of horrified shock as blood sprayed across his face.  Shouting, “No!” he defensively thrust his hand towards Jason where it met the point of the blade, slicing his palm open.  Jason’s face screwed up in furious concentration as he plunged the knife repeatedly into Dodd’s chest, his white polyester shirt blossoming red.

     “Jason, stop…”  Sharp pushed the increasingly hysterical girls aside as she tried to reach him.  He looked wild, the knife strafing the air as he backed towards the door.  She tried to grasp the handle as he turned towards the only exit.

     “Please, put the knife down,” then she felt what seemed to be a punch to her guts.  She sensed Jason’s panicked breath at her neck and looked down to see him pull the blade from her stomach.  

     The young man pushed the unresisting teacher aside and leapt through the door, knife still in his sticky, wet hand. He bolted.

     Sandra gave chase, calling, “Jason, for God’s sake, please, stop!” running after him, following his bloody footprints towards the stairs. 

Today

     Bellot put his head to one side, watching Weaver consider the question.  Letby, slightly unnerved, watched as the man rubbed his palms up and down his thighs.  The question had provoked something she hadn’t seen coming.

     “Is there anything you’d do differently?”  Bellot rephrased the question, curious at Jason’s pause.  

     “That’s a very interesting question,” Jason said quietly.  “It’s one I think about a lot.”

     “And?  Any conclusions?” Bellot asked, scratching a note down on his pad.

     Jason looked at the expectant faces of the panel, trying to read them, knowing full well what they wanted to hear.

     “On reflection, yes,” he smiled.

17 May 1985

10.00

     Jason climbed the stairs, banging against the wall at each corner as he ran, panting, his wrist and hand agonising; the blade had cut his palm badly and the blood had soaked his shirt sleeve crimson.  Everything around him felt dreamlike.

     His mother despaired and angrily demanded he go on the offensive and defend himself, stand up to them.  He’d never considered physically ending the abuse; he wasn’t strong enough to stand up to bullies like Coppack and Dodd, they’d beat him to death.  

He’d considered ending his life, jumping off the footbridge beside the school onto the busy road and ending it there.  Or perhaps run away, but to where?  It was only when he’d had to endure another day of constant attacks he wished he could cut their tongues out and silence them for good.  He’d got an old military book from the library on knives and how to use them in combat.

     At the top of the stairs was an empty music room, a small practice space with a piano and shelves of dog-eared scores.  He used to hide out up here sometimes, to escape and read or daydream in peace.  He pushed the door open, hand throbbing.

     “Jason, stop!”  Sandra had kept up her pursuit, though she’d say later she didn’t know why apart from she liked him and he’d been provoked and she should have stood up for him and been more friendly.

     He looked at the wild eyed girl, pale and frightened.

     “They asked for it,” he said quietly.

     “Put the knife down, Jason.  Please.”  Sandra realised she was alone with a lad who’d just stabbed and slashed two classmates and a teacher.  She should have felt frightened but didn’t.

     “I don’t know what to do.”  Jason sat down on the piano stool.  Sirens sounded in the distance.  

     Sandra watched him, covered in blood, gaunt.  He looked older all of a sudden.  He dropped the knife to the floor.

     “I get mad and want to kill people sometimes,” she said.

     “Why don’t you?” Jason asked.

     “Because I don’t want to be locked up.  Anyway, things like school bullies come to an end; school finishes in a few months and we can leave.”

     Jason considered Sandra’s comments and nodded, “They’ll put me in prison, I suppose?”  

     “What did you think would happen?”  

     He shrugged, “I just wanted them to leave me alone.”

     There were voices coming from the stairwell, adult voices, teachers, getting closer.  Jason looked absently at the lacerations on his hand.

     “You’ve hurt yourself,” Sandra said matter of factly.

     “Is there anyone at the top of these stairs?” a male voice shouted.

     Jason and Sandra looked at each other and nearly giggled, I mean, honestly, given there was blood traipsed all the way here.

     “Don’t get into trouble on my behalf,” Jason said quietly. 

     Sandra nodded.  “Don’t worry, I won’t.  Do you mind if I write to you in prison or hospital?  Probably a lunatic asylum, what do you reckon?”

     “That’d be nice,” he said, looking past Sandra as a head appeared around the stairwell: Mr Roberts, PE teacher and their form tutor.  The one he’d got into trouble with for skipping rugby over the winter term, Jason’s one and only act of rebellion. Except for today, obviously.

     “Jason Weaver, stay there and don’t touch that knife.”

     He became unexpectedly notorious.  Throughout the entire legal process he’d maintained a small, quiet presence, quite unlike the press’ feverish descriptions of a blood crazed schoolboy; Sweeney Todd in an ill-fitting blazer.  He quite liked to hear “Jason Weaver, meat cleaver” chanted by the crowds gathered to heckle and bang against the van bringing him to and from the court.

     He’d been given three life sentences after controversially being tried as an adult not a juvenile.  Initial psychiatric assessments presented conflicting findings so after ten years in a high security mental health facility he was subsequently found to be psychologically fit enough to serve his sentence in a category A prison.

     Sandra did write.  He looked forward to hearing her chatty reports of an increasingly complicated family life.  Contact grew less frequent but they still wrote at least once a year.  

Steven Coppack’s parents sent him a few letters telling him they would never forgive him for what he’d done to their son.  Alan Dodd’s parents never wrote, but appeared on TV now and again, arguing for the return of the death penalty and why Weaver should never be released.  Elaine Sharp’s husband maintained a dignified silence, refusing to be drawn into the media circus, remarrying many years after his wife’s murder.  Mum visited occasionally.

     Jason submitted several unsuccessful requests for parole, one of which was dismissed by an election wary Home Secretary.  He’d grown used to prison, incarcerated longer than he’d been free, and given the suffering he’d experienced outside, perhaps staying inside was best?

     Then Zena Foyle appeared as his appointed solicitor.  He recognised ambition, and to a degree, hubris.  He’d seen legal teams come and go over the years, so was amused rather than enthusiastic with her persistence.

     “Listen Jason, me on side means you have the best possible chance of parole being granted.”  

At their first meeting he didn’t remember uttering more than two sentences as she depleted the room’s oxygen.  Over the coming months he’d become swept up in her enthusiasm and now, here he was.

Today

He considered the doctor’s question.  What would he do if he could turn back time?  Throw myself into traffic?  Run away and join the circus?  Say a proper goodbye to Mum?  

Bellot was growing impatient at Weaver’s slow response.  It made Jason smile to see the panel of experts in front of him glancing at their watches or the clock on the wall.

“So?” asked Bellot, “Are you prepared to tell us what you would do?”

Like a schoolchild, Jason rubbed his palms against his thighs, head down, eyes fixed on the carpet at his feet.  

“On reflection,” he said, “I would do something differently.”

Singh and Letby exchanged relieved glances, grateful he was making it easy for them to recommend release. 

“What would that be?” asked Bellot.

“The bullying and the abuse I endured was truly awful.  The school failed me in every way it could.  It gave excuse after excuse to my mother when she went begging them to move me out of the class, to tackle it, protect me.  But no.  All they said was these kids came from difficult backgrounds; unemployment, violence at home, broken families, substance abuse and so on.  They had it far worse than me, so I had to tough it out.”

Bellot looked quizzical, “So, that day at school, if you could alter the way events played out, what would you have done?”

“I’d have asked Mum for a bigger knife.” 

END