My Last Confession by Helen Fitzgerald Page A

talk to him and who was probably lying to police to keep him locked away, out of sight?
    Stuck for suggestions, I found myself asking, ‘Are you religious?’
    ‘I was baptised Catholic, but after the funeral we stopped going to Mass.’
    ‘Maybe you should see the chaplain,’ I blurted, and this from me – the worst Catholic in the world – who’d once stolen twenty pence from the collection plate, crossed my arms tight through the sermon and pinched Geoffrey McTavish’s arms till he cried, who’d regularly made up stories as a teenager ( Forgive me father for I touched Shane O’Dowd’s penis behind the tennis shed … ) just to hear Father O’Hair choke in his little box.
    ‘I’ll organise it for you,’ I said.
     *
    I left Jeremy in his horrible sui cell and went over to Agents to see James Marney.
    ‘I’m going to be your supervising officer,’ I said, trying hard to ignore the queasy feeling in my stomach.
    Okay, so part of my job was to protect his children,and I’d done well in this regard so far. But – until I could talk to Hilary – another part was to help him be law-abiding . To do this I needed to get to know the man beyond the crime. I put my past as far to the back of my mind as I could and continued.
    ‘The parole board have asked me to identify another place for you to live. As long as this is suitable, your expected date of release won’t change. I’ll be working with the police, the housing department and the child protection team to find you a flat. When you get out, I’ll be visiting you regularly and working with you to help you avoid offending. It’s best if we can be upfront. So you need to be honest with me. Child protection will be assessing the situation with your children. If they feel your parents can’t protect them, further steps may be taken to ensure their safety. We need to work together on this.’
    He’d obviously decided on a different tack since the pre-release case conference. He stared at me, through me, and was steadfastly silent. As I looked into his eyes, I tried not to see him watching hardcore porn and asking his sons to touch his penis; I tried not to see Sarah’s stepfather locking the en-suite door, not to hear Sarah knocking and crying from inside it as I did as I was told.
    ‘James?’ I prodded, but he wouldn’t answer. He hated my guts.
    Despite my efforts, the feeling was mutual.
    I suggested he should go back to his cell and think over if he wanted to get out at all, and then headed over to the social-work unit. Situated in a separate building in the middle of the prison and looking like a run-down country cottage, the social-work unit was filled with chattyadmin staff and an eccentric mixture of oddball social workers who seemed to do nothing unashamedly for very long periods of time.
    After being offered biscuits and chocolates by the friendly receptionist, I caught up with the prison housing officer, who’d located a one-bedroom council flat for the lovely James Marney. Police would check it out and let me know if it was suitable. I then asked to see Bob, the prison social worker who’d been at the pre-release meeting . His office was in the eaves of the building. Classical music was playing from the radio, a large shop-like display of food was carefully arranged on a table in the corner , and Bob was having a power nap at his desk. He woke to the sound of the door shutting – ‘Good morning, Miss Donald!’ he said – and offered me one of the Turkish delights he’d bought during his fortnight in Istanbul, then issued me with an invitation to the next work-book-club at the Beer Café. Bob told me that Jeremy Bagshaw had returned from his interview with me at Agents, made some phone calls, then jumped off the second-floor landing of the remand hall. He wasn’t hurt badly because the net caught him at first-floor level, Bob told me, but when they’d left him alone in the health centre for five minutes he’d tied the sleeves of his