Page 58 of Maybe Tomorrow

‘I suppose not. So, he’ll just go straight to prison then.’

‘I assume so.’

Judith started crying. Geoff grabbed her and wrapped his arms tightly around her.

‘It’s all right, Judi, it’s all right,’ he reassured her. ‘We’ll get through this together. I promise you.’

She pushed her husband away and looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. ‘What is everyone going to say?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They’re going to know who did it. They’ll know how close he was. They’re going to be talking and whispering about us every time we go outside or to the supermarket. How can I go back to work, Geoff?’ she cried and collapsed back into her husband.

He took a deep breath. He had no idea how to answer. So far, everyone they’d come into contact with had been sympathetic, offering their condolences and saying, if there was anything they could do, Geoff and Judi only needed to ask. But Judi was right. Soon, the gossip would begin. People would start talking about how they always suspected Anthony Winstanley was capable of doing something like that and how could Geoff and Judi have allowed their daughter– their mentally handicapped daughter– to go out on her own with a pervert living just around the corner? What kind of parents were they in the first place?

Geoff squeezed his wife tighter. However long this ordeal was going to go on for, even if it was for the rest of their lives, he would be there for Judith. The last thing he wanted was for her to face more heartache.

Anthony Winstanley was sitting on a thin mattress in a dank police cell. There was a draught coming from somewhere that was chilling him to the bone. The policeman had promised he’d be able to see his mum and have something to eat if he admitted killing Alice. The plastic tray with a plate of pie, mashed potato and mushy peas was on the floor next to him, untouched. It was probably cold by now. When the uniformed police officer brought it to him, he could smell the meat pie and saw the thick gravy glistening on the steaming potatoes. He was so hungry. The police officer stood in the doorway, hacked up a huge ball of phlegm and spat it onto his food. Even with the heavy cell door closed, Anthony could hear them all laughing.

He wanted his mum. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was brought up to believe policemen were the good guys and, if you did everything right, if you did everything they told you, things would be fine. He’d done what they’d asked him to do and they’d immediately locked him in a cell. Why?

He curled up on the mattress, pulled his knees up to his chest and held them tightly in place. He was so cold. He was so scared. Maybe, if he was good, they’d let him go home in the morning, and if there was one thing his mum always told him, it was that he was a very good boy.

ChapterTwenty-Three

Friday 4th November 1983

Pauline had hardly slept. Leo kept telling her to go to bed– even if she didn’t sleep, at least she would be comfortable, but she refused to move from the armchair. Her mind continued to haunt her into the small hours of the morning, imagining the hell her son was going through. It was almost three o’clock when she finally gave in to exhaustion and nodded off.

Leo went upstairs and into a bedroom he’d been in only once before, and that was for the innocent reason of repairing Pauline’s wardrobe door. He stood in her darkened room and took in the large space, the make-up neatly lined up on the dressing table, the clean nightie laid out on the bed ready for her to change into. He picked it up and held it to his face, felt the softness of the fabric against his skin, inhaled the scent that was distinctly Pauline. He smiled and placed it carefully back onto the bed. This was a room he could feel at home in, if only Pauline would let him. He took a blanket from the bed and went back downstairs, tucking it around a sound-asleep Pauline to keep her warm. He went back to the sofa and curled up, using his coat as a makeshift blanket. He was cold and uncomfortable, but he was near to Pauline. That was all that mattered.

Leo woke at seven, glanced across at Pauline and saw her still in the same position in the armchair. She looked sweet and pure as she slept. He stood up and stretched. He ached in places he didn’t think it was possible to ache, and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the fireplace. He looked a wreck. His hair was sticking up in all directions, his face was creased, and his stubble was coarse. He wrote a hasty note to Pauline telling her he’d gone back home to freshen up and would be back with his toolkit to make a better repair of the broken back-door window to replace the bodge-job he’d quickly done last night. He put the note on the coffee table in front of her, then left the house as silently as possible. Today was going to be a big day. Pauline would need all the sleep she could get.

As Leo left his house feeling refreshed, he saw more people out on the street than usual. There was an atmosphere in the cold air. He felt all eyes on him as he made his way back to Pauline’s.

‘Good morning, Mrs Meyhew,’ he said politely as he passed the old woman out brushing her front doorstep.

‘It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it, Mr Mulligan?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Anthony Winstanley. Always polite, always smiling, do anything for anyone. Then he goes and rapes and murders a young lass with Down’s syndrome.’

Leo looked around him and took in the whole neighbourhood who seemed to be out and waiting for a response. The press had gone, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before they were back.

‘You’ve heard?’

‘It was all over the wireless this morning. It’ll be in all the papers, too, I wouldn’t be surprised, especially with the way them reporters were knocking on everyone’s door last night.’

‘Did you talk to them?’

‘You know I never answer my door after dark.’

‘He didn’t do it, Mrs Meyhew. The police have made a mistake.’

‘Aye. That’s what they all say, isn’t it?’ she said, propping her brush up against the side of the house and folding her arms across her bosom.

‘Anthony was at home with his mother on the night of the murder. It’s a simple mix-up that will soon be rectified.’