Being Dead Is Easy

1

SEPTEMBER

It’s just past midnight on a rainy Saturday night in Plymouth and the night-time economy is just getting started. On Union Street, beyond the second-hand furniture stores and community interest projects, the acid glow of LED streetlights reflects off wet, greasy streets. Laughing women dressed in short skirts and high heels make their way past prowling groups of men loitering in front of pubs or clubs. The night is full of promise.

Further off the strip, down a side road populated by tyre dealers, car hire agencies and a homeless shelter, a girl makes her way through the night. Slim, petite, and wearing a tiny slip dress that barely covers her thighs, she hurries her way past the other working girls. This isn’t her patch.

She stops to talk to a support worker, refusing her offer of a second-hand mac, but accepting a handful of condoms. She needs to make it look like she’s going to have a busy night ahead of her. She thanks the woman, then moves on, pausing briefly on the corner to buy some blues from her dealer. Glancing behind, she quickly ducks in between some cars, down a rubbish strewn alley and up some rickety back steps to a small flat. She should be out there working, she knows that, and there will be hell to pay if her pimp finds out. First, however, there is the cat. Blue is nothing special, just a torn-eared stray she found in a back alley one morning. She’d been coming home from a long night when she had heard a faint mewing sound coming from a skip. At first, she thought it was a baby, but when she pushed aside the rubbish bags and soggy cardboard boxes, there she was, the sweetest little thing she had ever seen.

‘Now, Blue,’ she says, sliding a plate of cat food towards her, ‘you’re going to have to stay with Sasha for a bit.’ Sasha is her next-door neighbour. Not long arrived from Ukraine, she also works the streets. ‘She’s going to bring you with her when she comes next month and we’re all going to live together!’ she says, kissing the cat’s soft neck.

The girl glances around the flat. It isn’t much – a small kitchenette-diner, lounge, bathroom, bedroom. Still, she hates the thought of leaving it, but she has better places to be. With the money she’s been putting away, better is as far away as possible. She glances at the tidy surfaces and the few items she has managed to accrue from the local charity shops. She never brings the johns home, even though her pimp wants her to – more money in it, babes, and no filth about, neither – but it is the one and only time she has not acquiesced. She smiles to herself. Tonight will be the second. She has made a promise to herself and there is no going back. She pours herself vodka from a half-empty bottle and flicks to her Spotify playlist. Happier Than Ever seems appropriate.

‘For courage,’ she whispers, placing one of the blues on her tongue.

Somewhere in the darkness a man watches her slim silhouette through the curtains and angrily sucks in air through his teeth. She should be out there earning. If she’s planning a runner, which she’s done before, she’d better look out. His cigarette makes a crimson arch as he flicks it into the darkness then hurries his way to the back entrance of her flat. The lock is easy enough to jimmy, he’s done it enough times. Once inside he takes the stairs to the second floor, easing his way past the flat where the foreign bird lives, not one of his but he’d like her to be. Number 23 is quiet, the kitchen dark. If she’s doing business on the side he will have her for it. She knows the rules. He doesn’t fancy having to hit her, unsightly bruises and all, but business is business, and he always stays away from her face. Why didn’t that stupid little bitch just do what she was told? This time he is really going to make sure she gets the message.

2

DECEMBER

Icy water laps at my knees. A wave crests and crashes, soaking my upper torso and breasts. The shock of the cold makes me gasp and consider retreating to the safety of dry land, but I made a promise. Nearby, my miniature schnauzer, Bismarck, races through the flotsam, snapping at the waves.

‘Come on, Mum,’ calls my daughter, Jodie, who is happily bobbing away in the bay. ‘Once you get in, you’ll be fine.’

‘Doesn’t feel fine to me,’ I grumble, noticing that my fingertips have taken on an oddly translucent tone.

Wild swimming had been Jodie’s idea, something we could do together. There was an early Christmas present left on the end of my bed that morning – a new swimming costume.

‘There’s clinical evidence that cold-water swimming is good for PTSD,’ she had mentioned a few days earlier.

I should have clocked it then.

‘I don’t have PTSD,’ I replied defensively, ‘and anyway, it’s bloody December.’

But the sad, hopeful expression on my daughter’s face convinced me. Now here I was, waist deep in water, my tits turning blue.

‘Just try it!’ Jodie yells.

I stretch forward into the waves and, giving up my foothold, begin to swim. It feels terrible and wonderful at the same time. At first all I want is to get out, but after a few seconds the steady rhythm of my arms cutting through the freezing water slowly begins to warm me.

‘It’s cold!’ I cry, swimming up to Jodie. She’s wearing a fluorescent swimming costume and bright orange bobble hat. ‘But nice.’

‘There’s hot chocolate in the flask for when we get out,’ she replies, smiling, ‘and Granddad’s made some soup.’

My father stands contentedly by the shore, sipping a takeaway coffee from the café while trying to keep Bismarck from following us into the deeper water. I shut my mind to the longing for a hot drink and do a few more strokes.

‘Time to go back, I think,’ I say, noticing Jodie’s teeth beginning to chatter.

She nods in agreement. ‘Last one out has to rinse off the cossies!’

As my father places another log on the wood burner, I reach forward to warm my hands. On the sofa across from me, Jodie settles for an afternoon nap, Bismarck nestled in beside her.

‘You’ve got colour in your cheeks,’ he says, the unspoken "at last" hovering in the air between us.

‘If you had told me a few months ago I would have gone swimming in eleven-degree water…’ My voice trails off. A few months ago I wouldn’t have done much of anything, except hide myself away in his house, only leaving to drive Jodie to her father’s flat after a weekend visit or to attend one of my weekly therapy sessions.

‘Jodie says you had another phone call from Fran?’

I stare at my slowly warming hands. Frances Grandage is the Head of Probation Services for the Southwest of England and is currently trying to keep the fractured Plymouth office from collapsing altogether. I guess that’s what happens when your Senior Probation Officer turns out to be a psychopath and a serial killer. Not only had my former boss, Simon Ellison, been picking off sex offenders one by one as a form of skewed payback for the fact his selfish attempt to discredit me had resulted in the murder of a young girl, but he had also tried to kill me in order to keep this a secret. I screw my eyes shut, desperately trying to push away the memories of that night, but they always seem to force their way through. Only this morning it was because of the recollection of a Plymouth Herald news article.

During the trial it was revealed that the defendant, former Senior Probation Officer Simon Ellison, had knowingly sent a letter with the confidential safehouse address of a domestic abuse survivor to her estranged husband, resulting in Anton Cross murdering his nine-year-old daughter Katie. The courtroom listened in hushed silence as colleague and fellow Probation Officer, Grace Midwinter, explained that Mr Ellison had confessed to sending the letter in an attempt to professionally discredit her so that she would be disqualified from applying for a job they both had been competing for.

‘Fran called yesterday.’ The words stick in my throat.

‘Oh?’ Then he asks gently, ‘So you’re going back?’

I shrug. Not going back doesn’t seem to be an option. My five months’ paid sick leave is just about to end, and half pay won’t go far when I have a teenage daughter to support, particularly as Christmas is almost here. I am going to have to make a decision soon. That includes whether or not to move back to our house in central Plymouth, or sell the thing and start afresh. We can’t stay with my father forever.

‘They’re starting me on a phased return,’ I reply, not quite believing the words myself. ‘I have my return-to-work meeting with Frances on Tuesday.’

‘That’s great news, Gracie.’ My father leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. ‘I’m proud of you, honey.’

Proud of me for what? For sacrificing my safety and that of those I love because of a single-minded obsession to find out the truth about who was murdering ex-offenders? Hiding away after the fallout, neglecting myself and Jodie, ignoring my colleagues’ offers of help?

‘But you know, Dad…’ How can I tell him that the thought of putting all my energy into protecting others now feels like a burden rather than a vocation? That having been voted the top probation officer in Plymouth two years in a row has little or no meaning, that the thought of having to go back into the stuffy high-risk interview room makes my palms sweat?

‘Yes?’

I shake my head. ‘Nothing.’

Later, when my father has gone to bed and the Jodie and I are watching telly, I broach the subject. ‘So, if things go okay in my meeting on Tuesday, I’ll be back at work next week.’ The words feel like grit on my tongue. ‘It means we need to think about going back to live at the house at some point.’ Jodie’s expression has become unreadable. ‘Will you be okay with that?’

Even though my being taken hostage had occurred at Simon’s place, and not my own, our house on Penzance Street now feels tainted. In order to cope with what was not PTSD, I relocated to my father’s house in Wembury seven miles away, with Jodie dividing her time between weeknights at her father’s flat in central Plymouth, and weekends with me and my dad.

‘That would be cool,’ she says slowly. ‘Means I’ll be with you during the week too.’ There is an unspoken question tangled in amongst her words, which she utters with her usual frankness. ‘And we could spend Christmas at home, our home.’

‘It might be best if you still stay with your dad until I get everything in the house settled, though.’ My words come out in one deep exhalation. I don’t want to mention the name, his name, but Billy Vale, the ex-offender who had assisted Simon in the assaults, and had enticed Jodie into a supposed platonic relationship, was on the run from police, and was still the ghost that haunted me. As much as I tried, I couldn’t forget his breath on my cheek that night. ‘I couldn’t give a shit about whether you live or die, Grace,’ he had whispered, a blade at my throat.

Jodie gives me a sweet, knowing smile. ‘Let’s see how it goes,’ she says, and squeezes my hand.

The house on Penzance Street seems empty, hollow, as if a stranger has taken residence.

I refused my father’s offer of help to bring my things back and to help me get settled. I need to do this on my own.

The place is clean and tidy. It’s Monday morning, and the housekeeper has only just left, so there’s still a hint of lavender in the air. There are a few unopened cards on the kitchen table, sweet messages I imagine, from friends and colleagues looking forward to welcoming me back.

I unpack my things and do an online food order. After nearly five months of staying with my father, being fed three meals a day, the slight grumble from my stomach is a welcome relief, the discomfort a distraction. There’s a café around the corner, and a shop, but I prefer to remain hungry. It’s something to concentrate on as I make my way through the house. Next to me, Bismarck sniffs eagerly.

‘Glad to be back, boy?’

The dog gives a tiny yelp of excitement. I not so sure I feel quite the same.

3

As I walk the twenty minutes to work, a fine mist settles on my hair, sending the recently straightened strands spiralling into their usual unruly curls. I pass the Theatre Royal, navigate my way around the ugly concrete multi-storey car park, and find myself standing in front of a dull blue door.

It has been just over five months since I last climbed the stairs to the second floor Plymouth Probation Services offices, waved to colleagues behind the reception desk, and punched my keycode into the door panel leading into the main office. Those mindless daily rituals now seem a challenge. Suddenly the door flies open.

‘Grace.’ It’s Frances, resplendent in a tailored navy suit. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’

The thought of facing an assembly of sympathetic, pitying faces is suddenly too much to bear. ‘I can’t.’

Frances squeezes my arm. ‘Of course you can.’

I’m led up the stairs, past reception and into the main office. Friendly faces turn and mouth, welcome back.

‘I know you don’t like a fuss,’ says Frances, ‘but there will be coffee and cake once our debrief is done.’ Seeing my worried expression, she adds, ‘You can’t deny them cake now, can you?’

I smile and feel the tension ease. It’s all going to be okay.

‘This way,’ says Frances.

I stop. Frances is indicating towards Simon’s old office. ‘It’s fine,’ she whispers reassuringly. ‘I’ve been using it as a temporary office. There’s not a jot of his presence left in there, I promise.’

The room around me has taken on a discernible silence. I can sense my colleagues’ attention like a thrum.

‘Okay,’ I reply, too unnerved to refuse.

‘You see,’ says Frances, as I follow her inside and sit down, ‘we’ve even painted the place.’

‘The chairs are still the same.’

‘Now,’ continues Frances, ignoring my remark, ‘let’s get started with your phased return. I thought us meeting today would allow you some time to reacclimatise, so to speak, before we get you back in the driver’s seat.’

A plan is put in place for three half days a week, easing into full-time hours in the new year.

‘And of course, you’ll continue your regular therapy sessions.’ Compulsory counselling is standard after a traumatic incident. Frances looks up from her laptop. ‘You’re still going to your appointments, aren’t you.’ It’s a statement rather than a question, and I nod. ‘Your new line manager will also be offering one-to-one mentoring support during your transition back into full-time employment.’

‘New line manager?’ My guts begin to tighten.

‘Colin Chambers.’ I can feel Frances’ scrutiny, but don’t look up from where I have been studying a small knot of wood on the tabletop. ‘A very experienced PO; he ran the shop in Taunton.’ Frances clears her throat, forcing me to look up at her. ‘Also, a very nice man.’

‘But…’

‘I can’t stay here forever,’ she says matter-of-factly, ‘you know that.’

‘When will he start?’

‘End of the week.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’ll be here for your first few days back though, to help get you settled.’

I not sure I will ever get settled, but smile accordingly.

‘Good!’ chirps Frances, and gives a short, sharp clap that makes me jump. ‘How about some cake?’

It isn’t as hard as I thought, talking to people. They’ve clearly all been coached not to ask about Simon, but their curiosity flies like sparks off their tongues, sizzling at my feet.

Thankfully, the morning ends uneventfully and Frances accompanies me back downstairs and out into the small car park.

‘Take care, Grace,’ she says. Just as she’s leaning forward to offer me a hug the door flies open and a young man, teardrop tattoo on his right cheek and roll-up between his lips, pushes past us. Fran gives an angry huff but ignores him. ‘See you bright and early Monday morning!’

When I arrive home, I discover letterbox flowers on the floor in the entranceway.

‘Christ,’ I mutter, no longer able to appreciate gifts in the spirit they are offered. Was it from a friend, colleague, my ex-lover Marcus, or my ex-husband Alex? Inside is a large bunch of tulips, out of season and expensive. Who would send these? I open the card.

Hey Grace. Hope your first day back went okay. Time for a fry up?

Lots of love Layla xx

Layla Mitchell is a young woman I mentored a few years back, when I was doing some pro bono work with St Benedict’s, a local homeless charity. She’d had a difficult history, including sex work and addiction, but once settled into safe housing and with a good Narcotics Anonymous sponsor, she did an admin course, and started volunteering at St B’s. Two years on, she’s on a university access course with a view to becoming a social worker. Her intelligence, resilience, and sense of humour as well as her zest for life made us close from the start. There were subtle warnings from friends and colleagues: keep work and life separate, don’t get too involved, etc., which I ignored, of course. Maybe underneath all Layla’s brilliance and bravado, I saw someone who was just like me fifteen years before – cocky on the outside, but broken within. Maybe that’s what drew me to her in the first place.

I make a cup of tea, watching as the steam floats upwards. Every creak and speeding car makes me jump. How am I going to get through the night here? My phone buzzes and I smile as a familiar name comes up on the screen.

‘Layla.’

‘Hey, Grace. Did you get the flowers?’

‘They’re beautiful, but you shouldn’t have.’

‘Of course I should.’

‘How are you?’

I can hear the smile in her voice as she speaks. ‘I’m doing great, really great!’

‘And the access course?’

‘Easy-peasy,’ she replies quickly. ‘How about you?’

I hate this question, how I’ve had to lie over and over again when answering it.

‘I’m good.’

There’s a long pause. I can image Layla nibbling her lower lip.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch earlier… after all that awful stuff that happened.’

When she says, awful stuff, she means the brutal murders of two young men, my discovery that it was my boss Simon who did it, my being assaulted, restrained, and threatened by him. It was only a chance phone call that saved me that night. These are the things I can’t tell her, can’t tell anyone.

‘It’s okay, Layla, really. There was a lot going on.’

I suddenly want to end the call and disappear under a throw with Bismarck on my lap.

‘Why don’t I take you out tonight?’

‘I, ah, it’s been a long day and…’ I hear a sound, a shriek like a woman screaming. ‘SHIT!’

‘Grace? Are you okay? Grace, Grace!’

It takes a few seconds before I can speak again – before my heart stops beating through my chest.

‘Sorry, Layla.’ I try to sound calm, but my voice is thick with panic. ‘It’s fine, just a fox screeching.’ A bead of sweat trickles down my spine. ‘Made me jump.’

‘I’m taking you out!’ Layla sounds determined. ‘It’s long overdue. There’s a nice little tapas place I know.’

‘I don’t think–’

‘I’ll pick you up in an hour.’

I know Layla well enough to realise that no is not an option.

Bismarck pads his way inside and lies his chin on my lap.

‘It’ll have to be a quick walk tonight, buddy,’ I mutter, ‘looks like I’m going out.’

4

Layla picks me up in a shiny new Audi Sport.

‘Don’t worry.’ She laughs, seeing my worried expression. ‘Adam is on deployment, probably chasing Russians.’

‘You and your brother speaking now?’

‘We’re always speaking,’ she replies, ‘even when we don’t get on.’ Thumping the steering wheel she adds joyously, ‘Especially if this baby is one of the perks!’

Layla’s brother is a submariner and has been away at sea on and off for most of the year. I wonder what made him think giving Layla the keys to his new car was a good idea, but I suppose family is family, and when it comes down to it, she is pretty reliable. When I took Jodie to London last year, she looked after Bismarck, spoiling him silly. Who knew my dog could change loyalties so quickly?

We drive through the single lane stone archway that leads into Royal William Yard, the 15th Century Royal Navy victualling yard that has been converted into high-end condominiums, restaurants, and art galleries. In amongst the well-known franchises like Wagamama and Pho are a few independent restaurants, expensive ones.

I had passed La Obertura a few times – Modern Spanish dining in a sumptuous setting – but was always daunted by the prices. I’m grateful Jodie prefers ramen or a Vietnamese spring roll.

The interior looks comfortable enough, with lots of polished oak,