My Last Confession by Helen Fitzgerald Read Free Book Online

said Danny.
    ‘Divorced like two thirds of us,’ Robert nodded, obviously divorced.
    ‘Alcohol-dependent like three quarters …’ Danny raised his glass to mine.
    ‘Welcome to the job!’ I said, clinking glasses with two fragments of social-work wreckage.
    *
    When I arrived home that night I’d have sworn burglars had ransacked the place. Clothes were all over the floor of the hall, the bath was filled with scum-topped grot, the toilet was un-flushed, dishes were piled on the kitchen table and on the sink, and all the cushions from my new Habitat sofa were piled up in the spare bedroom. I was about to scream in anger – How could the place be so messy after just one day? – when Chas and Robbie pounced out at me from behind the bedroom curtain. Despite being up way past his bedtime, Robbie looked so happy and chortled so hard that I forgave Chas for his housekeeping skills this time. As my job got harder and my hours longer, it became an issue that I was far less reasonable about.
    The painting had gone well, Chas told me. They’d managed an elaborate multicoloured train track covering half the floor of the studio, and spent the rest of the day singing nursery rhymes with the sculptors (Robbie was a big hit with the sculptors).
    ‘Did you get any work done?’ I asked Chas.
    ‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘We’re both going to paint the sea.’
    Chas had made pizzas, hence the crap everywhere and the dishes in the sink, because unlike most sensible first-worlders , who either have pizzas delivered or buy supermarket ones, Chas made his from scratch. What this meant was two hours shopping, one hour kneading, another hour tossing and rolling, another chopping toppings, and another carefully placing ingredients on top. What this also meant was that every surface in the kitchen was covered in flour, every dish and every piece of cutlery was dirty and not in the dishwasher, radios were on all over the flat (he liked to cook while listening to the radio), and I didn’t eat till 10.30 p.m. As I tried to sleep through the indigestion, I wondered when the right time would be to tell Chas that I hated pizza.
    Later that night, after Robbie had fallen asleep, I gazed at him and tried to imagine a little boy the same age as him – someone who couldn’t even put on his own shoes – killing someone. If Robbie had killed a three-week-old baby, could he possibly know what he was doing? Would he have it in him to make that kind of decision? Could you even call it killing? How would I cope if my own baby died in that way?
    *
    The next day I posted the home background report for James Marney. As I walked back into my office, Robert was blue with laughter, having just received a medical certificate from his GP. He was six foot six, and his desk had been causing him back and leg pain for months. Robert had spoken to Hilary about getting a larger desk, who had spoken to the criminal justice admin officer, who had spoken to her admin senior, who’d filled out a form and given it to her team leader, who’dattached the form and written an accompanying letter to the man in charge of the disability fund, who’d read over the rules and regulations regarding special office equipment, photocopied the correspondence thus far, set up a meeting with his boss, and phoned Robert with the outcome: ‘Yes, you may have a large desk under the disability budget, but we require a medical certificate from your GP.’
    So Robert had spoken to his GP, a pleasant and witty woman in her late twenties. The medical certificate had just arrived in the post and this was the reason for Robert’s crippling laughter. Robert handed me the piece of paper. It read: ‘This is to certify that Mr Robert Brown is tall.’
    But enough of the hilarity. I had to go to Sandhill.
    *
    While I was waiting for Jeremy to arrive, I realised that Danny and Robert were right. It was daft and impossible to resist reading about the offence. So I pored over the only piece of paper