‘Sure. Even murderers are allowed visitors. But why would I want to see him?’

  ‘We talked last time about the similarities between the two of you.’

  Standing frowned. ‘The way I remember it, we talked about the differences.’

  She scribbled in her pad. ‘Well, yes. But I thought that sitting down with your father and talking things through with him might help you understand your own issues more clearly.’

  ‘I’m not him.’

  ‘I’m not saying you are. But your anger-management issues didn’t arise spontaneously. They sprang from somewhere. And maybe your father is a cause. A partial cause, perhaps, but a cause nonetheless.’

  ‘And how does me talking to him help me?’

  ‘Perhaps he could explain why he behaved the way he did. And you might see parallels with your own behaviour.’

  ‘I don’t beat people up for fun,’ said Standing.

  ‘You think your father did?’

  ‘He used to give me a beating every now and again and it seemed to be for the hell of it.’

  ‘Did he ever explain why he felt it necessary to hit you?’

  ‘What? Are you serious? He felt it necessary to beat the crap out of a nine-year-old boy? That’s what I should ask him? And maybe I should ask him why he felt it necessary to stick a knife in my mother. I can’t believe …’ He realised she was watching him carefully, assessing his reaction. He was being tested. Standing took a deep breath and sighed. ‘You’re winding me up,’ he said.

  ‘Well, to be honest, I’m exploring the triggers that cause your anger,’ she said. ‘And your father is certainly one. Look at how you’ve tensed. Your voice changed and so has your body language. I can see and hear how angry you are.’

  ‘But I’m not lashing out.’

  ‘No. But you have a code, don’t you, about not hitting women? And again that code might have come from your father. You saw how he treated your mother and you’ve promised never to behave like that.’

  Standing frowned. ‘So you’re saying that sometimes I copy my father, and sometimes I do the opposite of what he did? How does that work? How do I decide which is which?’

  ‘The human psyche is a very complicated thing,’ said Dr Doyle.

  He forced a smile. ‘Which is why you charge so much, I suppose.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about the bill,’ she said. ‘The Ministry of Defence is taking care of it.’

  ‘I was being flippant.’

  ‘Yes, I know. And humour is a terrific way of dealing with conflict. If you could learn to tell a joke to defuse a situation, you might be less likely to lash out physically.’

  Standing flashed her a tight smile. ‘I’ll try that next time I come up against the Taliban.’

  ‘You know what I mean, Matt. We’re not talking about combat. We’re talking about day-to-day confrontations. Now do you understand the difference between anger and anger impulse?’

  ‘I’m guessing the impulse comes before the outburst.’

  She smiled. ‘Exactly. And when we were talking about your father, I could see examples of anger impulses. Your face reddened, your neck was tense, your voice got louder and you kept sighing.’

  ‘You were making me angry. What did you expect?’

  ‘But you weren’t angry, were you? You were getting angry, and that’s the difference. If we can make you more aware of the impulses, we can teach you to deal with them, to turn a negative into a positive.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow you.’

  She leaned back in her chair. ‘As we’ve talked about before, anger can be productive. In combat, it’s a survival skill. Elsewhere it’s a perfectly normal human emotion. Anger isn’t a mental illness and we’re not treating it as such. In fact, dealing with anger appropriately can make it a healthy emotion. That’s why we refer to it as anger management. It’s not about suppressing or internalising the anger, it’s about expressing your feelings – and your frustrations – in a calm and collected manner. We need you to learn coping mechanisms and start following positive pathways to release your anger. The key to that is recognising your anger impulses.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Standing, but he wasn’t sure that he agreed with her. He was never aware that he was getting angry, not on those occasions when he’d lashed out physically. One moment he was fine, the next he was in fighting mode, and it always felt to him as if the transition was immediate, as if a switch had been thrown. But he was happy enough to give the therapist the benefit of the doubt – his SAS career depended on it.

  ‘But, first, I want to spend some time teaching you a relaxation technique that you may find useful.’ She pointed at the side of his chair. ‘There’s a yoga mat. Spread it out on the floor, will you?’

  Standing did so. Then she asked him to slip off his shoes and lie down on the mat.

  ‘Normally you’d do this in a darkened room,’ said Dr Doyle. She was still sitting on her chair but leaning forward to get a better look. ‘It’s a relaxation technique but it involves tensing your muscles, so if at any point you cramp or feel pain, stop straight away. It’s not about pushing yourself.’

  ‘Got it,’ said Standing, staring up at the ceiling.

  ‘So, first, try to relax. Let your mind go blank. I know that’s difficult when there’s someone in the room, but do the best you can.’

  Standing closed his eyes. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Breathe deeply. You can square breathe if you want, whatever feels the most comfortable. Let your arms relax, unclench your teeth, let your feet fall outwards.’

  She let Standing lie still for a couple of minutes. He didn’t feel at all relaxed: he felt vulnerable and defenceless lying on a yoga mat in the middle of an office.

  ‘Okay,’ she said eventually. ‘Now that you’re relaxed we’ll start the exercise. You’re going to start working on each main muscle, but keep breathing deeply and evenly while you do it. You’re tensing the individual muscles while remaining totally relaxed. You hold the tension for a few seconds, then relax the muscle. Do that for three or four repetitions. Then move onto the next muscle.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘So, start with your left foot. Curl your toes and clench your foot. Hold it for three seconds, then relax. Have you got it?’

  ‘Got it,’ said Standing. He worked his left foot in the way she’d described and soon felt it grow warm.

  Over the next thirty minutes she talked him through all his major muscles, ending with his face and neck, making him force yawns and frowns to work all the parts of his face. By the time he had finished he felt as tired as if he’d done an hour in the gym. She told him to relax for five minutes, then sat back in her chair. ‘You should try to do that once a day if you can,’ she said. ‘Maybe when you go to bed. You’ll find you get a really good night’s sleep afterwards.’

  ‘No problem,’ he said. He reached for one of the bottles of water on the coffee-table and drank from it.

  ‘And I want you to start keeping an anger journal.’

  Standing stopped drinking. ‘A what?’

  ‘An anger journal,’ she said. ‘I want you to start writing down the feelings you have when you get angry, and what led up to it. Then we can go through it together and come up with strategies that will dissipate the anger before it becomes a problem. Are you okay with that?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. He grinned. ‘Whatever it takes, Doc.’

  Shepherd woke to the smell of breakfast cooking. He pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans and padded through to the main cabin. Minister was in the galley, bare-chested, which Shepherd thought quite brave, considering bacon was sizzling in the frying pan. ‘Thought I’d let you sleep in,’ he said, as Shepherd went over to the coffee-maker.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Eight,’ said Minister. He stirred a frying pan filled with scrambled eggs. ‘Do you want toast?’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  Minister waved with his spatula. ‘Toaster’s over there.’

  Shepherd slotted in two slices of bread, then went back to making his coffee.

  By the time Shepherd had made the toast and buttered it, Minister was putting out the eggs and bacon. The two men sat down. Minister smothered his food with tomato ketchup. ‘So, how about a quick Q and A, see how much you remember?’

  ‘Go for it,’ said Shepherd. He cut his piece of toast in half and put one piece next to his eggs.

  ‘Definition of topping lift?’

  ‘The line that runs from the end of the boom to the mast.’ Shepherd took a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

  ‘It’s used for?’

  ‘Holding the boom up when the sail isn’t set.’

  Minister nodded. ‘Breast line?’

  ‘A dock line that runs at a right angle to the centre of the boat.’

  ‘Cunningham?’

  ‘The line that puts tension in the luff of a sail.’ He grinned. ‘I love that word. Luff.’

  ‘And a Cunningham is a type of what?’

  ‘Downhaul.’ Shepherd took a sip of coffee.

  ‘What’s a fairlead?’

  ‘A hook or a ring used to guide a line, so as to reduce friction.’

  ‘Good,’ said Minister. ‘Halyard?’

  ‘A line that raises a sail.’

  ‘Jibsheet?’

  ‘A line that controls the jib.’

  ‘Padeye?’

  ‘An eye that a line runs through.’

  Minister sat back and flashed him a thumbs-up. ‘You, sir, are good to go. I’ve never met anyone who’s picked up sailing so quickly. You’re a natural.’

  ‘I’ve had a good instructor.’

  ‘Well, I’m more than happy to sign you off,’ he said. ‘I don’t think there’s anything more I can teach you.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Shepherd. He waved his fork over the plate. ‘How do you do your eggs? These are amazing.’

  Minister laughed. ‘Three eggs per serving, but only use the whites from two. Add a knob of butter, a dash of cream and keep stirring them in a frying pan. My mum’s recipe.’

  ‘My boy likes scrambled eggs with cheese.’

  ‘Sounds like a rebel.’

  Shepherd chuckled. ‘He is, in his own way.’

  Wandsworth Prison was a harsh building with grey stone turrets and arched windows, surrounded by high walls topped with razor wire. Every square foot seemed to be covered by CCTV cameras, and as Standing stood in the visitors’ line he counted three pointing in his direction. The prison looked like one of the old warehouses that used to line the River Thames before they had either been knocked down or converted into luxury flats. Wandsworth Prison had stayed as a warehouse, a place where criminals could be stored until they either died or were released. According to the prison’s website, it was built in 1851 based on what was known as the Humana Separate System, with corridors radiating from a central control point and each prisoner having his own toilet. It was soon full to capacity and the toilets were removed to pack in more men, who had to slop out each morning until the mid-1990s when the in-cell toilets were reinstated. It was still the largest prison in the United Kingdom with almost nineteen hundred prisoners in residence.

  Most of the visitors queuing up to have their paperwork inspected were clearly regulars. They were mainly women, and probably half of them had children with them, from babes in arms to teenagers. They spent the time gossiping together or on their phones and seemed used to the wait.

  There were five visiting slots: eight a.m., ten a.m., eleven fifteen a.m., one forty-five p.m. and three fifteen p.m. Standing had been allocated the first slot and he’d taken the Tube to Tooting Bec, then the 219 bus. He had joined the queue at seven thirty. During the next half-hour another thirty or so visitors arrived, and more than a few cut into the queue ahead of him. That annoyed Standing, but he practised square breathing and after a while it stopped bothering him.

  At exactly eight o’clock he heard an expectant buzz, and they filed in to be processed. Half a dozen prison officers, three male and three female, handled the process efficiently and with good humour, clearly recognising many of the visitors and greeting them by name. Their paperwork was checked, everyone provided ID – Standing had brought his passport with him – then handed over anything sharp, along with their mobile phones, and walked through the sort of metal detector found at airports. Standing had heard all the stories about rubber gloves and internal checks but there was none of that, though female officers did peek inside the nappies of the babies, and the children were inspected as closely as the adults.

  They were held in a corridor until everyone had been checked, then taken as a group down a windowless corridor to a large room where several dozen small tables had been set out in neat rows with plastic chairs at either side. The prisoners were already sitting down, identified by the bright orange vests they were wearing over their prison-issue sweatshirts. Children squealed and shouted and ran across to greet their fathers, and prisoners waved sheepishly at their loved ones, happy to see them but embarrassed, too.

  Standing’s father was at a table at the far end of the room, a burly prison officer close by, leaning against the wall, his arms folded. He was greyer than Standing remembered, and heavier, but the face was the same. Cold, almost reptilian eyes, thin lips that parted to reveal crooked tobacco-stained teeth, and ears that stuck out slightly. Standing had the same ears. He hoped that was all he’d inherited from the man sitting at the table. It was the smell that Standing remembered most about his father. Stale sweat, tobacco and booze, with a splash of Old Spice across his cheeks and neck when he shaved. The smell that hit him when he reached the table was different. There was still the stale sweat and tobacco, but now there was no booze or aftershave. His father looked up at him with clear hostility. He folded his arms as he stared up at Standing. ‘You’re the first visitor I’ve ever had,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Yeah, well, you were never one for socialising, were you?’ said Standing. He pulled out a chair and sat opposite his father.

  ‘I nearly turned you down.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  His father shrugged but didn’t reply.

  ‘How are things?’ asked Standing, eventually, more to end the silence than anything else.

  The man shrugged again but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Fuck me, I’m not a cop,’ said Standing. ‘You don’t have to take the fifth.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to visit my own father?’

  ‘You haven’t visited in … what? Twelve years? I’m assuming you’re here for a reason. So spit it out and fuck off.’ He leaned back in his chair as he stared defiantly at Standing.

  ‘I can see being inside hasn’t mellowed you,’ said Standing, but his father continued to stare at him, stony-faced. Standing placed his hands on the table, palms down. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Play the hard man all you want. Lexi’s dead.’ He wasn’t proud of the satisfaction he took from the way his father’s jaw tightened and eyes narrowed. Not that he thought of Des Standing as his father – he hadn’t done that for many, many years. Des Standing had provided half the genetic material that formed his DNA, but that didn’t make him a father and never had done.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She overdosed. On heroin.’

  ‘She leave a note?’

  ‘Why would you care if she did?’ Standing leaned forward, his hands still pressed against the table top. ‘Are you worried she might have blamed you? That she killed herself because of you?’

  ‘I just want to know what was going through her mind.’

  ‘Why?’

  He tilted his head to the side. ‘You don’t think a father would care about his daughter?’

  Standing sneered at him. ‘Father? How the fuck were you a father to Lexi? Just because you fucked her mother without a condom doesn’t make you a father. The word should make you fucking choke. You were never father to her. Or to me.’ He shouted the last three words and the entire room fell silent. Heads turned towards their table. Two heavyset prison officers started moving towards them and the one standing close by pushed himself away from the wall and stared at them, as if expecting trouble. Standing raised his hands and smiled. ‘Sorry, guys, my fault. I’ll use my indoor voice from now on.’

  The two officers looked at each other, then back at Standing. The one by the wall pointed a warning finger at him. ‘Yellow card,’ he said.

  ‘No problem,’ said Standing. He put down his hands and glowered at his father. ‘You were never a father to her or to me,’ he said softly.

  ‘It wasn’t easy for any of us.’

  Standing shook his head scornfully. ‘Don’t play the fucking victim, Des. I was there, remember. Right up until the moment you killed Mum.’

  ‘I put my hands up for that and I’m doing my time. I’m taking my punishment.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I hope they never let you out,’ said Standing. ‘And pretending to care about what happened to Lexi, you can just fuck off.’ He sat back and folded his arms, then realised he was mimicking the way his father was sitting. He straightened up and put his hands back on the table.

  The two men sat in angry silence for a couple of minutes. ‘When is the funeral?’ his father asked eventually.

  ‘You thinking of getting out for the day, maybe doing a runner?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Yeah? Fuck you too.’ This time Standing kept his voice down. His father looked away, gritting his teeth. ‘They already buried her,’ said Standing eventually. ‘Cremated her, actually. Maybe I could get them to send you the ashes. Easier to take care of them than a living, breathing girl.’

  ‘Who are you really angry at, Matt?’

  Standing’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean. You’ve not seen me for going on twelve years. Now suddenly you’re shouting and swearing and giving me the evil eye. That’s a hell of a long time to bear a grudge, innit?’

  ‘Until the day I die, mate.’

  He forced a smile. ‘Yeah, you say that, but you’ve got any revenge you wanted. I’m in a concrete box twenty-three hours a day, and if they ever do let me out I’ll be too old to enjoy it.’

 

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