Give Me A Reason.

by Lyn Gardner.

Dedications.

To my father, Edward...

You showed me love, and you made me smile. You protected me as best you could, and I cherish every memory I have of you. I miss you, Dad. I miss your silly laugh and funny jokes. I miss the scent of your cologne, and the warmth of your hugs. I wouldn't be where I am right now if it hadn't been for you, and I want you to know that I did this for you. I did this to prove you right.

And to God...for giving me a reason.

Chapter One.

She had lost track of time as she sat in the dark listening to the noise of the night. Winter was coming to an end, but like she had done every night as the months had passed, the windows were open an inch, allowing the cool dampness to invade the room and saturate her soul. She didn't mind. She had forgotten what it felt like to be warm.

She turned on the floor lamp, the bulb flickering for a moment before the connection was made, but its brightness was lost behind a shade stained with the yellowness of age. It was used, bought second-hand like the few other necessities that took up space in the tiny flat she called home. A small couch, barely large enough to hold two people, its upholstery faded and frayed just like her, sat in the middle of the room while a mismatched chair stood desolate in a corner. Purchased for the comfort of guests, it had yet to be used except for the occasional piece of clothing dropped on its lonely cushion. Books were scattered and stacked around the room, some piles neat while others leaned to the left or right, waiting for the effect of gravity to announce itself. There was no need for a bookcase, just another piece of clutter, just another problem for someone else to clean up. There wasn't a reason for buying new. Why burden someone with your belongings when it would be so much easier to discard them when you're gone?

Going into the kitchen, she switched on the light, the fluorescent lamp sputtering and groaning as it was awakened from its sleep. Squinting at the brightness, she turned it off and took a few short steps to open the tiny fridge tucked under the counter. It was a paltry room, large enough for one, but too small for two. She liked that.

Taking a bottle from the shelf, she returned to the lounge and placed it on the coffee table, staring at its milky contents and wondering if tonight would be the night. Lighting another cigarette, she slowly exhaled and watched as the smoke floated over her head until it disappeared into the shadows. She glanced at the bottle again. Picking it up, she examined some particles that had settled to the bottom, awaiting their turn to be dissolved by the clear liquor inside. Inhaling a lungful of smoke, she carefully set the bottle down, within reach if the mood struck, but far enough away to keep it safe from harm. Opening her briefcase, she pulled out a packet of papers and took a sip from the bottle of beer she had been nursing for over an hour. As she read over the first essay, she grimaced. Her student had yet to comprehend the lessons being taught. Picking up a red pencil, she began to make notes and corrections in the margins. Taking an occasional drag from her cigarette, she worked through the small stack until all were graded and tucked safely back into her attache.

Getting up, she went to the window to close the sash and paused for a moment to peer through the glass. Three stories above the street, she could still hear the sounds of tires against wet pavement and the occasional shout of a fond farewell as nightlife left the pubs and stumbled to find their way home. Letting out a long breath, she carried the bottles to the kitchen, throwing one away and placing the other safely back in the fridge, shaking it a few times to assist the remaining granules in their disappearance. Unbuttoning her blouse, she walked silently to the bedroom, and after tossing the shirt in the wardrobe, she pulled down the brightly-colored duvet on the bed, its vibrant hues in sharp contrast to the rest of the flat. Having spent too many nights lying awake on sheets and mattresses used by others, their bodily habits leaving stains and scents behind, this mattress and linens were purchased new. Although the sheets were now two years old and their colors were faded by washing, they still felt good to her.

As she lay in the darkness, she wondered how she could feel so lost in a space so small, but then again, she felt lost everywhere. The flat was simply a place to exist until the next day dawned, and tomorrow would dawn. Tomorrow she had work to do...so it wouldn't be tonight.

"Are you going to work all night?" he asked, stomping into the kitchen for the third time in the last hour.

"Duane, you know I start tomorrow, and I need to get my thoughts in order," she answered, looking up from her laptop.

Frowning, Duane said, "It's just that your work always seems to come first. There's never anything left for me."

"I'm sorry, but you know how I am."

"You mean a workaholic?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Look, I love that you're focused on this, and I love you. It's just that I've spent the last two days watching the telly, and I'm bored."

"And I want to make a good impression on my first day. I promise, once I get settled at Calloway, I'll give you all the time you need."

"I need time now, babe. I feel like I've wasted my whole weekend over here."

"Well, if I'm not mistaken, you invited yourself over here this weekend, not me."

"I didn't think I needed an invitation!"

Realizing she could have been more eloquent in her response, Laura rubbed the bridge of her nose, trying to think of a way to avoid yet another endless argument about her wants versus his needs.

Laura MacLeod was thirty-two years old, and although born in Scotland, she had moved to England six years earlier to take a rather lucrative teaching position at a small private academy in Surrey. She had always wanted to teach, to instill values and knowledge in youthful minds, so it was a dream come true...and the paycheck didn't hurt either. She was smart. She was young, and she was rapidly building a hefty nest egg.

During one summer break, a fellow teacher suggested that Laura join her in volunteering at a local women's prison. Although doubtful that incarcerated women would be as willing to learn as the boys behind ivy-covered walls, Laura reluctantly agreed. It was a decision that changed her life.

Having always taken great delight in educating others, it wasn't until she saw the appreciation in the eyes of the inmates that Laura realized she had found her niche. There was a profound difference between instructing children raised with silver spoons in their mouths, to enlightening women whose lives seemed to hold only despair. Before autumn arrived that year, she had left the pristine palace of expensive education, and taking a position at HMP Sturrington, Laura MacLeod entered the world of Her Majesty's Prison Service.

Laura enjoyed her time at Sturrington, as much as anyone could enjoy being locked behind thick stone walls for eight hours a day. Most of the women were eager to learn, and although there was an occasional conflict, more often than not it was just frustration on the part of the inmate. Laura could walk out of the gates every afternoon while they stayed behind, locked in their cells, with only their thoughts to keep them company. She understood that feeling all too well...that was until she met Duane York.

With a healthy bank account to back her up, Laura purchased a small home in the borough of Barnet and spent her free time renovating and decorating it to make it her own. Visiting a local nursery one weekend, she accidentally bumped into a man carrying a shallow tray of flowers, sending him and the plants to the ground. Profusely apologizing, when she offered to buy him a cup of coffee while waiting in the queue to pay for their purchases, he agreed, and one week later, Duane York called to ask her out on a date.

Laura's attraction to Duane wasn't instantaneous, but like the flowers she planted around her house, it grew over time. He was an attractive man, a half foot taller than her five-foot-four-inch frame, and although slender, years of playing football with his mates had afforded him a workout that defined his muscles quite nicely.

It was a comfortable, slow-moving relationship, but when he had proposed to her a few months earlier, Laura was stunned. They were good together. In and out of bed, they were good together, but marriage meant love, and Laura wasn't sure she really loved Duane. She liked him. She liked him a lot, but a commitment of that magnitude needed more than just like, it needed love, so she told him no. Heartbroken and angry, he left her house that night saying he'd never return.

At first, it was odd not having Duane underfoot, rummaging through her pantry for nibbles or relaxing in the lounge while she fixed dinner. However, as each day passed, Laura realized that it was nice to do what she wanted when she wanted to do it. It was refreshing to open the refrigerator and still find it stocked with what she craved, and when she came home after a long, hard day, her house was exactly in the order she had left it that morning. There were no surprises anymore, and for the first week, it was a nice change, but by the start of the second, Laura began to miss having Duane around. She missed his laugh and his warmth, and the way they'd snuggle on the sofa together, watching the telly as they talked about their days. She missed making meals for two and evenings in the pub with friends, and she missed the love they made, even though she wasn't sure, at least for her, love had anything to do with it. So, when Duane called to apologize ten days after he walked out of her house, Laura accepted it and things returned to the way they were.

During those two weeks of solitude, Laura received a call from an old friend. John Canfield was the former governor of HMP Sturrington, but he had resigned his position at the prison two years before, deciding that he no longer wanted to live ten hours a day behind locked doors. Still passionate about helping those who could not yet help themselves, he had accepted a position as the director of one of the largest bail hostels in London whose primary focus was on education.

Two days after receiving John's phone call, Laura sat in a bustling coffee shop listening as the man across the table chattered on about Calloway House. Not just a hostel to spend the night, the week or the month, Calloway offered its occupants more than just a roof over their head and a curfew. With the current curriculum, the residents could learn to read, to write, to balance a checkbook and even fix a car if they so desired. It gave them hope and with it, self-worth.

Over their second cup of coffee, John explained that he currently had a staff of four full-time and two part-time teachers, but he needed someone to oversee not only them, but also the course schedules. He needed a person with focus, steadfast in their belief about what learning could accomplish. He needed someone who could follow rules, adhere to the strict guidelines set by the Department of Education and Skills, and he needed someone who would be willing to take the steps necessary in order to insure that Calloway would continue to receive funding. In other words, he needed Laura MacLeod.

When they had first met at Sturrington, although impressed by the petite woman with the green eyes and infectious smile, John believed that her enthusiasm to teach convicts would be short-lived. He could not have been more wrong. While many a teacher had turned cynical behind the stone walls and barred windows of the prison, Laura had not. She thrived on teaching those who craved to be taught. She adored her students and they adored her, and it didn't take long before Laura MacLeod became one of John's most trusted and valued educators. When funds were allocated to increase his staff at Calloway by one, John picked up the phone and called Laura.

Before they finished their third cup of coffee, Laura accepted the position, and when Duane York once again became part of her life a few days later, their already fragile relationship began to show even more cracks.

"Laura!"

Startled from her thoughts by Duane's outburst, she looked up from her notes. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You haven't heard one bloody word I've said, have you?" he shouted, grabbing his jacket. "That's just great!"

Flinching as the front door slammed shut, she sighed. "Shit."

After parking in an area marked For Employees Only, Laura climbed out of the car, gathered her briefcase, laptop and lunch, and turned around to gaze at the six-story building in front of her. Located on the outskirts of London, Calloway had been converted from an old apartment building to a halfway house nearly twelve years earlier. Showing its age in its architecture, the brick facade was broken up by tall, narrow windows, all of which were capped with thick pediments of stone, and along the roof line was a bulky cornice supported by brackets jutting out every few feet. Slightly ominous in its appearance, Laura took a deep breath as she headed to the entrance. Pulling open the heavy door, she walked inside.

Well aware that if Laura MacLeod had a fault, it was one based on time, John Canfield had been patiently waiting in a doorway off the entry. Watching as his new hire walked into the lobby, before she could say anything to the elderly man sitting behind the front desk, John called out, "Glad to see you could make it."

Looking in his direction, Laura smiled. Pushing six-foot-six, John Canfield was in his late fifties with very little hair left to speak of, but his cheerful personality and boyish charm subtracted years from his age. Gangly and soft-spoken, while they had only worked together at Sturrington for a short time, it was long enough for Laura to see John as more than just a friend, and only slightly less than a father.

"Sorry. Am I that late?" she said with a weak grin, shrugging her laptop bag off her shoulder.

"Only a few minutes," he said, taking the satchel from her hands. "Come on. Let me show you around."

Before starting the tour, John quickly introduced Laura to the old man sitting behind the desk. As with most bail hostels, or Approved Premises as they were now being called, several of the residents had strict curfews. During the week, it was Martin's job to keep track of who came and went, while at night and on the weekends, other retired prison officers took his place.

Rail thin and with his scraggy face displaying a two-day-old stubble of stark white hair, Martin grumbled a curt hello before looking back at the daily tabloid he held in his withered hands.

Rolling his eyes at the watchman's gruffness, John led Laura through a large doorway to the right of the entry as he explained that the two lower levels of Calloway held the staff offices, classrooms and community areas while the upper four floors housed the residents. Believing that part of their rehabilitation involved giving the women their privacy, although he and a few other employees were allowed to visit those who lived above their heads, he made it clear that unless she was invited, there was no need for Laura to travel higher than the second floor.

Nodding in agreement, it wasn't until they came to a stop just inside the doorway when Laura took in her surroundings. Three large sofas filled the middle of the room while a pool table stood in one corner with a Ping-Pong table in another. Vending machines were lined up along the back wall, and to her left, from floor to ceiling was a battered bookcase, its shelves dotted with a sparse collection of paperbacks.

Going over to it, Laura tilted her head to scan some of the titles and was surprised to see that most were fiction, and by the appearance of their covers, they had been read hundreds of times. "These have seen better days," she said.

"Yes, they have," John said, motioning for her to follow as he walked from the recreation area. "Unfortunately, most of the funding we receive has to be used to cover the cost of school books, food and salaries, so when it comes to the non-essentials, it's up to us to find them. All the books in there were either donated or left behind by someone when they moved out. Part of our job is to drum up more donations, so I hope you're ready to spend a great deal of your time on the phone."

Smiling, Laura said, "I am."

"Good."

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Where is everyone?" she asked, glancing around the empty lobby. "I know you told me that the residents had to have jobs or be in class, but I expected to see at least a few stragglers."

"Not a chance," John said, leading Laura to a corridor on the other side of the room. "Most of the women here know that we offer a hell of a lot more than most bail hostels. We're giving them a free education and a chance at a better life if they apply themselves, so most take our rules fairly seriously."

Walking down the expansive hallway, John stopped in front of a desk tucked into a small alcove. Sitting behind it was a woman in her mid-fifties with strawberry blonde hair.

"Laura MacLeod, let me introduce you to our office manager, administrative assistant and saving grace, Irene Dixon," John said. "Without her, I'd be lost."

Dismissing his compliment with a shake of her head, Irene extended her hand. "Welcome to Calloway House, Miss MacLeod."

"Call me Laura, and it's very nice to meet you. John's told me a bit about you. He says that you run Calloway, but they gave him the title."

Laughing, Irene's cheeks turned a soft shade of pink. "Oh, well, I don't know about that. I just try to do my best."

The phone on her desk rang and Irene excused herself to answer it, allowing John to continue the tour. Continuing past a few doors, when he came to one opposite another stairway, he opened it and ushered Laura inside.

"This is your office," he said, adjusting the blinds to let the sunlight wash over the room.

"Wow!" Laura said, her eyes opening to their fullest at the sight of the spacious office. About to express her delight, she stopped when the room was filled with the sound of chirping.

Quickly pulling his mobile from his pocket, John silenced the alarm. "Sorry, but I've got an appointment in a few minutes," he said, placing her laptop case on the desk. "Why don't we meet in my office at noon, and I'll introduce you to the rest of the staff and finish the tour. Okay?"

"That works for me," Laura said. "See you later."

As soon as John left, Laura returned her attention to her new office. In addition to the massive desk opposite the door, fronted by two upholstered chairs, several file cabinets filled one wall, and a small leather sofa ran along another. With the slightest hint of fresh paint in the air, Laura assumed the light mauve coating on the walls was new, and the wood flooring appeared to have been scrubbed and polished until it shined.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but these just came for you," Irene said as she walked in carrying a vase filled with roses.

"Oh my," Laura said, blushing slightly at the amount of long-stemmed reds. "They're lovely."

"Yes, they are." Placing the vase on the desk, Irene leaned closer to inhale the fragrance, but before she could take another sniff, the phone in the outer office began to ring. "Oh, I'd better get that. Call me if you need anything."

"I will. Thanks," Laura said, plucking the card from the roses. Reading the words inside, her face spread into a smile.

Good luck on your first day. I know you'll be brilliant! Love, Duane ***

Before she left Calloway that night, John had introduced Laura to four of the members of the teaching staff, explaining that the missing part-time teacher was at his regular job, while the other full-time teacher had been unavoidably detained.

The first to meet the new department head was Susan Grant. A tall woman with blonde hair, Susan taught mathematics and accounting skills to their residents, and upon being introduced to Laura, she warmly shook her hand and welcomed her on board.

Next was Jack Sturges. An imposing figure of a man, although not terribly tall, he was broad-shouldered and brooding. He sported a flattop crew cut of salt-and-pepper hair, and adding to his menacing appearance was a jagged scar running down the right side of his face. Responsible for teaching history and languages, Laura was impressed to hear him move from Spanish to Italian to French and then to German effortlessly.

When she was introduced to Charlie Cummings, it was all Laura could do to keep her smile to a minimum. A portly man in his mid-forties, without the bright-red suspenders holding up his trousers, she feared that they would hit the floor in an instant. Hired on as a handyman, when John noticed the women asking Charlie questions about home maintenance and the like, he convinced the contractor to add teaching to his repertoire. Now, two days a week, he instructed the ladies of the house in basic home and automotive repair...and he enjoyed every minute of it.

Last was Bryan O'Neill, the youngest member of the teaching staff. Dressed in jeans and a red polo shirt, he shook Laura's hand eagerly, his grin toothy and his blue eyes smiling back at her like a puppy awaiting a treat. In charge of the classes on computer technology and sciences, Bryan had been handpicked by John when they had met at a teaching conference one year earlier. Fresh out of university and unemployed, Bryan had attended almost every seminar given that week and John had taken notice. Even though the young man's experience was lacking, his dedication to his profession was not, and before the conference had ended, Bryan had a job.

In the early hours of the evening, Laura left work, but only after filling her attache with various reports and schedules that would keep her awake until late that night. As she grabbed her teachers' personnel files and stuffed them in her case, she wondered why she could only find five.

Chapter Two.

By mid-week, Laura MacLeod was awash in paperwork. Trying to find some rhyme or reason in the filing system, old files and new ones were now scattered about her office as if a tornado had just visited.

Hearing a knock on her door, Laura shouted, "Come in," as she continued to sort through paperwork, only stopping when she heard the door open. Looking over her shoulder, she saw John grinning back at her.

Puffing out a bit of air to blow a strand of hair from her cheek, she said, "Hiya, John."

"So, you making sense of all this yet?"

"Give me another week and then ask me that question."

"I heard you met Christopher yesterday. How'd it go?"

"Oh, he's a sweetie," she said, standing straight. "And I'm told the women love him."