by Sam Hayes
Carlyle draws a breath that seems to suck the walls closer to him. ‘In that case, there’s nothing to discuss.’
‘Oh, I think there is.’
I drop down into the chair at the small table and take out a pad and pen. The first glimmer of a headache stretches between my temples. I write down the time and date, badly, because my hand is shaking. I reek of Scotch. ‘From the beginning, Dr Carlyle. The very beginning, up to and including this evening when you were with my wife.’ That’s all I want to hear, what they were doing as the police hammered on his door. Were they kissing, or hadn’t they quite got that far? Had he touched her by then, on the back, shoulder, face or somewhere more intimate? Worse, perhaps the police interrupted them already in the bedroom. Julia is hardly likely to tell me of how they hastily struggled into clothes when Ed and his men arrived.
‘So do you want me or not, Dr Carlyle? There’s no one else available to fight your corner tonight. You’ll be questioned, possibly charged, and then it’ll be off to the magistrates’ court in the morning.’ I lay down my pen. The gauntlet.
He pauses thoughtfully and stares somewhere beyond me, and for a moment I see not contempt or jealousy but a whip of vulnerability. In a flash, I know that the doctor needs me, really needs me. The thread of hope spun between Julia and me is stretched to virtual invisibility but not yet broken. I fight the urge for another drink, just a small one, to wash it all away.
‘Doctor.’ A deep breath. ‘There is a detective in this building waiting to interview you about a very serious crime. He wants to put you in prison.’ He might as well hear it straight. But David’s eyes close, as if picturing another place, another time. His skin glistens with a thousand tiny sweat beads. ‘Dr Carlyle, did you attack Grace Covatta on the twenty-eighth of December?’
His eyes flash open, making me visibly jump. They are as dark and unfathomable as anything I have ever seen.
Before he answers, I step in. ‘You realise that if you are charged with this crime and you confide to me that you actually are guilty of . . .’ I swallow, not wanting to think of Grace’s injuries yet again. ‘. . . of these current allegations, but you choose to plead not guilty, then I can no longer be your solicitor.’ Hope above all hope that this happens. Now. Tonight. To get me out of here.
‘But I am not going to tell you that I’m guilty, am I?’ David smiles, perfectly in control again, as if he’s only got a parking fine.
‘The evidence against you is extremely serious.’ I know. I’ve read the file. Carlyle isn’t going anywhere tonight except back to a cell. I wipe my hands over my face and catch the length of my hair in my fingers. I’m reading the headlines already: Suspect Represented by Alcoholic Dropout.
‘I’m telling you that I didn’t assault or hurt or injure anyone, Mr French. When the police discover that any evidence they have against me is purely circumstantial, they’ll release me. It’s as simple as that.’ Carlyle is completely unfazed by the seriousness of the allegations against him. I have no idea if he’s telling the truth or not.
‘The police recovered a waxed jacket in the field close to where Grace Covatta was found.’ I think of Julia, how bravely she coped after finding the girl. ‘The jacket had one of your bank statements in the pocket. As we speak, forensics will be officially confirming it’s your coat. It’ll be riddled with DNA, hair, bodily fluids.’ I wait for a reaction. There’s nothing. I feel sick.
Just get through this, Murray. Get through this for Julia.
I continue. ‘Based on Grace’s parents’ statements about their daughter’s movements, DI Hallet has CCTV footage revealing that you and Grace were together in your car on the afternoon before she was attacked.’
‘That’s easily—’
‘Plus there’s a statement from a café owner stating that you were with Grace Covatta, apparently arguing, a week before her attack.’ I’m skimming through the details. ‘And you . . . you were seen kissing her. You clearly know her well, Doctor.’ His face is deadpan. ‘In Julia’s statement to the police, she says that the first and only word Grace spoke when she found her was “doctor”.’ It’s ironic but I like it that Julia’s statement has helped bring in Carlyle.
‘She asked you to help me, didn’t she?’ He says this with a vapour-thin smile, as if something magical has dawned on him. When I don’t respond immediately, he says, ‘Julia made you.’ He is ignoring everything I have just told him.
I shake my head. ‘Actually, no . . .’
‘So are you going to, then?’
‘What?’
‘Help me.’
‘Of course—’
‘Let me offer you a bit of advice, Mr French.’ His turn to interrupt me. ‘There’s this joke I know about solicitors. I think we could both do with a bit of a laugh, don’t you?’ He stands up and there’s no way I can compete with the size of him. He looms across the table, hands outspread, face warped by anger, guilt, denial. He pauses for maximum effect. ‘How do you get a lawyer out of a tree?’
I shrug. ‘I haven’t a clue.’ I know I’ve heard this before. I’ve just set myself up. It’s not jokes we need, it’s a miracle. ‘I don’t know. How do you get a lawyer out of a tree?’
‘Cut the rope, Mr French. You cut the rope.’
JULIA
Ninety minutes a week visiting rights and he gives them all to me, just like that. An entire week crammed into an hour and a half.
‘This is absolutely shocking. Terrible,’ I say earnestly, whispering so no one overhears us. But however I say it, it still sounds as if he has been caught by a speed camera or had a parking ticket slapped on his windscreen; as if he’ll be out by teatime. ‘Ridiculous!’ I laugh, showing him I believe he’s innocent. Besides, it would be an insult to my judgement if he were anything else. I know, I just know, that we have a future together. There’s no way David attacked anyone. I won’t let it be true.
‘I went to visit Grace Covatta again,’ I tell him. I can see by the look on his face, the way his eyes suddenly bleed their colour, that he doesn’t like me bringing up her name. ‘She’s been put into a coma to let her brain heal. She’s just a husk; as if the life’s been sucked from her. It’s frustrating for the police, let alone you. I want her to be able to tell them that it wasn’t you who hurt her.’ I stop. David is miles away. Doesn’t he want to hear about Grace?
‘I understand,’ David replies flatly. It could mean anything.
I swear he’s lost weight since I last saw him. Looking at his gaunt face and the yellow-grey circles around his eyes, I doubt if he’s sleeping. ‘It’s so sad. She has a police guard on her ward and a couple of reporters were hanging around the corridors. Ed let me in.’ He looks annoyed. Ed is the enemy, after all. ‘I wanted to find things out for you, David. To get information. Until Grace is able to speak again you’re stuck here.’ I flick my hand wide and a guard glances over. ‘It could delay the court case.’
‘It’s more important that Grace recovers. The trial can wait.’ He’s resigned to his fate. I admire him for that, even if being separated is already driving me crazy. His face is a carving of new lines and I see the worry stretched between his eyes in a knotted frown. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this.’
‘I was in it neck deep already,’ I remind him, half laughing. ‘That’s the irony of it all.’
‘A real family affair then,’ he says.
‘What about your family? Can I call anyone for you?’ David hangs his head, frowns, making me wish I’d not asked. ‘How are they treating you in here? Do you eat well? Do you have your own room?’ I must look terrible myself with everything that’s been going on.
A surprise smile cracks his face and his eyes light up. ‘They’re called cells, Julia. And no, I have to share.’ For a moment, he’s the David I know – charming, confident, assured. ‘But I’ve stayed in better hotels. Wouldn’t give this one any stars, and the food’s not up to much. As for the other guests, well, they’re incredibly noisy and inconsiderate. I have to sh
are my room with a convicted paedophile.’ He pauses for maximum effect but quickly stops the charade when my shocked expression gives away my concern. ‘This is a category A prison, Julia,’ he says. ‘Bad people.’
‘But you’re not a bad person, David.You shouldn’t be in here. I believe you’re innocent. Really, I do.’ I take his hand across the table. Prisoners in custody have more lenient visiting rights than the convicted inmates. I am grateful for that at least.
‘Maybe it’s the best place for me, Julia.’ David locks his hands around mine, like I’ve seen Murray do to Flora a thousand times. Then, ‘I’m sorry.’ He bows his head.
‘Don’t give up hope,’ I say. It’s only as he closes his eyes and turns away from me that the first flicker of doubt seeps from under his skin and into mine.
After David was arrested and hauled off, there was nothing for me to do except wait. Murray promised he would handle things down at the police station and tried to console me before he went into the interview room. He reckoned that after a few hours of questioning they probably wouldn’t have enough evidence to even press charges. I took his suit and the other things he’d requested in to the police station.
‘Go home and sleep, Julia. You need to be rested for the kids’ sake.’ Murray tried to sound upbeat, as if he actually wanted to be David’s lawyer. I tried to believe he would do his utmost, but the whole situation was ludicrous. In the morning, I’d phone around the best law firms I could find.
‘Surely if Sheila had given you the chance to explain the circumstances, she wouldn’t have forced the case on you.’ I waited for him to agree, my eyebrows raised.
Murray brought his hand towards my face, as if to stroke my cheek, but then his arm dropped away along with his explanation.
‘Trust me,’ were his last words – fragile as moths’ wings – before he was led off to the prisoners’ section.
I once did, I thought, before calling out a weak ‘Thanks.’
I didn’t sleep. Early the next morning, Murray called me.
‘Julia.’ A pause, perhaps him not knowing how to say it. ‘David has been charged.’
‘Really?’ Even though I knew this was bad, I was still hoping the news might herald the end of all this mess. ‘With what?’
A sigh. ‘Grace’s assault. Aggravated GBH. Kidnap. Attempted murder.’
‘But I thought you said they didn’t have enough evidence to charge him.’ It was true. I remembered him saying it.
‘He’s going to appear before the magistrates’ court this morning.’
Then I asked loads of questions but Murray was evasive. He didn’t want to worry me.
‘I’m sorry,’ he breathed down the line. ‘I’ll still do everything I can. These are indictable offences, Julia.’ He waited for my gasp before continuing. ‘It’s a long way from over.’
‘Will he have to appear at the crown court?’ I asked. I’d regained control of my voice and imagined Murray nodding his head even before he confirmed my worst fears. He said a brief goodbye.
David appeared before the magistrates’ court. Bail was refused and he was immediately remanded in custody. He would be sent for trial by jury as we feared. There was no chance to do anything – wash my hair, eat, make phone calls, bring him clothes. He was transported to Whitegate Prison in an unmarked van. As quickly as he had entered it, David was taken from my life.
A vengeful crowd gathered outside the courthouse when the press learnt of his arrest. I fled the courtroom with my jacket over my head, stumbling on the stone steps as I left. I was a teacher – the teacher of the girl who had been attacked – yet I was also involved with the man accused of the crime. Grace had already won the country’s hearts. If they found out who I was, the media would have a field day with me, and no doubt so would the head teacher at my school. Journalists and TV crews were everywhere, while parents nationwide wanted to know that their kids were safe. Me, I just wanted David back.
‘Don’t think I didn’t pull out all the stops, Julia.’ Murray looked wrecked. The official slot allocated for his hangover had been filled with David’s police interview, charging and court appearance. He hadn’t slept all night. ‘But it’s not over yet. I’ll lodge an appeal. I’ll take advice from the senior partners. I’ll do whatever it takes to win this.’
Later, I fetched the children from school, and soon after that Murray came round to the farm.
‘I’m not leaving. Not going anywhere.’ He said this as soon as I opened the door. ‘If you’re right about David, if he really is innocent, it means there’s still a madman loose around here. And if you don’t let me inside the house, I’ll just go and camp in the barn.’ Then came the boot in the door, wedged in my heart for good measure. ‘Will you sleep well, knowing that I’m freezing and uncomfortable outside?’ There was his smile, eclipsing the rest of his face, outshadowing his tiredness. It took me back a thousand years – or at least it seemed that long ago.
So I made up the spare room reluctantly and Alex skipped cheerfully round the house chanting that Mummy loves Daddy again. We did a funny dance ourselves when it came to using the bathroom, preparing food, saying good night. We do-si-doed between memories and the necessity to eat; we waltzed through our impending divorce and sidestepped around how it would affect the children. Murray and I had been separated since the summer and now here we were, however temporary, living together again. The oddest thing about it was that after a short time, it didn’t feel odd at all.
‘I’m moving back to Ely soon,’ I told Murray on Sunday evening. It was a hard decision. That morning I’d been to visit Mum – the first time since she’d been admitted. I was exhausted, and relieved that she was getting the care she needed. ‘The kids need some normality. They’ve been palmed off on Nadine and friends too much recently and Alex’s teacher said that he’s been disruptive in class. That’s not like him.’
We sighed in unison.
‘What will you do about Brenna and Gradin?’ They’re not his concern but I like it that he cares. I’d had to call on several other friends to look after the teenagers. It wasn’t ideal.
‘Call social services, I guess. They’ll get re-homed.’ I realised I’d made them sound like stray kittens. ‘And then there’s Mum’s animals to consider.’ I was finding reasons to stay put, even though the kids’ routine was important. ‘I just want things to be ordinary again.’ And although neither of us said it, we both knew that that was impossible.
I busied about tidying the kitchen, stacking crockery and clattering cutlery into the sagging drawer. I had to hang on to every shred of normal life – for Mum, for Alex and Flora, for David – even though I had let go of every tattered piece of mine.
That was earlier. Now we’re standing awkwardly in the shadow of our collective memories, each waiting for the other to leave the room, wondering who will flick off the light, check the door is locked, settle the embers of the fire so sparks won’t jump out of the grate. It’s as these nighttime rituals take place just before midnight that I make a grab for Murray’s hand. It scares the life out of him.
‘What?’ He’s just turned out the kitchen light. His hand is tense in mine, a ball of uncertainty, and he’s unsure whether to pull away or hold me back. ‘Julia, what is it?’ He knows it must be serious.
‘Nothing,’ I say. I feel silly.
‘You can’t grab my hand and then say nothing.’ The straps of tension in his fingers loosen and he spreads them wide. He weaves them with mine.
‘Do you remember when Alex broke his elbow?’ This is crazy. We’re standing in the doorway, the one that leads out to all the other rooms, with Murray hunched under the low lintel and me backed against the frame. His fingers ensnare mine.
‘It was dreadful. Worst day of my life.’ A moment passes as we each relive that dreadful time. ‘Nearly the worst day of my life.’ Now he’s thinking about when I broke the news; recalling the sour taste, the bitter words, the slam of the door.
I want a divorce, Murray.
‘He was perfect until that day.’ Murray’s shoulders drop forward an inch or two as if he’s carrying the pain of the accident all over again.
‘He still is,’ I confirm, and Murray nods. One thing we’ll always agree on is how amazing our children are. ‘But do you remember how it happened?’
‘The baby-walker,’ he states.
‘What about that chain reaction of events? You calling me from the office and the phone ringing over and over when I was busy with the kids. Then the doorbell, Flora spitting up her food, you calling again, my headache, the power cut from the storm, me slicing my finger on a knife when I was talking to you, the phone pressed between my shoulder and ear. And I didn’t even know the baby-walker was upstairs. You must have left it there.’
‘Oh, I see. This is a blame-Murray-for-Alex’s-accident night, is it?’ A cold breeze slices between us.
‘What?’ I pull my hand away but it won’t come. It’s locked in Murray’s grip. ‘Of course not. You weren’t even there.’
‘We went over this years ago, Julia. It was me who forgot to bring the damn baby-walker downstairs that morning.’ Sweat erupts on Murray’s palm.
‘Hey,’ I say gently. Once, I would have followed it with a kiss, a stroke, something tender. ‘Don’t get upset.’
‘He was in agony.’ Murray leans back on the door. With his free hand, he covers his face. ‘If only—’
‘If only I’d shut the stair gate, then Alex wouldn’t have gone mountaineering up the stairs all by himself, somehow climbed into the baby-walker and hurtled back down the stairs again. You clearly weren’t at fault, Murray. I didn’t have to answer the telephone or see who was at the door.’ I stick up my left index finger and angle it in the light from the hall. ‘See? That’s the scar from when the knife slipped through the tomato and into my hand. A reminder of that awful day.’
