The Flower Girls

by Alice Clark-Platts

  ‘And she’s willing?’ Toby had asked, slowing down as he approached the mass of people waiting on the pavement outside the court. He halted, trying to think, to compute the benefits and disadvantages that this proposal could have for his eldest niece.

  ‘Well, I’m getting there,’ Max told him. ‘But I thought we should start the ball rolling with Laurel. There’s no point to any of this if she won’t agree to see Hazel.’

  Inside the courtroom, the panelled walls stretch high above them and natural light is minimal. The colour palette is all reds and browns and blacks, and the antique cream of the wigs that bob before the judge on his bench at the front. Toby sits directly behind the barrister, his head permanently down as he scribbles notes on the legal pad before him. This is Laurel’s application and so her barrister is up on his feet first. Then it will be over to the parole board’s legal team to try and oppose her application for a judicial review of their decision.

  Through it all, Toby can feel the eyes of Debbie Swann’s sister, Joanna Denton, boring into the back of his tired old suit from a few rows behind in the courtroom’s mahogany seats. He understands why she needs to be there, that Kirstie’s family should be represented at the hearing. And he accepts, too, the awful symmetry of them both being relations of the protagonists of this drama. Nevertheless, he wishes it were not Joanna who was here. Today, with his bloated stomach and ever-present nausea, he feels more in tune with the grief of Debbie Swann than the white-hot rage of Joanna.

  ‘We would say, quite categorically, that in light of the negative press that has surrounded Ms Bowman for many, many years, the Respondent parole board has paid far too much attention to the wishes of the public and, as such, has failed to apply the presumption in favour of release, on terms that we say, my lord, are unacceptable and, quite frankly, wrong in law. We submit, to the contrary to the Respondent’s recent decision . . .’ here, the barrister waves a piece of paper in the air at which the judge raises one grey eyebrow ‘. . . that in light of the rehabilitation work the Applicant has achieved; the undertaking of her recent GCSE course; and her work in the prison library, she no longer faces the insuperable obstacles that disqualified her before.’

  Fifty minutes later the hearing is over. Toby gathers his papers and shakes the barrister’s hand vigorously, unable to quell the adrenaline surfing through his bloodstream. He can’t wait to leave the court and call Laurel in prison. Tell her that, for once, things have gone their way. Their application for a judicial review of the decision of the parole board has been granted and a full oral hearing where that decision will be analysed will be held very soon.

  He pushes out of his mind for the moment that he is also obliged to tell her about Max’s phone call. Give her the news that, after all this time, her sister may be paying her a visit.

  ‘Congratulations!’ Joanna’s voice coming from behind him is laden with spite. ‘Off to let her know the result, are you?’

  Toby looks at her briefly before picking up his briefcase. ‘Ms Denton,’ he says politely. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Pretty disgusted with today’s outcome, as I’m sure you can imagine.’ Joanna stares at him, cheeks sucked in as if she has swallowed a glass of bile. She throws a glance at Laurel’s barrister, chatting amiably to his opponent. ‘It’s a disgrace,’ she hisses. ‘The parole board are perfectly within their rights to make any decision they see fit.’

  ‘All due process, Ms Denton. As you know,’ Toby says lightly. ‘Everyone is entitled to a fair hearing.’

  ‘My niece didn’t get one, did she? Little Kirstie hasn’t had her say.’

  ‘I’m not going to debate jurisprudence with you here, Joanna. I think the court has just done that.’

  He turns his back on her and squeezes out of the row of seats.

  ‘Life should mean life,’ she calls after him, her voice rising, uncontrolled. ‘Kirstie was a baby. A baby . . . How can you help her killer? She bit the ear off a toddler. You disgust me, Toby Bowman. You make me sick!’

  Toby bows his head and continues on his way. He doesn’t respond.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Evie stands in the school playground alone. It’s cold but this morning she, along with all her classmates, rolled her skirt up high above her knees and her legs are bare apart from the white socks that reach midway up her calves. She folds her arms across her chest, pursing her mouth as she waits for her mother to arrive to pick her up.

  She is late.

  It’s three-fifty and the playground is empty. Evie turns back to look up at the school building behind her, its windows vacant, the doors shut. Inside, she knows there are teachers to whom she could go, ask them to call her mother. But something in her resists. She is pissed off. Pissed off with her mother. Pissed off with everything.

  How can Mum be late after everything that happened down in Devon? Isn’t she worried that Evie could be taken just like Georgie was? How can she seem not to care?

  Because she doesn’t love you, the voice whispers inside of her. That’s why she’s late. That’s why she isn’t bothered about Devon, why she sent you there in the first place. She just doesn’t care.

  This voice.

  It has been growing louder and louder inside of her for the last few months. It started long before her father took up with the sister of the most infamous female murderer since Rose West. It shelters inside of her, fading away, and then booming out when she least expects it. It tells her vile things; things she doesn’t want to think about.

  Ever.

  She wants to shut it out entirely but then, perversely, forces herself to think about her dad. How popular he is at school. How he’s the one who always comes to the quiz nights; the school fetes; and the parents’ evenings. Always smiling, always bounding around as if nothing’s ever wrong. Her friends ask her why it is that, after the divorce, she chose to live with her mum. Vanessa. The parent who doesn’t give a shit about Evie and wouldn’t notice if she never turned up again.

  What can she say? The answer never comes fully formed. It sticks in her gullet like the first hard bite of an apple that scratches your throat on the way down.

  And as for Hazel . . . Evie shakes her head, trailing her foot across the asphalt in the playground, scuffing her shoe. Her expensive shoe that her mother moaned about when she bought it at John Lewis, telling her this kind of expense was something her father should be responsible for.

  Whatever.

  Hazel is practically her own age. Evie had nearly spat out her Coke when she’d first met her, seen how young she was. All she does is trot around after Dad, doing everything he says.

  It’s all so fucked up, Evie thinks, raising her head to a sky banked with clouds that dip close to the ground. Even in the city, you feel it. You know that you’re only a step, a moment away, from death. Those clouds, they could come down at any time. Rain hell upon you, wash you away, drag you from everything you know. The threat is there all the time. Hovering over you.

  Droplets of water start to fall and Evie lowers her gaze. She looks at the school gates where a car has pulled up silently. A woman opens the door and steps out. She has a mild-looking, friendly face. Mousy hair tied up in a ponytail, jeans and boots and one of those cool jackets that Evie’s school friend Arabella was given for Christmas.

  ‘Hello, Evie,’ the woman says in a cheery voice. ‘Weather’s looking bad. Can I offer you a lift?’

  Evie looks at the car. Inside she can hear The Chainsmokers’ latest song. She stares up at the darkening sky and down again at the hard drops of rain hitting the ground beneath her feet and wetting her hair. She turns her wrist to see her watch. Her mother is over half an hour late.

  She doesn’t love you, the voice whispers again. She doesn’t care. Evie sniffs, a hot kamikaze-like feeling stealing over her. Suddenly the anger feels good, like she’s the one in control. Maybe her mother will finally get it if she arrives at school and Evie has gone. See that, for once, she hasn’t waited around like a fucking loser. M
aybe that’ll make her realise what a failure of a parent she is.

  ‘Yes,’ Evie calls to the woman, slinging her bag over her shoulder and moving towards the gate. ‘That would be great, thanks.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  ‘I cannot fucking believe it,’ Joanna says, pushing a twenty-pound note across the bar. ‘Permission granted? What are they thinking? I can’t bear it. Toby Bowman standing in the court like a prince, smiles all over his face. How dare they?’

  The barmaid takes the money and hands her the change before moving a glass containing ice, gin and lemon with a small bottle of tonic towards Joanna. ‘Here’s your double,’ she says, flicking a quick troubled glance at the expression on her customer’s face, the violence that seems to throb beneath it, the unhealthy sheen over her features.

  Joanna pours the tonic into the glass and takes a huge gulp.

  ‘Cheers,’ Will says, his pint held lonely in the air as Joanna downs her drink.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ she says. ‘Here, I’ll get another one. I need it after this week.’

  ‘Let me,’ he answers, catching the barmaid’s eye and gesturing for the same again. He looks at Joanna and wonders, not for the first time, whether this is really what they should be doing. All this effort expended to keep one woman locked up in prison. Something about it seems wrong, as if they are the ones being punished and not Laurel Bowman. His cheeks burn as he notices Joanna stare at him, as if she can read these disloyal thoughts running through his mind.

  ‘What?’

  He shrugs. ‘Nothing. Just tired, I suppose. It’s only permission, Jo. The real hearing could easily agree with the parole board not to release Bowman.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s a risk, isn’t it? I feel like she’s slipping and sliding towards the exit doors.’ Joanna puts her head on one side and reaches for the new glass that has appeared at her elbow. ‘Thanks.’

  Will surveys their local. The one they like because its clientele consists more of old men and less of the faux-ironic hipsters who slouch in bars further along the road, stroking their beards and ordering craft beer. An elderly man sits in the corner, his eyes closed, a half-pint glass of bitter on the table next to a folded copy of the Sun. The photograph of Rosie Bowman as a schoolgirl stares up at him from the front page.

  ‘What about that?’ he says to Joanna, tipping his glass in the direction of the newspaper. ‘Talk about timing.’

  Joanna shakes her head and rubs the back of her neck. ‘Unbelievable. Seems unlikely, though, doesn’t it? That she had anything to do with that kid going missing? She’d have to be mad to try anything dodgy, with her background.’

  ‘Unless she couldn’t help herself,’ Will points out.

  Joanna looks at him. ‘I’m going to go up and see Deb tomorrow,’ she says as if she has just reached that decision. ‘See if she needs anything. If she wants to come down and give some interviews maybe. Try and get some leverage to swing the coverage back to Kirstie.’

  Will takes a swig of his pint and glances back at the old man. The thought hovers just within reach that he will never be that man. By the time he is the same age, pubs like this will be long-since gone. He sighs. Life just gets more and more complicated and, lately, the relentless ethos of Bang to Rights is wearing him down.

  ‘Wears what?’ Joanna asks. ‘What did you say?’

  Will laughs uncomfortably. ‘I didn’t realise I’d said anything out loud.’

  Joanna doesn’t reply, holding up her hand for another gin.

  ‘You’re drinking a lot,’ he observes.

  ‘Thirsty, tired, and grieving. No better reasons.’ She studies his face while she waits. ‘Well? Wears what?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Just thinking about us and what we do and what we’ll do in the future.’

  ‘Carry on fighting the good fight.’ She gives him an angry little smile. ‘Making sure people who can’t speak for themselves have a voice.’ She shakes her head vigorously. ‘As if suddenly it’s acceptable to be a child murderer? As if you can be rehabilitated from that.’

  Will doesn’t answer but stares down at his beer.

  ‘Jesus, Will. What is it? I know it was a shit result today but you look like your puppy’s just been run over.’

  Will lifts his eyebrows and presses his lips together, debating with himself whether to reply. ‘I just don’t know, Jo,’ he says finally.

  ‘What is it that’s wearing you down?’

  ‘I don’t know if it’s what I want any more,’ he says simply.

  Joanna’s eyes narrow.

  ‘I mean . . . it should feel good, right? Even today when we essentially lost. But we had our submissions considered. The court is listening to us. We are making a difference. But . . .’

  ‘But, what?’

  ‘But,’ he scratches the back of his neck nervously, ‘I don’t feel like that. I just feel really sad about it all. Like no one’s a winner really. That it’s all so miserable while we argue with each other. And nothing gets better. We only make sure it stays exactly the same. All the hatred, you know? There’s so much of it.

  ‘And then I go home and I look at my daughter, and I think, what kind of life is it for her? To grow up in such a depressing world where all we do is argue and try and keep people locked up. Not help them. Not help anyone. Because, you know,’ he stares at Joanna earnestly, ‘I don’t think even Debbie and Rob are happy about this. After all this time, how does Laurel rotting away in prison help them move on? How can you move on? Because, you know . . . wouldn’t it be better if you could?’

  Will’s voice trails away and the silence between them lengthens. He swallows, watching Joanna, but her face is blank.

  ‘Don’t,’ he says, pushing his glass away. ‘Don’t do this. I just mean . . . it’s something I’ve been thinking about. I don’t want to end up in a pit of resentment, stewing in my own anger. Not forever, Jo. And I don’t want you to do it either.’

  Joanna gives a short nod. ‘And . . .’ she runs her tongue over her bottom lip, eyes fixed on the condensation moving down her glass towards her fingers ‘. . . what would you do instead? What would you do?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not saying I’ve planned anything. I’m just talking. About how I feel sometimes. Not all the time. You know what I think about Bowman. It’s not that I’m saying we should forgive . . .’

  Joanna bangs her glass down on top of the bar. Her knuckles wrapped around it are red. The barmaid jerks her head up at the sound. ‘That is what you’re saying, Will. If you don’t keep her inside, what else is there? You have to forgive. You can’t say – oh, yeah, come on out, come and have a nice council flat, enjoy your NHS medical card and the rest of it. Oh, and by the way, I still think you’re a murderous lying cow, but never mind! It’s about time you were out and living amongst us all. Please don’t kill anyone else, though! That wouldn’t do at all.’

  ‘You’re being facetious. That’s not what I mean and you know it.’

  ‘I’m serious, Will. If you let her out, you have to forgive. What’s the point otherwise?’

  ‘What about saying that she’s served her time? That she’s a different person from who she was before? That the ten-year-old Laurel has gone. This is someone who won’t hurt again because she’s learnt her lesson?’

  Joanna seems frozen, her mouth open a little, her eyes fixed on Will’s. After a second or two, she tosses her head. ‘You’re a fucking idiot,’ she snaps, picking up her bag from off the floor. ‘You’re an idiot if you think that someone like that can change. They never change. Ever.’ Joanna wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘I’m going now. Because I’m feeling pretty sick.’

  ‘Don’t go, Jo. I’m sorry. I don’t want to upset you. I wish we could talk about it.’ He reaches out and touches her arm but Joanna looks down coldly at his hand before shifting away and it falls into empty air.

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about. You can take your paid notice. It’s two weeks, I think.’

  ‘Oh,
Jo. Come on . . .’

  ‘And then you can get your stuff and get out. Got it?’ Joanna backs off, an expression of disgust contorting her face, before she turns and slams out of the pub.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  1998

  The courtroom in the Old Bailey was stuffed to the rafters with a roiling mix of legal arguments, rhetoric and latent violence. The dark-panelled walls seemed to push in on the inhabitants, sliding them in towards each other, the ceiling pressed down flat on top of them, stifling them, compressing the air until it was heady with the might of justice.

  Laurel sat in the dock, her chin level with the balustrade around it. Her chair was perched on a wooden block, which had been purposely and hurriedly made over the weekend when it was discovered that she would not be able to see over and into the courtroom otherwise.

  She wore a plain white shirt and her school tie. Her hair was brushed back from her face in a simple ponytail. Her eyes were big and round, staring straight ahead, focused away from the gallery above her, to her right. There sat Debbie and Rob Swann, holding hands, flanked by a bristling and tear-stained Joanna. Their faces were grey, washed out. Debbie’s chest rose and fell quickly with her rapid breathing. Rob’s lips were drawn tightly together, dark shadows under his eyes.

  Along the wall opposite Laurel were the press. Amongst them sat the courtroom artist, his eyes fixed on her, committing every detail of the scene to memory, to be scratched down as soon as he left the courtroom. He would draw her image as if blocked by her barrister, his wig concealing the detail of her face. Because her identity was shielded. She was no longer Laurel Bowman. She was Child X.

  Mr Justice Follett entered with mistral force, his red robes swept back behind him as he sat, his face stern and heavy with duty. As he spoke, the journalists hunched forward with their pens raised, nibs at the ready. Counsel for the prosecution spoke first, addressing the jury of seven women and five men, who still seemed stunned to find themselves here in this courtroom. They averted their eyes from the huddled shape of Laurel in the dock. Several jurors held crumpled tissues in their hands, looking desperately up at Debbie and Rob Swann as they heard what had happened to their daughter.