by Karen Osman
Outside in the corridor, she could hear the hum of the office and was glad of the privacy. She’d just spent a gruelling few hours in the meeting room working on the Rose Aiker case. Rose had come into the office for the last hour and Claire was only supposed to spend a few minutes with her, making sure Rose was confident with her representation, but of course, Claire had ended up staying for the whole meeting. And not just that; she had got involved.
Claire had seen the look pass between Greg and Chloe as she took charge of the case. She’d even heard Greg’s not-so-subtle suggestion that perhaps Claire had other cases to be working on and Claire had wanted to excuse herself then. As a partner, Claire was the most senior counsel in the room so of course she was allowed to oversee the meeting, she justified to herself. But that wasn’t the agreement and she knew it. So, what had compelled her to stay?
It was Rose. Each time, Claire had tried to excuse herself from the proceedings Rose had chosen those very moments to ask a question or seek reassurance and Claire’s professional courtesy wouldn’t let her leave the room. And who could blame Rose? She was still a child, just shy of twenty years old. What was Claire supposed to do? This was exactly why she didn’t want to be involved in the case in the first place – it was impossible to do the half measures that Julia was suggesting.
Claire sighed and sat back in her chair, tilting her head side to side to release the knots in her neck. It didn’t help that Rose was estranged from her parents and she always came alone to the meetings.
‘It might help to have someone here to support you,’ suggested Claire, gently, when she’d discovered that Rose hadn’t even told her family about what she was going through. It also led Claire to wonder how Rose was paying her legal bills but she’d checked with accounts and all the billing was up to date.
Sitting up straight, she noticed it was getting dark outside and Claire switched on her desk lamp. Checking her watch, she saw she only had a couple more hours before she needed to leave for home. It was Friday and they usually had a family night, although Joshua had been doing his own thing more and more over the last few years. She tried never to push him to stay at home if he wanted to be out with his friends. He worked hard during the week and he deserved a night out.
Still, she loved it when he chose staying home over going out. The four of them together snuggled on the couch was one of the highlights of Claire’s week and she knew Chris enjoyed it too, so she quickly sent Joshua a message asking what his plans were for the evening. Her phone pinged a response almost immediately.
Sorry, Mum, off out tonight with the lads!
She was disappointed, but she quickly texted him back telling him she would save him some pizza and then got back to work. She made notes on her legal pad, the rhythmic strokes of the pen organising her thoughts, the black ink a pleasing contrast to the yellow paper. While she used her laptop for official documents, all her notes were made the old-fashioned way. It helped her think. She had cupboards full of legal pads, all boxed, labelled and filed, and could retrieve them when she needed to. Julia often joked that they would have to move to a larger office just to accommodate them.
She was so focused on writing that she didn’t see the door handle move, a figure slip in the room and walk towards her.
‘Thanks for taking this on,’ a voice suddenly said.
Claire jumped. Rose was standing in front of her desk, stock still, her heavily made-up blue eyes watching her.
‘Rose! Goodness, you startled me!’ Claire put down her pen. ‘What are you still doing here?’ she added.
‘Sorry,’ replied Rose. ‘I just wanted to come and say thanks for representing me.’
‘You’re welcome but I’m not really representing you. I’m just here to support your team.’
‘But you will be in court with me, won’t you?’ asked Rose, her fingers clasping each other anxiously.
‘Yes, I’ll be there.’
‘Good, ’cos I’m not sure I can do it without you,’ replied Rose.
Claire saw large tears slide slowly down Rose’s face.
Claire got up from behind her desk. ‘Shhhh, shhh, come on now, it’s okay.’
Putting her arm around the young girl, she led her over to the sofa and the two of them sat down, Rose clinging to Claire like they were in a three-legged race. As Claire held Rose, she wondered what the young girl had heard about her. It was all such a long time ago, surely no one would even remember? But somehow Rose had and had sought her out. Perhaps, like Julia had said, this was an opportunity for some good to come out of the whole horrible experience she’d had with Paul. Unlike Rose, there had been no police involved, no charges pressed, no arrests.
Claire thought back to the aftermath of it. Charlotte’s screams as she found Paul on top of her, Claire’s own shame as she lay there half dressed, and finally Paul’s aggression as he was taken away.
Even now, years later, she couldn’t think of that afternoon without feeling sick. Humiliation filled her to the core when she thought of him, both as the young teenager he once was and the man he must now be. She wondered where he was, what he was doing. The last she’d heard was that he’d been expelled and had had to move schools. Afterwards, she’d tried to put him out of her mind and whenever he intruded on her thoughts, as he so often did, especially in the years immediately afterwards, she’d fought hard to supress the panic.
But sometimes fear coiled its way around her, so tightly that she couldn’t breathe and that’s when she’d increased her swimming sessions. At one point, she was going twice a day just to block out the images that filled her mind. For the most part, it had worked, although she’d lost a lot of weight. She remembered her mum worrying about it and trying to cook filling foods for her. Swimming had been the only way she’d been able to move on. With every stroke, she affirmed that the incident with Paul was over. She had nothing to feel guilty about.
She also had to hand it to Charlotte – it was then that the club had really come into their own. Charlotte and her swarm of bees had surrounded her, never leaving her side during school and then college hours. Charlotte had organised a rota so she never had to walk to or from school by herself and Claire was christened a survivor, a victim who had overcome the odds. Such was the girls’ intensity that Claire almost started to believe it herself.
But then she would remember: Paul’s breath against her ear, his hands on her, his scent. She remembered how he used to talk about his dream of becoming a doctor, the way his hair fell over his face, their first kiss in the cinema. And then she wondered how everything could have gone so horribly wrong. She was just grateful that it hadn’t got reported to the police. They’d asked her of course, but she’d protested adamantly.
As Rose gradually quietened down, Claire could feel the slim frame of the girl in her arms. Even though Rose was tall at five foot seven, she would have had no chance against men intent on violating her, but here she was, brave enough to speak up about her experience, to take those who had hurt her to task through the British courts. Suddenly Claire knew what she had to do. She would fight for Rose to be heard, to have her say. Claire would fight, not from the side lines, but from the ring itself, front and centre, and leading the charge.
Still holding Rose, the girl’s face hidden behind her hair, she leant down, bringing her lips close to the young girl’s ear.
‘I’m here for you, Rose, and we’re going to do our utmost to fight this,’ whispered Claire, and hoped her actions would go some way to alleviate her own pain and guilt.
28
Paul looked at his printed name and signature on the sign-in sheet at Manchester Royal Infirmary hospital where he worked as one of the caretakers: Paul Jacobs. He avoided writing his name down as much as possible, but the hospital employee registration system was down, and everyone had to fill in the timesheets. He’d been Jacobs for so long now but seeing it in print always reminded him of the events leading up to his name change, triggered by that fateful afternoon with Claire.
Things had quickly spiralled out of control. Thanks to that squawking parrot bitch Charlotte, who had burst in on them, the incident had spread throughout the school and then around Castlefield and he, and his parents, had become social pariahs. He’d railed and protested but expulsion had been swift and immediate, and he’d felt the familiar rage within. But this time he couldn’t control himself and he’d flown at the head teacher, fists clenched. Afterwards, when all his pent-up frustration had been released, he’d cried in the privacy of his bedroom, tears of anger and shock.
But not even he could imagine how much worse the situation would become.
Despite not being reported or charged, the harassment would start that very evening and he’d woken up the next morning to the word rapist spray-painted on the garage door. His mother had been terrified, his father terrifying, but the abuse intensified over the months and eventually, his family had been driven out, forced to move to the other side of Manchester.
Still, the persecution persisted, the gossip having followed them like a stalker. In desperation, with their next move, they eventually changed their surname. Perhaps that would have been the end of it or at least something the Joneses could put behind them, but as the years rolled by, it was clear that a domino effect had been put in motion. His father lost his job, finding solace in the pub rather than at the job centre and there would be weeks when he and his mum wouldn’t see him. What little money his father had often went on drink so his mum got a job as a cashier in a local supermarket.
Paul was supposed to be in yet another new school, but the students were rough, the teachers disinterested, and the textbooks he had once loved became a hideous visual reminder of his past. Gradually, he stopped attending and despite his mother’s protests, he found work in the local pub.
Receiving his first wage was, if not life-changing, then certainly memorable for Paul. The little brown envelope bulged slightly from the wad of notes and the coins added a pleasing weight. It was then that he realised he could buy a little bit of happiness. He deserved it after everything he’d been through and as he discreetly exchanged his own little packet for a clear plastic one on the corner of Jamison and Ridge Streets, he felt slightly better at the thought of a little pill coursing through his body altering his shitty reality, even if it was only for a few hours.
He wasn’t a drug addict, he told himself because he didn’t do it every day, just on the odd Friday night when he needed a boost to get him through the weekend. Sometimes he bought more than he needed and sold it on to a neighbour or the odd punter in the pub where he worked to make a little extra money.
Paul never knew whether his father would be home or not and even though it upset his mum, he always hoped he was out somewhere on one of his benders. Paul preferred a sad house to a violent one. Eventually, Paul had moved out and rented a dingy studio on a council estate called Fairfield. There was nothing fair about it – it was every man for himself and it was the one time he was grateful to his father for giving him the experience in being able to dodge a fist. He would later go on to secure another flat from the council, but he never forgot Fairfield Estate. It was grim but after years of living with his parents, Fairfield was a haven of freedom and anonymity.
His various neighbours were mainly petty thieves, druggies, and, from the noises he’d heard through the walls, fighters. He’d seen a kid, who couldn’t have been more than eight years old, pull out a knife on an elderly man as he’d come home with his shopping. And for what? Some bread, milk, and eggs. But it was how things got done around there and Paul knew, amongst all the violence and crime, no one would give a toss about his own past.
The estate also provided him with a more regular customer base for dealing. Paul had been in his early twenties then and his father had been on at him for a while to get out. Paul didn’t disagree with him. Paul was big enough to take on his father, or at least stand between him and his mother when Bill got so enraged he wanted to take his frustration out on his wife. Paul had tried to get Maureen to move in with him, but she’d refused and he was bewildered by her response. He’d always assumed that she never left Bill because she had nowhere else to go, yet here she was turning down the opportunity to escape.
It was then that his belief in his mother as a coward solidified. There was nothing more he could do for her and there was nothing more she could do for him. As he packed his bags, his mother had begged him not to leave, her pleading tone so irritating, Paul was tempted to wallop her one himself, but he’d been dragged down by a female before and he was damned if he was going to let that happen again.
As he shut the door firmly behind him, immune to Maureen’s tearful begging, he’d closed that part of his life forever. He didn’t even give her his new address, as Paul knew she would only give it to his dad. Instead, he kissed her on the cheek, told her he would call her, and left his parents’ house without even a backward glance. It was only when he went back a few months later, the first time he’d paid a visit since leaving, that he learned his mother was in hospital.
A stroke.
Found her last week. Nothing to be done.
Didn’t even know until it was too late.
His father’s slurred words from his armchair reached Paul’s ears in a vacuum. What the hell was he talking about? When he saw the tears roll down his father’s cheeks he knew it wasn’t just a drunken ramble but a reality that Paul had in no way prepared for. Paul had started to shake, the disgust of his own actions staining his soul. He’d left his mother in her final months with nothing more to look forward to than the odd two-minute phone call. He felt his own tears spill and a silent but hopeful part of him wondered if his father would reach out to him. Just for a moment, amongst all the brutality, he would feel the comfort of his own flesh and blood. And if Bill had, perhaps it would have been enough to prevent what happened next.
But then again, perhaps nothing could have prevented the inevitable confrontation between father and son. With Maureen’s illness, the precarious family triad had finally buckled, releasing an avalanche of testosterone as Paul and Bill dealt with the news in the only way they knew how.
With every punch, Paul learnt how his father had never wanted marriage and children so soon in his life; in fact, Bill had had his own plans but Maureen had got knocked up and Bill had done the right thing. And as Paul lay back on the couch, nursing a burst lip, he realised his mother wasn’t a coward, just someone who was paying for a mistake. As his father continued his verbal stream of resentment and fury, Paul heard the words that he himself had been thinking since he’d heard of his mum’s stroke.
‘She did everything for you and how did you repay her?’ snarled his father, leaning in so close Paul could smell his sour breath. ‘By shaming her with that fucking fiasco with that girl. You know people would call your mother names in the street? She couldn’t take it. It’s your fault she’s ill – years of harassment because of your actions – it’s almost killed her.’
At the truth of it, Paul vomited, the grey sludge spraying his father’s shoes.
‘What was her name?’ spat Bill. His father was so incandescent, he barely noticed the mess on the carpet.
Staggering, Paul managed to get up from the couch and wiped his mouth before uttering the name that would haunt him forever. ‘Claire.’
‘Well, I hope she was worth it, you fucking rapist,’ finished Bill, before he’d turned away and collapsed back into his armchair, the blame for his wife’s illness firmly placed on his son.
Paul, mind and body spent, knew it was pointless to even bother arguing with him.
Afterwards, he’d gone to the hospital and sat with his mother, her listless body held together with machines. He didn’t leave her side until she died three days later.
Now, as Paul walked towards the hospital cleaning staff room, his rucksack slung over one shoulder, his hat pulled down low over his forehead, he tried not to think about his last interaction with Bill. Bill was right but it didn’t make him a
ny less than a dickhead and he couldn’t care less about his dad.
But Claire.
Claire had always haunted him. Over the years and despite the distance, he had followed her life. It hadn’t been difficult to keep track of her movements – Castlefield was a small town and she hadn’t gone far. And then Facebook had arrived, and her life was all there laid out in front of him, without him even needing to leave the squalor of his bedsit. The photos of her only increased his desire for her. Tracking her was so easy, he almost missed the old-fashioned methods. His footsteps trailing her, his simple disguise of a hat, scarf and big coat in winter, baseball cap and sunglasses in summer, making him blend into the busy crowds of the city centre. He rarely went to Castlefield – that would be too risky, but he knew where her office was, what time she took her lunch, and where she liked to eat.
Over the years, he’d got lucky a few times like when he’d risked getting close enough to overhear her making some plans for the weekend as she chatted with colleagues in the queue in the café during a break. One time, he’d trailed her to a bus stop and at the last second he had followed her on, squeezing between the crowd of passengers.
Once mobile phones became the norm, information was available to him instantly. He watched her at weekends then with her family, her husband and children, but the jealousy was almost unbearable. It was like watching the life he could have had, and he preferred to watch Claire when she was alone. During that time, he could pretend that she was his, that their love had not gone so horribly wrong. He wanted her so badly and while she may have ruined their last encounter, he would make sure their next one would be one she would never forget.
*
‘All right, Paul mate,’ greeted Dereck, his supervisor, as Paul walked into the large staffroom. ‘Just about to put the kettle on – you want one?’
