‘But I’m innocent,’ I snap.
‘Ah. Yes. Of course,’ Martin mumbles unconvincingly. ‘Yes. Alright, then. Don’t worry. We’ll get you out of this. I … yeah.’
I’m starting to wish I’d appointed a better lawyer – not one whose biggest success was sorting out the Wallaces’ planning permission for their new conservatory, and not one who relies on the promptness of the East Coast railway line to get to my hearings on time. Then again, despite all the anger and worry, I still wouldn’t have pleaded guilty. This isn’t Martin Sawyer’s fault. Together, we’ll sever Milward’s twisted puppet strings. Together, we’ll set the story straight.
Surely, if the CPS have read this Kimberly’s Capital Punishment (providing it’s based more on fact than fiction), they must know it wasn’t my fault Stevie or Kimberley died. And it certainly wasn’t my fault Mag and Barry Clark died, I don’t think. It wasn’t even my fault Meaty Stevie and Fruity Stevie died – farmers and fruit-pickers are to blame for that.
I breathe into my paws. The only way to avoid going nuts in prison is to make friends with whatever inanimate objects you share your cell with. By my fourth week of incarceration, I find myself having in-depth conversations with the lovely shard of light (when she’s available, anyway – she tends to come and see me around dawn, and leaves at dusk) and my chipped, scribbled-on desktop. The desktop’s a horrible bastard – it says things like FUCK THIS and FUCK THAT and WELCOME TO HELL. In contrast, the lovely shard of light’s genuinely lovely. I imagine her speaking with a plum in her mouth.
‘Chin up, my little cherub!’ the shard of light ding-dongs, interrupting my thoughts.
I force a smile. I haven’t been crying all that much recently. After four weeks of imprisonment, a certain level of detachment takes over. Plus, I’ve been too busy thinking about the court case – or too busy trying not to think about it, depending on the mood – to be whining all the time.
‘What do you reckon the jury’ll be like?’ I ask the white painted bricks, of which there are 752 in this cell.
CUNTS, says the chipped desktop.
‘Behave,’ I snap.
FUCK YOURSELVE, says the desktop.
I tut, and put my head between my knees. I wish the prison officers would take away that horrid desk, cluttered with decades of ex-cons’ bitterness and bad grammar.
I wrench myself from the sagging yellow bed, and execute a few laps of the cell. Despite the cell being only 10ft long, I get tired after just seven circuits, stopping to pant with my hands on my knees.
I haven’t been eating well lately. My skeleton has begun to protrude from my flesh, and my gums are coming away from my teeth. I feel like all my skin’s about to slide off round my ankles, as if I could just step out of it like a jumpsuit. The meals aren’t bad here (instead of dry porridge oats, me and the jailbirds dine on crisps, sarnies, corned-beef hash, shepherd’s pie, cake and custard, etc.), but the constant fear and paranoia have shrunk my stomach to the size of a 10p piece. On the upside, I’ve slimmed from a size 12 to a size 8; on the downside, there aren’t any handsome males in the Ladies’ Jail to appreciate my new figure.
I sit back down on the gloomy mattress, seeing stars.
‘When does the court case start again?’ I ask the room. I’ve lost track of the days passing by, what with the previous inmates cluttering the desktop with their own tallies.
TOMORROW, says the desktop, just below a lump of hardened chewing gum.
‘Piss off,’ I growl, spitting at the desk.
‘Actually, he’s not mistaken,’ interjects the lovely shard of light, twinkling with sympathy. Behind us, the manky toilet gulps theatrically, relishing my unease.
‘Shut up,’ I snap at the toilet, getting upset now. What with all the weight loss, I was vaguely hoping to die of starvation and not have to bother with the court case. For some reason, starving to death seems a nobler way to go than being hung up, plugged in or put down with poison.
‘What am I gonna do?’ I moan, more to myself than my inanimate companions, though the 752 white bricks just echo back, ‘We don’t know.’
I suppose there’s always a chance I’ll be proven innocent, but how’s Martin supposed to defend my case when we’re not even sure what I’ve done wrong? Maybe all will become clear tomorrow. Maybe the law folk have only read the beginning of Kimberly’s Capital Punishment, where I’m all weepy, suicidal and pathetic, and where I blame myself for Stevie’s death. Maybe it’s best to get the whole thing over with. I can’t wait to prove the law folk wrong, and finally get myself on that golden plane to Japan.
I can’t wait for them to get to the bit in Kimberly’s Capital Punishment where I’m very, very, very nice.
It turns out the chipped, scribbled-on desktop was right.
On Monday morning, I’m marched into Court 4 again, to face The Ma’am and a jury of twelve giant, dribbling vaginas. The first thing that strikes me is the stench. Martin Sawyer looks completely stressed and out of his depth, rustling papers with one eye on The Ma’am and the other on the twelve vaginas. Even before I walk in, I can hear the cunts yapping, ‘Guilty guilty guilty!’ amongst themselves. They don’t seem like the most reliable jury, since they don’t have ears, but they’ve definitely, definitely got lips.
‘Guilty guilty guilty!’ they squeal as I sit down in my shrunken blue suit.
I feel like I’m in a waking nightmare. I shift uneasily on my plastic chair, in the shadow of The Ma’am and her henchmen. I rub my temples. Surely there can’t be twelve giant vaginas in the jury box. Are they not just twelve everyday lads and lasses who happen to have quite cuntish-looking faces?
I yawn into my palm. I couldn’t get to sleep last night. Not only was the manky toilet burping non-stop, the desktop kept taunting and tormenting me, and the lovely shard of light wasn’t around to fight my corner, it being nighttime. The stained mattress felt like a shallow grave, sucking me into its belly of cold, rusted coils.
Before The Ma’am begins proceedings, Martin nudges me and gestures towards the gangly court reporter in front of the dock. It’s Richard Milward, my old classmate. He looks hideous, hunched over a typewriter, with his rodent-like features and greasy moptop. Milward appears to be keeping the minutes of the court case, unless he’s just making it all up as he goes along. Peering over his shoulder, I catch a glimpse of what he’s typing:
Before The Ma’am begins proceedings, Martin nudges me and gestures towards the handsome court reporter in front of the dock. It’s Richard Milward, my old classmate. He looks dashing, touchtyping at a rate of 60+ words per minute, with his elegant piano fingers and lustrous sixties bouffant. Milward appears to be keeping the minutes of the court case, unless he’s just making it all up as he goes along. Peering over his shoulder, I catch a glimpse of what he’s typing:
‘Silence in court!’ The Ma’am yells, scratching under her wig.
The vaginas shut their traps. Even though Milward must be aware of me and Martin staring at him, he doesn’t turn round. He just carries on typing. I wish the keys would turn into shark’s teeth and swallow his hands. I still can’t believe my old classmate’s been spying on me the past few years. I’m sure I would’ve noticed the lanky streak of piss lurking in the reflections of shops and car windows and frosted shower cubicles. Nevertheless, the case begins with the prosecution, Vincent Williams QC, presenting to the jury a first edition of Milward’s Kimberly’s Capital Punishment. I was half expecting it to be scribbled lazily in biro and badly photocopied; not the fancy-looking tome Williams holds up.
‘Here, in my hand, we have evidence of murder,’ the lawyer exclaims. ‘Cold-blooded murder.’
Getting excited, the jury starts making the odd fanny-fart. One of them even has the audacity to squirt the word ‘Guilty!’ again. I shake my head softly, scratching myself under the dusky blue power suit. Since being banged up, I’ve been cultivating stress hives on my neck, back and wrists – unless I’m just allergic to Mrs Sawyer’s washing powder. E
ither way, it’s an uncomfortable moment.
Over the next few days, I listen solemnly as Vincent Williams QC calls forward characters from various corners, cubbyholes and compartments of my life (for instance, Paolo, Nina, Mrs Wallace, my Promiscuous Pal Polly), and tries to pick apart my personality, temperament, background, hobbies, and dress sense. None of them have the foggiest what’s going on, though. Each stands apprehensively in the witness box, answering the QC’s questions in stumped, stumbling mumbles.
The whole procedure’s completely confusing. At one point, my three weekly assailants squeeze into the box, shiftily avoiding eye contact with me. When asked if they think I’m capable of murder, Mr Saturday loses the plot, spurting out, ‘Yes. She was quite controlling us. Making us fight for her when she was prostitute.’
‘Thank you, that will be all,’ Williams announces proudly, enjoying himself. Yes, thank you for that, Mr Saturday.
I pinch myself to double-check it’s not a nightmare, though the pinching aggravates the hives. While Vincent Williams QC commands respect in the room, with his plummy, public-school accent and shiny black and white silks, I’m yet to hear him deliver one solid lump of evidence against me. On the fifth day, he tries to catch me out by announcing, ‘Murder is a very serious charge, Miss Clark. Punishable by death, as I’m sure you’re aware. What the jury needs to understand is: did you do it? Or did you not do it? Or did you not not do it? Or didn’t you not not do it?’
‘If it’s alright by you,’ I venture, feeling completely lost, like Alice in Blunderland, ‘I wouldn’t like to not not answer that question, for fear of incriminating myself accidentally.’
Williams sits back down with a self-satisfied smile. He leans back in his leather armchair, wafts his magpie silks and kicks his black brogues up onto the oak desktop. Over to his left, the twelve vaginas give each other hairy glances.
‘Williams! Feet! Off the table!’ The Ma’am squawks, prompting the prosecution to sit sensible again, a bit shamefaced.
After a shaky teabreak, it’s Martin’s turn to get stuck into the defence case. After such a farcical morning session, Martin seems calmer and more collected, standing up in his pressed pinstripe suit. He begins by waving his own copy of Kimberly’s Capital Punishment at the judge and jury, and declaring, ‘While this may be a 142,000-word novel based around the subject of death – commercial suicide, if you like! – there is not one mention in its pages of cold-blooded murder. My client, Miss Clark, has been duped. I believe she’s the victim of a cruel plot. A plot envisioned by one Richard Milward, sitting here today. A plot involving sexually aggressive seals, a heavy-drinking Grim Reaper, a cack-handed Reader and, dare I say it, a jury of genitals.’
The twelve vaginas hiss at Martin, twisting and turning in their seats. Above us, The Ma’am speaks. ‘Mr Sawyer! We are not here to pass judgement on the jury.’
To our right, Milward continues bashing away at his typewriter, no doubt relishing this daft scene with the cunts and the inept lawyers. The lanky bastard’s probably considering using the term ‘fanny batter’ in a minute, if things get boring.
‘Pardon me, My Lady,’ Martin coughs in apology, frantically flicking through his dog-eared copy of the novel. For the last week or so, Martin has spent his waking hours underlining, circling and dissecting the criminal sentences in Kimberly’s Capital Punishment – anything to help me avoid an actual criminal sentence. Rather than summoning characters from the book to the witness box, Martin draws the judge and jury’s attention to the characters already in the book. He reads out passages in past tense, such as:
There I was, thinking a photograph of my tongue in a square-faced person’s mouth was enough to sentence Stevie to death, when, by the sound of it, the culprit was a sexually aggressive bull seal.
and:
I dashed into the road, grabbed Kimberley under her armpits and said, ‘Don’t be daft, Kim.’
as well as Stevie’s badly spelt suicide note, gradually building a robust defence. In the jury box, the twelve vaginas listen halfheartedly, with fanny batter gathering in the corners of their mouths.
‘Objection, your honour!’ Vincent Williams shrieks, clamouring for the limelight. ‘This information may well be there in black and white, but it is redundant! Sawyer has failed to read between the lines. He is missing the point completely. He has failed to look beneath the surface! This book’ – here the QC holds his near-pristine, unmarked copy aloft – ‘contains evidence of cold-blooded murder!’
‘Where?’ Martin Sawyer snaps, losing his cool. His lacklustre, bloodshot eyes tell of so many sleepless nights and long, uncomfortable train journeys.
‘Ha!’ Williams honks, getting overexcited. ‘The defence crumbles! He has failed to notice the glaringly obvious murderous nature of his client!’
I shuffle in my seat, growing hotter and hotter under the polyester. Martin Sawyer picks awkwardly at his tie. Veins throb in his neck. Eventually, he drops his copy of Kimberly’s Capital Punishment onto his desk and growls at the QC, ‘Well … I challenge you to show the jury this so-called murderous nature! Unless we’re reading different novels – there’s no mention of it in my copy.’
Vincent Williams stalls for a moment, flicking desperately through his version of the paperback, before woofing petulantly, ‘Somewhere between pages 101 and 202 …’
‘Now, now!’ The Ma’am shouts. ‘It seems we’re getting nowhere. Let’s put an end to this farce. The summing up, please. One at a time. Let us hear from the defence first, for a change.’
After a fit of the coughs, Martin rises again and faces the jury. He taps the battered book on his desk and states, ‘There is no murder in this book. Given my client’s misfortune, given that she has witnessed death in her immediate family, and given that she has actually experienced death first-hand, being run over merely weeks ago, it’s understandable, is it not, that she has a slight preoccupation with death? However, she’s not a murderer. In the pages of this book she recognises the preciousness, the fleetingness, of life. All she wanted was to improve people’s lives; not take life away. I believe she’s been set up by Milward and the Crown Prosecution Service. She’s been framed for murder solely for the benefit of those readers who bought Kimberly’s Capital Punishment in the hope of reading of some juicy execution or other.’
Vincent Williams wafts his silks uneasily. Over in the jury box, the twelve vaginas still look confused, their pubes knitted into eyebrows, and lips pursed. Above us, The Ma’am sits with her hands knotted, quietly mulling over the facts. Unfortunately for all of us, the boundary between fact and fiction has been blurred for quite some time now. Milward carries on recklessly bashing away at his typewriter (which, for one millisecond, transforms into a chocolate crocodile!), oblivious to the increasingly restless courtroom.
‘And now for the prosecution,’ The Ma’am says, urging Vincent Williams to rise and get it all over with. ‘Well, is she guilty?’
Williams glances around the courtroom. Flustered, he flicks a few papers in front of himself, doodles on a notepad, tinkers with an abacus, then blows out a sigh and squints at me. At one point he seems set to sit back down without having said anything when, suddenly, a flash of inspiration hits, and he announces, ‘Well … she does have quite evil-looking eyes.’
Livening up, The Ma’am, then the jury, then the rest of the courtroom focus their attention on my slightly up-turned, cat-like, ‘evil’ eyes. Being in prison, I haven’t had access to my turquoise eyeshadow, let alone any concealer or tweezers. When I catch a glimpse of my peepers in the silver gleam of Milward’s ringing typewriter, they do look somewhat sinister and incriminating. One by one the vaginas’ lips gape open, then they all scream in unison, at the tops of their vulvas: ‘GUILTY! GUILTY! GUILTY! GUILTY! GUILTY! GUILTY! GUILTY! GUILTY! GUILTY! GUILTY! GUILTY! GUILTY!’
The next day, we return to Court 4 to find out if I’ve been sentenced to life imprisonment, or death. With moist eyes, all Martin Sawyer can do is hug me awkwardly a
s we wait for the twelve vaginas to slither back into the jury box with their verdict. I feel sick with nerves. I think my last experience of affection on this planet is a skin-crawling cuddle with an incompetent legal executive. I want my mam and dad. I want my ex-boyfriend.
The world slows down as the foremanwoman readies herself to read the verdict. I have to clutch my thighs to stop myself trembling so much. I dye the dusky blue fabric midnight blue with perspiration.
‘Order! Order!’ The Ma’am shrieks, glaring at no one in particular. ‘This is a matter of life or death. Jury foremanwoman, what is your verdict regarding sentencing?’
The giant vagina avoids my gaze as it announces to the courtroom, ‘The sentence shall be death.’
‘And this was unanimous?’ The Ma’am enquires.
‘One million and ten per cent yes,’ the vagina replies, curling its lips.
I suffer convulsions, rattling the plastic chair. As the court and gallery erupt, I feel Martin’s limp arms go round me again. I can’t summon the energy to push him away, or pull him towards me.
‘Kimberly Clark, you have been found guilty of murder,’ The Ma’am declares, though her words sound distant and muffled, as if spoken down a long cardboard tube. ‘I hereby sentence you to the death penalty. You will face execution within seven days. You will be executed in the same fashion as your disgraceful atrocity – perhaps then some light will be shed on your apparent confusion.’
I burst into tears again, hiding my face in my sleeves. Each noisy sob resounds around the – now silent – courtroom, like notes on a black-comedy trombone. Before long, I hear chairs shifting, and Prison Officers Meaty and Fruity prise me from Martin’s awkward embrace. I don’t bother fighting with them. I want to walk out with dignity, but my legs keep buckling, and I end up being dragged out.
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