Mine

by J. L. Butler

  I wanted a drink but knew that I should have a herbal tea instead.

  Turning on the lights, I went to the kitchen. I opened the cupboard to find the tea bags but the bottle of vodka was where I’d stashed it the day before, hidden behind some tinned soup. I picked it up, put it on the kitchen table and puffed out my cheeks. This was no time for abstinence.

  The measure of Smirnoff I poured was a large one and a small bottle of tonic fizzed satisfyingly as I mixed the two.

  I knocked back the drink and in an attempt to feel more virtuous went back into the living room to look for my pilot case.

  I took out some files, set them on the coffee table and went to change into pyjama trousers. When I returned, I curled up on the sofa and picked up the first file to hand, some pro bono work I’d been handling for the Free Legal Aid centre in Hackney.

  Although the centre was well stocked with volunteers, from trainee solicitors to retired silks, I still felt guilty that I hadn’t been for several weeks and made a note to go back that week. There was plenty to catch up on, I thought, flicking through a report about the increase in forced marriages in the East End, and a press release about a new centre for victims of domestic abuse, some of whom wanted legal advice on separating from their spouses.

  I’d drained my tumbler of vodka when I heard a knock at the door. It startled me and then my heart started pumping with excitement. Martin didn’t have a key to my apartment, not yet. But perhaps I hadn’t closed the front door properly and he’d taken the liberty of letting himself in.

  I put down the file and headed towards the door. There was no time to reapply my make-up but I licked my lips and smoothed down my hair.

  I was shocked when I saw Pete Carroll standing there. He looked well, a light sun-tan bringing out a spray of pale freckles on his nose.

  ‘Hi,’ he said pushing his hands into his jeans pockets. ‘I’ve been away for a few days. I wanted to see how you were.’

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ I said, not opening the door more than halfway. ‘You’ve got a tan.’

  ‘Rome. A scientific exchange with the university out there.’

  We stood in silence and he didn’t make a move to leave. I felt uncomfortable, but after his kindness the week before – paying for the taxi, letting me crash on his sofa – it felt rude to leave him standing there.

  ‘Do you want to come in for a minute?’ I said. ‘I was about to boil the kettle.’

  He followed me into the kitchen, a tiny galley space that suddenly felt too small when we were both in it. He hovered by the door while I took two mugs out of the cupboard. The ritual of making a cafeterie would take too long I decided, the clock on the wall telling me it was past ten o’clock – so I got two Starbucks sachets from a canister.

  ‘So what happened in Rome?’ I asked as I tipped the coffee into the cups and turned on the kettle.

  ‘Three doctorate students came over to our place just before Christmas – so we were invited over there. We were just observing their work really, sharing ideas.’

  ‘How long before you finish your doctorate, Pete?’ I smiled, trying to be as friendly as possible.

  ‘Another year,’ he shrugged. ‘Maybe longer.’

  He paused and looked at me.

  ‘So how are you? Did you get to the doctor last week?’

  ‘Yes. I’m fine,’ I replied with a wave of the hand.

  ‘I googled bipolar. You need to be careful with alcohol.’

  He glanced at the vodka bottle and I felt embarrassed.

  ‘I know,’ I said, looking away.

  ‘Well, I just wanted to check that everything’s all right. I read the papers on the plane. The banker’s wife who disappeared . . .’

  He paused before he said it:

  ‘It’s not your friend’s wife, is it?’

  There was a subtle emphasis on the word friend, and with it came a shift in the atmosphere in the tight, confined space.

  Pete didn’t give me the chance to deny it.

  ‘I recognized his photo in the newspaper. From the night I saw you by the bus stop,’ he said, his words slower, more deliberate. ‘You said he had separated from his wife, but that it was complicated.’

  For a moment I felt paralysed. I didn’t know what to say and welcomed the gurgling sound of the kettle boiling.

  I turned away from him to pour the water into the mugs, but I could feel his eyes on me.

  ‘I saw your picture in the paper too.’

  His voice was lower now, and it was impossible not to detect the hint of malice. I stirred the coffee with a spoon, watching the swirl of brown liquid go round and round as I felt him take a step towards me.

  ‘You mean, the e-fit?’ I said, my voice trying to be steady but still infected with a soft quaver. ‘Yes, that was me. I went to her studio to talk to her. To Donna Joy. The police know all about it.’

  ‘So you told the police about you and Martin . . .’

  My breath was quickening. The walls of the kitchen seemed to tower up around me like a canyon. Walls that were closing in, closing in, so close I could hardly breathe.

  ‘Told them what?’

  ‘That you’re fucking him.’

  I gulped hard.

  ‘He’s my client,’ I said quietly.

  ‘The noises I heard coming from your flat didn’t sound very professional,’ he said, his thin smile goading me to deny it.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, remembering the evening that Martin and I had been to Ottolenghi and seen Pete Carroll on the way home. I was drunk on orange wine, heady on desire. We’d fucked all over the house before we finally made it into the bedroom; on the coffee table, on the stairs, and on the living room floor, when I had climaxed so intensely, I’d gagged my mouth with a cushion. Too late for Pete Carroll in the downstairs flat not to have heard my screams.

  I snapped open my eyes and looked at him.

  ‘What’s your point, Pete?’ I said, feeling every muscle in my body tense.

  He took another step towards me and was so close that I could see the wide, hungry dilation of his pupils.

  ‘No point,’ he said simply. ‘Just a curious observation that the night your lover’s wife went missing was the same night you saw them together, followed them. The night you blacked out, and came back here not remembering anything, but still upset, distraught, rambling. How is your leg, by the way? That cut looked nasty.’

  ‘My leg is fine,’ I replied.

  Pete paused.

  ‘I don’t suppose you liked Mrs Joy much. Your relationship with Mr Joy seemed to be going so well. The Ottolenghi dinners, the moonlight walks. And then his wife comes back on the scene . . .’

  The heavy suggestion in his words made me shiver.

  ‘What happened that night?’ he said more bluntly.

  ‘Nothing happened,’ I said, struggling to keep my voice level.

  ‘I’m not sure the police are going to believe that,’ he said, staring at me so intensely I couldn’t look away. ‘In fact, I think it’s better if they never get to know, don’t you agree?’ he said, moving closer. ‘Things could get difficult otherwise. Awkward for everyone. Especially you.’

  I wanted to challenge him, but I could only nod in agreement.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m your friend. It will be our little secret,’ he whispered, as his hand slid around my waist.

  He pulled me closer and I could feel his breath on my face, his hardness through the denim of his jeans. His hand was in the small of my back and his fingers slid down the waistband of my pyjamas.

  Closing my eyes, I willed myself to breathe. I wondered desperately how I could get out of the situation, but sometimes I knew it was just better to surrender. At least for now, until I could work out what to do next. Strategic, like sacrificing a pawn.

  ‘You’re going to love it,’ he moaned, but I doubted it, and his words made my skin crawl. I knew I could push him away, scream, simply yell ‘no’. But I didn’t. I didn’t. And as he bent to ki
ss my neck, I punished myself with the thought that I had no one else to blame.

  Chapter 26

  I woke up slowly, a sliver of dull grey light peering through the crack in the curtain, giving just enough light to hint that night was over. In that moment, it was just the beginning of another dawn, another day that I would greet slowly, lazily with my usual routine; telling myself that I could have five more minutes in bed, taking that time to remember what was my diary, before hauling myself off the mattress to make a cup of coffee. For a sweet and innocent moment, everything felt fine until finally, like falling through a rotten floor, my stomach turned over and I remembered the day before.

  Pete’s hands on my body.

  My lies to the police.

  His lips on my skin.

  Perverting the course of justice.

  The feel of his clammy fingers.

  What have I done? My muscles tightened, saliva hot in my mouth, by the thought that he might still be there in the bed beside me. I froze listening for the soft whisper of another person’s breath. When I could hear nothing, I slowly turned my head, cracking my eyelids. The other side of the bed was empty. Pete had gone. I had no idea when. Certainly sometime after I had fallen asleep, although after sex, I was so repulsed with myself, with him, with the situation I had found myself in, that I had been unable to sleep for a long time, even after Pete had rolled over contented and spent, lightly snoring within minutes.

  I sat up and observed the indentation in the pillow, a stray, unfamiliar red hair on the sheet – and I felt the sudden violent sensation that I was about to be sick. I covered my mouth and sprinted for the en suite, thumping to my knees in front of the toilet. I heaved over and over like the cold engine of an ancient car, but nothing came except a long string of spittle; it was almost as if my body wouldn’t even give me the release of vomiting it out.

  I slid back on to the cold tiles, closed my eyes. There was no point wondering if I had made the right decision having sex with Pete Carroll. I hadn’t even had time to think it through. It had all happened so quickly; one minute I was listening to his thinly veiled threats, the next, his mouth had been on my lips and it had felt easier to go along with it, than to resist and face the immediate consequences: an angry and vengeful Pete Carroll, who I now knew was entirely capable of bringing my life tumbling down. But right then, that was little consolation. I felt punch-drunk and disconnected from the world around me; edgy and breakable as if I could touch my own skin and it would crumble away to dust.

  I hated Pete Carroll, hated him. But most of all I hated myself and all the terrible decisions that had led me down an ever-narrowing alley where I was being squeezed, hemmed in on all sides, no light from above.

  Breathe, I told myself. There’s always a way out. Think on your feet: it’s what you’re good at. It’s what you do. I nodded to myself. It came down to this: I could stay here, hunched on the floor. Or I could move, face the world and take action to try and remedy the mess I was in.

  Pushing myself up on half-numb legs, I put on a dressing gown to cover my nakedness, trembling fingers tying it tightly around my waist. Then with small, unsteady steps I made my way downstairs to the living room, on red alert for Pete’s presence in the flat. Thankfully the place was empty and silent, except for the faint roar of traffic beginning to build up on the street outside.

  The vodka was still on the kitchen table from the night before and I was tempted to drink the lot. Instead, I forced myself to drink a glass of water then took a shower, turning up the dial as hot as I could take it, and then as cold as it would go. My skin smarted from the two extremes of temperature but at least I felt cleaner once I’d scrubbed the smell of him into the drain.

  I found the oldest and most modest underwear in my drawer, not the strips of expensive lace I’d bought for nights in with Martin, and put them on. I buttoned my white shirt up to the neck and put on my thickest black tights to wear under my sober suit skirt.

  I tried not to look at the bed as I dressed but as the stale air overpowered me, I grabbed the duvet and threw it into the corridor, then tore the sheet from the mattress and kicked it down the stairs. I followed it down, grabbed a bin liner from the kitchen and pushed the soiled fabric inside it, fastening it tight in a big black bow.

  I washed my trembling hands and opened the kitchen window as wide as it would go, taking big gulps of London air which had never tasted so fresh or so sweet. My hands clutched the cracked white sill, and as I looked down to the tiny backyard below I could see Pete’s bike propped against the wall. For a moment I thought of throwing myself out, but then I snapped the window closed.

  My little sanctuary suddenly felt alien to me, as if it was no longer mine. At the same time, I was trapped. The man who’d violated me was sitting downstairs, a smug grin on his face, satisfied with a good night’s work of blackmail and forced sex, listening to my footsteps, planning his next move. And why not? That was how blackmail worked, wasn’t it? Once your victim had succumbed, you could keep coming back again and again, a bottomless well that never ran dry.

  I grabbed my bag and coat and ran for the door. If I thought about it, I’d be frozen, hunted prey, a rabbit trapped in her burrow, sniffing the fox on the air. I winced at every step as I went downstairs, eyes fixed on the door at the bottom, my mind picturing Pete’s face appearing, leering like Mr Punch, his clawed hands dragging me into his flat. ‘You’re going to love this,’ he’d cackle. ‘Love it.’

  But the door stayed closed and I ran out into the street, heels clacking on the pavement, feeling the skin on the back of my neck, expecting his foul touch, his breath, his murmured words. Instead I saw a wink of red ahead of me, the brake lights of the number 19 and I broke into a sprint, jumping on board just as the doors hissed closed.

  I found a seat on the lower deck and tried to focus. I had a big case in court that day and knew I needed to pull myself together.

  Welcoming the distraction from letting my mind stray back to Pete Carroll, I pulled the file out of my bag, wedged between my legs on the floor, and balanced it on my lap as I flipped through the paperwork, trying to familiarize myself with the case.

  My client Holly Khan was trying to stop her ex-husband Yusef taking their ten-year-old son Daniyal to Pakistan for a family wedding, fearing that he might never come back. Yusef Khan, unsurprisingly, was pushing hard against Holly’s refusal, and Holly was so afraid that she might lose her child, she wanted a court order to legally stop him. On any other day, I would have relished helping out this vulnerable young woman, but this morning it felt like trying to high-wire walk in a gale. There was no doubt about it – professionally I’d taken my eye off the ball, and my lack of preparation for my cases was yet another source of shame.

  I’d barely skim-read the file when we arrived at Holborn. Scooping up my things, I leapt off the bus, feeling my blouse stick to my back as the sweat ran between my shoulder blades.

  I grabbed a coffee and hurried down Kingsway.

  ‘Francine!’

  As I passed through court security I saw my instructing solicitor Tanya waving vigorously. I quickened my pace and followed her to one of the interview rooms.

  It was the first time I’d met the client, which wasn’t unusual in family law cases.

  ‘Francine Day, this is Holly Khan.’

  My new client was petite and attractive but with a careworn face and eyes that looked on the verge of tears.

  ‘I’m sure Tanya has briefed you well, Holly,’ I said, immediately flicking into work-mode. ‘There’s really nothing to worry about.’

  The woman glanced across at Tanya and back to me. I could see how much she wanted to believe what I said.

  Strangely, the client’s evident nervousness was easing my own anxiety. The familiarity of the work environment, I suppose, the soothing nature of ritual, going over the same old patterns. The law was complicated, but at least it had rules, at least you had some idea what was coming next.

  ‘OK, Holly, here�
�s what’s going to happen . . .’

  I went over the basics of the case and explained to Holly that the purpose of the hearing was twofold. We were trying to persuade the judge to grant a prohibited steps order, effectively preventing her ex-husband from taking Daniyal out of the country, while his lawyers would be pressing for ‘permission for temporary leave to remove’.

  ‘Basically, we’re asking the judge to give you legal control of Daniyal’s movement, while Yusef is asking for the same thing.’

  I peered down at the documents in front of me.

  ‘Why weren’t prohibited steps orders put in place at the time of divorce?’ I asked, looking up.

  The young woman looked startled, like she’d been called in front of the headmaster. ‘Sorry,’ I said more softly, ‘I didn’t mean to imply you’d done anything wrong, it’s just these are the questions the judge is going to ask in chambers.’

  Holly remained frozen.

  ‘We didn’t want the divorce proceedings to get ugly,’ said Tanya, jumping in. ‘We managed to get Holly a good financial settlement through mediation, and at the time we just wanted a clean break. Mr Khan can be a difficult man.’

  ‘But things are different now,’ said Holly, her voice small. ‘Back then he had a reason to stay in London, but he’s lost all his money. Even the money he hid from me in the divorce.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, reading a section of the notes I had underlined in red. ‘And I gather you also think Mr Khan might have people after him? We haven’t got any statements to support that, I take it?’

  Tanya fired back an apologetic grimace. She’d once given me a testimonial for the legal directory: Francine Day pulls off the impossible time and time again. And it was clear she wanted me to pull a rabbit out of the hat now.

  ‘Please,’ said Holly, looking at us with glistening eyes. ‘Can you help me?’

  ‘I will do my best,’ I said, trying to project more confidence than I felt. The truth was, I felt nauseous, ill-prepared and jittery, not exactly the best combination for going into court. Some barristers – like Tom – seemed to have a natural ability to busk it on the day, simply arguing the facts as they appeared before them, but I had always been a swotter, only really comfortable when I had all the facts at my fingertips and had prepared for every twist and turn. Today I felt like my safety line was missing. I looked at them both, knowing there were dozens of things I should be saying, but couldn’t think of a single one. There was an awkward pause, then Tanya coughed and said, ‘Well, we’d better go,’ leading us into the court.