by Alison Bond
‘Hear what?’
‘There was a car crash.’
She thought he was dead. She truly thought that he was dead.
Take care of each other, their mother had said, and she had failed.
The Australian girl was saying something she struggled to hear through the black fog that had descended. Just a few cuts and bruises.
‘Say that again?’
‘Liam was really lucky, he could have … I mean, people died, Sam.’
‘But Liam’s okay?’
‘Just a few cuts and bruises they said.’
‘Is he in the hospital?’
The girl laid a comforting hand on Samantha’s trembling shoulder. ‘Honey, he’s at the police station.’
Liam was refused bail. Night after hollow night she felt like she was losing her mind. Too often she would sit in the empty flat in Camberwell, staring at the television without really seeing it. This was the part of the story when she was supposed to give up on her dreams and go home, except she had no home to go to, neither of them did.
Home for Liam was a twelve-foot cell. He would remain there until his trial.
She felt most at home in the quiet moments shortly after waking. Then she would remember who she was and feel utterly lost.
‘Is there something we should know about?’ asked her manager, genuinely concerned. They were optimistic for this once vibrant and ambitious young woman, but over the last few weeks she had been reprimanded several times for lateness and a general slide in attitude. It was sad to see.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘There was a death in the family.’
‘Do you need time off?’
If she took time off then how would she pay the rent? How would she keep things together so that when Liam came back they could start over? He would clean up now, he would have to. It was also likely that he would have to pay an enormous fine as well as undertake a considerable amount of community service. The court-appointed lawyer said there was a very slim chance that in the absence of a criminal record and a hitherto unblemished reputation he could avoid a custodial sentence. She had to pin her hopes on that. If only they hadn’t found so many drugs on him.
‘It’s okay,’ she said to her boss. ‘Actually, if there’s any overtime?’
She was working for both of them now. When he was released he might not find work immediately. Besides, what else was she to do but work? If she sat any longer in the empty flat without him she thought that she might drown.
Then came the trial.
She took a few days off. She had no idea how long it was supposed to last. Liam had been charged with vehicular manslaughter and possession of drugs. There had been several attempts to cut a deal and plead guilty to a lesser charge, but nothing ever came to the table without a jail term. His lawyer felt they would stand a better chance at trial and though a guilty verdict looked likely it was not assured. Also the character references and Liam’s good behaviour on remand would count in his favour when it came to the sentence. It would all depend on the judge in session.
Samantha dressed carefully for court. A sensible brown skirt and a cream blouse, low heels, her wild hair pulled back from her face. Restrained and respectable. She would be asked for a character reference at the end of the trial, though she was not a witness and so she was able to watch from the public gallery.
She had visited Liam regularly, but it was still a shock to see him looking so pale and thin. Hearing him referred to as the ‘accused’ made her skin crawl. The suit she had bought for him to wear was too large for him, hanging off his gaunt frame and making him look far younger than he was, younger even than her.
If he was scared he was hiding it well.
To begin with there was legal jargon she could not follow. But as the first day progressed his lawyer stressed the accidental nature of the alleged crime. The way he spoke it was as if Liam had merely run a red light. He talked about the long hours that hotel drivers worked, the poorly maintained cars, the lack of training, and produced witnesses to validate his stance that Liam was not a criminal, merely terribly unfortunate. He didn’t mention the drugs. He didn’t mention the victims. Not once.
Liam was careful not to smile when he saw her. A smile, his lawyer had said, could be construed as callous, as showing a lack of remorse. But he held her gaze long enough so that she knew he was smiling inside.
She went to bed that night feeling optimistic and allowed herself to imagine that one day soon he might be home and they might start over together.
She washed his sheets but would not allow herself to make up his bed until she knew for sure. Sitting on his bare mattress she wondered if she had left it too late in life to start praying.
The next day the prosecution tore into Liam’s working record, calling supervisors to attest to his bad habits, and despite several objections an entirely different picture was painted. One of a man with a drug problem.
The first policeman on the scene was called. He described Liam’s erratic behaviour following the accident. Yes, the blood alcohol level had been nil, but he was carrying, and in his opinion …
Liam’s lawyer objected and the objection was sustained, but the jury knew where his testimony had been heading.
It only took two days.
By the time he stood in the dock Liam had prepared himself for the worst. Which was just as well.
Guilty.
Before sentencing she gave her character reference, she told the court how Liam had found her a job and a place to live and that she would now repay the favour. In fact, she lied, there was a good chance a position would be found for him with her current employers.
The judge was old and ornery. He had never suggested rehabilitation for any drug-related crime and he wasn’t about to start with Liam Sharp.
Sixteen years. Death by dangerous driving and possession of a controlled substance.
Absurdly she waited for him to say that he was joking.
But he was done.
She had known this was possible. So why was she shocked? Why did it feel like a baseball bat to the side of her head?
Samantha started to cry. Loud ugly sobs that drew the attention of the court and made at least one jury member feel guilty that night when he got home.
‘Don’t cry, Sammy,’ yelled Liam. ‘It’ll be okay.’
Okay? How could it possibly be okay?
They were supposed to take care of each other and she had failed him completely.
The guilt crashed down on her. She stared at him, the tears rolling freely down her cheeks, and couldn’t think of anything to say, no last words to comfort him.
She gazed blankly at the doorway long after he had been taken through it to begin his stretch. It was too awful to contemplate.
It was a mistake, just a stupid mistake. He didn’t mean to kill anyone.
But he had, and this was the price he had to pay.
The courtroom session ended and the mundane business of preparing it for the afternoon seemed intentionally callous. If she wanted to believe for a few minutes that there was anything special about Liam’s case then the sight of court clerks binning paperwork and replacing water glasses, sharpening pencils and rearranging chairs ensured that she would not.
He was just another junkie. Another drain on the taxpayer. Another jailbird who was where he belonged.
She staggered from the court and out into the street with a buzzing in her ears and a haze of disbelief across her eyes. It was the first time in her life that she didn’t notice London even though it was all around her. The spires of the central court, the press pack waiting outside for other, more newsworthy, cases. There would be no headlines wasted on Liam. She wandered aimlessly down Ludgate Hill, through the shadow of St Paul’s without looking up.
Sixteen years. By the time he was free they would both be old.
She limped through the next few weeks. Without Liam, and without the prospect or hope of his return, her ambition and motivation deserted her. Why shoul
d she care?
She missed him.
He took advice and immediately launched an appeal against the sentence, but even his lawyer thought he had little chance.
She did whatever she could to avoid going back to the flat, to avoid the meaningless hours between finishing work and going to bed. She started going to the cinema alone, but could never concentrate for long enough and after wasting her money twice she never went back. It was easier just to find a bar and talk to strangers; a pretty girl could always find company.
One Saturday night she was invited to a party. One of the waiters either had a crush on her or felt sorry for her or both, but regardless she fell on the invitation hungrily. The weekends were the worst.
But she was nervous when she arrived and couldn’t find anyone to talk to. She ended up weeping behind a bedroom door, eyeing up the pile of coats on a big double bed and feeling a wave of exhaustion consume her. In the middle of a crowded party, surrounded by the sound of people having a good time, Samantha slept more peacefully than she did in her own bed.
She was thinking of quitting her job. She didn’t know what else to do. She just knew that she couldn’t go on like this. Perhaps if she left her job the adrenalin would send her off in another, more bearable, direction.
She struggled to understand how it had come to this. That first day she arrived she’d thought it was the beginning, now it seemed that it was just the beginning of the end. She found herself clawing through Liam’s room. She upended his shoes and cleared out his pockets. She looked in every corner and every fold. She was looking for drugs. Maybe if she took something, maybe then she could understand how he had fucked up everything. His life. Her life. Everything.
But there was nothing.
‘Hey, gorgeous, where you going?’
There were two guys in the bar as she was about to leave work. They were already drunk.
‘I’m going home,’ she said.
‘It’s early. Won’t you have a drink with my friend and me? I’m Paul,’ he said, ‘and this is Andy.’
She craved conversation. It would block out the miserable thoughts that were her constant companions.
If I pretend to be your friend will you pretend to be mine?
They said they were just in town for two nights, for work. And even though it was a Saturday and they only looked about twenty years old she didn’t push them for details; she just sat with them and drank fast and played dumb as they spent a small fortune on vintage champagne and asked her juvenile questions like what bra size she wore and where she lost her virginity.
‘Paul’s still a virgin, ain’t that right, mate?’ said the one called Andy.
‘Piss off,’ said Paul, topping up Samantha’s glass as well as his own.
I lost my virginity when I was fourteen years old, a few weeks after my mother died, because I wanted to feel something and it was either that or scrape beautiful shiny razor blades over my perfect thighs.
‘I’m still a virgin too,’ said Samantha.
‘Really?’
‘What do you think?’
One of them decided it would be fun to do some tequila shots, and by now Samantha was drunk enough to think that was a really good idea and after one round suggested they did it again. The empty champagne bottles were mounting. She had stopped caring long ago that this was where she worked. So she might get fired – it didn’t matter. She needed a change. Just look at her life, getting drunk with total strangers, anything to avoid going home.
Let me tell you a sad story, the story of my life. First my mother left me, then my brother. Let me tell you how lonely I am. Let me tell you.
Her thoughts were growing unwieldy and somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she wasn’t far away from passing out.
I think I used to want something more than this. I think. Maybe.
She saw one of the bar managers staring at her reproachfully, but ignored him. He was management, but not her boss. Not directly. If he wanted to report her to one of the housekeepers then let him. Right now the next round of drinks was more important than her job.
She couldn’t remember what she had been so upset about. No wonder her mum loved a drink. What’s not to love?
Another bottle of champagne appeared, and three more shot glasses. She licked salt from the crevice between Paul’s thumb and forefinger, threw back the burning liquor, and bit down on a wedge of lime.
And another.
The next thing she could clearly remember was lying beneath the two of them on an enormous hotel king-size. Andy was naked, kneeling over her, and pulling down her knickers. Paul’s bare torso blocked most of her view and he was fumbling at the waistband of his jeans. Her skirt was bunched up round her hips and somewhere along the way she had lost her top. Her bra was practically off, tangled around one arm.
Had she agreed to this? When did they leave the bar? How did they get here? She took an inordinate amount of pleasure from recognizing the Seven Dials bedroom. At least she would know her way home after … after what? Her head swam and she struggled to maintain consciousness.
They wouldn’t hurt her. They were good boys.
Paul shucked his jeans and started toying with her breasts, pinching her nipples painfully so that the sensation awoke what little of her mind was still functioning. He tugged off her bra.
‘Lovely tits,’ he said.
‘Turn her over,’ said Andy.
Wait. No. Wrong. All wrong.
She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. She felt her heavy eyes start to close and summoned that little part of her that was still able to protest. If she told them not to then they wouldn’t. She said something, but still nothing came out.
Paul rolled her onto her stomach and she felt Andy pressing himself into her exposed curves, lifting her hips, delving deep into her first with his fingers and then briefly, she was sure, with his cock.
‘Great tatt,’ said one of them. He stroked the bluebird tattoo on her shoulder.
She struggled to her knees but this only meant she was pressed tighter to him and he loved it.
‘Yeah, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘That’s sexy, there’s a good girl.’
Paul was playing with himself, inches from her face, and laughing.
‘Stop.’ The word came out thin and hoarse. She licked her lips. ‘Please stop.’
But nothing stopped.
She started to cry silently, burrowing her face in the pillow, listening to them discuss who should go first, as if she was a toy they had to share nicely. She wanted to get off the bed and run from the room but she had no energy, no drive, nowhere to go. Why shouldn’t they get what they wanted? They had bought her all that champagne, lonely little Sammy Sharp, who didn’t deserve anything.
Wasn’t this, even this, better than being alone?
Paul’s face was suddenly close to hers.
‘Are you okay?’ he said. ‘Andy, hold on, stop it, will ya?’
She turned her face and looked at him, leaving her tough face of red lipstick and black kohl on the pillow. He smiled at her and, because it had been so long since anyone had smiled at her, she smiled back.
Suddenly the door of the hotel room was flung open and a big, booming voice bounced around the room.
‘What the fuck, guys? I said no girls and not too much booze. Christ, look at this place, just look at it.’
There was much activity on the bed as Andy and Paul frantically retrieved their clothes and dressed themselves.
She looked at the newcomer through a curtain of her thick dark hair. Tall bloke, older, needed a shave. Was he their dad? No, not quite old enough.
She dragged herself deliberately up the bed until she was sitting, holding a pillow over her exposed chest. She saw her bra peeking out from under the sheet and grabbed it, missing on her first attempt but managing to focus by squeezing one eye shut.
‘God, what have you done to her?’ said the man that could be their father, but probably wasn’t. ‘She’s completely mess
ed up.’
‘She’s just a bit drunk,’ said Paul.
‘A bit? You all right, sweetheart?’
She nodded.
And then she burst into tears.
*
The man’s name was Jackson Ramsay. Paul and Andy were footballers, his clients. He sent them off to get coffee for her and he stood with his back to her while she dressed.
‘They don’t mean to hurt anyone,’ he said, savouring the glimpse of her naked back that he could see in the bathroom mirror and then looking away hastily. ‘They’re too rich for their own good, which is probably my fault.’
He asked for her story and she told him, instinctively leaving out the part about Liam being on a manslaughter charge, but gushing out her heart to this kind stranger simply because it had been so long since someone was kind to her at all.
‘Here,’ he said, offering her a box of tissues when it got snotty.
‘What if I get fired?’ she said. ‘After tonight.’
‘Do you like your job?’
‘I used to.’
‘And now? What do you want to be?’
‘A success,’ she said, her watery eyes still as naive as they were the day she got off the train. ‘Like you. You’re a success, right? I can tell.’
‘I earn a lot of money if that’s what you mean. I have my own business, a house, a car – does that make me a success?’
‘Yes.’ What else could there be?
‘It wasn’t easy.’
‘I don’t expect it was.’
She gathered her things and tried to tidy up her hair and make-up. As she stood in the doorway Jackson pushed something into her hands.
‘Wait a minute,’ she said, looking down at three crumpled fifty-pound notes. ‘What is this?’
‘Just take it,’ he said. ‘You’ve been through an ordeal here tonight. Treat yourself to a cab home.’
‘I don’t want your money. I’m not a prostitute.’
‘Don’t moralize yourself out of a hundred and fifty quid,’ he said. ‘That would just be foolish, and despite what happened here I don’t think you’re a fool.’
‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘Not at all.’
