by Mark Dawson
She points at my fast-emptying glass. ‘Another?’
‘Love one,’ I say.
She returns from the bar and settles back onto her chair. ‘Now, Wilson,’ I say, continuing the earlier theme, ‘has a bit of a reputation. You want to tread carefully if you ever have to work for her. And if you can’t avoid her, get ready to duck when you make a mistake. And you will make a mistake - she’ll make sure of that.’
‘But she looks so…’ She leaves a pause hanging.
‘Nice?’ I suggest.
‘She eats trainees for breakfast.’
She lifts her eyebrows in surprise. ‘And what about Mr Dawkins?’ she asks. ‘What’s he like?’
‘Mr Dawkins?’ I splutter, since formality equals seniority at White Hunter. ‘Dawkins isn’t a partner. He hasn’t told you he’s a partner, has he?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I was just guessing. He gave me some work to do for him this afternoon. He just has this air about him, know what I mean? Kind of dignified, don’t you think?’ She looks concerned. ‘Urn, Daniel have I said something out of turn?’
I smile tightly at her, shake my head in the negative, check how much longer there is to go until last orders, and then accelerate my drinking accordingly.
AN EXTRACT FROM SCOTT DOLAN’S GUEST LIST
The showbiz world united yesterday in paying tribute to JOHN FRENCH, the singer of the BLACK DAHLIAS found dead at his London home yesterday.
ROBBIE WILLIAMS told me: ‘The Dahlias were a massive influence on me and I knew John well. He was a top bloke.’
GEORGE MICHAEL said: ‘When l was in WHAM! we got to know the Dahlias pretty well. John was quiet - but a really nice guy.’
MARTIN VALENTINE, one of John’s ex-bandmates, said he felt numb. ‘I don’t know what to feel. It’s such a terrible shock.’
I tried to speak with BRIAN FEY, the Dahlias’ ex-singer. But heartless Fey wouldn’t take my calls. His lawyer, City whizzkid DANIEL TATE, said he ‘wasn’t prepared to be drawn upon’ how his client was feeling. Not the kind of thing you’d expect from someone you’d imagine to be more upset than most.
TUESDAY
RUNNING LATE
The next morning and I’m in the back of a taxi, crawling through the traffic on the Embankment. Everyone is gridlocked except the bike couriers in layers of brash Lycra, zipping in and out of the narrow gaps like multicoloured pilot fish. Snow is all around. The radio tells us the temperature is minus five today. Minus five!
For the tenth time, I recalculate the time it will take to reach court. In my best-case scenario, I’m going to be horribly late. I’m having a difficult morning.
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES EARLIER
Rewind:
The gritter woke me, grinding along the road beneath my bedroom window, spraying salt over the icy surface. Granules pecked against the downstairs windows and the bodywork of parked cars. I just lay there, on my back, filtering the sudden barrage of noise: the rumble of engines from the bus garage, a train, a radio playing, the distant sounds of playground voices, muffled traffic on the main road.
Nelson was stretched out on the end of the bed. He yawned expansively.
My first thought: why didn’t the alarm go off?
I rolled over and raised myself onto an elbow to check the time. The hands showed 5.15. I knew that couldn’t be right; the curtains were glowing with morning sunlight through the fabric. The clock must have stopped in the night. Not for the first time. The electricity has been cutting out recently and I still haven’t gotten around to fixing it. I’d have an electrician around if I thought I could afford it.
I swung my legs onto the floor. The walls tilted towards me and the floor plunged away; the full glory of my hangover became apparent.
What did I do to deserve this?
Did I really want to know? How bad had I been last night? How embarrassed should I be this morning?
I scraped the sleep out of my eyes and looked for my watch. I noticed a long cut curling from my knuckles down the back of my hand. Dry blood crusted around the gash, mounting tiny shards of powdered glass. I had no idea of how I’d come by it.
I found my watch: it said 9.15.
Forty-five minutes to get up, get dressed and get to court. I polished the dust from the mirror of the wall cabinet in the bathroom and confronted my reflection.
My eyes were slits ringed with red loops. Chunks of white debris had collected around the corners of my mouth, I was heavily stubbled and my hair looked like I’d been sleeping in a wind tunnel. I slapped on a handful of gel and patted it back into shape, scrubbed a toothbrush around my gums, cleaned the cut on my hand, rinsed my face in cold water and took the electric shaver back into the bedroom with me, in search of my clothes.
Another piece of last night’s events came back to me: I’d lost my jacket, must have left it at the bar. And my spare suit is still at the dry cleaners. All I had in the flat was an unironed shirt and a pair of trousers which were, I noticed, covered in vomit. When was I sick? Puking up isn’t something I’d forget in a hurry.
I try to remember the conclusion of the evening. I can’t even remember saying goodbye to Rachel.
I hope I haven’t disgraced myself.
By this time it was now 9.30.
I filled Nelson’s bowl with biscuits and ran him some clean water. No time for any breakfast for me. I tried to wipe off the sick on my trousers with a damp cloth. Partial success. It smeared and the water revitalized the smell. I felt sick again. I was sick again. Dry heaves mostly, my head down the toilet bowl spitting out phlegm.
SOME NEIGHBOURLY CONCERN
Fast forward:
Hodgson, who owns the flat beneath mine, was scrubbing at a red palm print with a sudsy sponge when I passed him in the communal hallway on my way outside. The shirt sleeves under his tank top were rolled to the elbows, exposing podgy forearms. He’d covered a broken panel with a neat square of gaffer tape and had swept broken fragments of glass into a dustpan.
‘Morning,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Hodgson, shaking soap from his fingers.
‘What happened?’
‘You must’ve forgotten your keys again,’ he said. ‘I heard a smash in the middle of the night. You broke the window to get inside.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’ I made the connection between the cut on my hand and the blood on the walls. I must have used the spare key hidden under the mat outside my flat to get in there. The spare key under the plant pot must have been overlooked in my stupor.
There was a long, drawn-out pause. A sluggish bluebottle, way out of season, settled on the rim of Hodgson’s bucket. Awkward silence ensued as we both watched it totter. I felt like a character in a Harold Pinter play.
‘Not at work today?’ I asked.
‘I didn’t think it’d be sensible to go out leaving the glass broken like this. I took a half-day’s holiday.’
Another uncomfortable pause.
Hodgson shook his head and started to scrub away another palm print.
‘Well, then, bye.’ I backed away through the door, kowtowing as I went.
It got worse at the tube station. The PA announced that the westbound service was suspended. A passenger had been ‘taken ill’ at Liverpool Street. I wasn’t fooled. Everyone knows this is London Underground doubletalk for some fruitcake launching himself under a train. Of all the days to end it, why today? My career is now hanging in the balance because some loon forgot to drop his Prozac.
AT HER MAJESTY’S ROYAL COURTS OF JUSTICE
I arrive outside the Royal Courts at 10.15. I’m late. If I’m suitably contrite I might be able to exchange the dismissal of my application for a judicial ear-bending. I’ve been before a few of the Judges before and if I’m lucky I’ll get one who likes me.
A group of windswept protesters in brightly coloured kagools is protesting on behalf of the appellant in a criminal appeal. A crocodile of French exchange students is being lectured by their tutor on the history of English jurisprudence.
The usual gauntlet of photographers is gathered around the entrance, their Starbucks’ espressos steaming in polystyrene cups, cameras holstered, ready for action.
I wonder if Brian is still big enough news for the paparazzi to even bother taking his picture. Probably, yes. I should stay close to him when we leave, just in case. Maybe I could even get myself in the papers. Or on the news. Hannah might see me on the early-evening bulletin and realize the error of her ways. She would come back to me tearfully, loving and penitent, asking me to take her back.
Passing through the metal detectors.
Keep moving.
Murmurs, telephone chirps and dozens of heels clicking against the flagstones of the hugely vaulted entrance hall. An excited buzz with the air cool and dark. A scrum of human traffic: bewigged and cloaked barristers scurrying down myriad corridors like black rats into a maze, junior clerks tugging trolleys laden with files and textbooks behind them; solicitors with mobile phones reporting back to the office; tourists gathered around the cause lists - the order of play - scanning them for any whiff of a celebrity appearance.
I jog on.
The case is being heard in Court 64, across the quiet cloister-like courtyard separating the old building from the redbrick bulk of the sixties annexe. There are usually a few matters to be heard before the more substantial cases and, despite the trifling nature of these applications, they quite often eat away an hour or two. This is my only hope. I’m already fifteen minutes late. I check the list outside the door and groan. My case is being heard by Mr Justice Atkins.
Atkins is a stickler for tradition with a ferocious temper, and we’ve never really seen eye to eye.
My exertion has covered me with sweat. My shirt is stuck against the small of my back and there’s a sticky sheen on my forehead. I mop it away with a shirt cuff. It stains wetly.
COURT 64
I’m too late. That’s obvious even as I tug open the second set of double doors to enter, and bow to the bench. The atmosphere is instantly frosty. The band’s counsel, William Dicey, pauses mid-sentence and turns to address me with a look of withering disdain.
‘I believe this is Mister Tate,’ he says archly.
‘Please accept my apologies, Your Honour,’ I pant, sliding onto a bench on the side of the court reserved for respondents.
‘Very well,’ Atkins says, ‘but we’re not going to retrace our steps. Mr Dicey was just finishing his submission as to why the Freezing Order over Mr Fey’s assets should remain in place. I’ll hear you when he’s done.’
‘I’m obliged,’ I say.
I peel the shirt from off my skin and think cool thoughts: ice-cubes, arctic vistas, cold showers. Nothing works.
Dicey finishes off, but I only hear him as a background buzz. I’m trying to ready myself, honing the dull edge of my legal blade.
Before I get to my feet, a quick scan of the courtroom.
I spot Brian: he waves, sporting black fedora and shades from the back of the public gallery. His T-shirt has a picture of the luminous yellow mother ship that zoomed across the top of the screen in Space Invaders. His manager - Davey MacHale - is alongside him. Davey is glaring down sourly at me. Slouching fashionably to one side are Martin and Damon, the lead guitarist and drummer of the Black Dahlias. They’re also wearing black, perhaps in mourning for John French, although Martin, ever flamboyant, is wearing a white lace choker around his throat. It doesn’t appear that French’s death has softened their attitude towards their ex-frontman.
Dicey finishes with a flourish. He petitions the court to maintain the Freezing Order, then sits. There’s an expectant pause as all eyes turn to me. Brian gives me the thumbs-up sign, which doesn’t help; it just tickles my conscience, telling me I’m letting him down. Like I needed the reminder.
‘Urn, th-th-thank you,’ I say, bracing myself against the bench in front. I suddenly feel light-headed. Usually, I love advocacy. My old firm sent me on courses, taught me the tricks of the trade. I’m actually good at it.
But I’m only good at it with the benefit of preparation. Ad libbing is something I can’t do. Today, I have no proper notes and my mind is a blank. Needing a decoy, I shuffle my almost-empty papers newsreader-style while trying to put my thoughts in order. Nothing much happens, so I dive in regardless and hope for the best.
‘I don’t intend to take up too much of the court’s time,’ I say. ‘My client, Mr Fey, who has come to court this morning, has no intention of putting his assets beyond the reach of his creditors. He’s never intentionally followed such a course of action, despite what m’learned friend might like us to believe. It’s true that my client has incurred certain expenses which may not have been authorized, strictly speaking, by his creditors, but any such expenses were incurred as a result of ignorance as to the terms of the court’s order and not through any more sinister motive…’
I look up: Dicey is glaring down at me. I remember what he did to Brian in the witness box and temporarily lose my train of thought.
‘Have you finished, Mr Tate?’ Atkins asks.
‘No, sir,’ I reply.
‘Mr Tate, I need not remind you that you are in open court. You will refer to me as Your Honour.’
I can’t hold his steely gaze. ‘I’m sorry, Your Honour. I lost my way for a moment.’
‘Do let me know when you’ve found it again.’
I manage to pull myself back together. ‘My client has now been fully informed of the restrictions that have been imposed on him by this court. He will obey them to the letter. Furthermore, his creditors have already adequately secured themselves with charging orders over various properties belonging to him: residential properties in this country and also abroad. I understand that they intend to seek orders for the sale of these properties. My client is also presently investigating several possibilities of refinance that have been made available to him, in order that he might settle this matter. If the judgment debt is paid, the matter of the Freezing Order becomes moot. Indeed, I submit that it is moot even today. In the circumstances, it is an unnecessary impediment to my client and I submit that it should be discharged.’
What am I talking about? That stuff about seeking refinance for a settlement? Pure fiction, but I had to say something. I breathe out sharply. What’s left of my strength exits with it and I slump back into the seat. I turn to the gallery to see what reaction my performance has elicited. Brian lowers his shades and winks at me.
‘Is that it?’ asks Atkins. ‘Are you finished now?’
‘Your Honour, I am,’ I reply.
‘Stand up when you address me.’
I stand. ‘I’m sorry. Yes, sir. I mean, yes, Your Honour, that’s my submission.’
Davey’s expression says he’s also trying to work out whether I have anything else to say. I feel a dozen sets of eyes boring into me. I’d love to have been able to flourish a killer authority, some obscure eighteenth century decision that would demolish their case, but I couldn’t find one.
They have the law on their side.
JUDGMENT
A judge will often retire to his chamber for an hour or two to consider the competing arguments put before him, weighing up the opposing authorities and deciding with which party the balance of justice lies. Not today. Atkins is ready to pronounce my fate without any further delay:
‘In twenty years on the bench, rarely have I been presented with such a shoddily prepared, poorly presented piece of legal argument as has been put before me this morning. Not satisfied with being fifteen minutes late for this hearing, Mr Tate chose to come before me in a state of personal unkemptness - unshaven, wearing an unironed shirt, without a jacket and with stains on his trousers. He then proceeded to present an argument with absolutely no legal basis whatsoever. The thrust of his submission appears to be that I should release the Freezing Order over his client’s assets because his client is a good person who now knows the extent of his legal obligations to his judgment creditors. This may well be so, but it is not a compelling
reason for me to prefer it to Mr Dicey’s comprehensive and well-argued submission that the order should be continued. Smoke and mirrors will only get one so far, and their influence does not extend inside my courtroom doors. Accordingly it is my judgment that the Freezing Order over Mr Fey’s assets should remain in force for as long as needs be in order to protect the judgment secured by the judgment creditors.’
Atkins’ tone is full of the repugnance with which he might address the man who has just molested his family.
But he isn’t finished. He turns to face me.
‘Mr Tate, I can recall other applications that you have made before me. My recollection is that you are an excellent young advocate with some not inconsiderable talent. I can only guess at the personal circumstances that have led to you appearing before me today in such a fashion. I do not intend to enquire as to what they might be. However, should you ever come before me in such a condition again I will refuse to hear you. I also consider such slovenliness to be tantamount to a contempt of court. Please bear that in mind before your next application.’
CONSOLATION PRIZE
‘Bad luck,’ Brian says. He’s waiting for me outside, puffing on a cigarette. Davey, his manager, has disappeared.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘I’m not about to sack you.’
‘Where’s Davey?’
‘Not in the best of moods,’ Brian says diplomatically. ‘He had to go.’
‘Great. Now he hates me too.’
‘Look, don’t worry. I’ve got something to cheer you up.’
Five minutes later, I back away from a cistern in the gents and let the rush chase my hangover away. I seem to be spending all of my time in toilet cubicles lately. Brian, having himself already sampled the vintage, is barring the outside door to prevent unwanted interruption. Doing coke in here has made me think of fags and bike sheds all over again. Master Nott, one of the court officials who hears interlocutory matters, was taking a dump in the cubicle next door as I hoovered up two fat lines. It felt like sacrilege. We even smiled at each other in the mirror as we washed our hands.
