by A. L. Bird
I need to boil more water.
Come on. New Jen. New Jen doesn’t stand in kitchens grasping cups so hard they might crack. She doesn’t rail against well-dressed women in authority. She smiles; she makes tea; she gets to her desk. She does not swear. The day does its thing; she does hers. And Josh gets safely collected at the end of it.
So I dispatch the tea. I almost bow when I drop off Lucy’s (better than pouring it on her, I guess). ‘I’ll be right with you, as soon as I’ve listened to that message.’
‘What, Jen, you haven’t done that yet? Oh, don’t bother. I might as well just tell you. Sit here.’
And she pulls her pashmina-covered oversized handbag from the chair by her desk.
I don’t have a notebook. I am carrying coffee (for myself and one other). The obvious thing to do is to ask her to give me a minute.
‘Lucy, could I possibly …’
‘Jen, what’s with you today? You’re unfocused. Do I need to talk to Bill?’
No, of course not. Of course she doesn’t need to speak to Bill. Of course, I will sit here.
I wish there was a room I could slam upstairs to. Refuse to come down. Until I’m shipped off somewhere else.
But I don’t have that luxury.
So I sit.
‘I need two land transfer forms this morning. One …’
And on we go. Minus pen and paper, I work hard to remember the details. Which I can do. It’s details I’ve always been good on. That’s how I got where I am. And he got – where he is.
***
Finally, mid-morning, I reach my own desk. The light on my phone still flashes. If that light thinks it’s going to annoy me into listening to Lucy’s recorded voice, it’s very wrong. I sip my cold coffee. Not ideal but I’ll tough it out. Hah! Emails, forms, emails, forms. The day goes on. Roll on Tim’s new case. I can’t be Ms Motivation every day.
Lunch finally comes and I sneak out via the staircase, avoiding Lucy’s desk. I’m nearly done with those forms but my stomach’s needs are greater. And my brain’s. When you need a walk, you need a walk. I used to tell them that, back when I was a teenager. They didn’t get it, or pretended not to, stupid sods. ‘She’s gone AWOL again’, they said. ‘Fuck you,’ I said, when I finally returned. Another black mark. Another step further from adoption.
Outside the air is – well, it’s Luton (Lu’on) isn’t it? So the air is a mix of traffic, plane, and curry fumes. An aircraft roars overhead, a call to prayer summons from a mosque, and the buses honk like the drivers don’t actually want to run over pedestrians.
The great big pink M of the shopping mall is what draws me, though. Infinite choice, self-creation. I don’t buy any of it. Money is still tight. I don’t get anything, over and above the job. You’d think I would, but I don’t. I can still look though, right? Have a bit of a break? Try to get Jen back on track?
I browse in the window of Oasis. I’m only twenty-nine. I can still do High Street. Remember Chloe ‘doing’ the high street all those years ago – brazenly picking up what she fancied then walking out the shop. Without paying. No prosecutions, once the tales of the ‘difficult history’ got out; she just couldn’t go back to that shop. Sometimes she got to keep the clothes, though. Should have been shopping with Mum instead. Hah.
Now, the pinks and lilacs waft in a window fan, part of an elaborate window display designed to make you feel like the most stylish, most feminine of women. I could be that person. Maybe I am that person. Just without those clothes. My eye strays to some kids’ clothes in the next-door window. There’s a cute beanie hat that would suit Josh completely. It can’t be too expensive – I should pop in and get it.
Then I realize I am not the only one looking in the window.
There’s a woman. But not just any woman. She has wild curly black hair. Chloe hair.
Instantly I go small. You know – shoulders and upper arms clench in, head goes down. Feet wriggle closer together, but ready to make a run if need be.
Stupid, Jen. It’s just a woman, looking in the window of a shop. In a busy lunch hour. Over-ride the instinct. Be New Jen.
So I flick my eyes back to the window reflection.
And the woman is gone.
I’m seeing ghosts. It’s just me.
Or fucking hell, poltergeists, the amount of a flying shitstorm there’d be if –
If anything that went on in my paranoid world was real.
I give myself a moment. Breathe. Think of Josh. Then I abandon Oasis. Rush to Boots, buy one of their meal deal things, then back to the office. I can eat at my desk with BBC News. Today is obviously a day to be inside. I know it’s a safe zone at work. Even Lucy, bitch that she is, doesn’t pose any real danger. Fuck it, Luton is a safe zone (if you steer clear of the estates, and those crazy pro/anti burqa rallies).
But I can’t help looking over my shoulder as I scurry back to the office. I haven’t sensed danger for months. So why now?
Chapter 4
I eat lunch over the BBC website. No, not catching up on Strictly or some reality shit nonsense (not shit, Jen – just reality nonsense. Come on, Jen. Think nicely; speak nicely). I’m all about the news. When something like that happens, when I’m spooked. If I’m sure as I’ll ever be there’s no one hovering behind me, I’ll flick onto the Doncaster Star site for some news from my old locale. Just in case, you know. In case there’s something about me. Or something about her. About Chloe.
But of course there’s nothing on the news. On the BBC, it’s the usual ‘delete as applicable’ news story. The pound is weak/strong/middling. Europe is in crisis/celebration/despair. Unemployment is up/down/static. A life is over/lost/saved. Refugees fleeing from a brutal regime/a natural disaster/economic meltdown are welcome/unwelcome/feared. Or from the local news special, the ladies are getting drunk at the races again. That’s the problem with Donnie. Too much glitz and glamour. About as much as Luton.
Nothing doing. I am not the centre of the universe. The websites don’t, in fact, contain any headlines pertinent to me, or anything about Chloe. Which is good, right?
I still gag on my tuna sandwiches, though. What was I thinking when I chose these?
See, Jen, this is the real-world impact of your crazy single mum paranoia. Dodgy lunch and fishy breath. Josh is going to love that kiss on the cheek later.
I chuck the sandwich, half-eaten, in the bin, and minimize the websites. Time to be intellectually curious about the work I’m actually meant to do. That’s how I got the job. ‘She’s bright,’ Bill was told. Which is basically code for ‘She knows fuck all, but she’s had a tough time, and she can string a sentence together, so cut her some slack.’
She knows nowt, not ‘fuck all.’ Cut the swearing, even in your mind, Jen – what you don’t think, you won’t say; give the game away. Crap, but ‘nowt’s’ wrong too. Too Yorkshire. ‘She knows nothing.’ Finally.
Except I do. I know stuff. I know more stuff about their fucking legal system, the wrong side of it, than all the ones who’ve grown up in suits. The stuff you can’t learn from books. So don’t put me on fucking conveyancing files … Christ, what a waste. Yeah, I looked at property law in my diploma but, I’m sorry, it’s puddle dull, and anyone with a printer, some coloured pens, and the one brain cell you need to fill out a form can do it. Yes, that means you, Lucy.
For those of us with a bit of life experience – family and criminal law. They’re what make sense. They’re what matter. If you’re working for the defence of course. Or the mothers. Some of them are fucking toerags. But I tell you – nine times out of ten they are not as bad as the fathers.
Unless the crack’s got them. Or worse, heroin.
But anyway, it’s better than some rich twat who’s got sick of one house and wants another one, just down the road.
Not stuck in a flat spitting distance from Marsh Farm estate with no real hope of moving away from the spectre of your son getting caught up in the same type of gang
that got us there in the first place. Whether they’re boys or men or desexed junkies they’re all the same, wherever you go. And they beat their women. No fucking doubt. And no one gives a shit.
So. Yeah. Maybe with Tim’s case I can help someone.
I can’t fill in this form so angry. I’ll do voicemail instead. I stick the Bluetooth headset on and tap some buttons.
Yes, there’s Lucy, from earlier: ‘Oh, my form, oh it’s so urgent – oh, oh, oh.’
Delete.
Another one. Bill. OK. Take that one more seriously. Wants me to come with him to a meeting at 3 p.m. to make a note. My stomach tightens slightly. Then it relaxes – Bill says he knows it’s close to school pick-up time, but he promises it will be short. Lovely Bill. I’m lucky to have a boss like him. I sit up straighter in my chair. This is what it’s about, Jen. Not Lucy. It’s about doing well for Bill, and getting out on time for Josh. So behave.
Next new message.
Oh. Wow. Now that’s something I didn’t expect.
Daniel.
‘Hey … Jen. Um, yeah I was hoping not to get voicemail … So Tim tells me you’re working on this case. Give me a call. I’m around, unless the clerks chuck a bail hearing at me last minute. Would be good to speak. OK, well, hopefully chat later. Bye.’
You wouldn’t think this guy earns his money from standing on his feet, wooing judges. Was that a hint of a stutter?
I replay the message. Obviously just to check for stuttering. Not because I want to check his voice again or analyse the tone.
Oh, lovely Daniel. I can picture him now. In fact yes, I can – I pull up his profile shot on his chambers’ website.
He’s younger then – when he first got called to the bar, I bet. Clean-shaven still, not yet the confident permissive stubble of a man who’s made it. No empathy lines round the eyes yet, or mouth. But all the good signs in that smile and frank gaze that they will appear. Brown hair that is just brown – no coppers or goldens or anything fancy like that. Not a posh twat, Daniel. Lawyerly, yes. Decent, polite, yes. Well spoken, true – doesn’t drop the ‘t’ in Luton. But he went to his local comp like the rest of us. He mentions that, on the site. No names, but we get the message: normality. Not some private-school tosser.
But why is he calling? The case, yes, but I haven’t even had a briefing from Tim yet.
Could it be personal?
I should call him. Or is that going to be too awkward? Damn it. Bloody Tim not telling me more about the case – or I could fall back on that. Maybe I should wait until I’ve spoken to Tim?
But it would be good, wouldn’t it, after the window scare of lunchtime to hear a safe voice. An almost-friend voice? The voice of someone to whom I came very close to disclosing some of my shit. Too close. I had to rein it back.
I listen to the message again, then hit ‘call this sender’ before I can rethink it.
‘Earl Court Chambers?’ says a voice.
Oh. Of course. The clerks, not a direct dial.
‘Hi. It’s Jen Sutton from Rotham Wyatt. Is Daniel Farley around?’
‘Jen, good to hear from you. Dan’s been missing you!’
Oh good, so there’s clerks’ room gossip about us. Over nothing. How nice.
‘Ha, yes, well, the feeling’s mutual.’ Can’t explain it’s because of the case, I guess, if it’s so secret.
‘Let me put you through to Dan.’
There’s a silence, out of which emerges some Mozarty stuff. Then a voice.
‘Jen, hi!’
‘Hi, Daniel.’
Silence.
‘So I got your –’
‘I left you a –’
Over-keen laughter as we each start then stop sentences simultaneously. I can see that happening for the whole phone call.
‘You go,’ I tell Daniel. ‘You know why you were calling.’
‘Sure, fine,’ he says. He doesn’t sound fine. He sounds strangled, choked. Then he lets a bit of breath out. ‘Listen, Jen – I just wanted to say, really looking forward to working with you again. I know there was a bit of …’
He stumbles. I catch him.
‘Stuff?’ I say.
‘OK, yeah. Stuff. There was a bit of “stuff” last time but don’t worry about it, OK. I’m genuinely looking forward to working with you again.’
Me too, I think. But I don’t fill the silence, in case there are more words to come.
More silence.
‘OK, well anyway,’ he continues, ‘this case looks like a really intense one. I don’t know if you’ve seen the exhibits file yet. It’s –’
‘I’m looking forward to working with you, too, Daniel.’
There’s another pause. A baby pause.
‘Thanks, Jen.’ His voice is softer now. Less manic. ‘I’m glad.’
‘We’ll speak soon, OK? On the case.’
‘Yes, on the case.’
I want to say: ‘And on more “stuff” too.’ But I don’t.
‘Bye, then,’ I say instead.
‘Bye.’
We hang up.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. It’s times like this I wish it wasn’t so tricky being me. That I could simply have ended the call by suggesting a drink. It’s not just the childcare angle. It’s the caring for my child. The guard goes down slowly, slowly, slowly. Otherwise how do you know who you can trust?
Chapter 5
‘This is for you.’
With a thud, something lands on my desk.
I look up. A file. The cover is blank. Above the file, Tim.
This must be what Daniel was talking about.
I open the file up, and just get to see a sheet saying ‘The Crown v Rhea Stevens. Exhibits’, before Tim closes the cover again.
‘Have a flick through this,’ Tim tells me, his voice quiet, low. There’s no one around my desk (he’s chosen his moment well, if he’s that fussed about secrecy) but he’s still cautious. ‘Good to go in cold, before I’ve given you the background. Then when we chat you can tell me what you make of it. What you think it’s best to do. I’d really value your opinion – fresh pair of eyes, and all that.’
‘Sure, thanks,’ I say. I stroke the cover. Daniel is reading this too.
Snap out if it, you daft girl. You’ve not even kissed him; you can’t go soppy for him. Focus on the professional side. Someone giving a damn about my opinion for a change, not just looking at me with a sad face like Bill – give the girl a chance, but no proper work.
‘Watch out for the photo at page 5,’ he mutters. ‘It’s a shocker. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
He walks off.
I can’t not open the file now.
And there it is. Straight away.
The old world.
A single wrap of cocaine on a dusty floor.
I slam the file shut.
I close my eyes.
I try to dispel the image.
But I can’t. Because that’s all it took, that time. Well, almost all. That and another nineteen wraps like it.
And the promise of more.
I need some, oh what do I need – air. That’s it. Some air.
I push back my chair and head for the door.
I walk straight into Bill.
‘Oh, good. You’re ready for the meeting,’ he says.
Meeting? Oh. Of course. Note-taking. I dart back to my desk and grab my notebook.
‘Forgot this!’ I say, holding up my notebook. ‘Silly!’
I don’t think I can manage any more words without cracking in two.
Bill looks at me closely.
‘You all right, Jen? You’re a little pale.’
‘New face powder,’ I say. An old line, like they used to use. When it wasn’t the wraps.
‘Ah, fine – well, maybe back to the old one, hey? Golden Jen works best!’ He does an embarrassed laugh. Maybe he thinks I’m going to start talking about feminine hygiene products
next.
We go into the meeting room. I slip into a seat next to Bill. He is nice and big and comforting. Like a dad. Not my dad, obviously. Even when he was alive. But Mr Typical Dad. A sturdy shoulder to cry on. To fly you up into the air in his strong arms and make you feel like you can defy gravity.
Perhaps I should just tell him. Perhaps I should have a quiet word and say: look, I can’t get involved in Tim’s case. I don’t know what it’s about but I looked at one picture and now it’s all I can do to stop my brain flashing back there. Back to her. Back to him.
But then, even Bill wouldn’t understand the reaction to that single wrap. Nobody could. Except me and my conscience. Not that I did anything wrong. You’d have done the same in my situation. Or at least, you should have done, if you didn’t want to end up dead.
So, no. We don’t tell Bill. We hold our pen nicely and we mechanically take some notes. And we – from the corner of one eye – look at the clock while it ticks all the way round to when I can go collect Josh. He’ll make everything better. He always does.
The clock is ticking too fast, though. They’re still in mid-meeting flow, and it’s already 3.30. I have to leave 3.40 to get there for 4 if I want a parking space, 3.45 if I just want to double-park and grab. Later than that, and he’s hanging around the school gates, thinking something is more important to me than him. Or ready for someone else to grab.
I start shifting around in my seat. Then a flick of the wrist to look at my watch: 3.31. If only I were more important to these men. Then I could say, ‘OK, let’s be wrapping up now.’
Oh. Unfortunate language.
Come on, Bill.
Still they drone on. Bank transfer, signature, guarantor. Yadda yadda yadda. I need to pick up my son. Is this what it’s like for every mother, or is it just me, with my special considerations?
Can I just go? Can I simply duck out of the room and hope Bill will remember why? That he’ll start to write his own notes? He knows why I have to be at those gates. He knows why I can’t leave Josh waiting. He knows there’s a just in case to end all just in cases. All the fear: Chloe fear; Mick fear; unnamed accomplice fear.
