by A. L. Bird
Chapter 11
When Tim returns to the office later that afternoon from seeing Rhea, he looks exhausted.
‘How did it go?’ I ask.
He runs a hand over his face. ‘Get Dan on the phone, would you?’ Tim says. ‘I can’t face doing the debrief twice.’
‘Sure,’ I say. Five minutes later, I’m sitting in Tim’s office, with Dan on speakerphone.
‘That was the toughest visit I’ve ever done,’ Tim opens.
‘What happened?’ Dan asks.
‘It’s not so much what happened as what won’t happen. Our client is convinced that she won’t stay in jail. I did all the probing we discussed about why she wouldn’t have done what she is accused of – the “my kid sister died” line of attack.’
I shiver again at the mention of this familiar line.
‘And, Jen, you were right – her only line is about her daughter. Like that’s a defence. She seems to think the court won’t sentence her to prison because of her daughter – even though she couldn’t get bail.’
There’s a silence as we contemplate the daughter’s life if her mum is given a jail term. At the moment, family are looking after her on an ad hoc basis, on the assumption that after trial her mum will be home. But unless there is evidence of some other stable family relationship, and they can look after her permanently, the little thing will be sucked into the care system. Possibly spat out again at some future point, minus a future. Like mother, like daughter.
‘Well, it can be a mitigating factor in sentencing,’ Dan starts. ‘And sometimes I’ve seen a significant reduction, so …’ He trails off.
‘But it’s not going to get her acquitted, is it?’ Tim asks, knowing the answer.
‘No. No, it won’t.’
We all take a moment.
‘How about alibis?’ I ask Tim. ‘Did you explore that?’
‘Yes, yes we did. Sadly “I was on my back with a punter while my kid was in the next room” isn’t an alibi I’ve seen juries go for that often.’
‘But she denies the offences?’ Dan asks.
‘Not the ones involving prostitution. But the drugs charges, yes. She says it goes on around her, that world. She’s not an innocent. She’s never played an active part, though.’
‘Never smoked the occasional joint? Never slipped an “E” just to make the nights more bearable?’ Dan asks. There’s a bitterness in his questioning. You can hear his brain pre-empting the approach of the prosecution.
‘Never, apparently,’ Tim confirms. ‘Little goody two-shoes. Apart from the selling sex of course. Not that that’s always illegal.’
‘So why are the CPS bothering to prosecute?’ I ask.
Tim shrugs. ‘They smell a win, I guess. Who’s going to believe this girl? The jury will judge her even before they’ve finished reading the charge sheet. Plus all the various UK officers want this girl closed down – she’s a roving source of trouble, in their minds.’
‘What, she’s moved around?’ I ask.
Tim looks at me. ‘Not read the whole file yet then?’
I think about the file I took home then didn’t read. I feel like Rhea will do – both of us judged on insufficient evidence.
‘Not yet, I’ve been …’ I trail off. What have I been? I don’t know. Shit. I’m fucking this up.
There’s a beat.
‘How did the session with Louise go? Is that all lined up now?’ Tim has obviously finished the sentence in his head as being ‘I’ve been spending too much time on my childcare arrangements.’
It’s unprofessional of him to bring this up on the phone with our barrister. But then, he knows I have the hots for our barrister. And he knows I spent lunchtime interviewing a child minder. Plus yes, I should have finished reading the file. I should be taking the time to read up on the case for the one partner who actually seems to want my view on something.
‘She’s starting on Friday, for a trial session.’
‘Good.’ Tim nods approvingly.
On the other end of the line, Dan is staying diplomatically silent.
‘So, Rhea moved around a bit?’ I ask.
Tim nods.
Dan jumps in, perhaps feeling he ought to be doing his bit.
‘Yes, bit of a nomad, this one. Doncaster, Manchester, Hull, now Luton.’
I drop my pen.
‘Doncaster?’ I manage.
‘Yes, that’s right. An area called Bagby, I think.’
‘Balby,’ I correct, automatically, then wish I hadn’t.
‘You know it?’ Tim asks me.
‘No,’ I say. ‘No, I don’t. I was just good at geography at school. Learnt maps. Bit of a nerd.’
‘Right,’ Tim says, looking at me like I’m slightly mad. ‘Anyway, the Doncaster chums of our CPS adversaries are very keen to get this sewn up. An offence going back ten years, they never quite closed it down at the time.’
‘What offence?’ I almost whisper. There can’t be a connection. It would be too big a coincidence.
‘You really need to read that charge sheet,’ Tim tells me.
‘Right.’ I nod.
‘Maybe just take a note for now,’ Tim says, sighing.
‘Of course,’ I say. I can feel my face reddening. I’ve let him down, when he’s tried to do so much for me. He must wonder why he bothered. But today, note-taking suits me fine. I don’t trust myself to say anything else.
Because what’s hammering in my brain is this: it could be me. It could be Chloe. It’s not, of course – it’s Rhea.
But: a nomadic reject of the care system who moved from Doncaster to Luton, following questionable association with the drugs world. Ten years ago.
Yes, that description fits all of us.
But I’ve ended up with a flat in Luton. Rhea’s ended up in a prison cell. And Chloe’s dead to me. And I’m dead to her. I hope. Or at least, even if she did catch me up, I’d be unrecognizable to her now. Again, I hope.
‘Jen, are you making a note?’ Tim asks.
‘Sorry, what?’ I say, caught out. I’ve been too deep in my thoughts.
‘Dan was giving us some advice. You need to note it down.’
‘Sure, I’m ready. Sorry, Dan,’ I say.
‘No worries,’ Dan says. Is his tone kind or exasperated? I wonder if our Friday date will be cancelled, now he’s seen me in this new dim light. ‘I was just saying – I wonder if it’s worth upping the ante with the CPS, being a bit aggressive. We could demand more disclosure against certain points, point out their lack of evidence as some of the charges go back so far, point out the stuff about the kid. That kind of thing.’
‘Make them a bit squeamish, you mean?’ Tim asks.
‘Make them think that’s how a jury would look at it. Make them review their decision internally. Suggest they should consider discontinuing the case.’
‘Won’t they just know we’re nervous?’ Tim questions.
‘It’s an option, Tim. I’m not saying it will work – but I’ve seen them get shy before. Why else do you think this case has lain on the file for so long? And we haven’t got much else to go on, apart from the usual kicking sand in the jury’s eye.’
‘Point taken. OK, why don’t you draft something, and we can see what it looks like.’
‘Will do.’ Dan says. ‘Anything else?’
Tim shakes his head. ‘No. Nothing from me.’ He gives me a look. ‘And I doubt Jen has anything.’
I shake my head. ‘Nothing from me, Dan. Thanks.’
‘OK, thanks both. Speak soon.’ Dan rings off.
Tim and I are left alone.
‘Having Louise will help, won’t it?’ Tim asks me.
I nod. ‘I expect so.’ But I don’t know what it will help exactly – my ability to sit in the office reading a file that I can guarantee is going to bring back every shred of anxiety I have. Doncaster. Ten years ago. I left that when I left Chloe. I don’t want to go back.
> ‘Because there’s no point in me giving you a chance on this file, giving you all those documents to read, if you’re not even going to look at them. I really did want your opinion on this, you know?’
‘I’m so sorry, Tim. I’ll start looking at them again now.’
He looks at his watch. ‘Well, there’s no point, is there? It’s your leaving time for pick-up.’
I look at my watch. He’s right.
‘I’m sorry, Tim. I’ll read it tomorrow. I promise,’ I say.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘Make sure you do. There’s enough stacked against us on this case as it is.’
I shuffle out of Tim’s room, his eyes drilling into my back. I dump my notebook in my desk drawer, and head for the ladies’. Sheila, Bill’s secretary, is in there.
She gives me a smile, then looks at me more closely. ‘You all right, love? You look a little pale.’
I nod. ‘I’m fine, thanks. Just rushing to get my son.’
‘Oh, well I’ll not detain you then.’
‘I didn’t mean …’
‘Don’t worry, love. I’ve been there, all that running around. But they’re worth it, aren’t they?’
Yes, Josh is worth all the running around. I’m just not sure Sheila knows how much running there’s been. All the way from Doncaster, in fact.
***
Josh has been learning about Henry the Eighth at school today. ‘Divorced, beheaded, died. Divorced, beheaded, survived,’ he chants from the back seat. Looking in the rear-view mirror, I see him holding a brightly coloured book with a gruesome cartoon of a beheaded wife carrying her own head. The things kids like. There’ll be headless Lego models all round the flat soon. I dread to think what it will be like when we get to the French Revolution. Maybe I should just tell him the whole truth. He’d enjoy the intrigue.
Instead, I tell him about the possible child minder.
‘There’s a lady coming to look after you on Friday evening,’ I say. ‘A babysitter.’
‘I’m not a baby,’ Josh rightly points out.
‘No, I know you’re not. But I have to go out for a work thing, so someone needs to look after you.’
‘Can’t I just go and play at Chris’s house? He’s got the Lego Death Star. It looks amazing!’
It hadn’t occurred to me. Go round and play at someone else’s. Without me. He doesn’t really do that. For obvious reasons. Sure, we’ve done other kids’ birthday parties (not his – can’t disclose our secret lair too freely), when I can stick around and pretend, vaguely, to help with the cake. So that it’s not so obvious I’m there to keep an eye on Josh, even if I lose focus on conversations as soon Josh leaves the room (and so the conversations became less and less likely to start in the first place).
But have an after-school playdate? We’ve never done it. Perhaps that needs to change. Perhaps he can go off with friends riding the bike I bought him two birthdays ago (apparently it’s no fun if I’m just trailing along on foot behind him – my mistake). If I can go on dates, so can he. As long as I know where he’ll be.
‘Maybe next time, but this is arranged now,’ I say.
‘Cool,’ Josh says. ‘Just don’t go out with Henry the Eighth!’
‘What?’ I look at him in the rear-view mirror again.
‘I know it’s a date, Mum. You don’t work late. It’s cool. Chris says his dad is always going on dates. Sometimes he brings them home. He tells us all about them. Once there was this one who …’
And Josh launches into an anecdote about a woman who turned up at the door in just a trench coat, not realizing that it was her date’s son who would be answering the door. I laugh but I shudder too. My son is approaching adolescence and he is smart. I can’t keep things from him in the way I could. Can’t protect him as much from the world. If/when he meets Dan, there’ll be discussions at school. Lewd remarks from classmates. Speculation about wedding bells – advice about not marrying historical megalomaniacs.
It’s advice I should be getting from my mother, not my son. But hey, let’s not go there.
I should still try to protect him in the ways I can. Make sure the legend is straight in his head. ‘Do you remember anything from Leeds?’ I ask him.
‘How would I? I was so little when we moved here from there.’
‘I’m sorry we had to move from where you were born. But you understand why, don’t you?’
‘Daddy died. We had to move on.’
‘That’s right, sweetie.’
‘Please may I see his photo again later?’
Damn. I’ve brought this on myself.
‘Sure thing, sweetie.’
And I stick to my word. We curl up on the sofa and we look at the one picture I have of his daddy. I thought about giving him a fake picture. But why add to the lies? I thought it would be good to have one truth in all of this. Plus I know I can be sure that if he does ever see this man, he will point him out to me. Two sets of eyes are better than one. Even if my son would think he was seeing a ghost. Plus I get to revise that face. Not that I’d ever forget it.
So that’s why we spend an evening curled up on the sofa looking at Mick.
And why I spend the whole night seeing him in my dreams.
***
‘Come here, darling,’ Mick says.
Chloe walks towards him.
He smacks her hard across the face.
I feel her falling. I want to catch her.
‘That’ll teach you not to say anything,’ he says.
She gets up. He hits her again.
In the background, there’s Joshy crawling about. But that doesn’t make sense, because Joshy can’t meet Chloe. He can’t meet Mick. He never has; he can’t now.
‘No, no!’ I’m shouting. ‘No, Joshy, no. Not in the bag. Don’t get in the bag.’
But it’s too late, because Joshy has climbed into the suitcase and Mick is zipping it up and patting it smugly. He grips Chloe tightly on the arm and I can see her and feel her pain at the same time.
‘You be here when I’m back,’ he says. ‘You’re working tonight.’
And then he carries the suitcase and Joshy out into the street. There’s just Chloe and she’s clawing at me, scratching my face, scratching my eyes. ‘How does it feel?’ she asks. ‘How does it feel to have it all taken away?’
Chapter 12
The next day, the first thing I do when I get into the office is haul the Rhea Stevens file to my desk to look for the charge sheet.
Flick, flick, flick.
Ah, here it is.
I scan through the offences. A whole string of stuff on prostitution – dates, times, prohibited locations. Where is the mention of Doncaster?
Here we go:
Rhea Stevens met with an individual in Doncaster town centre and supplied him with wraps of cocaine.
There’s no date, or details of the number of wraps. Is this part of some other section? Skim back up again. I can’t see anything. It just lists the charges and alleged offences saying they are in chronological order. This is ridiculous – there isn’t enough here for Rhea to know what she’s accused of. Such sloppy work from the CPS. Why hasn’t Dan suggested we challenge this? Or even Tim, for that matter – you don’t need a barrister for that. Is this just laziness? Dan isn’t being paid for the case, and Tim has pretty much decided that she’s guilty.
For me, though, I am calmed. Slightly. The lack of date and details mean she could have been anywhere in Donnie, meeting anyone. Imagine if I’d opened up the charge sheet and it said a date and time or person that I knew about.
The date and time I’m thinking of.
But it’s enough if it’s in the same circle. There were other groups at it – making Donnie a real party town. Go out, celebrate. Pop a pill. Build a positive cultural future after steel. Or alternatively, go home, spend your lousy scrap of State benefit on a wrap of noxious shit that might take your mind off your jobless reality for an hour or so.
And when that’s done, you can go back to beating your wife.
Not that everyone was like my dad. But one’s enough, right?
Two was more than plenty.
Anyway, not that today. Today is work. Today is defending Rhea Stevens. I go down the corridor to Tim’s room but he’s not there. I don’t want to wait. I go back to my desk and I pick up the phone to Dan.
‘Hey,’ I say.
‘Hey,’ he responds.
I guess he doesn’t know if it’s a social call or a business one. But I know – I am hyped.
‘So I’ve just been reading the so-called “charge sheet”,’ I tell Dan.
‘Ah, that will be about twenty seconds well spent then,’ Dan says.
‘It’s a joke, right? There’s no detail there at all. Are we not challenging it?’
‘Of course we’re challenging it. I drafted Tim a letter and he sent it to the CPS weeks ago. No response yet.’
‘But that’s shocking! Why are we all chasing our tails working up a defence when they can’t even be bothered to work up a charge? How did they even get through the committal hearing?’
‘I know. It’s not public administration of justice at its best, right? I wasn’t involved at the committal stage; I don’t know how they did it. Charming barrister, perhaps?’
I ignore the invitation to flirt.
‘You know, I’m sick of this,’ I tell him. ‘A girl is a certain type and so the police don’t give a shit – they just judge her on whatever preconception they have in their heads. Oh, she’s a hooker, oh, she’s a junkie, oh let’s just sit on our arses and let the world do its worst.’
There’s a silence at the other end of the line. If I spoke all that was in my head, I could fill any silence, for ever. Finally, Dan speaks, softly.
‘That kind of thing go on a lot in Balby, then?’ he asks.
What? Now it’s my time to pause.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I tell him.
‘Come on. The other day: “I was good at geography.” You know Balby, don’t you?’
Deny, deny, deny. Why is he bringing this up? Does he know something?
