by H S Chandler
Imogen Pascal, having wrung every drop of melodrama from her pause, tapped a pen on her notepad twice, drawing all eyes back to her before continuing the prosecution’s opening speech.
‘Allow me to set the scene. The defendant and Dr Edward Bloxham had been married for eighteen years. Edward Bloxham is a man of impeccable character. He works – I should say worked … the injuries he received at the defendant’s hand were so severe that he will never recover – as a consultant ecologist. He advised both governments and industry on the ecological impact of manufacturing. In his free time, he presented a video blog on the effects of global warming on British wildlife with more than half a million subscribers. Dr Bloxham had written books, and appeared on both the radio and television. He was the champion, if you like, of the grasshopper, the robin and the field mouse. He did his best to prevent harm from coming to those small creatures, until he himself was struck down in a calculated act of violence.’
In spite of the high-sided glass of the dock and the wall behind her, Maria could almost hear the jury foreperson as she mouthed a single word, ‘Shame’. Just like that, they had convicted her. It hadn’t required the chair leg, the brain damage or the blood on Maria’s hands. Just the field mouse. Imogen Pascal was clever. Maria had never had cause to think about it before, but criminal barristers weren’t really employed for their legal skills. They were psychologists. They slid their hands into your chest to pull your heartstrings, creating moral outrage from the least obvious misdemeanours. She wondered how her own barrister, James Newell, would respond. He had none of Imogen Pascal’s cutting edge. Quite the opposite.
A man in the press seats was sketching her again, the constant scribble of his pencil irritating the people around him. Maria could see their foreheads crinkling into frowns. What would the picture show? She wouldn’t buy the newspaper to see, although she was free to do so. The judge had allowed her to live in the community awaiting trial, provided she resided at a bail hostel. One room with a hard bed and a broken chest of drawers, next to a shared bathroom and opposite a kitchen barely fit for the purpose. Maria had been put on a curfew, allowed out only between the hours of 8 a.m. and 6 p.m. Her lawyers had impressed upon her that she shouldn’t break the rules under any circumstances. Most importantly, she was under no circumstances to attempt to contact Edward Bloxham. That one was beyond irony.
The press artist’s sketch would not be kind. Maria knew every line on her face, every sag of skin. At forty she looked fifty. Her long hair was tied in a plait and wound into a bun at the back of her head, brown shot through with dried-up grey. Moisturisers and hair dyes were a waste of money, her husband had said, and given that she wasn’t earning any, how could Maria have expected Edward to have spent his cash on such vanities? Likewise appointments at the hairdresser. Foolish, conceited women, sitting for hours staring in mirrors as their hair was imbued with false colour and they were flattered by people who only wanted their money, he said. True beauty was a wonder of nature. It couldn’t be bought in a salon. There was no point Maria going, he’d made that crystal clear. You couldn’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. Over the years that had become one of Ed’s favourite phrases.
‘You will see,’ Imogen Pascal persisted, ‘the weapon with which the near-fatal blow was dealt, and hear about the tremendous force that was employed. The prosecution will prove that the devastating attack on Mr Bloxham was not dealt in self-defence, as Mrs Bloxham will claim, but in fact while her unsuspecting husband had his back turned to her. She chose to strike when he could not possibly have fought back, then she calmly telephoned the police and waited on the driveway for them to arrive. The only emotion she showed was when she found out that her husband was still clinging to life, at which point, ladies and gentlemen, the defendant fainted. Dr Bloxham did survive, but just barely. His blood is on the defendant’s hands, and no amount of the excuses you’ll hear in this courtroom can wash them clean.’
Miss Pascal sat down. Maria was tempted to applaud. The prosecutor deserved it. Her performance had been spectacular. In his absence, Edward had taken on a saintly air that made even Maria feel rather sorry for him. The attack sounded as if it had been planned over a period of weeks or months, as if Maria had lain in wait until he’d finally turned his back on her. The blow to his head seemed so brilliantly aimed and delivered that she might have practised with a baseball bat and dummy to perfect it. She liked the idea of that.
The jurors were pale faced and uncomfortable. At least two had been wringing their hands in distress. Others had closed their eyes at the height of the prosecutor’s speech. Some of the men had looked Maria square in the face, trying to get the measure of her. Perhaps they were wondering if their own wives were waiting at home harbouring the same bloodthirsty desires. The shock, at least in part, was that a female could do such a dreadful thing, Maria thought. Had the defendant been a man accused of beating his wife to within inches of her life it would have been just another incident of domestic abuse gone too far. There would be neither shock nor incomprehension. But a woman consciously and purposefully attacking a man was an unacceptable perversion of day-to-day violence. It was intolerable.
The jury left. Bail was extended until the following day. Maria’s barrister, James Newell, motioned for the prison guards to release her from the dock. Suddenly she could breath again.
‘Are you all right?’ Newell asked, pulling his wig from his head and running a hand through his hair. ‘That was a bit rough.’
‘I’m sure Miss Pascal was just doing her job,’ Maria said. ‘Tomorrow’s another day.’
He pulled her aside into a quiet corner, setting his pink-ribboned brief down on the floor and shoving his hands into trouser pockets. ‘You know, Ms Bloxham, you don’t have to be so stoic. It’s all right to be scared, these proceedings are overwhelming at the best of times and frankly …’ he broke off, searching for the right words.
‘It’s going to be difficult, isn’t it, claiming self-defence in these circumstances?’ Maria asked.
‘Difficult, but not impossible. It’ll largely fall to you to convince the jury that you needed to strike your husband in the manner you did,’ Newell said.
‘I understand,’ she replied. ‘I’m just not sure how to explain what my life was like. I don’t think they’ll believe me. Sometimes I can’t believe it myself.’
‘One day at a time,’ her barrister said. ‘Let’s worry about that when we’ve got through the prosecution case. You’re not on your own here. Let me walk you out.’ He held the heavy courtroom door open for her.
Maria paused at the top of staircase. ‘Is it hard for you, defending people accused of crimes like these?’
James Newell sighed. ‘Sometimes it makes me rather sad,’ he said. ‘Like everyone, I have moments when I’d prefer to be by a pool reading a good book. But the truth is that everyone deserves a fair trial and a proper defence. If you’re asking me about your case specifically, you should know I consider myself a reasonable judge of character.’ He gave a modest smile. ‘We’re going to fight this as hard as we possibly can. Not just because it’s my job, but because I want to see justice done.’
‘I wasn’t asking your opinion of me,’ she rushed to reassure him. ‘I didn’t mean to put you in a difficult position.’
‘That’s all right, Ms Bloxham. If I were in your shoes, I’d want to know that the person representing me believed me too.’ He motioned towards the exit and Maria continued down the stairs.
‘Thank you,’ she said, before heading towards the sunshine, wishing she’d never started the conversation. As reassuring as it was to know he was on her side, it made her feel so much worse about lying to him.
Maria made her way down Small Street and into the pedestrian walkway Exchange Avenue, avoiding the late afternoon café users and tourists buying cheap trinkets they didn’t need and would never look at again. Her new, lightweight mobile buzzed in her pocket. She still wasn’t used to the vibrate function. It seemed excessive
when a ringtone did the job perfectly well. The solicitors’ firm had insisted that she buy a phone to facilitate communication before the trial, but calls were few and far between. A man bumped into her as she pressed the button to take the call. Maria recognised him as the person who’d been sketching her in court. He glanced back over his shoulder, smirking as he sauntered away. Maria stepped into the shaded mouth of an alleyway and answered her phone.
‘Maria, how are you holding up?’ a soft voice asked at the end of the line.
‘Ruth, I saw you in court. It would be better if you’d stay away. Knowing you’re watching makes it harder, not easier,’ Maria said, poking her head out of the alleyway to check the man had gone.
‘You need a friend to get you through this. No one’s tough enough to cope on their own,’ Ruth replied.
‘I made a decision,’ Maria said. ‘I want to be able to look myself in the mirror and know I finally stood up to him. I’m going to stand in that courtroom and tell the world I wish I had killed him.’
‘You can’t put it like that,’ her friend said gently. ‘The jury won’t like it.’
‘I have lawyers to advise me what I should and shouldn’t say, and I’ve had enough of living a lie. I’m glad Ed’s never going to walk or talk again. I’d have preferred him to have died, but the state he’s in is the next best thing. I won’t apologise for it and I won’t dress it up. If he had a grave, I’d be dancing on it.’
‘Maria, don’t talk like that, you’ll end up convicting yourself,’ her friend said.
The man who’d bumped her wandered back past the end of the alleyway, peering into the shops opposite.
‘Damn,’ Maria muttered, shrinking against the wall.
‘Maria, are you okay?’
‘Listen, I need you to stay away tomorrow,’ Maria insisted.
‘But I can support you. I still think I could help.’
‘This is my life and it’s my decision. I want to do it alone. This should be hard, showing some backbone after years of weakness. It’s my way of gathering up the shreds of my self-respect and weaving something usable out of it,’ Maria said. ‘You of all people should understand that. Let me stand on my own two feet. If I can’t even do that, I might just as well plead guilty.’
5
Zain was late home. Normally Lottie would have been irritated, but today it gave her additional time to make sure dinner was ready, then get Daniyal bathed and in pyjamas ready for a cuddle and a book when his daddy walked in.
Lottie had compromised on half a glass of red wine which allowed for a guilt-free serving spoon of pasta. She hadn’t stopped since leaving the court. Shopping, picking Daniyal up, cleaning, cooking. The house was looking nice though, which should make it easier to break the news to her husband that she was going to be on jury duty for the next fortnight.
Topping up her wine glass with an extra splash as she flicked through a recipe book, she looked for meals that could go in the slow cooker before she left each morning.
Daniyal’s scream hit her at the same time his head butted into her stomach.
‘Mummy, mummy, help, help …’
She lurched forward, one arm around her son, just managing to stay on her feet, as the wine bottle sploshed liquid over her chest and hand. Losing her grip on it, she covered Daniyal’s face before it could hit him too. The bottle tumbled down her blue shirt, soaking the white bra beneath, leaving her eyes stinging and her face dripping. It was half empty by the time it hit floor and smashed, leaving her standing in a crimson puddle.
‘Daniyal, what happened sweetheart?’ she asked, as she lifted him clear of the mess and reached for the kitchen roll.
‘There was a spider at the bottom of the stairs. I had to jump over it to get through the hall. Shall we try and catch it, Mummy?’ he suggested, wide-eyed.
‘What a mess! Is that wine all over him?’ Zain asked from the kitchen doorway. ‘Don’t let him get any of that in his mouth.’ He strode through, avoiding the glass, grabbing a tea towel and wiping Daniyal’s damp hair. ‘I think it might be more sensible if you didn’t drink until after he’s gone to bed.’
Lottie turned to the sink, running water into her hands and rinsing the wine off her face.
‘It was an accident,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll give him another bath.’
‘No, I’ll do it. You need a shower yourself. I didn’t say it wasn’t an accident. It’s just that some accidents are avoidable. Come on Danny.’
‘There was a spider, Daddy,’ Daniyal reported, his face beaming as his father finished rubbing his hair.
‘Really?’ Zain asked, picking the boy up and carrying him out of the kitchen.
‘Yes, it was huge. I was really brave and I jumped over it …’
The two of them disappeared up the stairs as Lottie began unbuttoning her shirt.
‘My day was fine,’ she told thin air. ‘Quite interesting, actually, thanks for asking. And yes, this shirt is ruined. Never mind. Doesn’t matter. Yours are all clean and hanging in your wardrobe.’
She tossed the shirt into the sink and ran the cold tap over it. The mark had turned an ugly shade of purple with a brown rim. Lottie considered trying white wine or salt to get the mark out, before picking up the dripping wet cotton and thrusting it into the bin. On a different day she might have wasted hours of her time soaking and treating the stain. Not today, though. Tiredness had taken over. Zain could get his own dinner out of the oven. She wasn’t hungry anyway. Shutting her eyes as she spent a few minutes dabbing her bra with a cloth, she wished the day was already over and that she could just go to bed. There was still a tricky conversation to be had with Zain, and she hadn’t quite figured out the right words yet. The oven beeped. She turned it off while taking cutlery from a drawer and setting the table. Lottie looked longingly at what remained of her wine. She was entitled to finish it. It was ridiculous to throw it down the sink, whatever Zain’s views were. Whirling round to pick up her glass from the counter, she stubbed her bare toe on the edge of a drawer she’d failed to shut properly.
‘Oh fuck,’ she hissed, reaching for her throbbing foot.
‘Charlotte, mind your language!’ Zain tutted. She looked up to where he stood in the doorway with Daniyal in his arms.
‘I’m sorry, I just stubbed my toe. It’s been one thing after another and I …’
‘He wants you to put him to bed.’ He lifted Daniyal towards her. ‘He never settles down for me.’
‘He’s not rational when he’s tired,’ Lottie said quietly as she took him. ‘It’s not personal. Danny’s just around me more than he is you. There’s a plate in the oven. Use the gloves. It’ll be really hot by now.’
‘Why aren’t you eating?’ Zain asked, shrugging off his suit jacket.
‘Not hungry,’ she said. ‘Leave everything on the table. I’ll come back down and clear up after my shower.’
Taking the stairs slowly, avoiding knocking the injured toe, she sang a nursery rhyme to Daniyal. He stroked her hair, laying his head on her shoulder and humming along with her. Tucking him into bed, she kissed his cheek and smiled down at him.
‘Were you okay without mummy today?’ Lottie asked softly.
‘Yes, but the carrots in my snack were a bit squishy so I hid them under a cushion,’ he replied, rolling over to grab his favourite toy from the stack of furry animals next to his pillow.
Lottie laughed and pulled the duvet up over his shoulders. ‘So do you think you’ll be all right going there for the next couple of weeks while I’m busy?’
‘Sure,’ he said, ‘they let me jump around much more than you. I jumped from the third step today and no one told me I’d hurt myself.’
‘Good for you.’ Lottie did her best not to frown as she responded. ‘Sleep now, little man. Got to be up early again tomorrow morning.’ Closing his door save for an inch in case he called out in his sleep, she imagined the scenario from his perspective. The childminder’s was more fun because there was no mother constantly fussing
over him. Did she really tell him he might get hurt every time he jumped off some steps? Perhaps she did. Maybe Daniyal was ready for a break from her just as much as she needed some time out from her routine.
Sliding a hand into the shower to get the water running, she shed the rest of her clothes and stared at her naked body in the full-length mirror on her wardrobe. With a hand still sticky from the fermented grape juice, she felt the tautness of her neck, slim and smooth. Her shoulders were tanned with the thinnest of strap marks after a month of wearing summer tops. Gently she ran her hand over the flesh of one breast, still pert even after breast feeding. Her stomach was in good shape. The stretch marks were fading, and an iron will to resist sugar had left it just about flat. Then there were her legs, her pride and joy, long with defined muscles, always immaculately hairless. At nineteen her legs could turn almost any man’s head, whether she was wearing jeans or a mini-skirt. She wondered how so much could have changed. They were the same legs. She was the same person. Now those legs were just limbs that walked her from one place to another.
‘Stupid girl,’ she told herself in the mirror. ‘Zain’s right. What the hell’s wrong with me?’
Lottie pulled her hand from her body abruptly enough to scratch the surface of her skin, closing her eyes at the image of the frowning woman in the mirror. The shower would bring her back to her senses. Anticipating the heat and relief, she stepped in, tipping her head back to greet the warm water, already reaching for the shower gel.
The freezing spray hit her chest first, leaving her gasping. She screeched, reaching out to turn it off, succeeding only in knocking the shower head down to the floor from where it began spurting upwards, soaking her in an icy stream. Two baths and there was no hot water left for her. Turning towards the door she realised she still reeked of wine. There was no choice but to endure the chill. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed the shower head and forced herself to accept the cold water pummelling her skin. Half a minute later, she was climbing back out and clutching a towel, grateful to the extraordinary heat of the summer for rendering the upper floor of the house overly warm in the evenings. Now she had to go back downstairs and clean up from dinner, and the floor needed mopping as well or the whole kitchen would stink in the morning.
