Degrees of Guilt

by H S Chandler

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, great book.’ She kept her focus on the page, knowing she couldn’t look Jack in the eyes. ‘Forgot where I was for a moment.’ She leaned further over the novel, letting her hair fall across her face to cover her burning cheeks, ensuring Jack went back to his own entertainment. Her flushed skin might be due to the heat of the day. Perhaps she could even get away with blaming the heatwave for her faster than usual breathing. The thin cotton of her bra, though, was fighting a losing battle against her hardening nipples. She brought her upper arms inwards, covering the tell-tale profiles through her summer dress.

  Cameron’s fingers snaked up her thigh, his eyes flitting briefly across to meet her gaze. She imagined what he was seeing. Her pupils would be dilated, her lips full and red as blood rushed to the softer parts of her body, her skin glistening with perspiration that had nothing to do with the sun.

  ‘Stop,’ she mouthed silently to him. It would only make him more determined. She’d known that even as she said it. He was already turning away, his smile revealing carnivorous white teeth as he flipped his page carelessly.

  Lottie took a deep breath and pushed herself backwards in her chair, away from his hand, wanting him to stop. Wanting him. Moving did nothing to deter him. His hand pushed on between her thighs, forcing her skirt to ride up until it barely covered her knickers. Twisting his wrist, he pressed his palm firmly between her legs. A fire raged inside her. His fingertips brushed her silk panties, and Lottie’s heartbeat was a bass drum in her ears. It had been so long – too long – since she had reacted to anticipatory pleasure. The routine of marital sex had dried up any sense of longing, replacing it with Friday night expectations and Saturday morning sheet washing. This was an explosion of need and desire, coupled with an age-old sense of shame about being caught in such a wild state of arousal.

  ‘Hot, isn’t it?’ Cameron commented to her, casually, as he circled his finger over the fabric of her knickers. Lottie raised a knuckle to her mouth and bit down hard.

  The door opened abruptly and the court usher stood mopping his face with a handkerchief.

  ‘Right, ladies and gentleman, the visit to the Bloxham house is set for tomorrow morning. Please meet here at 10 a.m. and you will be transported to the crime scene by minibus.’

  Lottie tensed, suspended in slow-motion mortification, certain that everyone knew what was happening beneath the table. Then it was all movement. The closing of newspapers and shuffling of chairs. Cameron’s hand slid back down her leg with a gentle pat on her knee. She forced one shaking hand to fold over the page of her book, not that there had been any reading progress since she’d opened it.

  Jack stood up next to her, taking a last swig of water. ‘I think I’m going to die of boredom if they don’t hurry this trial up,’ he said.

  Lottie smiled, clearing her throat, nodding.

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Cameron said, standing up and pushing his chair beneath the table. ‘I’m finding it all quite stimulating.’ He smiled at Lottie as Jack walked away, before wandering off to retrieve his bag. Lottie waited the few extra seconds she needed until her legs had stopped shaking before doing the same. That was the end of it, she told herself. If it stopped now, there really was still nothing for Zain to find out. But beneath that was a growing sense of feeling more alive. Better still, of feeling wanted. Full-blown adultery remained a giant leap away, she told herself. She could take back control of the situation. It wasn’t too late yet. Not quite.

  17

  Maria waited for James Newell on Broad Street opposite The Grand Hotel, wishing she was invisible as guests took afternoon tea and stared at her through the expanses of square glass. Relentless media coverage had her face plastered on every screen and newspaper, and some sensationalist internet group was calling her The Bristol Butcher. Sunglasses and hats did little to hide her identity. Behind Maria, the barristers’ chambers was fronted by a line of arches proclaiming grandeur and gravitas. The whole street – solicitors, art galleries and the sorts of restaurants that still favoured ties – was an ode to a gentler life. Her defence counsel had proved kinder than Maria felt she had any right to, offering to drive her to Edward’s house to collect some of her possessions. The visit was at her own request. She needed to move forward. No one understood what it was like, putting your life on hold while it took months for a trial to get started. The police had grudgingly agreed to let her into the house, but only once the prosecution had closed its case. When Newell’s BMW hovered at the pavement’s edge, it took a few seconds before she could move. This was normal life. People extended the hand of friendship, you accepted, returned the favour. The problem was that she had nothing to offer. They drove making small talk until they reached the house she’d last seen from the back of a police car. She had no desire to walk through the front door, although she was curious about the state of the kitchen. Did the police clean up, she wondered, or would there be a dried up pool of blood on the floor?

  ‘Are you sure you want to go in there?’ Newell asked, as they waited for DI Anton to arrive. ‘I can request that the police officers to do this for you.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘I need some more clothes, and as I have no intention of ever living there again, I might as well clear out my belongings. If I get convicted, I’ll never get the chance.’ James Newell nodded but remained quiet, acknowledging both the truth of what she’d said and the possibility that the case might end badly. ‘So how do you think the trial’s going?’ she asked, filling the silence.

  ‘As well as can be expected. I’m sorry you’ve had to listen to people talking about you as if you weren’t present in the courtroom with them. A trial can be a very impersonal process.’

  ‘That’s all right. You did warn me,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to be involved in the whole sorry affair.’

  ‘This is my job,’ Newell said. ‘I get to walk away at the end of the day. I try never to forget that my clients can’t.’

  ‘What about the ones you think are guilty. Do you worry about them too?’

  Newell relaxed against the headrest and closed his eyes. ‘Guilt and innocence are such finite terms. Life rarely allows us to make such clean choices. I can’t think of many clients over the years who fall squarely into either one category or the other.’

  Maria thought about it as she stared in through the iron gates. Her own guilt was the cement between the bricks of their aesthetically perfect home. She had let Edward dominate her. In the early days, now that she looked back, she knew she could have left, only it was easier to have a roof over her head. It required no effort to have someone else pay for the food and the bills, to organise the car and decide what they should eat. Her life – however much she had hated it – had been built on her fear of going it alone. Perhaps she could have prevented the bloodshed, if she’d been stronger but by then Edward had deserved what he’d got. The moment the chair leg had connected with her husband’s skull had been a victory.

  ‘Are you going to be okay giving evidence, only you’ll be cross-examined and you can’t …’ Newell fumbled the words.

  ‘I can’t lose my temper. I know,’ Maria said. ‘I’m sure I’d be just as quick to judge if I were on the jury.’

  ‘Don’t write those twelve people off too soon,’ Newell said, undoing his top button and wiping sweat from his forehead. ‘Juries are tricky beasts but I’ve found them remarkably perceptive over the years.’

  ‘I’m not sure my case is one that many people could sympathise with. The older jurors won’t even look at me, and when the younger ones do it’s as if they’re staring at a spider under a glass. They want to get a good look, but they wouldn’t want me too close.’

  ‘There’s a long way still to go. Remember they haven’t heard your side of it yet.’

  ‘Thank you, James. I know you’re doing your best,’ Maria said softly as DI Anton pulled up. She wanted to reach out and pat her defence counsel on the arm, but checke
d herself. He was her barrister, not her friend. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  She got out of the car to meet DI Anton and the police officer accompanying him.

  ‘Mrs Bloxham,’ Anton said. ‘There are rules. You will have to be accompanied in every room of the house and we will check every item you wish to remove. There will be no access to the kitchen or your husband’s study. Is that agreed?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Maria said. ‘I was wondering, will Miss Pascal be joining us? I assumed you’d want her here, DI Anton.’

  One side of Anton’s upper lip lifted in a snarl before he could control himself. He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘This is a police matter. I don’t need a barrister here to make decisions. Let’s get moving.’

  He strode towards the house, the junior officer rushing to catch up, leaving James Newell staring at Maria.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Newell asked her.

  ‘I don’t think he likes me,’ Maria whispered in reply.

  ‘I don’t think he does either,’ he gave her a quick smile, then motioned with his head. ‘Best not keep them waiting. After you.’

  Maria made her way to the front door. She could hear DI Anton striding around upstairs, checking the bedrooms before allowing her access. It was foolish to wind him up but when you were at rock bottom you had to get your kicks wherever you could. Ribbing the supercilious detective inspector about his obvious hankering for Imogen Pascal was hardly the crime of the century – she’d already committed that – and at a deeper level, she was enjoying flexing her emotional muscles. It felt good to be unafraid, and to push back a little. It wasn’t as if she had much left to lose.

  Upstairs, she took a suitcase from one of the spare bedrooms, before walking into the room that she and Edward had shared for years. It was dusty and needed a good airing, but other than that it was exactly as she had left it. Lifeless and oppressive with bad memories. The most enjoyment she’d had in their double bed was imagining Edward dead. And here she finally was, even though he remained clinging to life. Maria decided to enjoy the moment. She had finally taken everything from him.

  ‘What do you need?’ DI Anton asked, arms folded across his chest.

  ‘Clothes from my wardrobe.’ She pointed at the door.

  The police officer stepped forward and opened it. ‘Anything you want, place on the bed for us to check. We’ll pack it for you.’ Anton said. It was an order rather than a suggestion.

  Maria removed the clothes in sections, left to right as they were hung. Skirts first, then blouses and finally dresses. DI Anton and the assisting officer checked every pocket, ran their hands over each hem and seam, before folding them and putting them into the suitcase. For a second it was as if Edward were there, overseeing the activity, controlling her again. It’s not him, she told herself. This is just standard procedure. My husband will never invade my privacy again. He’ll never do anything again. That thought gave her enough satisfaction to quell her rising anger.

  ‘Next?’ Anton huffed.

  Maria pointed to a chest of drawers. ‘I need my underwear from in there.’

  The officer opened the drawer and pulled everything out onto the bed.

  ‘Is it really necessary to check every item?’ James Newell asked. ‘The prosecution has closed its case. You can’t present any more evidence and you’ve already searched every inch of the house. This seems like overkill.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Maria shrugged. ‘Let them check. I have nothing to hide. Why don’t you wait downstairs, James. The fewer people that watch, the better I’ll feel.’

  Her barrister left the room as Anton and the other officer began checking. They went slowly enough to start with, eventually speeding up and throwing the pile of bras and pants into the case.

  ‘Just some shoes now,’ Maria said. She went back to the wardrobe and pulled a few pairs of clumpy old shoes out onto the carpet. No stilettos or heels or pretty pumps. Nothing stylish or shapely. Nothing that might have shown off her legs. Flat, wide and designed for maximum wear. Ed had sold his shoe choices to her on the basis of what was best for her feet. She had swallowed that lie in the same dumb way she had swallowed all the rest. The flat shoes he chose kept her shorter, never quite at his height, never able to look him directly in the eye. And they were cheap. That mattered too.

  Anton and the officer bent to the floor checking the footwear, running their hands inside each one, making sure there was nothing they’d missed.

  Maria backed towards Ed’s bedside table and picked up the framed wedding photo she hated so much, shoving it between layers of clothes in her case while the police were distracted. Finally everything was agreed to and packed. The officer had the grace to lift her suitcase down the stairs and into Newell’s car.

  Maria stood in the garden for a minute, staring up at the house as DI Anton conducted a final check.

  ‘I don’t regret it,’ she whispered to Newell as he waited patiently by her side. ‘If I had to live that day all over again, the only thing I’d do differently is make absolutely sure he was dead.’

  ‘Not a good idea, saying that sort of thing out loud. You’re going to need the jury’s sympathy when you tell your story,’ Newell replied, putting his hands in his pockets. It wasn’t a lecture. Maria appreciated the conversational tone. ‘However you feel about your husband, you have to present yourself as the victim, not the aggressor.’

  ‘I’m sick of being a victim,’ Maria said. ‘The jury will have to take me how they find me.’

  ‘Is anything I say going to make a difference?’ he asked.

  She smiled into his warm eyes, wishing she’d married a man more like James Newell, wondering how different her life would have been.

  ‘No, but I appreciate you trying. It’s good to have someone looking out for me.’

  He drove her back to the bail hostel and carried the suitcase to her room. Maria liked him. James Newell was a good man and a realist. He was so anxious not to reveal how hard it was going to be to win the case. It didn’t matter. She already knew it would turn on the throw of a dice.

  The cab driver picked her up half an hour later. They repeated the exercise of lugging the suitcase out of her room and into the boot of the taxi.

  ‘Where to?’ he asked as she settled herself in the back.

  ‘Tallon Street,’ she said. ‘The underpass.’

  He turned round, surprised. ‘You sure you got the address right? There’s no houses down there, and it’s not altogether safe. Trouble with drugs and that’s where a lot of homeless people go in the evenings.’

  ‘I know,’ Maria replied. ‘It’s the right address.’

  They drove for fifteen minutes, caught in traffic lights and roadworks. Maria stared out of the window. Late afternoon and the bars were already full. Hoards of twenty-somethings sat on benches and enjoyed the slight breeze in the sweltering sun. Bristol was packed to its edges, it seemed.

  Tallon Street bore no resemblance to the rest of the city. Whatever industry had once been there had deserted, leaving a row of empty units. It was too far from the centre to make it desirable but close enough that it could be reached by those wanting somewhere quiet and dark to do illicit deals. She had heard about it at the bail hostel, an unexpected source of useful information.

  ‘Pull over here, this will do,’ she told the driver. ‘Could you get my case out for me please?’

  He did as he’d been asked with nothing more than a shake of his head, but his opinion was written all over his face.

  ‘Would you wait up the street for me? I won’t be long,’ Maria said.

  ‘Five minutes, then I’ll have to go for another fare,’ he said, climbing back into the driver’s seat. ‘Be careful.’

  Maria lugged the case into the mouth of the underpass. Whatever conversation had been passing between the bodies lying in various piles of sleeping bags and cardboard stopped immediately. She could smell urine and smoke. Pale orange lights covered in old cobwebs lit one side of the passa
geway ineffectively.

  ‘Got any money?’ someone asked her as she stepped around their feet.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t,’ she said. ‘I wanted to leave these clothes for anyone who needs them.’ She left the suitcase at the side of the underpass, opening it to show there was nothing threatening contained within.

  ‘Just clothes?’ another person shouted from further in.

  ‘And some shoes,’ Maria said. She knelt down by a woman who was huddled lighting a cigarette. ‘Could I borrow your lighter?’ she asked.

  The woman put it into Maria’s hand without bothering to speak. From her pocket she took the framed photo of her and Edward on their wedding day. Bending back the clips that held it in its frame, she took the picture out, running her fingertips over the image of her face, shining with hope and love. Still innocent. Horribly unsuspecting.

  She lit a corner of it, holding it in her hands as long as she could before letting the smouldering remnants drop to the floor.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, as she handed the lighter back. By the time she walked out of the underpass, the contents of the suitcase were already being scattered.

  It was what Edward would have hated most, she thought, as she walked back to the waiting cab. The clothes he had selected to keep her in her place. The clothes he had paid precious pounds for. The shoes he had known she hated. Gone to people Ed had nothing but contempt for. He lacked the basic human empathy required to see the homeless as more than just alcoholics and dropouts. As gestures went, she knew it was pathetic, but Maria felt better.