by H S Chandler
‘So you’re being paid to fix the jury?’ she rasped. ‘No result, no cash. You take a one-way trip with the nice men who want to redecorate some unused warehouse with your brains?’ she smiled.
‘If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll finish what I just started,’ he bared his teeth.
‘No, you won’t,’ she whispered. ‘you need me. There’ll be questions if I have bruises on my throat in court tomorrow.’
‘Cunt!’ he shouted, aiming his aggression at the wall instead and knocking a picture to the floor.
Lottie walked across the room, picked it up and hung it back on the wall.
‘You should go,’ she said. ‘If anyone’s reported a disturbance you can’t be found in here. The whole jury would end up being sent home.’
‘Not yet,’ he muttered. ‘You think you’re in control again, don’t you? That little glint in your eye. Knowledge is power, or some such crap. I think you need to remember who’s in charge and I plan to help you with that.’
‘I know what’s at stake,’ she said. ‘You haven’t exactly been subtle about it.’
‘Get on the bed,’ he ordered.
She met his eyes. ‘No.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘If that’s how you want it.’ He took his phone from his pocket. ‘You really should be more careful with your mobile. I got your husband’s number from your contacts list when you were in the shower. You remember that time I did all the cleaning up after we screwed? Did you really think I was scraping berries off the floor out of the goodness of my heart?’ He waved his mobile in the air. Lottie saw Zain’s number flash up, Cam’s thumb over the dial button. ‘Last chance,’ he said as she started to cry. ‘Now get on the goddamned bed.’
‘All right,’ Lottie said. ‘Just switch the phone off, okay? I’ll do what you say. I get it. You’re in charge. What are you going to do?’ Her voice was shaking, and she was freezing cold in spite of the heat.
‘To you?’ he laughed. ‘Nothing. With you? That’s a different matter. We’ve done plenty already.’ He pulled his shirt off and threw it on the floor. ‘Why so shy now?’ She perched on the edge of the bed as he threw himself down and stretched out.
‘Don’t be silly. Come up here. Let’s get comfortable.’
Lottie shifted backwards, her muscles a bundle of knots, goosebumps on her arms. She sat next to him, staring at the opposite wall.
‘What is it you want?’ she asked.
‘I want to give you a reason to believe Maria Bloxham,’ Cameron whispered in her ear, licking the inside of it delicately. Tongue like a snake’s, she thought. ‘One you won’t forget. What I can promise you is this: Once she’s out of the dock, I’ll destroy that recording. It all ends then. It’s a little incentive for you not to get any ideas like rebellion or independence. Now take your clothes off.’
‘You don’t really want to make me do that,’ Lottie pleaded.
‘You did it voluntarily a couple of days ago.’
‘Fuck you,’ Lottie said flatly.
‘You already did. Do you need me to help?’
Lottie sat upright, ripping off her T-shirt, and stripping her jeans down. ‘Underwear too?’ she asked.
‘Oh yeah,’ Cameron licked his lips.
It wasn’t clear what he was capable of. Lottie had no point of reference for understanding him. This wasn’t the Cameron who’d reassured her. It wasn’t even the same man who’d humiliated her so cruelly in the jury room before they’d become friends. This was a deviant creature without conscience and entirely unpredictable. He needs me alive, she told herself. More than that, he needs me unharmed. She could taste regret in her mouth. All the ways it could have gone differently. If she’d let Zain write a letter to get her out of jury duty. If she hadn’t been so desperate to make friends. If she hadn’t been so easily impressed by Cameron’s easy charm and good looks. What was that phrase … you only regretted the things you didn’t do? Well, that was bullshit. She was alone and helpless, with a man who had gone from adoring to terrifying in just two or three quick steps. All she had left were scraps of pride and she was damned if she’d let them go to. He could punish her, abuse her, but she sure as hell wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her break.
She summoned what little resilience and toughness she had left, papering over the cracks of her terror. ‘If you’re going to rape me, you’d best get on with it quickly. I’m not sure how much longer I can stay awake.’ She folded her arms across her chest, determined to look Cameron in the eyes. If she had to submit, she wasn’t going to cry. There would be no begging. She’d brought herself to this low, after all. What a way to learn that particular lesson.
‘Lie down, Lottie,’ he said quietly. ‘You really are beautiful. I never lied about that.’
‘I don’t understand why you’re doing this.’
‘You will. Roll onto your stomach,’ he ordered. She managed to hold back the tears until she put her face into the pillow. ‘Just stay there, completely still for me, whatever I do. Say nothing, do nothing. It seems you need some extra motivation to do what I need, so here you go. I want you to play dead for me, Charlotte. That means I can move your arms, your legs, your body and you can’t resist. You’re powerless.’
Lottie held on a few seconds longer before the first sob escaped her. The thought of being used like that, no more than a slab of meat, was repulsive. It was the opposite of everything human and decent. Her body began to shake as he ran his hand from her shoulder, slowly, really feeling her skin, letting his fingertips drift over the rise and fall of her buttocks.
‘Please don’t,’ she cried.
‘Shhh,’ he whispered close in her ear. ‘You’re dead. Crying’s against the rules.’
‘I’m going to do whatever I want to you. I like it when you’re like this – pliable, easy, no effort on my part. It’s what you were intended for. Can you feel that now?’ He picked up one of her legs and moved it towards him, leaving her open and exposed. More than anything else, she felt vulnerable, more than she had in her entire life. Anything could happen at any second. Lottie was petrified, horrified by her own impotence.
‘Wait there,’ he said. ‘I just need a moment.’
His weight shifted off the bed. Lottie listened for some clue as to what he was doing. There were footsteps, the rustle of clothing, he picked something up off the bedside table. Lottie braced herself, regretting every second, every thought she’d had since first walking into Bristol Crown Court. If she could turn back time, she would give anything. Anything at all.
Her bedroom door slammed. Lottie cried out. She held her breath. Nothing.
‘Cameron?’ she sobbed.
Nothing. She counted to sixty, keeping it slow in her head, then shifted to look to the side of the bed where he had been. Pushing herself up onto her elbows she turned slowly, expecting him to be in the chair, staring at her, waiting for her to move, to screw up, so he could punish her. It was empty. She snapped her legs together so hard it hurt, grabbing the duvet and covering her nakedness. Stepping off the bed she stumbled, smashing her knee on the bedside table, crawling two steps before making it upright. More tiny footsteps to the bathroom door, not wanting to look, unable to resist. Was he trying to trick her? She pushed the door fully open. It was empty. Running to the wardrobe she checked there too, then behind the curtains.
He was gone. His phone and keys had disappeared. He’d picked his shirt and shoes up off the floor. She was alone. Throwing herself at her door, she locked it and drew the safety chain across. He’d undone it so silently she hadn’t heard a thing.
The shock sent her to her knees. She rested her head against the wood, reeling, sickened. Minutes passed before she managed to stand again. By the time she reached the bathroom, she was retching. Back on her knees, holding her hair away from her face, staring into the toilet bowl. Fifteen minutes later she was running a bath. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She realised she was talking to herself, saying soothing words usually reserved for Dan
iyal, reassuring herself. It was safe. He was gone. Only she had to see him tomorrow, maybe the day after that. Then who knew. He still had the recording.
Lottie filled the bath as deep and hot as she could get it, moving away only to raid the minibar, knowing she’d make herself sick again if she wasn’t careful, but she had to drown his voice out of her mind. The heat of the water was good. She sat at one end of the bath, her knees drawn up to her chest, legs clamped together, drinking neat gin, no less violated for the fact that technically she hadn’t been. In her head, she could hear Maria Bloxham’s voice describing how it had been for her, being subjected to what undoubtedly amounted to rape month after month, year after year. Lottie recalled the defendant’s face as she’d talked about it, the sheer loathing for her husband etched into every line and wrinkle. The same way it must now be imprinted on hers too, she thought. True hatred didn’t fade. She already knew she would wish Cameron dead every day for the rest of her life.
He had proved his point. She would do whatever he told her to do. There was no question about it. Picking up the soap again, she began to scrub her skin. It would take all night to scrape the feeling of dirt away, and he hadn’t actually done anything. It no longer mattered what had motivated Maria Bloxham to attack her husband. If she wanted his money, she was owed it, Lottie thought. If she’d struck the blow from anger rather than fear, good for her.
Tomorrow was a no-brainer, just as Cameron had intended. She would protect her son and protect her marriage, and do as she’d been told. At least now she could do that with a clear conscience. Maria Bloxham didn’t deserve a prison cell. She deserved a fucking medal. If Lottie were as brave, she’d have picked up a lamp and smashed Cameron’s skull with it too. She allowed herself a few moments to imagine the scene. Then she could have wiped the audio recording and the police would have been none the wiser. Self-defence, she imagined herself saying. He was trying to rape me. I had no choice. The words echoed in her ears, her own voice blending bizarrely with Maria’s. We had no choice. No choice at all.
33
Day Twelve in Court
The twelve of them sat around the table. The heat had taken a turn for the worse, or possibly it was their tempers raising the temperature. Either way, Lottie was losing hope. The cuts to Maria’s thighs had been her main argument. It was obvious the woman was living in misery, she’d argued. And why had her husband not got her help?
‘Perhaps she’s just mentally ill. That was one of the options the psychiatrist gave,’ Garth Finuchin had countered. ‘You don’t know that her husband hasn’t spent the whole of his marriage putting up with her deranged imagination, then one day she just lost it and bashed him over the head. Sounds more likely than that nonsense she told us.’
‘What about the lock on his study door?’ Jack offered.
‘It was where he kept his notes and computer,’ Gregory said. ‘Perhaps he didn’t want them disturbed if she was that paranoid. She might have just chucked everything on the fire one day. I’m giving Dr Bloxham the benefit of the doubt, especially as the poor bastard can’t speak.’
‘Because she hit him!’ Agnes Huang added, gleefully and needlessly. There were murmurs of consent from around the table.
Lottie wanted to bang her head on the desk. Pan had stopped paying attention completely and looked ready to side with whoever could get him his freedom fastest. Samuel wasn’t unsympathetic, but simply nodded in agreement with whoever was speaking at the time. Agnes was digging in for a fight and was content to stay there another week. Garth Finuchin was a lost cause. It seemed there was no card that trumped the sight of a grown man cuddling a baby hedgehog, turned drooling wreck. It had affected them at a deeper psychological lever than Lottie knew how to reach.
She stared at Cameron. What she did know was that being on the same side as him wasn’t helping. Grabbing her mobile, she texted beneath the table.
‘Change your verdict. Disagree with me.’ She tapped send.
Cameron ignored the buzzing. She kicked him beneath the table until he pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced down to read the message. He raised his eyebrows and gave a brief shake of his head.
‘Just be yourself,’ she typed again. ‘The real you. Don’t hold back.’
He shot a nasty look at her, then shrugged. Lottie considered what she was about to do. It was desperate, much too close for comfort, and underhanded. And there was nothing else left to try.
‘The thing is, I know Maria Bloxham is telling the truth,’ Lottie began.
‘So now you’ve got some sort of psychic connection with her, do you? That’s convenient,’ Garth mocked.
Lottie glared at him. ‘I know, because when you’ve also experienced what she’s been through, it’s impossible not to see the signs in other people.’ Her voice was wobbly, but it shut Garth Finuchin up, Lottie thought, waiting for Cameron to engage his brain and join in. The Tabithas had grown to dislike Cameron enough that Lottie needed him against rather than with her, if she was to garner any sympathy at all.
‘Oh come on,’ Cameron chipped in. ‘I’m all for deciding the case on its merits, but I don’t buy the whole sisterhood bullshit. Why don’t we just stick with the law?’
‘Mr Ellis, that’s very rude. We agreed at the start not to let this get personal. I have to ask you to let Lottie speak,’ Tabitha admonished. Lottie could see the hate on his face.
‘Fine,’ Cameron folded his arms. ‘Just keep it relevant, would you?’ he aimed at Lottie. She narrowed her eyes at him, no acting required.
‘What Maria said about being controlled, it’s not as unusual as you might think,’ she began, wondering how she would get through it without breaking down or throwing up. ‘It’s what bad relationships are made of. One partner gets jealous or makes unreasonable demands. Some men choose women who their instincts tell them won’t fight back. They like vulnerability. The strength those men give you at the start is hard to let go of, so you compromise. When you’re told your boyfriend doesn’t like a certain friend, you find a reason to avoid them. When he says you look great in red, you go out of your way to wear that colour.’ She recalled the dress she’d worn because Cameron had liked her in it. She intended to cut it up the second she got home. ‘When he says he hates it when women are lazy about shaving their legs, you make damned sure you never let it go that extra day.’
‘Oh Lottie,’ Jack said. ‘Are you sure you want to tell us this? I had no idea.’
‘Thank you, Jack,’ she replied, not quite able to meet his eyes. He had plenty of hurt yet to come. He just didn’t know it yet. ‘I need to do this.’ She cleared her throat and made her voice fractionally louder. ‘It’s tiny things to start with. Stuff you don’t recognise as controlling but it’s there, wrapped up as compliments and polite suggestions. Before you know it, you’ve made changes you never anticipated, and all the time you tell yourself it’s because you love him. The truth is, you don’t want to lose him, because by then, you’ve stopped seeing your friends as much. You’ve ignored the advice from your family and you don’t want to look stupid.’
‘It’s a bit of a stretch from there to attempted murder. What the defendant described was something totally different. I’m sure you think you have some sort of feminist expertise here but really …’ Cameron sounded bored.
‘Shut up, I want to hear,’ Agnes interrupted him. ‘Did this really happen to you, Lottie? Was it your husband?’ She sounded all too delighted to be getting some gossip.
Lottie felt grubby already, and it was only going to get worse. ‘I can’t say,’ she replied. ‘I have too much to lose.’ That, at least, was the unadulterated truth.
‘This is a safe space, dear,’ Tabitha said gently. ‘It sounds as if you’ve been through difficult times.’
‘You’d be amazed at how bad it gets before you realise you’re in an abusive relationship. You make excuses. He’s under pressure. Money’s tight,’ she threw a glance in Cameron’s direction. ‘Your family’s not supportive enoug
h. He doesn’t like Christmas or Easter or the summer, or whatever season it happens to be. Then he hits you for the first time. He hits you and it’s terrifying and awful but then he cries in your arms and says he’s never done that before. So you think, maybe it was my fault. Suddenly he’s the boyfriend he was right at the start. Flowers appear for no reason. There are trips to the cinema. He’s warm and kind. Then it happens again, and here’s the reality. You know, from the second time he hits you, that it’s really not you. You know it’s him. But by then you feel so worthless that you can’t see your way out. You’re probably telling yourself it’s because you love him. But you stay because it’s easier and less scary than leaving. He’s got you, and it’s like drowning in mud.’
‘Lottie,’ Jennifer said, reaching out a hand and touching hers. ‘How awful. You should have said something before now. Sitting through this trial must have been heartbreaking for you.’
‘Could I point out that even the defendant in this case makes it perfectly clear that Dr Bloxham never laid a finger on her. Not once. I’ve no time for men who hit women, but I’ve got to agree with Cameron here. I’m not sure how relevant this is,’ Garth Finuchin said.
‘Thank you, finally,’ Cameron muttered.
‘I think we should keep listening to Lottie,’ Jack said sweetly. ‘If she’s prepared to give us her insight, we should respect that.’
Lottie smiled at him. ‘Thank you. The relevance is that Dr Bloxham didn’t need to hit his wife. He had something much more powerful to use against her. He knew she’d been cutting herself from an early age. When other men might have used their fists, he handed over a razor blade. He never needed to hit. He was much more devious. It also meant she could never go to the police and claim that he was violent, but try to see it through my eyes. Every cut on her legs was the equivalent of a black eye or a broken rib, just even more psychologically damaging. There’s no other difference.’
There was silence. ‘That’s horrible,’ Jennifer said eventually. ‘I’m so sorry.’
