by Ros Carne
But gradually, instant by instant, the breach between them was mending. He was more considerate, washing up his cups, offering to make her tea and toast. His room was tidier. She sensed from the way his books and papers were arranged that he was taking work more seriously. But he rarely told her where he was going, occasionally staying out all night. She wished she could put a tracker on his phone, though she knew his agreement would never be forthcoming. She consulted Claude whose unhelpful view was that a seventeen-year-old boy should be allowed to stay out all night if he so chose. And so, she and Jacob walked a fine line. If Mel demonstrated too much anxiety he would bite back, telling her she was trying to control him, staying out even longer, sending the occasional brief text to let her know he was still alive.
Sometimes, when they were sitting companionably on the sofa, watching TV, she imagined telling him the truth about Natasha, how his own mother had lashed out. But it was a fantasy. Impossible. He could never know.
On her weekly visits to see Isabel she avoided mention of Natasha. They spoke of domestic matters, the old days, celebrity gossip, continuing plans for the costume exhibition.
‘We’ll do it when this wretched court thing is out of the way,’ said Isabel.
‘I’m sorry, Mum.’
‘I don’t know why they want me as a witness. Everything happened so fast. What shall I say?’
‘Mum, we’re not supposed to talk about it.’
Mel had read her mother’s statement. It was uncontentious. But how would she fare under cross-examination?
Having resolved nothing, she stood up and set off for the tube, through the arch that led into Middle Temple Lane. A man swung around onto the path in front of her, blocking her route. She waited for him to stand aside, annoyed by the thoughtless way he had rushed into the narrow alleyway. But he stood firm, a couple of feet from her, his broad face cracking into the huge smile she knew so well. Of all her fellow tenants, this was the one she was happiest to see. Ten minutes later she and Georgie were seated in a small cafe in Holborn.
Georgie liked to talk, particularly about his pet hates: certain politicians, a few irascible judges, the iniquities of the Home Office. But he also liked to listen. He knew how to pump information from witnesses, relaxing his technique with friends and acquaintances. If he liked someone, he wanted to know them. He liked Mel, and this afternoon, over cappuccino and a slice of rich chocolate cake, he listened.
He asked about the prosecution, and she told him the now well-rehearsed version she intended to tell the court. But her words seemed to come from somewhere beyond her body and as his questions grew more precise, more focused, they began to feel like a line of tiny wedges slowly splitting her in two. Was this what he did to witnesses? She looked away and then down, picking up her coffee cup.
‘Please, Georgie, I’m not your client, I’ve just come from a conference with Alisha. My head’s full of it. I’d rather have a break.’
She swallowed her coffee. She had wanted to spend this time with him. But now she wanted to be somewhere else. It seemed to happen in every encounter with anyone she cared for.
Georgie looked concerned. ‘I get that. Force of habit. Rebuke taken. What else have you been up to?’ His concern warmed her, and it was her own voice that answered.
‘Looking after Mum, feeding Jacob, painting the kitchen, watching Netflix.’
‘Sounds wonderful.’ There was a tired sadness behind his smile and she could see he meant it. The Criminal Bar might appear romantic to outsiders, but unless you were defending murderers and fraudsters in the Old Bailey, it was poorly paid, the hours were unpredictable, and it could take a terrible toll on your private life. His partner Farouk was several years younger and worked in the music business. Mel wondered how much time they had together. She knew they had considered adoption. It seemed improbable, given their work patterns.
‘You’re exhausted,’ she said.
‘Has nobody told you, Mel, that the one thing exhausted people hate is to be reminded they are exhausted?’
‘Well, if we can’t talk about you either…’ She grinned.
‘OK.’ he said. ‘How about your love life? You seeing anyone?’
Mel laughed. ‘Christ, Georgie. That’s the last thing I’m thinking of right now.’ Another lie. On several evenings, when Jacob was out, she had interspersed TV drama with Tinder surfing. A brief flirtation with fantasy which only aggravated the loneliness.
‘You need support,’ he urged.
‘You’re my support. You and everyone in chambers.’
A quiver of uncertainty in his eyes lit a fuse paper and another anxiety flared in her. Mel could be sure of him but what of the others? Natasha had been a pupil. It was she who had suffered injury. Safeguarding. Wellbeing at the Bar. These were hot issues. Bridge Court’s reputation had already been dented by the incident. If Mel was found guilty she’d be thrown to the wolves. Even if she was acquitted, some of her colleagues might have doubts. She gripped the slippery handle of her coffee cup. She must focus on the moment. Not the past. Not the future. Only now.
‘You know what I mean, Mel. You’re a beautiful woman; you’re young…’
‘Ish,’ she interrupted quickly.
‘Forty’s the new thirty. But life’s short. Jacob’s growing up. You don’t want to…’
At that something snapped in her. He was sounding like a parent in a Victorian novel.
‘Can we drop it, Georgie?’ She didn’t need him to tell her what she wanted.
He pushed his chair back and raised a hand off the table. ‘Badly phrased. But it’s only because I care. Just tell me you’re not still seeing that married guy?’
What was it to him? She loved Georgie, but his concern for her well-being made her feel as if her heart were being ripped open to public view. Was that how Jacob felt? Was that what prompted her child to stay away from her?
‘I haven’t seen him for months.’ That at least was true.
‘Good. You deserve better than that. If I knew any nice heterosexual men I’d introduce you like a shot.’
‘Thanks, Georgie. Not really your field of operation but if you do… And before you ask I’m not interested in anyone under thirty-five.’
At his reference to nice heterosexual men, the image of the Palestinian dentist surfaced in her mind. Sami had rescued her once. Could he rescue her again? But the timing had been wrong. He had rung a few times since the incident on the railway path. They had even met for coffee. But after what she had come to call ‘the Dulwich afternoon’ she had stopped answering his calls. What kind of relationship starts with a lie? And now he had stopped ringing her. She was sorry she had not come to know him better.
‘Tricky. They’re mostly spoken for. I’ll keep an eye open.’
She felt herself smiling as she stood up. Georgie followed her to the cash desk to pay. He offered to pay for her coffee, she offered to pay for his and they agreed to share it.
‘Have you got a trial date?’
‘Monday week.’
‘Would you like me to be there?’
‘Professional interest?’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘You always liked Natasha.’
‘I hardly know her. She seemed OK. But you’re my friend, Mel. Don’t forget it. Who else will be there for you on the day?’
‘Mum. She’s a prosecution witness. Maybe Jacob. I’m not sure.’
‘I had better come then. You’ll need someone to break the neck on the Bollinger.’
‘Don’t be too confident.’
‘Mel. You’re not going to lose.’
‘CPS must think so. Why else would they have brought it?’
‘God only knows. How many days is it listed for?’
‘Three.’
‘I’ll try to get there on Wednesday.’
They walked out into the crowds and tumult of Kingsway. He would leave her here to walk back to his flat near Waterloo. She looked up into his rough, compassionate face and flun
g her arms around him. His strong arms embraced her in return, and she was held, grounded, and in that moment, safe. It had been too long since she had felt the strength of a man’s body against hers.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Natasha
The waiting room was stifling. On the wall by the door there was a display panel indicating a temperature of 24 degrees, a line of metal buttons and what looked like a circular thermostat. Natasha fiddled with the thermostat and pressed a few buttons. The figure displayed did not budge.
‘Centrally controlled,’ said Luke. ‘Stops arguments. We’ve got the same thing in Social Services.’
‘What if it’s too hot for the baby?’
‘I’ll go and see if I can find someone.’
‘Get me a bottle of water.’
‘I’ll do what I can. Will you be all right?’
‘I’ll have to be, won’t I?’
He gave her his beseeching look and left her alone. His obsessive attention was beginning to irritate her. Less than two weeks to go. The hospital had fixed a date for induction because of possible risks to the mother and the baby which was likely to be bigger than usual. She preferred not to think too hard about that, hoping the birth would be over quickly. A Caesarean was an option, though she didn’t like the idea of a scar and a flabby stomach. She would take all the drugs on offer. Luke had arranged time off work and she would start her new job as soon as possible after the birth. At least that was the hope. The Crown Prosecution Service still hadn’t been given a date.
She was seated on one of the low plastic benches, which lined two of the walls. Ranged down the middle of the long room were three sets of chairs and tables, one of which was occupied by a noisy Asian family, mother and father, an older woman and a cluster of little ones. The two women both wore the hijab and they were chatting to each other in what sounded like Urdu. The man had a wailing toddler on his lap and tried to calm the older child, a boy of about seven, with something on his tablet. The baby in the pushchair was asleep. Natasha was surprised the parents had been allowed to bring the children to court, but no one seemed to be checking or paying them attention. Like Natasha and Luke, they had presumably turned up at the appointed time, been directed to the Witness Service desk and told to come into this horrible waiting area.
She walked over to one of the two windows which faced the brick façade of another part of the court building. If you twisted your head to the left, you could just spot a slip of sky. Daylight was insufficient, so the room was lit by fluorescent strips in the ceiling. The windows were impossible to open. There appeared to be no handles. Luke had said the small holes in the lower corners were part of the opening mechanism. You just needed the appropriate key to slot into them.
She looked again at the Asian family who were now picking food out of Tupperware boxes. The younger woman caught her eye and smiled. The food seemed to be doing the trick and the children calmed down.
Luke returned with the water and told her there was nothing he could do about the heating. The technical team was short-staffed. The temperature could be changed but had been fixed at 24 degrees after there were too many disputes between waiting witnesses. It was 11:30 a.m. The trial was due to have started at 10:30 a.m. Natasha knew she would not be permitted to sit in court during the prosecution opening, and she felt a rising anger. She was the one who had suffered. It was all about her and yet she was stuck in this hideous room to wait and do nothing. Luke was scanning the news on his phone. She pulled out her own and checked her pregnancy fitness app. No way was she going to do 10,000 steps today.
Then she heard a voice she recognised, female, with conventional BBC pronunciation, and an actor’s throaty resonance.
‘Do I really have to wait in here?’ it asked, emphasising the ‘really’.
Natasha looked up. Isabel was wearing a faux leopard skin coat, at least Natasha assumed it was faux, and her hair was pinned in elaborate swirls on the top of her head. There seemed to be more of it than before. She must be wearing a hairpiece. She was scanning the room as if she were a prospective hotel guest inspecting inferior accommodation.
‘There’s the corridor, if you prefer,’ said the young woman beside her, wearily. She looked bored. Natasha recognised her from the Witness Service desk in the court foyer.
‘May I not sit with my daughter?’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Goddard. You’re daughter’s the defendant. She’s not allowed to chat to prosecution witnesses. Miss Baker is here too, but we do advise you not to confer before the case.’
‘Hello, Isabel,’ said Natasha, hauling her bulk off the plastic bench and making her way across the room. ‘Nice to see you again. I believe you’ve met my partner, Luke.’
Luke walked over. Natasha felt a quiver of pride. He had put on a shirt and tie for court. Tall and well built, he looked like a film star. The Witness Service woman brightened up. Most women did when they encountered Luke.
‘Hello, Isabel. Nice to see you again,’ he said, stretching out a hand. ‘It’s good of you to do this for Natasha.’
Isabel looked surprised at the comment though she took his hand. ‘I’m simply doing my civic duty,’ she replied with a cold smile. Luke let the hand drop and Isabel sat down and took a paperback from her bag.
He and Natasha returned to their seats. The baby started crying. The mother picked it up and jiggled it around until it stopped. Eight months of pregnancy had done nothing to alter Natasha’s distaste for babies, their uncontrollable bawling, their dribbles and smells. Yet her antenatal nurse spoke as if this servitude was the perfect compensation for months of discomfort and tedious antenatal appointments. It was bad enough being type 1 without pregnancy. Now the blood glucose graph was even more erratic, margins were tighter, and she’d had a couple of near-miss hypos at awkward moments in court. ‘It’s different when it’s your own,’ the nurse had told her. Natasha doubted it. Even so, she had started to think about names.
A voice from nowhere announced that Mrs Fatima Bhatti was required in Court 4. The young woman handed over the squalling bundle to the older one, threw her shoulders back and, with an air of defiance, disappeared through the door to the foyer. Natasha would like to have followed her and watched her case. The heat in this enclosed space was making her feel faint. She would much rather be in the public gallery, following someone else’s drama.
But watching was nothing compared with appearing in court herself and the last three months had been frustrating. She’d hoped to squat at Bridge Court after her pupillage ended in October, but Mel’s outbreak had put a stop to that.
‘I know it seems unfair,’ Paula had told her, ‘but the view of the committee is that it’s just too awkward now there’s a charge against Mel.’
‘So, what was I supposed to do? Sit quiet after she smashed my head in?’
‘It’s tough on you, I get that. But squatting’s never automatic. It’s no reflection on your work. I’m sorry. But won’t you be starting at the CPS soon? I sent a glowing reference.’
‘I’m still waiting for a date. They said it wouldn’t be till next year.’ They’d told her they needed to make other enquiries. What kind of enquiries? (There was the caution for shoplifting, years ago. But she’d been using the fake identity. They’d never track that down.)
Over the last three months she’d picked up some part time paralegal work but, after running her own cases, it was frustrating sitting behind other barristers, taking notes on their work. And money was tight. Her flash glucose monitor was £100 a month. It was supposed to be available on the NHS by now but she was still waiting. There was no way she was going back to pricked fingers and test strips. She’d be looking for compensation immediately after the verdict.
As the trial approached she’d hoped to be more involved in the case against Mel, expecting to attend meetings and conferences with the prosecution team. Instead she was just a fat victim, passive and drowsy in a hot waiting room. In another time, another culture, she would have taken her own
revenge or paid someone to do it for her.
At noon the Witness Service person returned.
‘You can all take a break till two thirty. Judge McDermid has a couple of outstanding matters and Miss Goddard’s trial’s been put back.’
It was a relief to be in open air, even cold, fume-filled London air. Though walking was becoming difficult. Sciatica was shooting down her thigh and she found herself leaning on Luke as they crossed the road in front of the court building.
‘I’ve never liked the criminal courts. Desperate places,’ said Luke as they stood on the central island between the rushing traffic. ‘Are you sure you want to work for the CPS?’
‘You want me to stay at home and be a mum?’ said Natasha.
‘Whatever makes you happy, Tash. Come on, there’s a gap.’
‘Hey, I can’t walk that fast.’
It amazed her that someone so caring could sometimes be so insensitive. A car screeched to a stop as she lumbered to the opposite pavement.
‘What about a proper lunch?’ he said. ‘We’ve got plenty of time.’
‘There’s an Italian on the corner. People usually go there.’
She and Luke ordered two spaghetti carbonara from the counter and sat down. Natasha, with her back to the wall, looked out across the tables which were beginning to fill with early diners. Then she saw them: Melanie, ushering her family to a table on the other side of the restaurant; the boy, Jacob, thin as a reed, pale as paper and a foot taller than she remembered him; grandmother Isabel in her leopard skin coat, eyeing the restaurant patrons with stately disdain. Jacob was staring into his phone. He’d changed his hairstyle since last summer and with a bit of luck Luke would miss the resemblance to the young man on her computer. She was in no mood for more explanations.
‘Shit,’ she muttered.
Luke turned. ‘Don’t worry, we don’t need to speak to them.’
‘Only problem is I need the loo.’ She would have to pass their table on the way to the Ladies.