by Ros Carne
The front of the shop was quiet. The consternation around the collapsed customer at the back had deflected interest away from the entrance and there was no security guard by the exit doors.
As she approached the automatic glass door, it slid open. She stepped out onto the pavement and was thrust into the thunder of rush-hour traffic and fume-filled air. Two buses had stopped outside the shop. She was about to run between them, to zigzag through the stationary cars and disappear into the evening throng. But some sense of self-preservation stopped her, and she waited as a woman with a toddler in a pushchair strolled past. Clutching her bag tightly against her chest, Natasha swung left towards the pedestrian crossing when she felt a hand on her shoulder, a tight grasp. It was the fat woman in the green and red sari. Her eyes were bulging and excited and Natasha’s first thought was that the woman was mad, about to ask for money or talk gibberish. She struggled to release herself. But then she felt another hand on her opposite arm and she realised this was not madness but intentional restraint and the two women in saris were preventing her from walking away.
‘Madam,’ said the fat one, ‘I’d like to look in your bag.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’
‘I have reason to believe you have store merchandise in your bag.’
‘You must be mistaken. Now if you will let me leave. Please. I have an appointment.’
A man appeared from the heart of the shop. He was tall, broad, unmistakably security. She had not noticed him before. The woman produced a card. It showed her name and then in clear dark letters: Store Detective.
In a gentler voice the thin woman said, ‘We’ll go somewhere private.’ They began to lead her away, a woman on each side, the security man in front. Where a moment before there had been empty space, a crowd had gathered.
Thoughts whirled through her mind, explanations, excuses: confusion, exhaustion, the trial, pregnancy, exhaustion, diabetes. She would hand back the Chanel and talk her way out of this. There came a stirring inside her. He, for she was sure it would be a ‘he’, no longer kicked; he was too close pressed for that. Instead he shifted and squirmed and pushed and she sensed that any moment he would try to break out. Why not now? They would all forget about the Eau de Parfum if she was hurled into labour on the shop floor. But the squirming stopped, and the two women were still holding her, one on each arm.
‘We’ll take her into the office,’ said the security guard. They walked her through the store. She swallowed hard and held up her head, sensing a growing resolve. She had been in worse situations and come out unscathed. She would not be defeated.
Chapter Forty-one
Mel
‘Supper’s on the table,’ she shouted through his bedroom door.
‘What is it?’
‘Rice and vegetables.’
‘Boring.’
‘Not much else on your list. If you were prepared to eat sensibly…’
‘And fuck up the planet eating animals.’
‘Plus cheese, eggs, mushrooms, raisins. Catering’s increasingly complicated…’ But she felt herself smiling as she spoke.
‘I came with you today, didn’t I?’
Before she could reply, he appeared in the doorway, took a step towards her, stretched out his arms and hugged her. Her cheek met his shoulder and she wanted to fall on him and weep. But she swallowed her tears, straightened her head and hugged him back, feeling his strength through his old T-shirt. Never mind the demanding diet. The least she could do was look after him.
‘You’ll be all right, Mum.’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘They won’t believe Natasha. You wouldn’t hit anyone. You never even hit me, and I bloody deserved it.’
‘They’re not saying hit. They’re saying I hurled her against the dressing table. But it’s just as bad.’
As for hitting him, he was wrong. He’d been screaming in a swimming pool changing room – he was four years old. She couldn’t remember what it was about. He’d probably refused to put on his socks. He’d been standing on the changing bench, so his eyes were level with hers, challenging her as Natasha had challenged her, only his way was to stare into her face and howl.
Other mothers were organising their well-behaved offspring, casting disapproving glances at the woman with the undisciplined child. Mel needed Jacob to stop, but he was beyond listening and she had smacked him hard across the cheek. She still remembered his silence, the look of shock and surprise, the red mark. And now she felt sick with self-hatred as she took in his trusting face.
In court that afternoon Natasha had spoken fluently, telling the jury how hard she had tried with Mel, how the hostility of her pupil supervisor had taken her by surprise. Though she recognised how Mel had been affected by the attack in the street. She knew only too well the destabilising effect of physical violence. When Digger asked her if she could elaborate, she began to speak about her adoptive father until Judge McDermid intervened and told Digger to stick to the essentials. While the defendant’s background might be relevant, he could see no relevance in the complainant’s.
More tactics. Digger wanted the jury to fall in love with his witness. Mel had watched the judge who was looking intently at Natasha. Surely, he was not going to fall for her as well?
‘Thanks for today, Jacob.’
‘She’s a bitch.’
‘She’s troubled.’
‘No fucking excuse. That stuff about your… thingy.’
‘Paul.’ She wanted to tell him off for swearing. But right now, a telling off felt out of place.
‘What’s it got to do with anything? Why’d she want to chuck that shit around? I reckon she fancies him herself.’
‘I’m sorry you had to hear it in court.’
‘No worries. It just makes her look like a bully.’
But it gave Mel a motive. Not the most powerful motive and at least Natasha hadn’t mentioned Jacob. But a motive, nonetheless. Mel prayed Jacob would be left out of this. Despite his confident words she could tell he was shaken, could see through the surface outrage to something struggling inside him. His need to protect his mother was strong. Her eyes had pricked with tears when he stood up to face Natasha in the restaurant and now there was a swelling ache in her throat. He was too young for this. Not yet an adult, he already saw himself as her defender. And he could never know the truth of what she had done. She turned away from him to the kitchen.
They did not speak as she took the food out of the oven and placed the dish in the centre of the table. She ladled out Jacob’s share, thinking of the lies she would tell tomorrow. There was no choice. ABH carried a maximum five-year sentence. If she was found guilty, prison was possible, even probable. Mel had a clean record, but the pupil–supervisor relationship was a relationship of trust. There was public interest in the outcome and the judge would not want a member of the Bar to be seen to receive preferential treatment. It was unlikely to be the full five years but it would be a sentence and a sentence would strip her of everything, her place in chambers, her right to practice, her reputation, her home.
She had managed to keep up mortgage payments, but she couldn’t stay off work much longer. And Jacob? Would she lose him too? He would move in with Claude. He might visit her in prison. But what would she tell him? Another lie? That the jury had got it wrong? Or what was about to become the truth. That she had lied to her barrister, lied in court. Lie upon lie. Lies created a wall around you. How could you ever be close to anyone again?
He was sitting now, staring at his plate. It was unlike him not to tuck in as soon as the food was served. Perhaps like her he had no appetite. As she waited he looked up and met her gaze.
‘I wish I could help you, Mum.’
‘You do help me. Just being here. Only don’t come tomorrow. Go to college. You’ve already missed a day.’
Tomorrow she would step out of the horrible glass cage of the dock and stand in the witness box in front of judge and jury. How could she bear her son to be
present when she gave her evidence?
‘I’ve got a class in the morning. But I’ll try to come later.’
She couldn’t stop him. Any more than she had been able to stop him staying out all night. And who else would be there for her? Georgie had promised to come. But even his trust in her might falter as he heard the evidence against her. There had been about ten people yesterday in the public gallery, more than she had expected, members of her chambers, other faces she did not recognise. Might they be friends of Natasha? She’d heard nothing from Paul. He knew her trial date. She hadn’t expected or wanted a meeting. But a good luck text would have been nice.
What would Isabel say? Despite her mother’s occasional vagueness, she had been adamant about her duty not to discuss the case and it was still unclear to Mel how much she had seen.
She watched Jacob picking at his supper and tried to eat something herself. But there was nowhere for the food to go. It was as if a huge boulder had been lodged in the space that should be her throat. Months of treading water. Now everything was about to change. And fast. Old friends might wish her well, but the weight of reality was crashing in on her and she needed to carry that weight alone.
Chapter Forty-two
Natasha
The shooting pains had started again and the great weight she carried felt as if it would crush her. There was no movement. It was warm in the custody suite but she felt suddenly cold. What if the baby were dead? She thought she might be sick.
‘Miss Baker, if you would just read this through and sign it. The PC will take you through for fingerprints. Then DI Clark and DS Singer will have a word with you in the interview room.’
‘I want to ring my husband. You’ve taken my phone.’
‘We can organise that later. Just check this and sign. We’ll sort the fingerprints and you can give him a ring.’
Voices echoed around the walls. They had found the pump when they searched her and had allowed her to hang on to the BG meter and the flash glucose reader, though they looked at each item with suspicion before putting them in a sealed plastic bag. Through a glass door she could see people moving between desks, staring into computer screens. A tall slim woman in a belted green jacket clacked by with a clipboard. Two uniformed officers sauntered past, chatting, ignoring her. Natasha reminded herself that their indifference was cause for optimism. These people had real work to do. She was a petty shoplifter, of no serious interest to them.
‘If you’re going to ask questions, I’ll need a solicitor.’
‘You’ll have to wait. There’s no one around right now.’
‘That’s ridiculous. You have no right to arrest me anyway. I haven’t done anything wrong.’
The man pursed his lips and opened his piggy eyes as wide as they would go, which was not very wide. He was young, about Natasha’s age, with a pink face like the moon. He walked out from behind the counter and leant towards her. ‘Forgive me, madam, but I was under the impression that theft was usually considered to be a crime.’ His breath smelt acrid. ‘You said you were a barrister?’
She gave him the scary look, the one she’d been practising on witnesses and he backed off a little as she replied, ‘Theft requires the intention permanently to deprive. There was no such intention.’
‘Tell that to my superiors. I won’t argue with one of your noble profession. If you’ll just sign this, we’ll go and sort the fingerprints.’
Natasha heaved herself up and swayed to the counter. She scanned the form which set out details of the alleged offence, the time and place of arrest, her name and address and the contents of her handbag.
She scanned the page. Some of the type was large, some tiny, the stuff about your rights, the stuff they didn’t want you to read. The sergeant offered her a pen and she leant over the counter and signed, accepting that she had been arrested on suspicion of the theft of a bottle of Chanel perfume. She fell back onto the hard seat.
The light was hot, blinding white and one of the strips was flickering. The nausea was fading but now she had a headache coupled with an urge to hurl something hard and heavy across the counter at Piggy Eyes who was fiddling about with more bits of paper, trying to look interested in his dull job.
After fingerprinting, she was invited to follow a young, stony-faced policewoman down another cream-painted corridor. ‘We’ll take you to a place where you can wait for the duty solicitor.’
‘I’ve changed my mind about the solicitor. I’ve got nothing to hide. It was all a stupid mistake. I just want to get this over with and go home.’
‘Too late. He’s on his way. Follow me, Miss Baker.’
‘What about the phone call?’ she called after the young woman who was striding ahead.
‘Give us his number. We’ll call him for you.’ The woman didn’t turn but stopped at a heavy door which she opened, standing back to allow Natasha to enter. Something stuck in her throat.
‘You’re not putting me in here?’
‘Only till the solicitor gets here.’
‘Why can’t I wait in reception?’
‘Sergeant makes the decision,’ said the woman.
In front of Natasha was a low, narrow bed. No bedding. Just a mattress covered in grey and white ticking and a folded blanket. Natasha didn’t want to go near it, but she was exhausted. She sat down heavily, leaning against the wall. ‘I need something to eat.’
‘We’ll see what we can do.’
‘You saw the pump. I’m type 1 diabetic. It’s not optional. You want me to go into a coma?’
‘No need to get excited.’
‘And my husband, you’ll ring him?’
She was amazed at the ease with which she used the word ‘husband’. She had been irritated by Luke’s reference to her as his ‘wife’, but since her arrival in the police station, the status of marriage had come to seem strangely desirable.
‘Give me the number then.’ The police officer wrote it down and walked out, slamming the metal door.
The cell was stuffy, smelling of someone else’s sweat. There was no window, only a couple of airbricks high in the wall. Were they expecting her to spend the night here? There was a toilet in the corner, about a metre away from the bed, a toilet roll on a holder attached to the wall. Even a dog would leave more distance between the place it slept in and the place in which it chose to defecate. There was a small sink with a plastic bottle of handwash and a towel. Above the sink was a sign: NOT DRINKING WATER. A plastic pitcher of water and a mug had been placed on a small table.
How dare they do this to her? She would sue them for false imprisonment. They hadn’t even listened to her explanation. The bed was low, and her thighs were wedged up against her swollen belly. The only way to begin to be comfortable would be to lie down. She stretched out on her side. The headache was bad, but the shooting pains had ceased. What if she went into labour? There was no bell. They would forget about her. She would die in here. There was no guarantee they would contact Luke. She looked at her watch. 6:45 p.m. He would be worrying, ringing her mobile. She could hear sounds, banging, shouts. Other prisoners, real prisoners, were thumping the doors of their cells. The woman with the hard face came back with a sandwich: sliced white bread and processed cheese filling.
‘All I could find.’
She put it down on a small metal table and left, slamming the door behind her.
Natasha took a reading. Her levels were haywire. She pumped in the required amount of insulin and bolted down the horrible sandwich. Afterwards she felt calmer, though her head still ached. She lay down on the bed and fell asleep.
* * *
Someone was shaking her shoulder. It was the woman who had brought the sandwich.
‘Your solicitor’s here.’
‘Did you ring Luke?’
‘He’s coming down.’
Natasha pulled herself up and let herself be led back down the corridor to a room with a glass door. Her mouth tasted foul.
‘May I have my bag, please?’ There was
a roll of peppermints in the side pocket.
‘Not yet.’
‘What time is it?’
‘A few minutes after eight. You’ve been asleep just over an hour.’
‘I need to go home. You can’t keep me here.’
‘You’ll have to wait a bit longer. We’re doing our best to organise the interview tonight.’
The woman walked out, banging the door behind her. And it came back to her, the overheated rooms, the plastic chairs, the smell of sweat, the heavy doors. She had bitten her foster mother and been returned to the children’s home. For twenty-four hours she had been placed in secure accommodation. Once again, she heard the clang of the door and the rasp of the key in the lock.
It was a memory, nothing more. Memories could do this. Could take you to a place of horror you thought you had left behind. She would never go back there. She would never again be locked up. The police seemed determined to go through with this farce. Maybe they had to achieve a certain number of arrests. But she would break free as she had always broken free. Soon she would be home with Luke. Tomorrow she would return to the court and speak out against the woman who had attacked her.
* * *
The interview room was as hot as the corridor, with the same brown metal and plastic chairs. The solicitor looked too young to know what he was doing, and her first thought was that he would be no use to her. But she felt calmer as he gripped her hand, looked firmly into her eyes and said, ‘Don’t worry. We’ll get you out of here.’
His own eyes were a startling blue and he had the childish good looks of a singer in a boy band. They had five minutes together before the start of the interview. She told him what she planned to say. She was very clear. He nodded and said, ‘Right then, over to you.’