by David Hatton
‘Who was that?’
‘A journalist. He wanted the scoop on Jackie.’
‘At least you can get rid of him. Can’t get rid of these lot so easily.’
‘Why, what’s up with them?’
‘They’re as bad as the journalists. They didn’t bother to come and see us for years, now suddenly they’re here pretending they care. But really they just want the gossip.’
‘They’re not that bad,’ Michael said.
‘All I’ve had all day is people asking me about Elizabeth and Robert. Where’s Jane and Theodore?’ Isabella enquired, peering around the restaurant.
‘They didn’t want to come to the wake. They left straight after the service. After the week they’ve had I don’t blame them. To be honest, I might leave myself. I’m in no mood to socialise.’
He ordered a cab and travelled back to Castlefield. The sunshine had blossomed throughout the afternoon and the sunny walk alongside the canal eased his grief despite walking past the tomb which had encased his wife for months.
An application on his phone flashed. It was a local newspaper revealing the breaking headlines. His fall-out with Jackie had made the news already. He rolled his eyes and shut the phone off; he’d read enough about himself for one day. He carried on his walk, remembering the moments he’d shared with Suzanne and Jason down the towpath on summer days.
A canal barge disturbed his reminiscence. Music blasted from the side and drunken girls danced on the roof. A meaty woman next to the controls caked in make-up and with peroxide blonde hair had an L plate, usually found on a learner-driver’s car, placed over her sparkly pink dress. A pink inflatable penis tagged behind. The hen and her friends wolf-whistled at the widower before flashing their chests as they sailed past.
He paced up to his apartment. Opening the French windows, he stepped out onto the balcony and lifted out a single yellow tulip from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He hung it over the balcony and let it go, watching it slowly float down onto the water. As it sailed away, he wiped a tear and said goodbye to the love of his life.
Manchester’s Crown Court rested in the centre of the busy hub of Spinningfields. The concrete tower block appeared historic next to the modern glass structures beside it, which were made up of offices, shops and restaurants. Outside a small patch of green provided an outdoor cinema experience, and a pop-up bar served food and drink for the busy workers nearby.
Outside the court, Michael and his father stood dressed in the same suits they’d worn on the day before for Suzanne’s funeral. Daniel hovered while Michael finished his cigarette. He took one last drag, threw it on the floor and rubbed out the burning tip with the sole of his shoe.
Inside, the court was far from anything Michael had expected. Televisions and computers lined the walls and the desks where the barristers sat patiently, waiting for the performance to begin. Microphones hung off long black stalks before each table.
‘All rise!’ a voice called from the back. Out of a side door, the judge, dressed in a red robe and a long white wig, entered and took a seat on the raised platform. His round face sported a large red nose and his cheeks dropped down to each side. The spectators took their seats while the judge looked over the paperwork before him. In the dock, Elizabeth Walker, dressed in a black suit, sat with her hair tied back and stared down at the floor, unable to look back at the Walker family as they awaited her fate.
‘Can the defendant stand?’ the judge called. Elizabeth obliged, holding on to the wooden case surrounding her. ‘Please can you confirm your name?’
‘Elizabeth Phoebe Walker.’
‘Mrs Walker, do you understand you are here today on the charge of the manslaughter of Jason Walker and the murder of Suzanne Walker?’
‘I do.’
‘Very well, sit down. Where is the prosecution?’
A woman in the front row in a black robe and a white wig stood up. ‘Here, Your Honour.’
‘What’s the evidence you have regarding the defendant in the manslaughter case?’
‘We have her own admission of guilt, provided in the interrogation, as well as her husband’s account, which he is willing to repeat in court.’
‘Very well, and the murder case?’
‘Elizabeth Walker was the last person to see her alive, Your Honour.’
‘Anything else?’
‘In the search of Mrs Walker’s house we found a blunt instrument in her refuse bin; a crow bar matching the wound which Suzanne Walker’s body had. There’s dried blood on the instrument, which the DNA results matched to the victim.’
A gasp echoed around the court. Elizabeth wept and buried her head in her knees. Her barrister turned towards her and lowed his head. Michael felt a nudge in his right rib; he turned and saw his father’s raised eyebrows and his elbow poking into his side.
‘Thank you.’ The judge waved his hand to the prosecution and the lawyer sat down. ‘And the defence?’
‘Little has been proven to put Elizabeth in the frame for Mrs Walker’s death. She was the last person to see her alive, yes, but that doesn’t make her the killer. As for this object found in the Walker’s residence, she’s also not the only person who lives in that house.’
‘Thank you.’ The judge turned to Elizabeth. ‘Please can the defendant rise?’
Elizabeth stood up and wiped away a tear.
‘Mrs Walker, you have been charged with the manslaughter of Jason Walker. How do you plead?’
‘Guilty.’
A few grumbles met her response.
‘Mrs Walker, you’ve been charged with the murder of Suzanne Walker. How do you plead?’
All eyes turned on the feeble creature behind the glass. A moment’s silence hovered. She turned to Michael. They locked eyes for several seconds before turning towards her lawyer, who whispered, ‘Not guilty,’ in her direction. Her quivering lips opened but no words escaped them.
‘Mrs Walker, how do you plead?’
‘Guilty.’
The crowd gasped and a stunned Michael covered his mouth.
‘Thank you, Mrs Walker.’
‘Wait!’ Elizabeth’s lawyer called. ‘I need to speak to my client. This is completely wrong. I need to speak to her urgently.’
‘Sit down!’ the judge bellowed. ‘Your client has made her part in these crimes perfectly clear. Now, Mrs Walker, as you have pleaded guilty to both charges you will remain in custody until Friday when you will be sentenced. Case closed.’
A police officer approached the defendant and handcuffed her, before taking her away from the dock and out of the court. Outside, Michael lit up a cigarette and watched a blue van with blacked-out square windows carry Elizabeth away.
23.
“If a thing loves, it is infinite.”
- William Blake (1788)
The light grey granite exterior formed a paradox with the colourful creativity within the seven-storey building. Above, the luminous red letters spelled out Granada, a Mecca for aspiring actors and directors who dreamed of walking through its doors. To one side, empty red-bricked terraced houses formed the filming location of a local soap opera. Across the street a former Victorian school, overlooking the studio, sheltered the rich and famous who resided there before their early morning shoots. The roof, which once acted as the school playground, now formed a terrace for the lodge’s guests to watch a couple, dressed in beige and red anoraks, hobbling across the cobbles practising the lines printed on their scripts, now dampened by the drizzle which nibbled the corners of the smudged words.
Pacing towards the studios, Courtney Sandstone gripped on to her umbrella, tearing from her hands as the moist winds blew. Wrapped in a thick purple coat, a pink woolly scarf and black denim jeans, she stormed through St John’s Park above the twenty-two thousand occupants buried beneath the former cemetery. Her white canvas shoes couldn’t protect her cold feet from the puddles she dunked in. Courtney’s short black and white hair was moulded into spikes, forming a subtle Mohican diagonall
y across her scalp.
Arriving at the car park, she took out her driving licence and printed confirmation of her invitation to the studios. The security guard waved her through, handing her a laminated pass. The pass hung from a blue lanyard which she looped around her neck and walked into the reception of the media tower. Inside, a young man caught her eye. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one. She’d have asked him out had she been a decade younger. Fresh out of university, the muscly dark-haired runner greeted her and escorted her from reception. A microphone drooped down from a pair of earphones, looped over his head.
‘Our last visitor is here,’ he said into the microphone.
‘Have you been to this kinda thing before?’ he asked. The identity card on his chest informed Courtney that his name was Rory and he was a runner for the television channel.
‘No, it’s my first time.’
‘Ah well, I’ve seen plenty of these things go on here. I’d just say relax. It’s not frightening.’ He winked, gave her a gentle pat on the back and a warm smile pushed up his cheeks. ‘Have you come to connect with someone tonight or are you just nosey?’
‘Just came to see what it’s all about.’
‘Fair enough. I’m hoping for a meet and greet. I’m trying to get in touch with my late girlfriend. She had a brain haemorrhage when we were at university. Absolutely crushed me.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Courtney awkwardly replied, surprised by the openness of the young professional. ‘That must have been hard.’
‘Hey, we’ve all lost people at the end of the day. Are you telling me you haven’t got your own story?’
‘I suppose. Well, I lost my dad last year. He had a heart attack. It was out of the blue. I was his only daughter and I was always a daddy’s girl. I took it quite hard.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. See, we all have stories. Don’t you have family to lean on?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘You’re the only person who turned up alone tonight.’
She turned to her right and spied the empty space where her guest should have been. Her boyfriend had made his excuses claiming he had to work but she had her suspicions that this just wasn’t his thing.
‘Well not really. My mum died a few years ago. I don’t speak to my brothers.’
‘You look too young to be an orphan.’ Rory winked.
‘You charmer.’ She giggled and patted his muscly arm. ‘My mum had cancer and my father… well I think the stress got him in the end. Politics does that to you.’
‘Politics?’ Rory sounded intrigued.
‘Yeah he was a local MP. Sir Alfred Sandstone. You may have heard of him.’
‘Nah, I’m not into politics. Well here we are, just go in there and take a seat on the second row. The show will start shortly.’
‘Thank you, Rory. I hope you manage to contact your girlfriend.’
He smiled, nodded and held the door open for her. Inside, a large warehouse was covered wall-to-wall with black curtains. In the centre, thirty people dressed in bright multi-coloured tops perched on tiered benches. Matching visitor passes rested upon their chests and their hands held tissues at the ready. On the second row, an empty space held a sheet of paper with her name on it. She took a seat on the uncomfortable wooden bench which reminded her of gym class at school.
Surrounding the audience, the crew, dressed in black t-shirts and microphone headsets, ran around with clipboards and cameras. At the front, a stage held two couches sitting parallel, facing each other. Between, a glass coffee table supported a jug of water and two empty glasses. Behind the couches, a purple patterned velvet-covered wall surrounded a fireplace, illuminated by a small red light in the centre.
‘Five minutes everybody!’ shouted the director. His staff quietened and found their places surrounding the stage, glancing into the cameras and listening into the recordings. The lights dimmed and the director walked on stage to address his audience.
‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for coming here tonight. You are going to be part of a marvellous piece of television. I encourage you to come forward and be open to get the most out of tonight. Remember you will be on television, so while we can bleep you out as we’re not live, we’d prefer it if you didn’t swear. Please don’t mention brand names either. I must reiterate, despite the countless forms you’ve signed this evening, that by being in this audience you’re happy to be on television. Therefore I give you this final opportunity to escape now.’
The silence confirmed the audience’s commitment to their participation.
‘Very well then. In which case, let’s begin! Please welcome to the stage, Ms Jackie Wallace!’
Dressed in a black two-piece suit, Jackie walked from behind the wall of the set and onto the stage. The crystals embedded into her jacket sparkled as she stepped onto the platform. A small black microphone was clipped onto her pink cardigan above her bosom with a wire looping around to a radio transmitter attached to her waist.
‘My dear audience, thank you for coming here tonight. It’s an absolute honour to be able to perform on television. This my first TV show, so please bear with me. While we have rehearsed to a degree, it obviously depends on who comes forward from the beyond. Anyway we’re in a rush so we better get started.’ She turned to the director. ‘Alan, when you’re ready.’
‘OK, guys, counting down in three, two, one action!’
Jackie turned towards the camera reading the teleprompter.
‘Good evening and welcome to my spiritual show. I’m Jackie Wallace. I’ve been giving readings to people all over the country for many years but tonight you will get to see an insight into my shows right from your living room. I must stress that all of our audience members tonight have volunteered to come on the show and I never use stooges. While by law I need to advise that this show is purely entertainment and my work is not scientifically proven, I would like to state that nobody has disproven me either.’ She winked as she read the last line.
‘Now let me take you…’ she continued, ‘… to the other side.’
The lights dimmed and Jackie faced towards her studio audience. ‘I’ve got a little girl here who died very suddenly. Bless her, she’s lost all her little fingers and toes. She’s calling for her mother. Is Joan here?’
A woman on the third road lifted her hand and a spotlight moved over her. She had jet black hair which dangled down to her chest and her fresh spray-tan had shaded her into a satsuma orange. A metal stud pierced through her left nostril. A red turtleneck sweater covered her torso while her lower half remained invisible behind the people in front.
‘I’m Joan and I lost my daughter, Matilda, to meningitis three years ago.’
‘Ah, Joan! So brave of you to come here tonight. I’m seeing her driving around in a little plastic toy car. It’s red and yellow. Does that ring a bell?’
‘It does.’ Joan nodded and the audience applauded.
‘She also had a little play kitchen. She had dreams of being a chef.’
‘She did!’ Joan screeched. The audience cheered.
‘She loves you very much. She’s happy and safe and wishes you’d stop crying so much. Am I right in thinking there’s another child on its way?’
‘Well my husband and I are trying…’
‘That’ll bring you peace,’ Jackie said. ‘I’ll leave your daughter’s love with you.’
Joan took to her seat and the audience shuffled, turning away from the grieving mother and towards the medium on stage. Alan walked on stage shouting, ‘Cut!’ before prompting the make-up artists to apply more foundation to the pale performer’s face. He whispered into her ear, pointing at camera two. Five minutes later, Alan scratched his head and recommenced the show.
‘Action!’
‘Now I’m going to read one of the emails sent into the show.’ Jackie took a seat on one of the couches and picked up an electronic tablet which was placed onto the glass coffee table. Sliding the screen up and down, she began to read out the
email.
‘Dear Jackie, my husband, John, died last year.’
‘Cut!’ Alan shouted. ‘Jackie, can you look into the camera a little bit more. The email is also available on the teleprompter if that helps.’
‘Of course.’ Jackie smiled and nodded.
‘Thanks. Three, two, one… action!’
‘Dear Jackie, my husband, John, died last year. He had prostate cancer and died very quickly, preventing us from being able to say how we felt about each other. We also didn’t manage to sort a lot of our financial arrangements. I know he had life insurance saved up but I’m not sure which provider he used. I’ve searched the house up and down and I can’t find anything. Please can you help me find his life insurance as I’m struggling for money at the moment and can you ensure my John knows how much he was loved. Love, Martha.’
A silence swept the show as Jackie took a moment to reread the email. A moment later, she turned to the camera and recommenced her smile.
‘Oh, Martha, it’s so hard when a loved one dies, let alone the extra stress of financial woes. Unfortunately your financial problems went beyond your husband’s death, he struggled in the living world, so much so that he cancelled the insurance plan so he could save on his monthly outgoings. However he has told me how sorry he is that he can’t help you financially but assures me that there is some money coming to you soon, so just hold on. He said he’s not in any pain anymore and he is happy on the other side. He loves you very much and knows how much he is loved here. I’ll leave your husband’s love with you, Martha. If you at home would like a message, please email in, an address will be available in the end-credits.’
The cameras cut and the production crew scurried around, smartening Jackie up, adjusting her microphone and refilling her water. Rory approached Courtney and tapped her on the shoulder.
‘Hi, Courtney, are you enjoying the show?’
‘Yeah, it’s going great. She’s really good.’
‘The next part of the show is a one-on-one interview with an audience member. Would you like to be part of it?’