by Kate Helm
‘Naughty but nice,’ he says, and his grin reminds me so much of the man I met thirteen years ago.
‘I’m hoping to do the Fielding case,’ I say, as I take a warm doughnut, ‘for this art book.’
‘Really?’ Oli frowns. ‘That’s a blast from the past.’
‘Going to see Jim Fielding on Saturday, to try to talk him into it. He called the publisher back straightaway, so maybe that’s a good sign.’
I explain the idea behind the book, as we head towards the rides.
‘Fascinating concept. Why did you pick that case?’
‘You think it’s for old time’s sake? Actually the publisher suggested it. But obviously I remember it very clearly for other reasons.’
He nods. ‘You and me both.’
We laugh. Is this what being grown-up is? Being able to remember the pleasure before the pain, and feel nostalgic?
‘I’m nervous, though. It’s one of those cases that got under my skin.’
Without thinking, I glance back along the pier, half expecting to see Charlie. No one is there.
‘Yes. Bloody awful case but that Christmas card was a knockout blow. Daniel Fielding knew his number was up, right then.’
‘Still took him another week to change his plea.’
Oli bites into the doughnut and smiles.
‘Fat and sugar and a salty sea breeze. Bliss. Yeah, I still remember the defence team’s faces when he said he was guilty, they weren’t expecting it. Fielding was an odd kid. I know we went heavy on the jealousy motive, but there was no history of violence. A bit of drunk and disorderly, but only after his mother committed suicide.’
I stop. ‘I knew Sharon Fielding was dead but not how she died.’
‘I imagine the defence would have brought it up, if they’d had the chance.’
‘How did she do it?’
‘She jumped off the Clifton Suspension Bridge in Bristol.’
The doughnut has solidified in my mouth, a choking thing. I force myself to swallow.
Oli doesn’t notice.
‘Who knows what grief did to him? You captured his vulnerability in that first sketch; I remember seeing it before I even met you, and it really hit me. He looked lost.’
Daniel’s face is the one that I see sometimes before I go to sleep, when I replay old cases in my head. I assumed it was because he was my first commission for the PA, the one that made me.
But maybe it was because we were both as lost as each other.
I glance down, through the gap in the decking boards. The grey-green water roils beneath us.
‘I can’t imagine jumping. Why did his mother do it?’
‘Difficult childhood. In and out of care, I think. Plus, there were rumours about Jim not exactly being the perfect husband.’ Oli wipes the sugar off his fingers with a napkin. ‘Not that it’s any excuse for what Daniel did.’
We get up, walk past the Haunted House, the screaming faces so badly chipped they’re more pathetic than scary.
‘Sometimes people do things that have no explanation,’ I say, finally.
I hear shrieks. The first kids are arriving after school, running towards us, feet clattering along the planks, pale legs exposed by hitched-up skirts.
Oli stops next to the dodgems, frowning. He takes my hand, and I feel that electric charge, momentarily. Then I remind myself he is my friend. No more, no less.
‘Georgie, are you sure about going back to that case? I’ve never seen much sense in revisiting what can’t be changed.’
The way he looks at me, I could almost convince myself he knows who I really am, and what I did. Even though I never told him about my past, he knew there was something. We spent the last six months before I broke off our engagement in a tug-of-war, him trying to make me trust him, me holding back.
I let go of his hand.
‘It’s a commission. That’s all.’
We’re near the end of the pier now, alongside the Crazy Mouse, the loops and curves silhouetted against the grey clouds.
‘You are all right, Georgie?’
‘Never better.’
‘Only you seem . . . distracted. I know we’re not together but you’d still tell me if I could help you with anything, wouldn’t you?’
I look out at the horizon, the end of the world. I think of Charlie, in the garden square, on the road, in court.
‘Was there anything else about the Fielding case that didn’t come out in court?’
‘You’re not going to come over all Law and Order on me, are you? Daniel’s probably out on licence by now anyway, if he’s been a good boy. Justice has been done.’
I nod. ‘I suppose.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, the book is a great opportunity for you. And the countryside near where it all happened is beautiful, in a Gothic, Brothers Grimm sort of way. Word of warning, though. Jim Fielding will try to chat you up. He might be a hero but he also has an eye for the ladies. Watch yourself.’
I smile. ‘All right. I’ll pack my chastity belt.’
‘Good. You don’t want to end up being the third Mrs Fielding. Not when you remember what happened to the first two.’ He takes the empty doughnut bag from me, rolls it into a ball, and drop-kicks it into a waste bin. ‘Now, how about we sneak in one game of air hockey before my train home?
12
I watch Neena as she broadcasts live outside Bristol Crown Court. A new day, a new set of violent criminals for me to draw.
Pretty much everyone who was covering the Brighton rape trial has headed west today for the sentencing of two bank robbers. Oli’s witnesses weren’t due to deliver anything headline-grabbing so the circus has come to a different town.
Usually, I refuse to come to this court – the memories are too painful. But I steeled myself this time, made an exception because the Forest of Dean is less than two hours’ drive from here. There, tomorrow, I have to persuade Jim Fielding to relive the worst time of his life, for a picture.
‘As he sentenced the brothers, the judge remarked on the CCTV which showed the guilty men laughing as they beat their victim. He told them, “You were also laughing at civilised society, at everyone who believes in right and wrong.” ’
Neena is in her element: trial reports are her speciality, delivering juicy evidence in grave BBC tones. A rent-a-quote MP rages next to her, calling for the return of capital or corporal punishment, I can’t hear which.
When she wraps up, she walks over to me.
‘How was that?’
‘You looked the part, as always.’ I turn to her. ‘Look. Sorry about the sketch. I know it wasn’t my best.’
She shoots me a nervous look, caught out by my admission.
‘It did the job. It was there on time.’
I saw Charlie again, in court. And later, when I had to recall the faces of the guilty men, and the unfamiliar circuit judge, all I could picture was the small boy in the red football shirt, standing next to the dock, kicking the oak frame with his bare feet.
‘Come on, Neena. The robbers looked like cartoons.’
‘I’d be worrying more about the judge if I were you. He looks at least three stone heavier in your picture, and he’s very touchy about his weight.’ She laughs half-heartedly. ‘Look, are you OK, George? Only you don’t seem yourself.’
Not myself.
When I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the windscreen of the outside-broadcast truck, I didn’t see Georgia, the cool, professional court artist.
I saw Suzanne. The tragic victim, the unreliable witness.
‘George?’
Could I tell Neena about the visions? She’s my closest female friend, and she was there for me when I split up with Oli, deliberately not siding with either of us.
But she’s also employed by my main client. I daren’t let her doubt me, not until I work out for myself what’s going on. I smile.
‘Didn’t sleep much, knowing I had to be up early to drive here.’
She sighs. ‘Ugh. Sleep. What’
s that?’
‘The twins?’
‘It was supposed to get better when they went to nursery. But they chatter to each other until past midnight and then they cry because they’re too tired to sleep. Honestly, I used to look forward to weekends but I am almost hoping for a traffic jam on the way home.’
I smile. ‘You wouldn’t give them up for the world.’
‘No. You’re right. I’ll see you back in Brighton on Monday, OK?’ She puts her hand on my arm. ‘And try to get some rest. I’m worried about you.’
‘No need. We all have off days.’
‘Yes, but—’ She stops herself.
‘What?’
‘I’m not supposed to tell you, but . . . The news editors have noticed the drawings are a bit rough. One is already trying to replace court drawings with graphics, to save money. Your work this week hasn’t done you any favours.’
‘Oh. Right.’ I want to throw up.
‘Just . . . go home and enjoy that lovely seaside air and come back on Monday ready to do your best work. Because when you’re on form, there’s no one else who can capture the drama like you do.’
She squeezes my arm again, and I nod.
‘Thank you for the warning.’
As she walks back towards the truck to check the newsroom have given her the all-clear, I try to think positive. The meeting with Jim is an opportunity. It’s no longer just about putting Maureen’s nose out of joint. If I can get Jim to sit for me – even paint a picture the publishers use on the cover – it will surely shut those producers up. I know I’m good enough.
And maybe seeing Charlie is just a manifestation of how important this is to me. It can’t be a coincidence that I’m seeing the boy now.
Or it might just be my usual obsession with guilt and victims. Perhaps what I need is to draw a hero for once.
Either way, painting Jim could build my profile, and help me get my head straighter.
And hopefully send Charlie away for good.
13
As soon as I get back behind the wheel of the hire car, I put my foot down. Once I leave Bristol city centre, I can relax a little. I love how driving makes me feel.
In control.
I started learning the day I turned seventeen. Trevor taught me in his big old Jeep, even though my feet barely reached the pedals. We’d do endless circuits of the boggy field at the back of the farm, and he took the mickey, but in a kind way, joking about lady drivers.
Marion and Trevor saved me. My grandfather – Mum’s father, widowed and as brittle as old leaves – was the only relative who could have given me a home after the incident. My social worker tried so hard to persuade me, but I knew by then: family meant nothing. Worse than nothing. Family meant danger.
So instead, I went a hundred miles east, to this couple who had a gift for working with difficult older kids. They took in Suzanne – wounded, stubborn, defiant – and gave her the space to become Georgia.
Of course, they were being paid to do it, and in my first days there, I threw it back at them constantly.
‘You’ve only got me here because I’m taking care of your fucking mortgage on your fucking ugly house.’
I never swore when I was Daddy’s girl.
They didn’t swear back. Instead, they soaked up my anger like sponges. And their house wasn’t ugly, just ramshackle, a series of beige bungalows adapted originally for their disabled son, who died when he was six. They knew pain, understood you couldn’t take it away from someone.
I couldn’t help but heal there, just like their two butter-soft rescue Staffies, and the flock of former battery chickens who stopped pecking each other, grew rust-coloured feathers and learned to lay again.
I stayed for six years: for the first few months, I refused to go to school, or leave the farm at all. When my father’s trial began, I locked myself in my room, and it was Trevor who coaxed me out.
‘You’ll regret it if you don’t take the chance to tell the jury what happened. For your brother’s sake. And your mum’s.’
They took me back to Bristol in the mud-spattered Jeep, and Trevor circled Small Street and Quay Street once I was called to give evidence, so he could take me home the instant it was over. It took less than forty minutes.
I confirmed who I was, and a little about our lives before. But I wouldn’t – couldn’t – speak about that day, not even from behind the curtain that stopped me seeing my father in the dock.
The defence barristers were relentless: ‘Could there have been someone threatening your father, making him say what he said when he locked you in? The powerful people he believed were coming for him, coming for all of you?’
It was all his defence team had to go on: a mumbled, incoherent statement he gave in hospital where he was being treated for his bodged suicide attempt. He talked about being followed, being in trouble, then later he clammed up again. I think he must have realised how mad it sounded. And pride was important to my father, even when he’d destroyed everything else.
Yet the defence were only doing their job. I had told the police in my first interview that I thought I’d heard other voices while I was locked in my room. It was a distraction, of course; the oh-so-gentle detectives later told me there was no sign of a break-in, no DNA from anyone else in the house.
In court, each minute ticked by as slowly as it had when I was alone, in my room, staring at the key, unsure when to set myself free.
The judge let me stand down in the end.
‘This young woman has already suffered so much. My condolences for your losses, Miss Ross.’
I was excused, but after my evidence was finished, I found I couldn’t make myself leave. Part of me kept hoping there would be a moment of understanding, or revelation – that Dad would suddenly be able to prove it wasn’t him who did this terrible thing. That he would somehow absolve me of the guilt I felt for what I did and didn’t do that Saturday.
But there was no absolution: my father refused to give evidence.
Daniel Fielding did the same. All the journalists had been speculating the week of his own trial about what he’d say to defend himself. But instead of giving evidence, he got into the witness box and simply said he wanted to plead guilty.
Perhaps if Daniel had had the right help after his mother died, he might have been saved, as I was. And conversely, if I hadn’t had Marion and Trevor, might I too have turned evil?
The Bristol traffic has cleared, and I accelerate onto the motorway. It’s been raining all week, but now as I speed past, the bright sunshine makes the farmland glow emerald green, and the wild flowers on the embankments seem to grow before my eyes.
The familiarity of the landscape fills me with dread. Frome was surrounded by fields like these. An idyllic place to grow up . . .
I turn the radio to maximum, a rock station drowning out the memories. The car thunders towards the iridescent white struts of the Severn Bridge and then I’m crossing the water, away from my past.
14
The countryside thickens, inky green woodland encroaching on the road. In fairy tales, and tabloid stories, forests are where bad things happen. But I drive faster, because there are no memories here to trouble me.
‘In two hundred yards, turn left. Follow the road for two miles.’
As I near Ashdean, the dashboard gauge shows the temperature falling: sixteen degrees, fourteen degrees, thirteen. The cerulean sky fades to silver, and the sunshine disappears behind the dense branches.
The sign as I enter the town reads ASHDEAN – THE ENGINE ROOM OF THE FOREST.
I’ve never been before: court artists only go to the scene of the crime if the jurors do too and at Daniel’s trial, they saw videos of Jim’s burned-out house instead.
This town is the colour of soot. As the car judders in and out of potholes, its narrow streets are deserted. In Brighton, Friday night draws everyone to the sea, the week’s stresses over, the fun about to begin. Here, it seems, people stay home.
‘At
the roundabout, take the second exit.’
I’ve arranged to stay at a local pub with rooms tonight, but I’ve set the satnav to first take me to the house where Tessa and her baby died. I don’t want to be a voyeur, but this commission is important to my career, and I want to get it right.
And I’ve not forgotten that Charlie was injured here, too.
Reflexively I check my mirror, in case he’s appeared on the back seat. No. Perhaps now I’m well rested, I won’t see any more hallucinations.
I drive past the old market square. On the left, there’s a bus stop and a bay for two taxis – do they work for Jim, I wonder? He runs a cab firm, along with his construction business.
The road takes me past a war memorial, and a weathered brown statue of a miner and a forester, armed with axes and head-torches. That was what the men of Ashdean did, before they closed the collieries down.
Nothing looks open. There’s a Boots, and a Greggs, and the inevitable former Woolworths, transformed into a pound shop. The other frontages are shuttered, but it’s not clear whether they’ve closed for the night, or for good.
‘At the junction, bear left.’
The road through the town splits. The right fork leads towards more rain-soaked cottages, but my route takes me towards a newer part of town, past a high school, squat and brown, flanked by a patchy playing field. Then rows of houses, the odd one derelict, drawing the eye like rotten teeth in a gaping mouth. The area is seedier than I had imagined.
‘Turn left up Sycamore Road.’
As I take the turn, I see the sign, less rusted than the rest:
TO OAKLAND CLOSE, MAPLE AVENUE, CHERRY BLOSSOM LANE.
For a few weeks after Christmas 2003, number 9 Cherry Blossom Lane was an address everyone knew by heart. As I take the second right turn, I recognise the tall town houses. Number 9 is the middle house in a row of three.
It looks utterly ordinary, not a place you’d expect to find heroism. Or evil, for that matter.
I reverse to park, and in the silence of the deserted street, the clutch is shrill as a scream. I get out of the car and walk past the neighbouring houses. A lime-green paddling pool, half-deflated, sits under the window frame of the first. In the last driveway there’s an old sports car with bricks in place of wheels.