by Paul Burston
‘This is me you’re talking to,’ Emma said firmly. ‘You’re not fine, and we both know it. So stop being so evasive and tell me what’s wrong.’
He took a while to answer. ‘It’s the court case. What if she gets off? I’ll never hear the last of it. I’ll never be rid of her. She’s relentless, Em. She’ll just keep on and on and—’
‘Tom!’ Emma interrupted him. ‘She won’t get off. You’ve said it yourself: the weight of evidence against her is too strong. They wouldn’t be prosecuting her if they didn’t think they had a strong case. And she breached her bail conditions. That’s bound to go against her.’
‘I know. But the thing is…’ Tom took a gulp of wine, avoiding Emma’s gaze. ‘I may have encouraged her. Just a bit, at the start.’
‘Encouraged her in what way?’
He paused before replying. ‘You know what they say – don’t feed the trolls. Well, I did. I fed the troll. I replied to some of her tweets and emails. We had a correspondence, of sorts.’
Emma frowned. ‘Whatever for?’
‘I found her amusing, at first. I didn’t know who I was dealing with. Not then. She seemed quite normal to begin with. Then, when she turned on me and started humiliating me on Twitter – well, I was angry. I said things. Things I regret.’
‘What things?’
‘Just stupid things. Insults. I called her names. I had a rant about her on Facebook, the night she turned up at my flat. I shared her address.’
Emma’s eyes widened. ‘You did what?’
‘I know,’ Tom said, shamefaced. ‘But I was drunk and angry. I deleted it first thing the next morning. I don’t think she’s on Facebook, so I don’t know if she’s aware of it or not.’
‘How did you get hold of her address?’
‘The same way she got hold of mine, I imagine. I Googled it.’
‘Have you told the police?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t want them to think badly of me. What was it you said earlier – that I need to make a good impression? That’s what I’ve been trying to do. And you have no idea how hard it is, Em. Sitting there in the station, going over it all for hours on end. It wears you down. You even start to doubt yourself. What if the judge takes one look at me and decides I’m some overprivileged man abusing the criminal justice system to silence a poor innocent woman?’
Emma reached for his hand. ‘They won’t, Tom. The woman harassed you. She even turned up at your flat, for heaven’s sake! This other stuff – the insults, the stuff on Facebook – I don’t think it was very sensible of you, but it doesn’t alter the fact that a crime was committed. It won’t make any difference in court.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. Now, is that all?’
‘That’s all.’
‘Good!’ Emma stood and started clearing away the plates. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I know it’s been a nightmare. But try not to dwell on it so much. Focus on your book. Stay strong. A few more weeks and this will all be over. She’ll be found guilty and you can put this whole thing behind you.’
Tom sighed. ‘You’re probably right. It just feels like it’s been dragging on forever. If I’d known it would take this long, I’d never have gone to the police in the first place.’
If Emma took this as a reproach for urging him to make the call, she didn’t let it show. ‘You don’t mean that. If you hadn’t gone to the police, there’s no saying what would have happened. For all we know, she could be dangerous.’
Tom stiffened.
‘Sorry,’ Emma added quickly. ‘That was stupid of me.’
‘It’s fine, really. I’m okay.’
‘Are you sure?’
Tom puts his hand to his heart as if taking an oath. ‘As God is my witness.’
‘You’re an atheist,’ Emma reminded him. ‘Now, why don’t I make us some coffee?’
‘Perfect,’ he replied. ‘I’ll just pop out for another cigarette.’
It was gone eleven when Tom finally left Emma’s flat, refusing her offer to call him a cab and promising to phone her first thing in the morning. He’d said more than he’d meant to, and bitterly regretted those last few glasses of wine. The coffee had sobered him up just enough to let the remorse kick in.
The leafy side street was lined with parked cars, blank windscreens reflecting a bright half-moon in a cloudless sky. He set off at a pace and stopped as he approached a row of wheelie bins. Fumbling in his trouser pocket, he took out the packet of cigarettes and stared at it ruefully. Then he lifted the lid on the nearest bin and tossed the packet inside.
Traffic snarled as he turned onto Brixton Hill. There was a bus stop a few yards ahead, but Tom made it a rule to never take buses after dark. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d felt threatened on a night bus, low-level homophobic banter escalating into threats of violence while his fellow passengers looked the other way. You could be knifed on a night bus and nobody would intervene. He could always hail a black cab, but it was still mild and dry, and the walk would do him good. He hadn’t been for his morning run today. A bit of exercise would help alleviate the guilt.
Crowds of people were milling around outside the Ritzy cinema, taking advantage of the warm night air. At times like this it was easy to forget that this area of London had more than its fair share of social tensions and that some streets weren’t safe, especially for a man who didn’t look as if he belonged here.
Tom straightened his shoulders and pushed the thought away. He walked purposefully and kept to the main thoroughfares, heading along the high street and past the police station where he’d spent the earlier part of the evening, then up Brixton Road to the Oval, where he veered left and followed the bus route around the cricket ground and on to Vauxhall. Passing the MI6 building, he felt the cool air coming off the river and turned up the collar of his jacket. It was probably just the chill in the air, but as he turned into his street he felt a shiver crawl over his skin.
Man up, he told himself. It’s all in your mind.
But his sense of unease deepened as he approached his building, hand in pocket, fumbling for his key fob. He thought back to that night a little less than a month ago. He had been arriving home, just as he was now, when Evie Stokes suddenly emerged from the shadows – hair unkempt, grey eyes glazed with alcohol, beseeching him in the half-light to let her in so they could ‘talk things through’.
Tom shuddered at the memory. How many nights had she lain in wait for him like that? What did she expect him to do? Retract his police statement? Call the whole thing off? It was far too late for that.
He remembered the look on her face when he told her he was calling the police – confused, as if he was speaking a foreign language, or his words somehow didn’t make sense. Here she was breaching her bail conditions and it didn’t seem to have entered her head that she was doing anything wrong. And then the police arriving and her screaming blue murder as they dragged her away.
If Tom hadn’t known what he was dealing with before that night, he sure as hell did afterwards. She was obsessed, unhinged, a basket case. As he informed the arresting officer and later confirmed in a further statement, the woman had threatened him with violence. The only comfort was in knowing that at least she wasn’t armed. Not then. But what if there was a next time?
Stepping up to the brutal modernist block he called home – a fortress of concrete, steel and toughened glass, secured with a digital door-entry system – Tom half expected her to appear again, pleading with him or possibly even brandishing a knife. But all he saw was his own reflection in the glass. Heaving a sigh of relief, he swiped his key card and stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a satisfying click.
Later, in the silence of his vast living room overlooking the Thames, he felt the darkness pressing against the windows and wondered if he’d ever have peace of mind again.
7
DAY FOUR
I dreamed about you last night, T
om. In the dream, you weren’t the monster you’ve become. You were the charming man who enjoyed my company and showered me with compliments – the one who said we were kindred spirits; the one who found me funny and fearless; the one who sought my advice on everything from dealing with critics to character development and ironing out plot holes in his latest book.
We were in a bar down by the river in Vauxhall, drinking ice-cold beer from tall glasses as the sun set slowly over Battersea Power Station. It was one of those rare, warm summer evenings in London, when everyone forgets about the pollution and the property prices and the misery of the Northern Line and behaves as if they’re on holiday, flocking to the riverside in their linen shirts and backless dresses, ordering tapas and drinking al fresco.
And there we were, right in the middle of it all, barely aware of the crowds of onlookers craning their necks to see if that was really the famous writer who was rumoured to live nearby and whose latest book was receiving such glowing reviews in the weekend supplements. Little did they know how greatly the mystery woman at his side had contributed to that book’s success, that without her input there wouldn’t be a book at all.
You were wearing a short-sleeved white shirt, designed to show off your physique and drawing admiring glances from most of the women and quite a few of the men. But you only had eyes for me. We were deep in conversation, lost in a world of our own, finishing off each other’s sentences and flitting from one topic to another with speed and ease, as only kindred spirits can. It was my idea of heaven, Tom. And from the way you acted – touching my wrist to emphasise a point, listening intently as I offered an opinion – I knew in my heart that it was yours, too.
But when I woke up this morning and logged onto my laptop, I was reminded that the man I once held in such high regard no longer exists, if he ever really existed at all. In his place is a petty, mean-spirited man who lies and twists the truth to fit his own agenda and is so driven by anger he seems hell-bent on my destruction.
Let me tell you a thing or two about anger, Tom. It’s a perfectly justified emotion in someone committed to tackling social injustice. It’s totally understandable in a situation where one is oppressed or rendered powerless. But when a man in your elevated position employs the full force of the law in an attempt to silence someone whose only crime was to say a few things he didn’t like on social media – I think most people would find that rather questionable, to say the least. And any journalist worth their salt would be forced to wonder if perhaps that man has something to hide. Perhaps there’s more to this than meets the eye. Perhaps a few pointers in the right direction would uncover a far bigger story than the one the media is currently being fed. The devil is in the detail, Tom. Did nobody ever tell you that?
Just as I predicted, there was no mention of my day in court in last night’s Evening Standard. They were only ever interested in hearing your side of the story. But I did find a small item on the Court News website, together with an unflattering photo of me leaving the building yesterday. I don’t recall seeing any photographers. The picture must have been taken surreptitiously, with one of those zoom lenses used to take candid shots of celebrities misbehaving on yachts or letting it all hang out on island hideaways. And as with those paparazzi shots, the photographer had gone to great lengths to make me look as unappealing as possible. I won’t be wearing that blue dress again.
No doubt it will please you to know that there’s such an unkind photo of me in circulation, but to me it feels like an invasion of privacy. Do you have any idea what it’s like to have your face thrust into the full glare of the media without your consent? If that’s not harassment, I don’t know what is. I feel violated – and no, I don’t think that’s too strong a word. I’m not like you, Tom. I don’t crave attention the way you do. I’m not famous. I’m just an ordinary woman caught up in events beyond her control. I don’t deserve any of this.
I checked my Twitter feed, but so far nobody had linked me to the offending news item, though I’m sure it won’t be long before one of your many followers is encouraged to do your dirty work for you, the way I was once called upon to do. I searched for mentions of you, too, but there was nothing new to report – just that earlier Evening Standard article and a passing reference in the New York Times, one of those literary think pieces the Americans love so much, best summed up as, ‘Whatever happened to Tom Hunter?’
What did happen to you, Tom? Did you lose confidence in your abilities? Did you run out of ideas? Is that what all this was about? You had no ideas of your own so you thought you’d steal mine?
I was about to log off and join my dad downstairs for breakfast, but then I came across something interesting – an article about ghosting. You know what ghosting is, don’t you, Tom? It’s when someone ends a relationship, but not in the way mature adults do – by sitting down with the other party and explaining why things aren’t working – rather by simply going silent on them. According to the writer of the article, it’s the most emotionally confusing and cruel way to terminate a relationship, and it’s happening more and more. People meet, they hit it off, they might even fall in love, then one or other of them simply stops communicating. No phone calls. No texts or emails. No contact on social media. They just disappear as surely as if they’d died.
That’s what you did, Tom. You worked your way into my life, took what you wanted, and then you dropped me without a word of explanation or a thought for my feelings. You became a ghost. It was as if you’d died. Maybe it would have been better for me if you had. At least then I’d have been spared the stress and indignity of this trial.
I was thinking about this on the way to court this morning, wishing I’d read this article sooner, wondering if it might have helped my defence. But of course it was too late for that now. And given the obvious difficulty the judge had understanding the way Twitter works, I dare say that she’d have found the whole idea of ghosting too confusing for her poor brain.
Again there was no sign of you in court. I can’t say this came as a surprise. You have a talent for disappearing, matched only by your talent for telling tall tales and persuading people that there might actually be some truth in them. Nobody can say that you aren’t gifted, Tom – though, as we both know, you didn’t get to where you are today on talent alone. There’s a ruthlessness there, too – a determination to put yourself first that some people might consider psychopathic. Without it you wouldn’t be the arch manipulator you are. I suppose I should take some comfort in the fact that at least now I know the extent to which I was being manipulated. As became clear today, nobody else in that court room has even the faintest idea. They’re as clueless now as they were on day one.
Your prosecutor was looking far less stern than usual. Her hair wasn’t as tightly pulled back. Her eyebrows weren’t knitted together. There was even the vague hint of a smile on her lips. If I didn’t know better I’d have said she was almost being friendly. But we all know that appearances can be deceptive. And as recent events have served to remind me, it isn’t wise to take people at face value, least of all when they’re in the business of stitching you up.
She began by saying she would go gently with me.
‘Go gently where?’ I asked. ‘Into that good night?’
I don’t think she’s familiar with the works of Dylan Thomas, because she didn’t seem to get the reference. I’d have thought a man of letters such as yourself might have chosen a legal representative with at least a cursory knowledge of the literary world you inhabit, but evidently not.
She asked me if I needed a drink of water, or a moment to compose myself. I confess I sniggered at the suggestion. A number of people have composed themselves in court these past few days. Some have taken the whole idea of composing themselves to ridiculous extremes, putting on elaborate performances, spinning such wild tales, Wilde himself would have found them fanciful. But not me.
‘I’m fine,’ I said.
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ she replied.
; Quite honestly, it was all I could do to stop myself from making a barfing gesture right there in her face. We’d barely begun and already I was finding her saccharine sweetness nothing short of nauseating.
I won’t bore you with every exchange that followed. Suffice to say that this little act continued for the best part of half an hour, by which time even the judge was starting to look unconvinced.
Finally, the prosecutor drew her cross examination to a close.
‘I just have one last question for you,’ she said, doing her best to disguise the note of contempt in her voice. ‘Yesterday you told the court that Mr Hunter actively encouraged you to maintain contact with him. You said, and I quote, “He wanted this relationship to continue, just as much as I did.” Is that correct?’
I said that it was.
‘So can you please explain why, when Mr Hunter posted a tweet clearly asking you to stop contacting him, you continued to do so?’
Well, you know what they say, Tom: the truth will set you free. So I told the truth.
‘I tried to stop,’ I said. ‘But by then we were so bound up in each other’s lives, I just couldn’t help myself.’
‘Thank you,’ she smiled. ‘No more questions.’
And that was it. Case closed – and a pretty feeble case, at that. I don’t know what a crown prosecutor is paid in a case like this, but I think I can safely say that the taxpayer isn’t getting his money’s worth. Put it this way – it wasn’t like it is in the movies, or on TV. Where was the devastating summary? Where were the cunning questions and crushing one-liners that reduce the accused to a quivering wreck? I’d have expected a bit of grandstanding at least.
As the judge retired to consider her verdict, I saw my dad smiling at me from the public gallery. He looked relieved, which was a huge weight off my shoulders. I know this hasn’t been easy for him, but at least I’d risen to the occasion and done him proud. I’d been open and honest, and unlike you, I hadn’t resorted to name-calling or mud-slinging. I was feeling pretty proud of myself, actually, and quietly confident that common sense would finally prevail and the judge would see this whole case for the travesty it was – one that should never have made it to court in the first place. I know we live in an unjust world. We’re reminded of it all the time – all those tales of police corruption; all those miscarriages of justice we read about in the newspapers. But as a friend reminded me recently, most judges are pretty sensible, actually. It takes a lot to convince them that an innocent person is guilty of some heinous crime.