by Paul Burston
It was barely twenty minutes before she returned. Her face was expressionless. She might just as well have been an office worker returning from a coffee break. This, and the fact that she’d taken so little time to reach her verdict, made it pretty clear to me that I was going to be acquitted. As she began speaking, I thought of all the great literary heroines wrongfully accused or punished for crimes beyond their control – Tess of the D’Urbervilles, Jane Eyre, Dolores Claiborne. Then I thought of the femme fatales who got away with murder – Libby Parsons in Double Jeopardy, Linda Fiorentino in The Last Seduction, Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. Naturally, I’m more inclined to identify with them. Who wants to end up like Tess?
‘Ms Stokes!’ the judge snapped. ‘Do you understand what I just said?’
Oh, I understood alright, Tom. I understood perfectly. But that doesn’t mean that I have to accept her judgement, not by a long way.
‘You’re to return to court in three weeks’ time for sentencing,’ she continued. ‘In the meantime, your bail conditions still apply. If you break those conditions or you fail to appear in court on the day in question, you will be rearrested and may be sent to prison. Do I make myself clear?’
What’s clear to me now, Tom, is that I never really stood a chance. You had me from the start. Right from the moment we met, you knew exactly how this would pan out. You knew which strings to pull, which cards to play. And you kept your hand well hidden. Of course you knew that I’d be taken in by your looks, your charm, that famous charisma. But you also had an ace up your sleeve, far blacker and more deadly than I could ever have predicted. Even when things turned sour, I never imagined for a second that you were capable of such deceit or that you could be so vindictive and stoop so low. I used to think I was pretty good at reading people. I used to think I was a good judge of character. How fitting that it took a writer to teach me otherwise.
Shortly after I was arrested, when I first felt the full weight of the legal system grind into gear, I used to have this image of us in my head. We were trapped in the back seat of a car, driven by a shadow man who refused to show his face. The doors were locked, the brakes had failed, and we were hurtling towards the edge of a cliff, certain in the knowledge that we’d go over but powerless to do anything about it. I used to picture us going down together, not in a blaze of bullets like Bonnie and Clyde, but in a Ford Thunderbird like Thelma and Louise.
Silly, I know. And it took me until today to realise just how ridiculous I was being. Because there was no shadow man. You were the one driving the car. The brakes didn’t fail. You had your foot down on the accelerator the whole time. And the driver’s door was unlocked, ready for the moment when you’d throw yourself to safety and leave me to plunge to my fate alone.
Did you honestly think that this would be the end of me, Tom? That the strain of the court case would tip me over the edge, and I’d crawl away and die somewhere? Was that part of your plan, too? That I’d lose the will to live? I wonder how you felt when you heard the news today. Pretty pleased with yourself, I imagine. Are you out now at one of your fancy members’ clubs, surrounded by well-wishers and the popping of champagne corks, toasting my demise? ‘Poor Evie. She was never that strong. All I wanted was for her to leave me alone. If I’d thought for one second that she was this unstable…’
Spare me the crocodile tears, Tom. And let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. I’m far stronger than you give me credit for. I have no intention of crawling away and dying anytime soon. I’m a survivor. And I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this isn’t where our story ends. This was only the prologue. A lot can happen between now and the final chapter. You of all people should know that.
So here’s my advice: enjoy your moment of triumph while you can. Savour the sweet taste of your champagne, just as I shall savour mine. Yes, I have a chilled bottle of bubbly in front of me right now. And while you’re clinking glasses with your friends and admirers, I’ll raise a toast of my own.
To us, Tom. And to our book. The one we’re writing together. The book of us. I can’t wait to see how it ends. Can you?
Always and forever
Evie
PART TWO
8
THREE WEEKS LATER
Female Blogger Guilty of Harassment
An internet ‘troll’ who sent a gay writer hundreds of abusive tweets and emails has been found guilty of harassment. Evie Stokes, aged thirty-four, from East Dulwich in south-east London, said the emails and tweets she sent author Tom Hunter were light-hearted and not intended to cause offence. But Camberwell Magistrates’ Court heard that the messages called the recipient ‘pansy’, ‘gaylord’ and ‘the AIDS generation’. After she was arrested, Stokes sent Hunter more threatening emails and even approached him at his home address, causing further distress. She was found guilty of harassment without violence. Sentencing is today.
‘My treat,’ Emma says. ‘Now you’re finally rid of that bloody woman.’
They’re seated in a restaurant in Clapham. An hour ago, ‘that bloody woman’ was given a two-month suspended sentence, coupled with a restraining order prohibiting her from making any contact with Tom, either directly or indirectly, in person or through social media or a third party. As the sentence was read out, Tom’s expression remained impassive. Inside his head he was screaming, A suspended sentence? What good is that? She should be locked up! He didn’t utter a word of this. Not in court. And not to any of the reporters waiting outside. But there are no court officials here, and no prying reporters. Just two friends enjoying what’s meant to be a celebratory lunch.
Tom doesn’t feel much like celebrating, but Emma wouldn’t take no for an answer, hailing a black cab and singing the praises of this fantastic new Peruvian-Japanese fusion place she’d heard about from a friend at the office. To be fair, the place does look rather impressive, helped in no small part by the fact that the waiters appear to have been recruited from a model agency – all square jaws, designer haircuts and buff physiques in short-sleeved, slim-fitting black shirts. Tom watches as they move expertly between the tables, snake-hipped and oozing testosterone, like male tango dancers.
It’s still early for lunch, but the restaurant is already busy – a sure sign that Emma isn’t the only one who’s heard glowing reports, though whether these were about the food or the eye candy it’s too soon to say. Tom wonders if he even has the stomach for food right now. His insides have been in knots all morning.
‘Didn’t you think the father was weird?’ Emma looks over her menu.
‘His daughter was being sentenced for harassment,’ Tom says. ‘I doubt it was his proudest moment.’
‘Not just today,’ Emma says. ‘He was the same during the trial. Sitting there with his crossword, barely paying attention. His own daughter in the dock and he looked like he couldn’t care less what happened to her.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t,’ Tom snaps. ‘Maybe he’s had enough of her madness to last him a lifetime. I wouldn’t blame him if he had. I know just how he feels.’
Emma looks as if she’s about to say something, then thinks better of it. ‘No, you’re right. Anyway, it’s all behind you now. She’s not your problem anymore.’
‘I wish I shared your optimism,’ Tom replies. ‘Did you know that of all the people issued with a restraining order, half breach it within the first few months? I read that recently. Of course nobody tells you this at the time.’
Emma’s face falls. ‘But she won’t, will she? If she does, she risks being sent to prison.’
‘Assuming of course that the judge doesn’t decide that she’s mentally unfit.’
‘So what would they do then? Section her?’
‘Never mind sectioning. I’d happily see her hung, drawn and quartered.’
A waiter approaches the table, and Emma dismisses him before he can even open his mouth. ‘Sorry, we just need a few more minutes.’
Tom watches him retreat, taking in the boyish smile and manly physique – always a winning
combination in his book.
‘Try not to think about that now,’ Emma says, and for a split second Tom thinks she’s been reading his thoughts. ‘The main thing is she’s been found guilty. There’s a restraining order in place. You’ll probably never hear from her again. That’s got to be worth celebrating, hasn’t it?’
‘So people keep telling me,’ Tom replies, then softens his tone. ‘Sorry, I’m not very good company.’
‘Have you thought any more about seeing someone?’
On the far side of the room, the waiter is clearing a table. Tom watches as his broad shoulders strain against the cotton of his shirt, trousers clinging to his thighs and backside. ‘I’ve told you, I’m not looking for a serious relationship right now.’
‘Very funny,’ Emma says. ‘You know what I mean. Victim support.’
‘I do, and yes I’ve thought about it.’
‘So you’ll go? … Tom? Are you listening? This is important.’
Finally he tears his eyes away and looks at her. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
Why not, indeed. Tom can think of a million excuses. He doesn’t have time. He has a book to finish. He’s thinking of leaving London for a while. But the truth is more complicated. It was bad enough, standing up in court and describing the various ways Evie Stokes harassed and humiliated him. Throughout the trial, Tom was torn between a loss of dignity, the desire to shut her up for once and for all, and the nagging sense that the scales of justice might tip against him. He hated every moment of it, but it served a purpose. It had to be done. Or so he kept telling himself.
But that’s all behind him now. Seeking help from victim support would only make him feel more of a victim, and he isn’t prepared for that. He was bullied at school and avoided telling his parents for fear they’d reject him, the way thousands of boys like him were rejected by their families. He still remembers coming home one afternoon with his shirt torn and his blazer covered in phlegm. The humiliation hurt as much as the bruises he hid from his parents. He vowed then that he’d never let anyone make a victim of him again. Yet here he is, struggling with a familiar sense of shame and twisted pride. And all because of a woman of all people.
‘Tom?’
He feels Emma scrutinising him and shrugs. ‘What?’
‘You know what. Why won’t you get help?’
‘I’d just rather not.’
‘You’re being unreasonable.’
Is he? Perhaps he is. He certainly isn’t himself, he knows that much. The case has taken its toll. It’s left him feeling tired and irritable and something he can’t quite put his finger on – a feeling of having suffered some kind of trauma, but none most people would recognise. Nobody died. There are no physical scars. Yet he feels as if a layer of skin has been stripped away, leaving him raw and vulnerable. His body is shot and his sleep patterns are all over the place. Some mornings he’s awake as early as 5.00 a.m. and staring at his haggard face in the bathroom mirror. He must have aged a good few years these past eight months. If there was any justice in the world, today’s sentence would have reflected that. But as he’s found to his cost, there isn’t much justice in the criminal justice system. Not really. Not when you consider the enormous impact a supposedly trivial crime like harassment can have on a person’s physical and emotional wellbeing.
‘Tom?’ Emma says.
He shakes the thought away. ‘Sorry.’
‘I know this is naughty.’ She leans towards him conspiratorially. ‘But seeing as this is supposed to be a celebration, why don’t we order some champagne?’
He feigns shock. ‘At this hour?’
Emma gestures to the waiter, who appears at her shoulder but has his eyes firmly locked on Tom. Nice eyes, Tom thinks. And a tightly muscled body under that black shirt.
‘The lady would like some champagne,’ he says.
The waiter nods. ‘And for you, sir?’ He pauses slightly. ‘What would you like?’
There’s a definite hint of promise in that pause, a frisson of sexual tension that causes an immediate stirring in Tom’s loins. With just a suggestion of a smile, he holds the waiter’s gaze. ‘Champagne will do for now.’
Emma’s colleague is right about the food. Everything they order is delicious. Emboldened by the champagne, Tom takes this as an invitation to flirt ever more outrageously with the waiter, complimenting him on each dish as if he’s prepared it himself.
‘That yellowtail sashimi was the best I’ve ever tasted,’ he enthuses after the first course. ‘And the scallops were superb.’
The waiter grins as he collects the empty plates. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed them.’
And later, halfway through a second bottle, when Tom is even more effusive about the pan-fried shrimp and sea bass, the waiter positively glows with pride. ‘That’s my favourite thing on the menu.’
Tom thinks he detects a northern accent – Manchester perhaps, or Leeds. Drunkenly, he wonders what brought this fine young specimen of manhood to London, and begins filling in his back story: northern lad discovers he’s gay, heads down south in search of gainful employment and sexual opportunity, meets mature writer who offers to show him the ropes. As the image forms, Tom feels his mood lift.
‘I am still here, y’know,’ Emma admonishes him as the waiter disappears in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Honestly, I’d tell you to get a room if I didn’t think you’d take it literally!’
‘Don’t be such a killjoy,’ Tom replies. ‘You can’t begrudge me a bit of harmless flirting. I’ve had no sex drive for months. If anything’s worth celebrating today, it’s the return of my libido.’
‘Fine, but at least try to keep your tongue in.’
Tom grins. ‘I know where I’d rather put it.’
Emma rolls her eyes. ‘You’re terrible sometimes. Do you know that?’
‘I do. But it’s all part of my charm.’
‘That’s debatable.’ Emma reaches for her champagne glass and takes a sip. ‘So what next? Now this is all over? You should take a holiday. Go and lie on a beach somewhere.’
‘Actually, I’m thinking of going to Hastings. I thought I’d rent a place on the seafront. St Leonards, perhaps. Or somewhere by the pier. I could really use some sea air. And a change of scenery will do me good.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Emma says. ‘I’m due some time off, and it’s years since I’ve been to the seaside.’
‘Sorry Em, but I’d rather be alone,’ Tom replies. ‘I really need to crack on with this book.’
For a moment, Emma looks wounded, but she quickly rearranges her features into a playful smile. ‘Fair enough.’ She pushes her plate away and leans towards him. ‘So are you going to tell me what this new book is about?’
‘Absolutely.’ Tom pauses. ‘But not today. Sorry, it’s just not at that stage yet. Maybe when I’m back from Hastings.’
‘How long are you planning on staying?’
‘A few weeks. Maybe a month. However long it takes.’
‘And you’ll be okay on your own?’
‘Amazingly enough, I quite enjoy my own company. And there’s always Grindr.’
Emma laughs. ‘I don’t think the pickings in Hastings will be quite what you’re used to in London.’
‘Possibly not,’ Tom replies, eyeing up the waiter. ‘But sometimes one must suffer for one’s art.’
‘I don’t see why. Isn’t that whole tortured-artist routine a bit old hat?’
‘Aleister Crowley died in Hastings,’ Tom continues, ignoring her question. ‘There’s even a rumour that he cursed the town, making it impossible for anyone to leave.’
Emma doesn’t look very impressed. ‘I have no idea who that is, but let’s hope it’s not an omen.’
‘He was a famous occultist,’ Tom explains. ‘The press described him as the wickedest man in the world. He was openly bisexual, a total drug fiend and an admirer of Friedrich Nietzsche. David Bowie was a big fan. He used to refer to him in interviews. And Bowie’s Thin White Du
ke persona was hugely influenced by Crowley’s belief system. Homo superior. The superman. All that Nietzschean nonsense.’ He pauses. ‘He wrote a book called The Book of Lies.’
‘David Bowie?’
‘Aleister Crowley.’
Emma considers this for a moment. ‘But isn’t that what all novels are? Books of lies?’
Tom grins. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’
‘No. But you make it all up as you go along, don’t you?’
‘I think you’ll find there’s a bit more to it than that. But let’s talk about something else. I can see I’m boring you.’
‘Not at all. I’m just trying to picture you in Hastings. I’ve always thought it was rather shabby.’
‘It’s more shabby chic these days. It even won pier of the year.’
‘It beats rear of the year, I suppose.’
Tom leers in the direction of the waiter. ‘I don’t think we need look too far for that.’
Emma slaps his wrist. ‘Tom!’
‘Sorry. Where was I? Oh yes, Hastings! It’s the place to be, apparently. The papers are even describing it as Hoxton-on-Sea.’
‘But you hate Hoxton!’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Yes, you do. You said it was full of pretentious twats with pretentious hairstyles pretending to be something they’re not.’
‘Did I really say that?’
‘You know damn well you did.’