A Poisoned Mind

by Natasha Cooper

  ‘You must let me pay for it.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. My small contribution to saving your friend. You did very well.’

  Trish felt idiotic tears heating her eyeballs and looked away.

  ‘You did everything anyone could,’ the American woman said with deliberation, before adding more lightly: ‘But if you are going with him, you should go now.’

  Trish gestured to the paramedic who was standing by the open back door of the ambulance. He nodded. She put out her hand. The American was wearing stiff beige suede gloves. Ignoring the blood and mess, she squeezed Trish’s hand between both of hers.

  ‘If he lives,’ she said, deliberate all over again, ‘it’ll be because you were here. He’s lucky. Stay with him now.’

  ‘I will. Thank you.’

  A moment later, Trish was pulling herself up into the ambulance. She smelled disinfectant and was surprised by the dim light and the machinery all round, with its dials and tubes, and the heaviness of the door the paramedic pulled shut on the three of them. Antony’s neck was immobilised in a yellow plastic contraption, and he was lying unconscious under a thin red blanket, strapped to a stretcher. Red to hide the blood?

  The ambulance swayed as the driver set off. The atmosphere felt strange: official, yet intimate. The paramedic sitting opposite Trish pulled out a clipboard and in a professionally kind voice she recognised from all sorts of other carers, he asked for Antony’s name and details.

  ‘He’s Antony Shelley QC, head of chambers at 1 Plough Court. He lives in Holland Park.’ Her mind began to work again, but jerkily. ‘Someone should tell his wife. She’s Liz, Elizabeth Shelley. I’ve got her phone number here.’

  ‘Does she know he’s with you?’ A hint of curiosity in his voice sharpened her dazed mind even more.

  ‘Of course. I’m a member of his chambers,’ she said, at last buttoning her long dark overcoat over her goose-pimpled skin. ‘Can I use my phone in here?’

  ‘If it’s important.’

  She phoned Liz, told her what had happened, heard her gasp and choke back a cry. Trish had to break off her attempt at reassurance to check which hospital was going to receive Antony. Then she phoned Steve, the head clerk at Plough Court to tell him what had happened, assuring him that she’d stay with Antony until Liz got there. At last she could lie back against the fake leather of the banquette and close her eyes, cradling one aching hand in the other.

  She could still feel the squeeze of the beige suede gloves and hear the comforting American voice:

  ‘If he lives, it’ll be because you were here. He’s lucky.’

  If, she said to herself, feeling her stiff lips move. If, if, if, if, if, if …

  Chapter 3

  Trish’s sleep had been disturbed by menacing dreams and restless legs and once or twice by George’s snoring. But it was the ringing phone that woke her properly just before eight on Saturday morning.

  As she reached for the receiver, she looked in the opposite direction to see George still asleep with his mouth open

  ‘Hello?’ she said quietly, cupping her hand around the receiver to keep the sound from waking him.

  ‘Trish! You don’t sound very alert this morning.’

  ‘Antony?’ Her dreams had all been of his funeral or wheelchairs and day-long operations. To hear his voice, even slurred like this, made her shiver. Odd that relief could make you feel so wobbly. ‘Antony! Fantastic to hear you. Listen, hang on while I go downstairs to the other phone.’

  She replaced the receiver as quietly as possible and slid out from under the duvet. Her dressing gown was in the wash, so she pattered downstairs in nothing but the long T-shirt she wore instead of a nightdress. Its hem barely covered the top of her thighs, but there was no one to see, and she didn’t want to waste time.

  ‘Antony,’ she said in a more normal voice, sitting down at her long tidy desk. ‘This is just … brilliant. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Never mind that. I need you here. You’re taking over the CWWM case, and you’ll have a lot of work.’

  ‘I can’t. I—’

  ‘Trish, I’ve got a broken neck, ripped artery and concussion, so not much patience. You need a big case. I need someone I trust to—’

  ‘But that poor woman.’

  ‘Don’t be sentimental. If you’re not here in half an hour, I’ll never forgive you.’

  A buzz that sounded like a dying bee told her he’d cut her off. The leather of the chair felt horrible under her bare thighs. Her feet were freezing and her long toes looked as bony as a chicken’s claws when she glanced down, trying to decide what to do. A loud tick from the kitchen clock marked out the seconds with a remorselessness that matched Antony’s.

  ‘Who was that?’ George said from above and behind her.

  She looked round to see him standing at the top of the spiral staircase, wearing a bath towel like a Roman toga. His dressing gown was in the wash too.

  ‘Antony. Awful injuries, but his mind’s as sharp as ever. He wants me to step into the CWWM case.’

  George’s face, so much less pudgy these days than when she’d first known him, lit up like a beacon.

  ‘But I can’t. You know what that woman’s been through. How can I think about making money from her misery?’

  ‘Don’t be so wet. Or so bloody arrogant!’

  Trish flinched. She’d heard his deep voice velvety with affection, springy with laughter and cold with anger often enough; she’d never known it sound as contemptuous as this.

  ‘It’s not your job to comfort the whole world. If you turn this down, you’ll infuriate the man who’s done more to help your career than anyone else; you’ll give your clerk every reason to stop trying to get you work; and you’ll make me exceedingly angry. Whatever you may think about what’s-her-name, Angela Fortwell, your job is to represent your clients and put their case as well as it possibly can be put. There’s no moral dilemma here, Trish.’

  Still she didn’t get up.

  ‘This is make or break time. Start moving. I’ll get your clothes together while you shower.’

  He didn’t wait for an answer, just hauled his great towel more tightly over his left shoulder and tramped off.

  Trish made herself walk towards the foot of the stairs, feeling contrary ideas jerk forward and back in her brain. He’s right. They’re both right. And it’s not just the unhappy Mrs Fortwell I’m worried about. What if I lose? Antony was sure he would and no one would have thought the worse of him. But if I screw up, everyone’ll say it’s my fault. George thinks I’m arrogant. I’m not: I’m scared. I owe Antony too much to let him down. But there’s David too. And Jay. If I go to work now, I can’t let him—

  David’s voice stopped her and she stood with one bare foot on the bottom stair, looking at him over her shoulder. His dark hair, much thicker than hers, was tousled around his white face, and his black eyes were soft with sleepiness. Already he topped her five feet ten, and his old red pyjama trousers hung a good four inches above his huge feet.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said.

  ‘Hi, David. Sorry we woke you. I’ve got to go to work – which means, I’m afraid, that you’ll have to put Jay off today.’

  ‘Why?’ David scratched his head and scowled at her from under his ruffled fringe.

  ‘I don’t want him here without either me or George, and George is going to Twickenham. We can sort out another weekend for Jay and do something extra special with him to make up.’

  ‘You let Sam be here when you’re not. Just because Jay’s family’s not rich like Sam’s, you think he’ll nick something. It’s not fair, Trish.’

  This was too important to ignore, in spite of George’s voice from upstairs calling, ‘Trish! Hurry up, for God’s sake.’

  ‘David, I’ll explain what I mean about Jay when I can. It’s not that I think he’s going to steal our stuff. Honestly. But it’s true I don’t think it’s … safe for him to be here with only you. As soon as I’ve got time, I’ll ta
lk it all through with you. But right now, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘You never have time.’ He turned away and launched a heavy kick at the back of the black sofa. ‘Not for anything. It’s not fair.’

  ‘David, grow up!’ George was halfway down the stairs again. ‘And don’t worry, Trish, Jay can come today as planned. I’ll be here.’

  ‘But it’s one of the Autumn Internationals,’ David said, bemused. ‘Us v. New Zealand. You always go to Twickenham for that.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Trish has to go to work. And Jay has to come here. So I’ll see to it.’

  David’s tense frown eased into his best smile and he almost danced back into his own room, the bright pyjamas flapping around his long thin frame.

  ‘Come on, Trish. I’ve called a taxi for you. It’ll be here in eight minutes. So you’d better hurry up.’

  ‘Why, George? It won’t hurt David to do without Jay’s company today and rugby matches like this are your biggest pleasure.’

  He shrugged. ‘David could easily cope with a mild disappointment; I’m not so sure about Jay. Giving him a day here is more important than going to the rugger. Don’t stop to argue. You haven’t time.’

  Antony’s eyes were closed when Trish arrived, wearing the tight black jeans and coral sweater George had picked out for her. She was glad to have a moment to quieten her banging heart and deal with the shock she felt at the sight of the man in the bed.

  He had a contraption like a cross between a cage and a steel crown screwed into his head and reaching down over his shoulders, presumably to keep his neck from moving. His right leg was heavily bandaged and there was a long scrape down one side of his face, red and crusting at the edges. The thin white tabs stuck across it didn’t seem strong enough to hold it together.

  She bent sideways to let her briefcase down on to the floor as quietly as she could. It was heavy with a laptop and dictating machine, as well as pens and paper. There was a chair about five yards away. She walked silently in her sagging leather boots to collect it.

  ‘Knew you wouldn’t let me down,’ he said. She almost dropped the chair.

  ‘I thought you were asleep.’

  ‘Your scent woke me.’

  ‘Not wearing any. There wasn’t time.’

  His short laugh made her relax a little more. ‘Must be yesterday’s shampoo then, or maybe just you. Now listen carefully because I haven’t the strength to say it twice; don’t argue; don’t protest. OK?’

  ‘All right. But before you start, why not ask for an adjournment? You’d get one with no problem for something like this.’

  ‘CWWM don’t want to wait.’ A faint version of his old wicked smile tweaked at his features. ‘And I want you to have the chance. Don’t fight me.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Robert’s on his way to chambers. Help you prepare. But listen, Trish: the judge’ll bend over backwards to help Angie Fortwell. Don’t sneer or make it hard for her.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘She’ll use the rule in Rylands v. Fletcher. CWWM have a strict liability over the escape of dangerous chemicals. You’ve got to mitigate the damages. Contributory negligence. Maybe volenti. Don’t forget—’

  Antony seemed to be growing paler, and he was scarily breathless, as though his lungs or heart had been damaged along with all the rest. Watching him, Trish wasn’t even tempted to remind him that, although it was twenty years since she’d qualified, she knew all about strict liability tort in general and Rylands v. Fletcher in particular.

  He choked and his eyes watered, but he fought his weakness to add: ‘Big implications here, Trish. The world produces filthy waste that kills. Companies like CWWM contain it.’

  ‘Most of the time,’ she said with a dryness that made him blink.

  ‘Don’t. They mustn’t be ruined by frivolous litigation.’

  If his face hadn’t contorted in pain, she might have said what she thought about his calling Angela Fortwell’s suit frivolous. Her husband had been killed by the explosion in CWWM’s tanks. There was nothing frivolous about wanting punishment for that.

  Antony was fighting for control of his body. His muscles were rigid, the cords in his neck stuck out like high relief decorations, and sweat poured off his skin.

  ‘You’ll need to get a grip on how the filters worked.’ The slurring in his voice was worse, but he battled on. ‘And the way the tanks breathed, and … Sod it! I can’t. Robert’ll tell you. Go now.’ His right arm twitched, as though he wanted to gesture but couldn’t.

  Was he paralysed?

  ‘Don’t let me down, Trish. Or yourself.’

  His arm turned slightly so that his hand was lying palm upwards. She put hers on to it and felt his fingers move. Relief acted on her like heat on a lump of wax, taking all the stiffness out of her muscles.

  ‘I’ll do my best, Antony. Don’t worry. Save your strength.’

  She could see what it had cost him to keep his mind on his work and wondered just how much pain he was managing.

  ‘Are you—?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Go now. Trust yourself, Trish.’

  She watched his eyelids close again. A squeak behind her warned of a nurse’s arrival and she gestured towards the door. The nurse nodded and waited there until Trish joined her.

  ‘How long will he have that thing screwed to his head and neck?’

  ‘Two or three weeks probably. Maybe more. He hates it.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. How much damage is there?’

  ‘His neck is broken, but the people who stopped his arterial bleed had the sense not to move him, so he should make a good recovery.’

  ‘No paralysis, then?’

  ‘He’ll need physio, of course, and it’ll be a slow process, but provided there are no complications and no infections, he should be all right. The doctors think he could be able to use a wheelchair by the week after next.’

  ‘Thanks. Don’t let him go too long without painkillers, will you?’

  Seeing the nurse’s surprise, Trish thought about explaining how long she’d known him and how much she cared. Then she remembered Robert in chambers, and the speed with which she’d have to educate herself about the storage of explosive chemical waste and farming, as well as the bundle of documents in the case. She said goodbye and ran for the street.

  Chapter 4

  ‘It’s coming, Ange,’ Greg said, ‘but you’re still not showing the authority you’ll need.’

  Angie rubbed her eyes and pushed her hands through her ragged hair, trying not to show any of her feelings. She’d never expected Greg to be leading these role-playing sessions. As the founder of FADE, Fran had always been the boss till now. But here was lanky Greg sitting behind the kitchen table, pretending to be the doctor who’d been the first on the scene after the explosion had allowed carcinogenic reformulated benzene to spill out on to her land.

  ‘Let’s start again,’ Greg said. ‘OK? Ready? You first, asking if my name is Barry Jenkins.’

  Tempted to shout, you bloody well know it is, she smiled a little, nodded in as dignified a way as she could and asked the question.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ she added before she could stop herself, ‘is why we have to go through this pantomime. We’ve sent in our skeleton argument and so have they. We’ve disclosed all our evidence and the witness statements and everything. So why do we have to have this theatrical Q&A in court at all?’

  ‘It’s the way they do it, Angie love,’ said Fran, looking over one shoulder and twisting her long straight hair into a rope to get it out of the way.

  The reddish blonde colour suited her. With her big square shoulders and strong-featured face, it made her look like a Viking warrior-princess. Angie thought it all wrong that such a powerful woman should be cooking today’s vegetable stew.

  ‘Greg’s taken me to sit in on lots of trials now, and we do know what we’re doing. I promise you that.’

  ‘I know,’ Angie said, regretting the spurt of temper. Why was
it that her ever-present rage kept popping up to bite the wrong people? ‘I’m sorry. It just seems such a stupid waste of time. Not stupid of you; the system. No wonder it’s so expensive no normal person can afford to go to law.’

  ‘You’re telling me,’ Greg said, smiling at last. ‘Come on, let’s get to it, then we can have lunch and a drink. The new apple wine is just about ready now and tasting seriously good.’

  ‘Great,’ she said faintly, pining for an absolutely enormous gin and tonic of the kind she hadn’t drunk in years.

  ‘Cheer up. You’ll be fine, Ange. I only want to make sure that when that bastard Shelley starts challenging your witnesses in cross-examination and rubbishing your evidence, you won’t get angry and forget what really happened. These blokes can twist anything they hear and make you confirm the way they see it before you’ve realised what they’re doing.’

  Trish watched Robert as he led her through the story of what had happened at the Fortwells’ farm. Most of her mind was taken up with what she heard, but she wasn’t quite disciplined enough to avoid surprise that he was being so straightforward, so generous with his information.

  As she’d already said to Antony, most cases like this would have been adjourned if the leader were taken to hospital at the last minute. If, for some reason, the judge wouldn’t allow it, a junior with as many years’ experience as Robert could have expected to take over himself. In his place she’d have been pretty resentful.

  When they broke for a cup of coffee and a recap just after noon, she said as much. He stopped stirring chocolate dust into the top of his cappuccino with his forefinger, licked the foam off it, and said:

  ‘I might want to kill you for it, Trish, but with Antony, Steve and the client all agitating for you to lead me, I’m stuck. Being stuck, it makes sense to do everything I can to help you do the best job of which you’re capable. It’s my reputation too.’

  She wanted to find a way to thank him without sounding either doubtful or pompous.

  ‘It’s like when you’re climbing,’ he said, surprising her even more. He leaned back in his chair, crossing one dark-green corduroy leg over the other and revealing bright-yellow socks. ‘You have to choose a leader and then support him all the way, never questioning his orders or putting forward alternative ideas. If you do either, you risk damaging his confidence, making him doubt, and if that happens you’re likely to end up at the bottom of a crevasse with him and the rest of the team. Dead.’