Hard

by Lily Harlem

  ‘So, tell me why you went into the courthouse,’ he said. ‘What made you go in there that day?’

  I sighed, hating this part of our sessions where I had to go back, to remember, and face up to what had happened. I was glad I only had to be here for an hour — any longer and it would be too much.

  ‘I’d had one of those light-bulb moments, d’you know the kind I mean? That my life wasn’t going anywhere and that if I stayed where I was I’d end up a mother of three, trapped in a marriage with a man who didn’t really care about me, and what I’d wanted to do had passed me by. So I sat there one night in the pub with my friends and didn’t join in much. I watched them, laughing and joking, talking about the same things we talked about every night after work, and I realised…’

  ‘Realised what, Lisa?’

  ‘That I wanted more. That I ought to be doing something.’

  ‘What did you want to do?’

  I blushed, feeling silly at the career choice I’d wanted to make. I’d had the ambition as a kid, but those days were well and truly gone too. I’d been stupid to think I had it in me to do it. I sighed again. ‘I wanted to go to uni, study journalism. Get a job where something new happened every day. And that’s why I went into that courtroom.’

  ‘What did the courtroom have to do with journalism?’ Stephan asked, poking his pen into the salt-and-pepper hair at his temple, surreptitiously scratching his head.

  The rasping sound grated.

  ‘I’d thought… Silly as it sounds, I’d thought that if I went and watched a trial, something I’d maybe have to do as a reporter, I’d know then whether it was the career for me.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, you have to write about all sorts, don’t you? I wanted to see if I could handle things like that and remain impartial. I know we all have opinions, and mine would certainly cloud whatever I wrote to some extent, but if I could just see how a court session went… I was going to go home and write about it after, see how it turned out but…’

  ‘But what?’ He took the pen from his hair and ran it under his nose.

  ‘But I didn’t get the chance.’ I shuddered, thinking of that day, wishing I’d been happy with my life, wishing I hadn’t wanted a change, but no amount of wishing could make the past go away. I’d tried and it hadn’t worked.

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ he said, giving me a sad smile. ‘Still, you’re going to be able to get through this, you know. It may seem an impossible task now — after all, we’ve got so much to get through, and we’ve already done a lot — but it can and will be done. You just need to have faith in yourself.’

  I’d heard all this before, from several people, and I repeated it to myself often enough. Maybe one day I’d believe it was true.

  ‘What do you want me to do this week?’ I asked, changing the subject so I didn’t have to think of back then, referring instead to the tasks he set me, clever little things that would seem pointless to someone else but had proved invaluable to me. I’d practised breathing exercises, going out alone after dark — and that wasn’t hard, being alone, because I had no friends, no one to walk with anyway — and generally trying to change my ways and habits. Those habits were a result of the past — the gnawing of the skin beside my thumbnails, the obsessive cleaning, the need to cover the windows as soon as night began falling. I couldn’t let go of any of them yet, but hoped that one day soon I’d be able to sit in front of a window, the curtains open, and stare out into the darkness without wanting to throw up.

  I’ll only be able to do that when they’re caught. When they’re in prison.

  A shiver went through me, and I held myself rigid so Stephan wouldn’t see it.

  ‘What did you just think about then?’ he asked.

  ‘Him.Them. Watching. Being outside my place in the dark.’

  Stephan nodded. ‘This is your biggest problem, and it’s one we’ll tackle shortly. If you think about how far you’ve come in such a small space of time, Lisa, you really ought to be proud of yourself. You go to work, you use public transport, you live alone. These are all things another person might not be able to handle after going through such an awful ordeal.’ He nodded again. ‘Yes, you should be very proud.’

  I supposed he was right, I had come far, but I hoped he didn’t leave the nighttime issue for too long. The seasons were changing, the days getting shorter, and soon I’d be going to and from work in the dark.

  Where they could be waiting.

  I left Stephan’s practice, glancing left then right, making sure it was safe to go down his path and onto the pavement. No one was around, so I walked on, getting to the street and checking once again. Cars were parked the length of the rise, jammed so tight it was a wonder any of them could be driven away. Steady traffic hummed along, the road almost reduced to a single lane in places where it narrowed and residents’ cars hogged the edges.

  I went a little way down the hill to the bus stop and waited, hands in coat pockets, a habit of mine as I was conscious of the fingers of one of my hands being wonky since they’d been broken. A bus appeared at the top of the road, a double decker, Stagecoach written on the front above the radiator. It pulled to the kerb in front of me, slotting into the white dash-space-dash rectangle painted on the road specifically for it. The doors wheezed open and I got on, paid the driver then went up the aisle, looking at everyone else on the bus to check if any of them were people I knew. If any were them. They’re weren’t, and I wasn’t sure what I’d do if they were. Run? Scream? I shook my head and took a seat on the bottom deck right at the back. I could see everyone from here, who got on, who got off, and with my hand curled around my mobile in my pocket I felt okay.

  The journey into the city didn’t take long. I hated this part, where I changed buses, as I avoided the city proper as much as I could. I got off and scurried past MacDonald’s, shot around the corner, ignoring a little church wedged there, then headed along the street. The Clarendon Centre’s many doors all opened at once as a stream of shoppers came out, surrounding me, jostling me along. I panicked, shoving through the throng, seeing space ahead but unable to reach it fast enough. I shoved harder, my breaths coming short and sharp, and emerged on the other side of the crowd shaken and annoyed with myself that I hadn’t checked the faces of everyone back there. I’d been so intent on getting away that my usual pattern had been disturbed.

  A bus to Blackbird Leys idled at the kerb, and I got on, paid, and scanned the other travellers. Recognised no one. Walked to the back of the lower deck and sat. This was my life now, checking, checking, checking, and I was sick of it and of myself.

  Things needed to change before I became crippled by my fear.

  Once outside the tower block where I lived, I did the usual and looked in all directions. A row of shops stood opposite, and a gang of youths hung around, hoods covering their heads, pulled low over their brows so I couldn’t see their faces. At one time they would have made me uneasy, even though I’d been brought up with tougher kids, but after what I’d been through they didn’t faze me much. I’d smiled at them once, thinking if they thought I didn’t mind them being there they’d be all right with me, but they’d scowled, sucked their teeth, and left me under no illusion they thought I didn’t belong. And they were right.

  I entered the flats, assaulted, as usual, by the stench of urine where kids couldn’t be bothered to climb the stairs to home where they could relieve themselves, and held my breath. I didn’t bother trying the lift to see if it worked — it rarely did — and took the stairs, climbing the levels until I reached my floor. Mine was the middle flat of three, and I slid my key in the lock, sighing at the latest rainbow-coloured scrawl of graffiti on the walls between my home and that of the old man next door. I hurried inside, slammed the door, locked it, and pressed my back against it. Let out a long breath, fortifying myself for more checking.

  I went through the rooms, ticking off the things on my mental list. Yes, everything was as I’d left it. Yes, I could relax n
ow. I went to the windows and resisted closing the curtains, deciding to try what Stephan had suggested earlier and close them an hour after it had got dark. That hour would be a long one, with me sitting on the floor in the corner of my bedroom, no doubt, curled up, head down, waiting for the alarm on my mobile to bleep, telling me I could get up and close myself in.

  But it had to be done, didn’t it? I had no choice.

  If I wanted to get better, I had no bloody choice.

  Chapter Two

  Then

  The man standing next to me in the courtroom smelt of musty old books with a hint of days’-old aftershave. He could be anyone’s father, a man I wouldn’t normally look twice at if I passed him on the street. Short brown hair brushed back from his pasty face to reveal a high forehead. Hazel eyes and deep pink lips that appeared on the thin side owing to the grimace that contorted his face. Average chap, average height. Average everything. Yet there was something about him that intrigued me, had me staring at him a little harder than I usually would. Perhaps the air of danger coming off him was what had snagged my initial attention, made me take notice of his appearance.

  He stared ahead at the proceedings, and I wondered if he was the same as me, someone who had strolled in off the street, hoping he’d get lucky and be admitted to a courtroom so he could take in the details of other people’s lives to save him having to inspect his own. That was something I’d only acknowledged about myself recently, that I was in need of a distraction, anything to shift my inability to stop thinking about how boring my life had become. I used to party. I used to be fun. Since breaking up with a guy named John two years ago, I’d changed, was this woman I no longer knew, who had no spark or even the merest hint that anyone would be interested in me. Relationships seemed so futile, and given the pick of men in my circles, I wouldn’t have been happy with any of them anyway.

  I’d walked past the courthouse on numerous occasions, staring at the grey-bricked façade, letting my mind wander to what happened inside the large building, who had committed crimes and why. Law wasn’t my thing, but crime interested me, and the pull to just walk in and join the public gallery had been squashed too many times to count.

  Today, though, had been different. I’d walked in around ten minutes ago, head held high as if I did this kind of thing every day, and chose a random courtroom doorway to breeze through. There was no guard outside, and I knew I shouldn’t just walk in, but I did. I hadn’t expected it to be so full — standing room only was all that had been available — nor had I expected to be beside this man who oozed menace that transferred to me and left me antsy. I should leave, leave and go home where I knew what would happen next and how my day would end. But being here held a certain charm, an excitement, and it was also a lure, daring me to stay, to do something different, get a new career going. Here wasn’t me — and being me was something I wanted to get far away from, if only for an hour or two.

  The man shuffled, nudging me with his elbow, the movement a painful jab to my ribs. I wanted to say something to him, something witty yet at the same time a reprimand that would ensure he didn’t touch me again, but the court was quiet except for one of the solicitors asking questions and a frail-looking, middle-aged woman on the stand giving one-word answers. My sharp response would be heard, and I might be asked to leave. I nudged him back, and he looked at me with narrowed eyes and a harsher grimace than the one he’d displayed before. He appeared threatening then, not your average man at all, and my stomach muscles clenched.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ he asked quietly, sniffing then swallowing.

  I could be bold, could answer that he was my problem, but that frenzied air about him increased and frightened me a little.

  ‘Nothing,’ I whispered. ‘My arm slipped. Sorry.’

  ‘You’d better be.’ He smiled, but not in a nice way, and folded his arms across his chest.

  I glanced about, searching for a space I could slip into, away from him. There wasn’t one and, although uneasy, I had no choice but to stay put or push through the line or two of people behind us and leave the courtroom.

  I stared ahead, tunnelling my vision so he failed to exist. His scent was the only indication he was still there — that and the press of his arm on mine, packed in as we were. The black-haired woman on the stand was using a tissue to wipe her cheeks, and she hiccoughed a sob into the microphone, which echoed through the loudspeakers and sent a shiver down my spine. A momentary pang of guilt snapped at me then. Here I was, intruding on someone else’s pain, watching this woman’s hurt unfold before a room full of people, and I still had no idea what the case was about.

  ‘Did you not think to telephone him?’ the solicitor asked, striding up to the witness box with such speed I thought he might not be able to stop in time. He slammed a hand onto the surface beside the microphone. ‘Did you not, in the seven hours that he had failed to contact you, imagine that something might be wrong?’

  The woman dabbed her cheeks. ‘Yes, but —‘

  ‘But what, Mrs Knowles? You did not do anything, did you? Is that not the way of it?’

  ‘I thought he might —‘

  ‘Come home?’

  She nodded, and I felt so sorry for her that I wanted to rush down there and hold her hand. The solicitor was aggressive, his demeanour that of someone who knew what he was about and how to get what he wanted. Intimidating sprang to mind, and I wondered if he was like that in his day-to-day life. No woman ought to have to put up with him. I tried to imagine his life, him dishing out orders to his wife as though she herself was on the stand, unsurprised that the scenario spilled into my head easily. It wasn’t difficult to visualise, what with him being so brash.

  ‘Yet he didn’t come home, did he, Mrs Knowles?’ Without waiting for her to answer, he ploughed on. ‘He didn’t come home because someone had attacked then killed him, is that not right?’

  She sobbed again, louder this time, and I turned away, unable to bear looking at her in pain a moment longer. I shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t be here, and tried to manoeuvre myself around so I could walk out and never come back. What had possessed me to want to watch something as harrowing as this then write about it?

  I accidentally jostled the man and inwardly cursed. He stared at me as though I were poison. I mouthed ‘sorry’ and moved to squeeze past him, but he gripped my elbow, then my wrist, and widened his eyes. A smidge of my skin was caught between his finger and thumb, and I looked down between us to see his thumb knuckle had whitened with the force of his hold. I tugged politely and offered him a smile.

  ‘Please let go,’ I said, smiling wider, trying to appeal to his better side, if he even had one.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, voice just this side of gruff.

  He pinched my skin harder.

  The woman on the stand continued to sob.

  ‘I have…I have to go,’ I said. ‘An appointment. Please…’

  His gaze held mine too tightly, so much so that even if I wanted to look away I couldn’t. As well as that frenzied air there was another bit of breeze to him — danger. I wished I could shift my eyes, beg someone just by looking at them to step in and take over, make him release his hold so I could get outside into the fresh air and go home where I was safe.

  ‘Do you not think,’ the solicitor said loudly, ‘that if you had telephoned the police earlier your son might be alive today?’

  A collective gasp rose from the onlookers at such a cruel question, and I wrenched my attention from the man to glance to my right. I prayed that while I studied the solicitor striding back and forth in front of the stand that the grip on my wrist would be loosened, if not relinquished altogether.

  It wasn’t.

  ‘If… If…’ The woman took a deep breath. ‘He’d been missing before, see, and when I’d telephoned the police that time they’d told me they wouldn’t do anything about it until he’d been gone for forty-eight hours. I did nothing wrong. I did what I’d been told to do before, so don�
��t you dare try to get me to take the blame for my son’s death. Don’t you dare!’

  She rose, placing both hands either side of the microphone.

  ‘Sit down, Mrs Knowles,’ the judge said, a man of indeterminate age, hair greying at the temples, his beard making his face appear bigger than it probably was. ‘And calm yourself. Histrionics will help nobody.’

  She lowered herself into her seat, biting her lower lip as if to prevent herself from speaking.

  The man leaned closer to me, the side of his head touching mine. I winced, jolting away so that I shoved a lady to my right, but he jerked on my wrist until I moved my head back to where it had been. Once again he rested his head against mine.

  ‘You see that woman down there?’ he whispered.

  I nodded, bile threatening to come up. Shivers took over my legs, weakening my knees, and I didn’t want to turn to look at him, to see what emotion lurked in his eyes.

  ‘She’s next,’ he said.

  I did turn then, turned my head quickly to catch an expression on his face I hadn’t expected. He looked calm, as though he hadn’t just said something so hideous, so…impossible. The shivers intensified, and the urge to bolt was so concentrated I thought I might even have the strength to break free of him. How had my jaunt into doing something different turned into this? How had I found myself standing next to someone like him? And, if he was being serious in what he’d said, did it mean he had something to do with that poor woman’s son’s death? I swallowed, but bile surged up straight after. I lifted my free hand to cover my mouth, and my cheeks burned. I wanted to cry — really cry like Mrs Knowles — but I was stuck in place.

  ‘You’ll be back tomorrow,’ he said, a statement not a question. ‘If you’re not, I’ll find you.’

  I nodded, frantic bobs, thinking that no, I wouldn’t be back tomorrow. And how could he possibly find me? We’d only just met. Images flashed through my mind of him waiting outside and following me home so he knew my address and could knock on my door at any time if I didn’t show up here again. But could he really? Did things like that happen to people like me?