Don't Say a Word

by A. L. Bird

  I unbuckle my seat belt, thinking I should go in after him, but Dan buckles it up again.

  ‘He’s fine,’ Dan says. ‘You saw him go into school. He’s safe. The next time he comes out of school will be when you and I collect him later.’

  ‘You think?’ I ask Dan.

  ‘I do.’ He kisses me on the lips. It’s a sex kiss, a grown-up kiss. An adult kiss. Because now, I am a grown-up, in a proper, consenting, non-abusive relationship. We’ve just dropped my lovely son off at school, and now I’m going to be dropped off at work – and because we work on the same case, we’ll probably be speaking in the day too.

  As I said, delicious.

  When Dan drops me at the office, we do the kissing bit again. We should try to be discreet, I guess, but I don’t feel like it. I feel like this is my happiness, which I’m entitled to, and no worry about office gossip is going to stop me enjoying it.

  ‘See you at 3.30,’ Dan tells me, as I climb out of the car. ‘Just come down. I’ll be waiting.’

  ‘Will do, and thank you. For everything.’

  I wave the car off, then face the office. Hard to believe it’s only a weekend since I’ve been here. So much has happened. I look down at my clothes. Back at Dan’s flat, I convinced myself it would be OK to wear the clothes we’d worn on our date (I didn’t think to grab work clothes on our Friday night exodus). Now, it feels like a walk of shame. Like something Chloe would have worn for work, but she never would have been in an office.

  Still, I have to go into the office. Think of yourself as dressed from within, not from without. Or some pop-psychology babble.

  Tim is the first person I see. ‘Good weekend?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah, not bad. Quite quiet,’ I say, for a joke with myself.

  Tim gives me a funny look. Then, ‘How was your date on Friday?’

  Oh, yeah. Of course. The date. I cast my mind back. The panic. The running. The note. The police. The hostel.

  ‘I think it went well, thanks. Dan seems quite keen. We agreed to see more of each other.’

  Tim waits, as if for more detail. He doesn’t get any.

  ‘How was your weekend?’ I ask him.

  He starts, surprised at the shift. ‘Oh, you know, same old. Saw the wife, helped with the kids, played squash – the usual deal.’

  ‘Great,’ I say. I make to move off, towards the coffee, but he starts speaking again.

  ‘Anyway, good news, sort of. Do you want to pop in? I’d talk here, but you know …’

  Ah yes. Tim and his confidentiality bugbear. I follow him into his office.

  ‘We’ve got the revised charge sheet,’ he tells me.

  I try to draw my mind to a place where that means something. Yes, of course. Rhea Stevens. Charge sheet. First one, not so much detail. This one, hopefully more, so we can build the case. And a good excuse to talk to Dan.

  ‘Good, I guess,’ I say to Tim. ‘What’s it look like?’

  He takes a piece of paper from his desk. ‘It’s here,’ he tells me. ‘It’s pretty interesting reading. Take a look, then we can speak.’

  ‘OK, will do.’

  We part company, Tim staying in his office, me back at my desk. Dan was right – it was definitely a good call coming back to work. I sit down with the charge sheet.

  Good, a bit more detail. I skim through. Oh, here’s the Doncaster point that I really wanted more on. That should be interesting, I –

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  This can’t be for real.

  I read the paragraph again and again and again.

  Rhea Stevens met with an individual, Rowland Carter, in Doncaster town centre on 20 November 2006 and took possession of 20 wraps of cocaine. On the same day, she travelled to Balby, where she met with Mick Hardy and supplied him with the 20 wraps, which were found in his possession, and he was arrested, charged, and imprisoned.

  And there’s a footnote. This information has become available from interviews with Mick Hardy as part of co-operation leading to his parole review.

  I’m going to be sick. I run from my desk, still clutching the charge sheet, and go straight to the toilet cubicle. I hold the charge sheet to me and vomit up its impact into the toilet. Then I dry heave again and again.

  Finally, when there is nothing left in me – nothing – I sit down on the floor and look at the charge sheet again.

  The words are still there.

  The good news is that I know how we can get Rhea off this charge.

  The bad news is, it means disclosing what Chloe did. And what Mick didn’t do.

  That Chloe framed him, and Mick wasn’t involved in drugs at all.

  And what that would mean for me, now, and Josh, is unthinkable.

  Chapter 29

  The toilet in the stall next to mine flushes.

  Right. I’ve got to focus. I’ve got to get on. I’ve got choices to make.

  I haul myself up from the floor, straighten my skirt and the crumpled charge sheet, flush the toilet, and unlock the door.

  I come face to mirror with Lucy. Of course. It would be her, there, now.

  ‘Jen.’ She nods at me. No professional warmth there.

  ‘Lucy.’ I nod back. I put the charge sheet under my chin and scrub my hands.

  ‘Let me hold that for you,’ says Lucy, reaching out to grasp it.

  I pull my hand out from tap but I am too slow. Lucy pulls the charge sheet out from under my chin, cutting into my neck as she does so. I cry out. It’s only a paper cut, but it smarts.

  ‘That’s confidential!’ I tell Lucy, trying to pull it back.

  ‘Nonsense, you’re here in work time and I’m a partner. I can read it.’

  ‘It’s one of Tim’s cases,’ I tell her. ‘I can’t talk about it.’ Not because it’s confidential. Because I can’t. I’ve no idea what I’m meant to say.

  I go to grab the paper, but she’s already handing it back with a sneer. ‘Drugs and prostitution. Well, that figures.’

  What? Because I’m common as muck to her? A single mum is as good as a whore?

  But I’m not going to push it. I have to pick my battle, and it isn’t this one.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, and I move past her out of the door.

  If I can just get out of the office, have some space to breathe, to think, then –

  ‘Ah, Jen, there you are!’ It’s Bill. I stare at him. If I tell, what about me and Bill, and my job? Where does that go? I force myself to respond like an ordinary human being.

  ‘Bill, hi, how are you?’

  ‘How are you more like?’ he asks me.

  I try to make up a response taking in the charge sheet, Chloe, and Mick, but then I realize he is talking about the weekend, the confusion, the call while he was walking his dog.

  ‘Oh, fine, fine – we’re staying with a friend. Don’t worry,’ I tell him.

  ‘You’re sure? I’m sorry I couldn’t speak properly at the weekend, but I’m free now if you’d like a chat over a coffee?’

  I can’t possibly chat over coffee. How can I make pretend small talk, or pretend big talk? I have to get out into the open.

  ‘I’ve got a deadline. Sorry, Bill,’ I say. ‘Another time.’

  I squeeze past him. The door is in sight.

  But no.

  Tim blocks my path.

  He nods to the charge sheet. ‘You’ve read it then,’ he says.

  I nod slowly. ‘Yes, I’ve read it.’

  He looks at me closely (into my soul, into my brain – can he read my thoughts?). ‘And?’

  ‘And,’ I say. ‘And. And I think it would be helpful to hear yours and Dan’s thoughts on it.’

  At least if they are speaking, I don’t have to. Or I can think while they’re talking. Or at least hearing Dan’s voice will make me feel a lot better. Although it might just make this worse. Because if I have to do what I think I might, we’re never going to be safe again. Chloe will make
sure of that.

  ‘Fine,’ says Tim. ‘Let’s get Dan on the phone. I’ll send him over a copy of the charge sheet now.’

  So I sit down at the spider phone in Tim’s office, get Dan’s clerk, then Dan, on the line.

  ‘Hi Dan, you’ve got Tim and Jen here from Rotham Wyatt.’ Get Tim’s name in there quick, so he knows we’re not alone. No sex chat, please. ‘We’re calling about the updated charge sheet. Tim’s sent it through to you.’

  ‘Oh, OK, I hadn’t actually seen …’

  ‘No problem, Dan,’ Tim pitches in. ‘Only just sent it across. Jen thought it would be good to get your reaction.’

  ‘Always grateful for the work, Jen, thank you.’

  Is that banter? Or resentment? I don’t know. Nothing has shifted in his world. He’s still just a man who got laid last night. Not someone whose past has caught up with them. Again.

  ‘What do you think, Dan?’ I ask. I don’t care if I’m putting him on the spot. I just want him to speak. Anything, to buy me some time.

  ‘Well, let’s just give Dan a moment to open the email, hey, Jen?’ Tim cuts in, perhaps humorously, perhaps not. ‘While he’s having a quick read, I can bring you up to speed on my latest discussion with Rhea.’

  When even was that? Has he been phoning the prison? Perhaps. Maybe. Who knows.

  ‘She’s not doing well, I’m afraid. She’s very down about the whole thing. I very much doubt she’ll stand up well in the witness box. They’re keeping her under close observation.’

  ‘Do they think she’ll do something silly?’ Dan asks.

  ‘Something silly.’ I remember when one of the older girls did ‘something silly’ at one of the care homes. She narrowly avoided being carried out in a body bag.

  Tim nods then, for Dan’s benefit: ‘Yes, I think there is that risk. And of course, she has that little daughter … Such a difficult case. Jen, are you OK?’

  I don’t know what I’ve done to make him think I’m not OK. Did I make a noise? Did I cry, convulse, twitch? I have no idea. Whatever it was, it wasn’t conscious.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I just feel bad for Rhea.’

  ‘Well, that’s very noble,’ says Tim. ‘But we’ve got to do more than “feel bad” I’m afraid.’

  Does he know? Is he hinting to me to tell? But he can’t possibly know! It’s ridiculous!

  ‘Tim’s right,’ Dan says. ‘We’ve got to put our legal hats on here. No good getting all emotional.’

  Of course. Not emotional. Lawyer. Lawyers think of – excuses, alibis, evasions. Framing.

  Shit, I’ve got to ask something. I have to know.

  ‘Is there, um, any mention of any third party involvement? Say, in the Doncaster one?’

  Tim looks over the charge sheet. ‘Nothing here about that featuring in Mick Hardy’s confession.’

  Mick Hardy’s confession my arse! I don’t know what Mick is up to. I don’t know how he even knows about Rhea. But I know he knows she isn’t involved.

  ‘Mick Hardy?’ says Dan. ‘Jen, isn’t that –’

  ‘Bad. Yes it is bad that someone seems to have it in for our client.’ Shut up, Dan. Get the hint. Drop it. Please.

  Now I’m going to have to keep talking. Who knows what Dan is going to say?

  I ask what’s on my mind.

  ‘Is there any mention of another name in relation to this? I think I read a name on the file – Chloe someone. Chloe Brown, maybe?’

  Tim looks up at me, then shakes his head slowly. ‘Nope, haven’t seen that name mentioned. Have you, Dan?’

  ‘No, haven’t seen it. Is that something you want me to look into, Jen? I can google it even, quickly now. Chloe –’

  ‘No!’ Shit, what have I done? I should never have let that name cross my lips. Never! ‘Forget I said anything. I got this confused with another case. Forget it.’

  Tim makes a tut tut noise. ‘Something distracting you, Jen? Dan, any idea what it could be?’ There’s a jovial, slightly mocking tone to his voice.

  ‘Can’t imagine,’ Dan says. But now he has that jovial tone too. What’s going on here?

  Tim sees my face and he laughs. ‘I saw Dan dropping you off this morning, Jen. I know Friday’s date went a little better than you said. Couldn’t resist a cheeky text to Dan earlier, get my facts straight. I hear you’ve only gone and shacked up with him! Good for you two.’

  OK, OK, so Tim thinks I’m losing my focus due to sex. So does Dan. Not ideal for my professionalism, but given the real reason, I can deal with that. I can play along, use that as a blind.

  ‘OK, you got me,’ I say to Tim. ‘I admit, I may have let Dan turn my head a bit. Dan, I hope you’re equally distracted over there.’

  ‘I can still earn my brief fee,’ Dan quips back.

  But you’re working pro bono, I want to say. I know that. Why do you have to pretend, do all this banter?

  I need fresh air.

  ‘So, as you two love birds seem to have gooey brain cells, let me go with my reactions,’ Tim says. ‘There’s more detail now, certainly. Does that help us? I don’t know. Rhea says she didn’t do any of it. If we can find one little hole in this detail, maybe we can bring down the credibility of the rest of it. But until then, we have a depressed client, no real alibi, and a young child at risk of growing up without its mother. Let’s give Dan a better chance to review, and for us all to give it some thought, and we can have another call tomorrow maybe. OK?’

  I nod OK. Then I say OK to the phone and, ‘See you later, Dan.’ Because why fucking pretend? I’m pretending about everything else. It’s so tiring.

  ‘All right?’ says Tim, when we’re off the line.

  I nod.

  ‘Hope you didn’t mind a bit of banter. Just wanted to lighten things up, with such a grim case.’

  ‘At least they don’t hang people here,’ I say. Because that’s the most cheerful thing I can think of to say.

  ‘No, but sometimes people hang themselves,’ Tim says.

  There’s a beat. We look at each other. I feel like I’m going to be sick again.

  ‘Let’s reconvene like you said,’ I manage to croak. ‘I’ve got to go now. Dentist appointment.’

  And then I race out of his office, out of the building, out of the car park, and into the side alley at the back. Once there, I double over myself and try to breathe.

  That poor woman. That poor Rhea Stevens. And her kid! A little kid, like Josh was, like I once was. And I know she’s innocent. Shit, of all the fucking coincidences! That she would have lived in Doncaster, that she would be implicated in that meet. That Mick would somehow know her and name her.

  What the fuck is Mick up to?

  And then it hits me. Shit. Mick wants me to say what I know. He somehow knows I’m working on Rhea’s case. One of his cronies has somehow tracked me down, and he knows that I’ve got the key to his innocence.

  No, that’s nonsense. How would he know? It’s not possible. Even if he’d found me, Tim’s kept this case so secret, word couldn’t possibly have slipped out. Mick’s just heard about this Rhea person, somehow, among one of his acquaintances, and decided to slip her in to a false confession, to make his parole a bit more likely, while fucking up her life. Mick wouldn’t need telling twice to put himself first. He’s always done it. Always.

  Chloe didn’t. She wasn’t putting herself first. She was protecting someone. It wasn’t a selfish act, a revenge act by her. OK, maybe, part revenge. I think back to that scene. The slipping of those wraps into Mick’s bag when she thought no one was watching. The face twitchy with nerves but also with hate. There was hate there, definitely.

  So. Part selfish. Part altruistic. I got out, didn’t I, because of that? And Josh got out.

  But it was very very clear, that if I ever told the truth about that day, Chloe would come back. And then Jen and Josh would be over.

  There’s a limit to how altruistic one person should be expected
to be. I need to remember that before I dob in Chloe for the sake of some woman I’ve never met. Sure, she is in a tough place. But so am I!

  Couldn’t I make an anonymous tip-off? Explain how Chloe heard a conversation about an innocent meet-up. That she tied that together with a less innocent exchange happening at the house the same day. All those little details of time and place picked up and filed away. How she’d planted the wraps on Mick to make it look like an exchange of drugs. A small proportion of the same mix being kept at the house to be exchanged later that day on a wider scale. A whole bunch of dealers in prison. Plus someone who didn’t have anything to do with it. Mick.

  But no, that wouldn’t help. No one else knows. It’s me who Chloe would catch up, me who Chloe would destroy. Me and Josh. Once she’s caught up with us, there’ll be no going back.

  So – what? Do I sit on my conscience? Pretend that none of this ever happened?

  Or do I talk to Mick? Try to tell him about the human cost of what he’s doing?

  Maybe. Maybe. But how do I know he won’t be recording the call? How do I know that tape won’t be played down the line to Chloe later on? That it won’t come out in some courtroom somewhere? Chloe called to give evidence, Josh led away to a children’s home. Or before we even get there, I can see myself and Josh destroyed in our own home, when Chloe sees she has to face the music.

  I can’t! I can’t do it! Can I?

  Chapter 30

  By 3.30 p.m., I’ve figured it out.

  Not all of it. Fuck, I’m not a genius. Or mental enough to work out the mind of a warped sicko like Mick. Or legal-eagle enough to work out a genius defence.

  But I’ve worked something out.

  I’ve worked out that because I get Rhea, understand her background, her life, more than Tim does, if I talk to her then I can get something out of her. Imagine, someone like her, talking to Tim! He’s a suit, a threatening authority figure, who she knows sees her as a slut.

  And if I can somehow intimate that I know she wasn’t involved in Doncaster, show her I trust her, then maybe I can get her to come up with something that Tim hasn’t reached. Something that means I’m not going to have to tell my little secret. Chloe’s little secret.