Degrees of Guilt

by H S Chandler

  Zain was sitting at the table, his empty plate pushed away to make space for the newspaper.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked without looking up.

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘You want anything else?’

  ‘Coffee would be good,’ he replied, turning a page.

  Lottie watched him from the corners of her eyes as she put the kettle on and loaded his plate into the dishwasher. With premature flashes of grey at his temples, Zain looked older than his late thirties but he carried it well. He was lithe, the golf course keeping him in shape, and he moved with a confidence Lottie had once felt she matched. Now it was a characteristic she envied. Filling his mug with boiling water, she stirred in milk and half a teaspoon of sugar, the way he liked it, putting the cup down in front of him.

  ‘I decided to do jury service,’ she said, grabbing a cup to make herself a green tea.

  She heard him flick the paper shut and push it across the table before picking up his mug.

  ‘But we discussed it,’ he said. ‘I thought we agreed that the best thing for Daniyal was for you to get yourself excused. I’ve got back-to-back meetings for the next couple of weeks. What happens if he suddenly gets ill and can’t go to the childminder?’

  ‘It’s only two weeks. There’s no reason to think he’ll get ill in that time,’ Lottie said.

  ‘Charlotte, you promised you’d get yourself released. I even offered to write a letter for you to explain the circumstances.’

  Lottie bristled. She didn’t need her husband writing a letter to make excuses for her. At some point, not only had she lost confidence in herself, apparently her husband had lost confidence in her as well.

  ‘I thought being on the jury would be interesting,’ she said. ‘So I didn’t ask to be released. This is important. It’s a citizen’s duty.’ Lottie concentrated on the hot water she was pouring to cover the lie. It was ridiculous to have created an untruth from something that might have saved a row, but she was damned if she would give him the satisfaction of knowing she’d done what she’d been told.

  ‘I think the phrase is civic duty. And in case you’ve forgotten, the reason I go to work and you stay home is because of our commitment to our child and this house,’ Zain replied. ‘We also decided to try for another baby. Daniyal’s the right age to deal with a sibling now and my career’s going well, but you’re still drinking and now there’s this jury thing …’

  ‘You decided it would be a good time for another baby, Zain. I didn’t agree anything, and even if I had, half a glass of wine and two weeks jury duty is hardly going to make a difference,’ Lottie said, ripping off a piece of kitchen roll to clean the water mark her mug had left. ‘I want to be more than someone who just looks after a family.’

  ‘This argument again?’ he sighed. ‘Our lives work because we agreed on different roles. Couldn’t you just make it easy for me? I have enough conflict in the office all day. I don’t need to come home to it as well.’

  ‘There’s no conflict,’ Lottie said. ‘I’ll do everything I usually do. Daniyal will be fine at the childminder for a fortnight. If anything happens, I’ll take responsibility for making alternative arrangements.’

  ‘I don’t want alternative arrangements, I want the normal ones. Do you have any idea how much pressure I’m under at work? I’m trying to make up for several other offices that are underperforming whilst training new staff members. The least you could do is make sure everything here runs smoothly.’

  ‘It does run smoothly. I got called for jury duty, Zain. You’re reacting as if I booked myself onto a two week cruise. You can’t just tell them you’re not going to do it. And for the record, I don’t feel ready to have another baby yet. I’m just getting my life back so you’re going to need to have a rethink …’

  ‘Getting your life back? What exactly is so terrible about raising our child? Listen to yourself. We had the chance to move to Pakistan and live with my family. You’d have had help from my mother with Danny, I had a great job offer there, and you said no. So don’t moan about your life. I work every hour I can to support this family. If we don’t have another child now, then when?’

  ‘I’m not giving you a time estimate. This is about my body!’

  ‘I think I’m entitled to a say, don’t you?’

  ‘Actually no, I don’t. You said you were okay with the decision not to move to Pakistan, so don’t throw that in my face now.’

  ‘We’re going to have to talk about this another time. I’m not prepared to argue with you tonight. I’ve got several reports to read before a meeting tomorrow, so work’s not over for me yet. Enjoy the rest of your wine. The floor needs …’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’ll run the mop over it now. You go and get your work done.’

  He picked up his bag from the hallway and retreated into the lounge, slamming the door behind him. Lottie took the mop from the utility room. Jury service would be good for her, she decided, as she squirted detergent into a bucket and filled it with warm water. Anything but more housework was as good as a holiday. She wouldn’t let Daniyal down. Being a mother was the most important job in the world, but she mattered, too. Feeling alive again mattered. If Zain was too wrapped up in his own work to see what she needed, she would make some changes on her own terms, whether he approved of them or not.

  6

  Day Two in Court

  Baking in the heat of the jury room, Lottie pulled her chair into a corner and flicked through a magazine that had been abandoned in a pile on the floor. The date on the cover was December two years earlier. She imagined all the bored fingers that had turned the pages, then closed her eyes before getting sucked into endless housekeeping articles. She’d had enough of domesticity, and it wasn’t even ten in the morning.

  Lottie had made sure her daily tasks were completed, knowing it would be easier to go to court if there were no compromises at home. She’d checked that Zain had a shirt ironed for the next morning before searching her own wardrobe for an appropriate outfit, settling on a long green skirt and white shirt. Keeping her make-up as natural as possible, she determined to fit in with the group, sure they wouldn’t approve of either short skirts or too much eyeliner. After that, she went through her diary and emailed cancellations to all the toddler groups she’d planned to attend over the next two weeks. The break would do her good. There were only so many renditions of ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ that one person could stand without suffering long-term psychological damage.

  Now she was stuck in a stifling room with eleven strangers and not looking forward to what the day might bring. Actually, ten strangers. Someone was late. Lucky for them, the day was starting with yet another delay.

  ‘Anything good in there?’ Jen asked brightly.

  Lottie held out the magazine half-heartedly. ‘Not much, but help yourself. I’ve finished with it.’

  ‘So where do you live then? We’re in Redcliffe, near Temple Meads train station. It’s a bit busy but an easy walk from the city centre.’

  ‘Abbots Leigh,’ Lottie replied, glancing around to see who else she could talk to. Jen seemed nice, but she didn’t want to get stuck in dull conversations about her family. That was exactly what she wanted to get away from.

  ‘Lovely village, very quaint, lucky you. I suppose you come over the Clifton Bridge in the mornings then. Nothing like that view, is there? Costs a fortune to keep it in good repair, of course.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Lottie murmured. ‘Time for a cup of coffee, I think. Enjoy the magazine.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Jen said. ‘Let’s exchange numbers. It might be helpful, I thought, in case either of us was ever late for court, or if you fancied going out some time?’

  ‘Oh yeah, sure,’ Lottie mumbled, as Jen pushed her mobile forward and waited to get Lottie’s in return. She punched her number into Jen’s contact list with a sinking stomach. This was what she was. A housewife, destined to be friends with other housewives. All of them dull together. ‘Thanks. I’m going to go and get
coffee now.’

  She stood up abruptly, and joined Jack – the Latin and Arabic student she had felt so sorry for yesterday – at the coffee table. His clothes were already limp with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. Lottie sympathised. Her skirt was clammy against her legs, and she wished she’d brought her antiperspirant stick in her handbag to freshen up at lunchtime. Daily news bulletins were announcing deaths from over-heating, and comparing the south of England with various desert regions across the world.

  ‘Word of warning,’ Lottie said. ‘Don’t eat the biscuits. They’re the ones from yesterday.’

  ‘I’m a student. Even soft biscuits are a luxury I can’t normally afford,’ Jack smiled.

  The door opened and Cameron walked in. He was wearing the same shirt as the day before, and his eyes were bloodshot. It was either partying or trouble, and he was sufficiently attractive that any number of women would be willing to keep him up all night. Lottie recognised the signs. She’d been an expert on clubbing and arriving home after sunrise before meeting Zain. He’d rescued her from a steep downward slope and given her a new life, something of a Cinderella story. It wasn’t that she wanted to sink back into her former partying days – she had motherhood to thank for that change – more that the memories represented an irrecoverable time. She would never again be so carefree. The real issue was that her life now was so staid and predictable in comparison. She struggled to find things to look forward to.

  The recently elected Tabitha addressed Cameron from the head of the table where she sat surrounded by willing cronies, Gregory, Agnes and Samuel. ‘Mr Ellis, I’m afraid you’re rather tardy. We were supposed to arrive no later than 10 a.m. I’m not sure the judge would appreciate one of our number keeping the court waiting on the second day.’

  ‘So you’ve already been into court, but were sent back out to wait for me, is that right?’ Cameron asked, filling a mug with coffee and slopping it everywhere, evidently not the least bit concerned about cleaning up after himself.

  ‘No, as a matter of fact, but that’s besides the point. This is a very serious case and as foreperson I should remind you of your …’

  ‘Remind me all you like, lady, but you’re not my mother. If the judge has something to say to me, I’m sure she’ll say it. Don’t make the mistake of telling me off again.’ He took his phone out of his pocket and stalked away to the far end of the table, throwing himself into a chair and directing his attention towards his mobile. There was a ripple of shocked murmuring around Tabitha, with the foreperson reassuring her admirers that she was quite all right.

  ‘Sorry, I’m on a business call, would you mind being a bit quieter?’ Pan Carras asked, putting one hand over the end of his mobile.

  ‘Or you could go somewhere else,’ Cameron replied without looking up.

  ‘Maybe you should go somewhere else,’ Agnes Huang snapped.

  ‘Do you want me to tell you where you can go?’ Cameron smirked.

  ‘Really,’ Gregory Smythe blustered, getting to his feet. ‘An apology is required.’

  ‘Stay out of it, granddad,’ Cameron said. ‘While we’re not in court I can say what I like to who I like.’

  Gregory took a step forward to respond as Tabitha put a calming hand on his forearm. ‘Perhaps this is best left,’ she whispered to him. He looked thunderous but retook his seat. The Tabitha support act reformed quietly at the end of the table, exchanging dark glances.

  Lottie watched Cameron texting furiously. Something was wrong. He was hammering the touchscreen of his phone, jaw clenched tight. He was frustrated. The easier way for her to deal with it would be to focus on what she was reading and mind her own business, but she wasn’t interested in easy any more. Easy had made her sluggish and pathetic. She wanted to make friends, and that meant reaching out. Everyone had bad days. Setting down the magazine, she approached him, determined to repair the damage to the atmosphere for all their sakes.

  ‘Hey, there are a few biscuits left. Can I grab you some?’ she asked quietly. ‘The sugar might make you feel better. Always works for me.’

  ‘It’s Lottie, right?’ Cameron replied.

  ‘Yes,’ she responded, pleased he’d remembered her name.

  ‘Okay Lottie, I’ve got legs to walk across the room and hands to take whatever I want. Just because you’ve finally escaped from your little two-up-two-down doesn’t mean you have to find some replacement for your kid to fuss over,’ he said. ‘What I really want is to be left alone.’

  The rest of the room stared on in stunned silence.

  ‘Just trying to help,’ Lottie muttered, her cheeks blazing. Jack averted his gaze. Cameron Ellis might be good looking but he was rude and aggressive. Whatever mood he was in didn’t excuse him speaking to her like that. He wouldn’t get another chance. He might be the person closest to her age on the jury, but he could look elsewhere for conversation from now on. If there hadn’t been other people in the room, she’d have told him exactly what she thought of him.

  Lottie knew what her husband would say, hating that he was right. She was out of her depth. She’d imagined lengthy conversations, trying to get to the heart of the truth in the trial, finding others equally interested in seizing an opportunity to make a difference, but on her wavelength. It was obviously not to be. The older jurors had already banded together. Jack, the student, was sweet but looked even more lost than her. Better to wait for jury service to be over and stick with the young mums’ brigade at toddler group, accepting her limits. Better still to just keep quiet.

  7

  Maria took the stairs up from the Crown Court reception area, avoiding the solicitors hurrying to meet clients and catching snippets of the barristers’ conversations as they swished past. She studied the emotions on the faces of life’s other losers. Victims there to give evidence, defendants waiting to be sentenced, everyone hoping their particular judge had woken up in a good mood. It was fascinating, encompassing all the stresses and strains Edward claimed to have protected her from. She’d missed out on so much. Friends had been left unmet and unmade. Mistakes equally, from which she might have learned. And she – foolish, ridiculous, duped she – had done nothing about it until far too late. Better late than never, though. If revenge was a dish best served cold, hers had been on ice for a decade.

  As if catching glimpses on a speeding train, she walked past the conference rooms that were dotted around various floors, in which today’s line-up was alternately crying, shouting or huddling in conversation. The building was incredibly busy, with multiple sentencings that day. As a result, most of the rooms were full. Maria’s barrister, James Newell, had found them a tiny space that had presumably been a broom cupboard in a former life, and they squeezed into it.

  ‘Sorry about the delay. The prosecution is struggling to find a date when their psychiatrist can be here. How are you feeling today?’ Newell asked.

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ Maria replied.

  A knock at the door interrupted them, and Imogen Pascal poked her head in, with DI Anton standing close behind her.

  ‘James, a word please,’ she said. Maria’s barrister excused himself and went outside, leaving the door ajar. Maria watched their exchange through the crack. It sounded polite enough, but the body language was tense. James Newell’s arms were folded. Miss Pascal handed him documents which he skimmed as she spoke. He shook his head at her. Imogen Pascal’s hands went to her hips. Maria leaned forward in her seat to see more of their exchange, bringing DI Anton into view. He was standing a metre behind the prosecutor, right hand in his trouser pockets as he wiped his left on his hip. He was perspiring badly, darkening patches already spreading beyond his armpits. He wasn’t watching the exchange, though. His eyes were aimed downwards. Maria moved across the room to get a better view. From side on she could see much more clearly. DI Anton couldn’t take his eyes off Imogen Pascal’s buttocks. Maria doubted he even realised he was staring quite so openly. She stepped closer to the door, intrigued. No doubt he’d been
on endless police courses designed to stop that sort of behaviour which just showed how little human demeanour was truly controllable. It had been half a lifetime since Maria had stared at anyone’s buttocks. She wondered what the attraction really was, having spent a considerable amount of time avoiding looking at Edward when he was naked. That was mainly sagging white skin and spongy flesh. To be fair to DI Anton, Miss Pascal was rather more shapely. The police officer turned his head and caught Maria staring. She raised her eyebrows at him. He frowned and glared at her, making a show of coughing to cover his scarlet face, then moved to join the conversation between Pascal and Newell, turning his back to Maria. She sat back down, grinning.

  James Newell reappeared a few minutes later clutching sheets of A4 paper and a bundle of photographs.

  ‘What was that about?’ Maria asked.

  ‘A new statement,’ Newell said, putting a bundle of paperwork on the table between them and rubbing his forehead. ‘The police made a further search of your home. I suspect they were looking for anything that might counter your defence and the extent to which we say your husband controlled your life. They found this.’ He held up a photograph of a mobile phone. Square, basic, and obviously cheap, without the frills of a camera or advanced functions, it had served Maria well enough over the years. ‘You’ll be asked about it if you give evidence. Think carefully before you answer. It’s a pre-paid phone, no contract, and the police have been unable to produce any call records for it. We call them burners. As they can’t be traced, they’re commonly used by drug dealers. Now it might be that it’s not yours, but they have also given us a statement stating that your fingerprints and no one else’s were lifted from it. Do you recognise it?’