The Rapunzel Act, page 13
‘What guilt thing?’
‘That she blames herself for making Rosie angry, for all Rosie’s bad behaviour, because she feels she put her through the ringer. Ah. What does it matter? Just another area of questioning to avoid in court then, and we’re no further forward either.’
‘Listen, I know you don’t want to ask Ben to give evidence now...’ Constance continued.
‘That’s what I’ve said.’ Judith answered quickly.
‘But, I told you he was critical of Rosie, and he’ll say they loved each other.’
Judith fiddled with her seat belt.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘But the more I think about it, the more I believe Laidlaw will twist it. And he’ll milk the sympathy angle. You know: “poor motherless boy”, “needs closure” – that kind of thing.’
‘Ben wants to help. You heard.’
‘Since when were we therapists, on top of everything else? Although I suspect Laidlaw will want him for the prosecution, for all the reasons I’ve just expounded, so he may get his moment in court anyway.’
‘What about Laura?’
‘You say she’s cold?’
‘Yes.’
‘Didn’t get on with Rosie?’
‘I don’t think they were close, no.’
‘Then we’ll have Laura. We need someone to redress the balance and Rosie’s own daughter is a good choice… What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Tell me.’
‘It’s just that you’re, somehow, so protective of Ben but you don’t seem to feel the same about Laura.’
‘She’s older. She’ll cope better. And Laidlaw won’t be able to use the same angle.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Look. It’s not entirely logical. I accept that. Just my feeling about what’s best. Anything else?’
‘No.’ Constance set her lips firmly together and concentrated on the road. Half a mile along the way, she turned the radio on.
22
Nicki met Constance in the front room of a derelict property which Dead Earth had commandeered as its HQ. The stone floor and ceiling rosette hinted at an illustrious past, but the building had clearly been neglected for some years. It was devoid of any real furniture – instead, a few everyday items were dotted around to fulfil the basic needs of its users – and the paint was peeling from the walls in strips. Nicki was dressed in jeans and a loose-fitting white t-shirt, emblazoned with a picture of Darth Vader’s head and the slogan ‘Choose the Green side’.
Constance had felt, instinctively, that Nicki might prove a prickly adversary. That was certainly the impression she gave from anything and everything she posted online; fervent, strident, discordant. Those were the words which came to mind if you read her outpourings or watched her in action. So Constance had decided she would need to match Nicki in forcefulness, if she was to take anything useful away from their encounter. She had worn a black leather jacket and her chunkiest shoes.
But Nicki was on home territory and had seized the advantage from the start. Choosing this makeshift office forced Constance literally off-balance, as the inhospitable room offered only upturned packing crates for seats, meaning Constance had to balance her laptop on her knee.
As Constance adjusted her position, Nicki gazed out of the window, exposing her long, jagged, infamous scar to scrutiny. And it was fascinating to look at, beginning just under her left eye and crossing her cheek diagonally towards her ear, before changing direction and arcing down to end just above her chin, where it split into two short branches which gradually faded to nothing.
Before they had met, Constance had imagined something superficial, like a scratch from an over-enthusiastic bout of gardening, or those lines you sometimes have on your face in the morning, if you’ve slept awkwardly; something you might be able to erase if you rubbed lightly but persistently. This scar was deep, slicing through the epidermis to the connective tissue below, the result of some considerable trauma.
‘You said you wanted to talk about Rosie Harper? I’m not sure I have much to tell,’ Nicki said, her accent local, but with the rough edges filed away.
‘You wrote to her. I have your emails,’ Constance began.
‘Then you’ll know that I was once hoping to go on her show.’
‘What happened?’
‘I’m not sure. First, it was going to happen, then it wasn’t.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘It can sometimes make all the difference, if a high-profile person gives their support.’
‘Difference to what? I understand you’re interested in changing government policy on green issues.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘What would you say?’
‘I’d say I’m fighting a war.’
‘Which war? Climate change? Animal welfare? Human rights? Privacy? Whistleblowing? Whaling?’
‘I thought you came to talk about Rosie.’
‘I’m just interested. And now I’m here, this is your chance to impress me.’ Constance heard herself speaking the words, coolly, brusquely, but she cringed inside. Anyone who knew her would laugh and tell her to behave. But Nicki didn’t know her and seemed happy to spar, for now at least.
‘They’re all battles in the same war.’ Nicki’s voice remained light, but Constance detected a harder edge. ‘We’ve been under Conservative rule in this country for the last nine years,’ she said. ‘They haven’t tackled environmental issues and they insist on old-fashioned values that fitted better at the turn of the twentieth century. They have a horrendous record on all the other things you listed.’
‘Isn’t there a risk that by championing so many causes, you won’t have any real impact?’
‘I have experience in organising action, in lobbying for support, and if I can share that around, for the benefit of different interest groups, then that’s good for everyone.’
‘Are you a leader? You’re listed online as the leader of Dead Earth.’
‘I’m a facilitator. I take the lead for a short time, train up a team and then move on. It’s more effective than sitting tight and giving orders.’
‘You do literally take the lead though, don’t you? The papers had you at the front of May’s big march.’
‘I don’t have a problem getting my hands dirty.’
Constance paused. Although Nicki’s words were tough, the calm manner she was exhibiting now was a far cry from the shrieking, stamping shrew who had marched along the Strand only three months ago, then clambered up one of the lions in Trafalgar Square to pose, draped around the majestic beast, and address the writhing crowd below. As she spoke, Nicki opened and closed her hands and Constance noticed they were small and neat, hardly big enough to hold a megaphone.
‘What does it feel like to be striding out with hundreds of people behind you, following you? And the chanting and the singing. It must be…don’t you feel powerful?’
Nicki gave a short laugh. ‘You think I do this for the status, that I get off on being a leader?’
‘I’m just…’
‘You want to know how I felt marching over Waterloo Bridge, me calling all the shots, deciding who goes where, who sings what, when to sit down, when to stand up?’
Constance said nothing. Nicki’s eyes shone brightly.
‘I felt a sense of responsibility. That’s what. To keep the focus on the campaign and not on individuals. The Establishment wants it to be about me. Then they can rubbish me, criticise me, wait for me to make a wrong move. The key is not to let that happen.’
‘Who chose the name Dead Earth? It’s pretty stark.’
‘Isn’t it better to tell things how they are? The next generation won’t thank us for protecting them from understanding what’s really going on.’
‘Do you believe violence is necessary to achieve your aims?’
‘I believe in force, in forceful, direct action, but not violence, no.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Violence is sudden, impetuous behaviour reserved for thugs, resulting in pain, injury, death. The word has the same origin as violation, so it’s not surprising I’m not a supporter. Force is different. It’s about applying strength, sometimes in combination with others or over a prolonged period, but when you apply force, something shifts.’
‘So what motivates you. Why are you doing any of this?’
‘All life experiences shape you,’ Nicki said, ‘but it’s all about questioning what we’re told, not accepting what we’re fed by politicians and their followers and wanting to facilitate change.’
Constance thought that she should ask Nicki about her scar. If there was a time to do it, this was it. But Nicki’s large eyes were now scanning Constance’s face and she couldn’t find the right words.
‘What’s the biggest challenge facing the planet now, in your view?’ she said, instead.
‘Greed,’ Nicki said.
‘Greed?’
‘No one is thinking about the common good. If they were, then we would all live a much simpler life.’
‘Are you a Communist then?’
‘Communism cowed too many honest people into submission for too long. I am not against private ownership or wealth or individualism, but people’s values have to change. That’s the shift we’re trying to achieve.’
‘You’re a local girl, aren’t you?’
‘Like you.’
‘I heard you lived abroad for a while. Where did you go?’
Nicki’s fingers moved down to her improvised seat and she shifted position. ‘Somewhere better than here,’ she said.
‘If things were so bad here, why d’you come back?’
‘I missed home.’ Nicki’s eyes travelled to the window again and her voice softened. Outside, the street market was beginning to pack up. A trader, shouting out his last bargains, lifted his boxes into the back of a lorry.
‘Do you get paid for your work? Your facilitating?’
Nicki stared at Constance and she suddenly felt cold fingers probe at her heart, despite the ambient temperature in the room.
‘Sometimes,’ she said, after a short hiatus.
‘And, what? It’s a standard fee or depends on how much time you spend? Is it results driven?’
‘It depends on the work. I’m always conscious of the ability of the organisation to pay, when I consider whether to charge. But I do have to live.’
For the first time, Constance thought she had pierced through Nicki’s shell, that her question had exposed her and she was uncomfortable. Now was the time to press home the advantage.
‘Do you think Rosie, personally, pulled the plug on your interview?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you think about her murder?’
‘I think it’s sad they weren’t in love any more; Rosie and Danny.’
‘You’re a romantic, then?’ Constance attempted a smile.
Nicki’s face flushed red and she checked her watch. ‘I have somewhere else to be,’ she said. ‘Are you nearly finished?’
‘I’m sorry. I do appreciate you fitting me in…’
‘I have an alibi…for when Rosie was killed. You haven’t asked me about that, but the police have probably told you.’
‘Yes.’
‘She wasn’t a very nice person, Rosie Harper, not in real life. Did you know that?’
‘Oh. No.’
‘Maybe I’m only seeing things from one side. I was there, you see. I knew they’d been up and down about whether to do the Heathrow piece for a week or so. But they called me in, brought me into the studio. They’d even stuck me in makeup. The poor girl didn’t know what to do about my scar. She just sat there staring at it, with her hand raised towards my face, wanting to ask if she should cover it or not. I was cruel. I let her sit there for ages before I told her not to bother. Jason came over to say hello, but she didn’t. Then, when they got the message to put something else in, at the last minute, the programmer was apologetic; Jason, too. Rosie just kind of smiled and carried on with what she was doing.’
‘So you wrote to her, to make her notice you?’
‘I was cross with her. She liked people to think that she cared about these issues…and they’re pretty big issues.’
‘Did she reply to your emails?’
‘She did, actually. Twice. Fairly bland stuff, but she did reply. Then she stopped. To be fair, that’s twice more than some people. But an email or two, it’s nothing; no real effort.’
‘Is it right that you went to see her, two weeks or so before she died?’
‘Everyone keeps going on about this. No. I was just there, on the corner of East Road, when she drove past. I had been visiting a friend. Now, if you’ll forgive me, like I said, I have somewhere else to be, five minutes ago.’
Nicki rose now and, without waiting for any thank you or goodbye, she left the room. By the time Constance had packed away her laptop, Nicki had gone. Constance ran to the door and then to the entrance to the building and looked left and right, but there was no sign of her.
Constance took some photos of the room and the limited furniture, from a few angles. ‘Thank you, Nicki. It was a pleasure to meet you,’ she said to the shadows, as she shouldered her bag and headed off down the road.
23
Andy was first to arrive at the TV studio, a modern set of rooms on the fifth floor of a 1960s, boxy construction, just off Gray’s Inn Road. He wasn’t often early, but he had been for each morning last week, when he had attended rehearsals here. It was not that he was disorganised or lazy; just that he usually had so many things to fit into the hours of the day. In any twenty-four hour period, he was frequently each and all of: lawyer, counsellor, truancy coach, husband, father, son, brother, friend, shopper, cook, accountant and tax adviser. Not surprising, then, that he could ill-afford the luxury of being ahead of schedule, of kicking his heels waiting for others to join him.
But today was different. Today was the day Court TV was finally to air, the beginning of a new life, where all Andy’s worries, his conflicting loyalties, his over-spilling diary difficulties would be resolved, in an instant, when he took his place in front of the cameras.
He was asked to wait, seated on a spongy corner sofa, while the assistant who had opened up went scurrying around. Next to arrive was Katrina Sadiq, the lead presenter, friendly, in a quietly confident way. Her reputation as a canny political correspondent, keen to get to the bottom of every issue she addressed, had preceded her and she hadn’t disappointed him so far, with her eloquence and quick tongue. Then Phil Ash breezed in, together with Chris Richards, the second anchor for the show and a collection of other production-related staff. Last to arrive was Graham, carrying a large tray of croissants, which he deposited at the front desk, before shaking hands energetically with each of them.
Andy still felt the studio was small. Once you were seated inside and the lights were switched on, it felt even smaller than when you viewed it through its glass walls. But the team was very attentive and they were each able to practise some short speeches and receive final tips and feedback on their performance. Andy chose to recite Portia’s ‘quality of mercy’ speech from The Merchant of Venice, which he thought might amuse, but no one appeared to notice or appreciate his selection. Maybe they were all too nervous, with it being the dress rehearsal.
Then, in the coffee break, when the croissants were handed around, Graham, who had been constantly on his phone since his arrival – at times waving his arms around, at other times running his fingers through his hair – came to address them all.
‘Thank you all for coming today,’ he said, beaming widely. ‘It’s great for you all to be here for our first day of broadcasting, even though it’s mostly pre-recorded. Phil tells me you have all worked really hard and made yourselves comfortable, which is just as well, as it’s going to be your second home for the best part of the next three months.’
Andy thought it much more peaceful, at this moment, than his real home.
‘I am conscious that we have gathered, here, a talented bunch of professionals, and that you are unlikely to need too much direction, given your own skills and background. Having said that, you are going to have an extra producer in addition to the usual team, at the end of a microphone to give you direction, live, during the show, and to keep things moving. After tonight, I am going to be away from London for a short while – unavoidable, I am afraid, given my year-end targets – but I leave you in very capable hands.
‘Now, tonight is our opening and, clearly, we will be focusing on the background to Court TV’s launch, so it won’t be as dynamic a show as usual. It will be much more scripted. Even so, we will be highlighting the motto of the pilot scheme – “Equality, Accessibility, Transparency” – and I want that to guide you in all you do. That is why we are here, not to feed our own egos, although I should like to think that you will all, quickly, if not already – at this point he gave a nod in Katrina’s direction – become household names. More than that, I want you to become trusted friends of the public. You are here to educate and illuminate them and not, I repeat not, to just blandly accept things you hear in court.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been called bland,’ Katrina said.
‘I do want you to challenge things the judge or lawyers say,’ Graham kept going, with a nod to recognise Katrina’s comment. ‘Andy, you’ll remember we talked about this early on and you were so supportive of this principle that poor practice must be stamped out.’
Andy heard Graham’s words and smiled, as everyone looked at him with admiration for his high moral compass, but inside he was squirming. Did Graham really expect him to criticise his own colleagues?
