It Ends At Midnight, page 6
‘You’re going to have to go back.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Marcus says. He sounds angry but there’s fear in his eyes, flickering in his pupils as he looks from me to his cigarettes, to his glass, back to me again.
I lean forward, putting my hands on the edge of the table to steady myself. ‘She’s got a brain tumour, Marcus. They’ve run tests. They need to run more. But there’s no way this isn’t serious.’
His mouth opens as if he’s about to speak but no words come out for a while, until he says, ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’
‘I mean that the chances are that she’s got cancer. Tess has got cancer. She’s going to need us, Marcus. She can’t do this on her own.’
Marcus bows his head, takes in a deep breath, exhales. Breathes in again. He looks as if he could get up and run any second.
‘Marcus,’ I say, but he interrupts before I can say anything else.
‘Are they sure?’ he says.
I nod. ‘As I said, they need to run more tests. But there’s definitely a growth in her brain. That’s what she said.’
He shakes his head, his expression bemused. ‘She’s the fittest of all of us. All that running, vegetarian food. Never smoking. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘It doesn’t work that way. You know that.’
He shakes his head again, shutting his eyes. ‘I just can’t believe it. She seems so strong.’
‘She is strong. But so is this. She’s really going to need us.’
‘How long has she known?’
‘Not that long,’ I say. ‘She said she’s been having some headaches, for a few months now, and she had a fit a couple of months ago, while you were away on circuit. She came to on the floor, all bruised up, not sure what had happened. Then she had another fit, so she went to the doctor and they arranged for her to have the tests. It’s still early days – she doesn’t know what kind of tumour or what treatment might be possible, anything like that yet.’
Marcus picks up his glass of wine and drains it, fills it up again. I reach over and take the bottle from him and pour some wine into my own glass. I’m not sure I’ve ever needed it more, watching the life ebb from his face as he works through everything I’ve said to him.
‘A couple of months,’ he says eventually. ‘All this time. While we were on holiday. Oh God, and I was so wrapped up in myself, worrying about work, thinking about what a cow she was being. It’s not long after that I insisted on the separation . . .’ His voice trails off.
I know what he’s feeling now, the shame of it. Marcus wasn’t the only one obsessed with work during that period. I had dinner with them around then. I should have been focused on my friends, but instead I was buzzing with excitement because of the new relationship with Gareth and more importantly, because a rape trial I’d done had gone well and I’d been given the nod by the judge for the first time that I should get my application in to become a recorder, to take the next step closer to becoming a full-time judge.
I didn’t bother to notice how they were getting on, whether my friends were happy. I talked about the job application incessantly to Marcus, asking his advice on how to complete the forms, whether he thought the judge was right and that I’d get through the interviews, the role play. Tess had spent hours cooking, and the food went cold on the plate in front of me as I ranted on about my career prospects, scents of garlic and thyme drifting off unnoticed into the night.
‘I was too, remember,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t shut up about it all. You know that. I’m amazed she didn’t get more pissed off with me.’ I go silent, thinking about how he left her shortly afterwards. How little I’d noticed about what was going on.
‘With us,’ he says. ‘I should have known better. It all makes sense now.’ He looks up at me. ‘Is it something that might affect her personality? Could it be why she’s been so much crosser?’
‘I guess it’s possible. She did say the reason she was being so weird was because she was scared, that she didn’t want to worry you. Or me.’
He laughs but the sound is cold, brittle. ‘That’s not exactly worked out, has it.’ It’s not a question.
I shake my head. We sit in silence while Marcus drains his glass. The finality with which he places it down on the table at the end is clear, an end now to such frivolities. His jaw is set, his gaze steady. But the pink of his cheeks has faded, his brow no longer smooth. He’d come into the bar with a look of youth still to him, but he’s leaving without it, grey now, tired.
‘I’m going to go home now,’ he says. ‘She’s going to need me.’
‘She is. I don’t know what she’s going to have to go through, but it’s going to be shit. Completely shit.’
Marcus pushes himself up to his feet. ‘Tell her I’m on my way home,’ he says. ‘She needs me. Nothing else matters. Nothing at all.’
He strides out of the bar without looking behind him.
@BBCbreaking
Two bodies have been found impaled on railings early on New Year’s Day in Edinburgh’s New Town. Police were called to the scene just after midnight by a dog walker. The bodies have yet to be identified. More news as it comes.
12:01:25
Fuck. I’m screaming but I don’t know if I’m making any sound, if anyone can hear me. The banging. My head’s going to explode.
Pain. In my head, in my guts. Sick sick sick. Help me. Fucking bastards. I told them—
I told her no. It’s all her fault. I’ll kill her. Should be her here. Not me.
I know there’s someone next to me. No movement though. No breathing. I think he’s dead.
Good. He deserves it.
They all deserve it.
Oh God . . .
If you make it stop I’ll do anything you want.
Everything hurts so much. Pain beyond words. I’m screaming but the bangs are too loud and no one knows, no one has seen.
Please. If you help me, I’ll do whatever. Be whatever. I’ll be good for the rest of my life. But please, take the pain away.
I can’t move my hands now, my feet. So so cold. Everything cold.
Please, make it stop.
9
That’s the last I hear from Tess or Marcus for a couple of weeks. I still wake sometimes in the night with a sense of dread, but it’s fading. I’m happy to push it all out of my mind, ignoring the promise I made Tess about speaking to Linda, reopening the past. She hasn’t mentioned it, and I’m guessing it was born out of panic, a loss of control without Marcus in her life. Now they’re back together, it’s all fine. Gareth is up and down from Edinburgh, and I’m preparing myself for the Youth Court trial on which I’m hanging so many hopes of promotion.
‘How long is it going to take?’ Gareth asks me the night before it’s due to begin while we’re on the phone.
‘Five days or so. It’ll be quicker for me to decide on the verdict on my own than it is for juries. At least I don’t have to agree with eleven other people.’
‘Fair enough. What did you say it was about, again? A robbery?’
‘I don’t know that I did,’ I say. ‘But yes, it’s robbery – three boys, one victim. Robbed at knifepoint. Not sure I’m going to have the jurisdiction to sentence it if they do turn out to be guilty.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because as a deputy district judge I only have the power to sentence people to twenty-four months. Any longer and it’ll have to go to the Crown Court.’
‘Ah yes, I remember you telling me. Now I understand why you want to be a Crown Court judge. I’ve said it before. You want to be able to sentence criminals to death, don’t you?’ he says, laughing.
‘You know perfectly well we don’t have the death penalty. It’s not like that,’ I say. First Jonah, now him. I’m beginning to get pissed off with this assumption of blood lust.
‘Come on, indulge me. I like the idea of you having that power. There’s something very . . . seductive about it.’
‘Seductive?’
‘Yes. It’s given me an idea, as a matter of fact. I’ve never seen you in your wig, you know.’
‘Why would you want to see me in my wig? It’s hardly seductive. Quite the reverse.’
Gareth laughs again, his voice deepening. ‘Well, it depends what else you’re wearing . . . Why don’t we switch over to a video call? It’s been a while. You go and get changed and I’ll see you in five.’
He ends the call. I don’t move for a moment, slightly stunned. I’ve always balked at dirty photos, coming late in the day to the digital revolution. I know from hearing some of my younger colleagues that it’s entirely acceptable, but something in me shrinks at the thought. I pull myself together quickly, though. This is Gareth, after all, not just some stranger on the net. He’s seen everything there is to see of me. It’s ludicrous to feel any reticence.
Besides, he’d told me this would be a prerequisite if we were going to continue in any kind of relationship. It’ll be hard to keep coming down to London, he’d said. The catering won’t do itself. We’ll have to improvise. Improvise. That’s one way of describing it. I strip out of my clothes at the kitchen sink, grabbing my wig out of my wig tin and shoving on a couple of layers of red lipstick. I’m about to turn on the computer when I stop, pick up the lipstick and colour in each of my nipples, before I dim the lights and open the laptop. It’s showtime.
I’m still smiling the following morning when I leave the station at Highbury and Islington. Not even the grime of Holloway Road can dampen my spirits. I remember the years I used to trail up here as a pupil barrister, prepared to argue the most tenuous defences imaginable in front of district judges who wore a permanent air of scepticism, one eyebrow always raised as they looked upon their court rooms with a world-weary despair. Now I get to raise my eyebrow in quizzical curiosity. I’m not the one having to argue; that’ll be for the advocates appearing before me today.
In the side entrance and up the stairs to the Youth Court. Those hours I had to spend in the waiting room come back to me, the sadness of it, the time spent reassuring desperate parents as best I could that I’d do my best to keep their kids out of Feltham. I’m not sorry to be able to walk straight through to the judge’s room at the back of the court, the court usher a damn sight more friendly than she ever was when I was here as a barrister. Though to be fair, she was always being harassed by lawyers trying to jump the queue and get their clients on next – it’s no wonder she had boundaries of steel.
After getting rid of my bag and brushing my hair, I read through the papers until it’s time to go into court. Everyone in the court room stands and bows towards me; I bow back. Even though I know it’s the position they’re acknowledging, the role of judge, not just me, Sylvie, a flicker of excitement runs across me, as it does every time. I can’t deny that I like the feeling of power.
Two of the boys have been brought up from the cells and are in the dock; the other is already sitting in the court, his parents twitching beside him. I look through the notes on the case file. Whilst all three had been on bail between arrest and first appearance, they were remanded in custody subsequently because they made a number of threats on social media against the complainant in the case, a boy in the year above them at school. Daniel Hall and Liam Asiedu have evidently remained on remand in custody, but it appears that Philip Presley, the third boy, was released on bail following an appeal to the Crown Court.
Both Daniel and Liam are being represented by the same barrister, a woman called Monique Price, in her late twenties, who is holding herself very still, shoulders braced as if against some assault. Looking further along the advocates’ bench I can see why. Philip’s family have pulled out the heavy artillery with their QC, David Lamb, the man I’m hoping to impress. His suit is beautifully cut, his silk tie muted but rich, his shirt starched and gleaming white. He looks the part, that’s for sure. I straighten myself up, sucking in my stomach under the table. I catch his eye and he nods once, unsmiling. If he’s finding Highbury Youth Court insalubrious he’s giving no indication of it.
The Crown Prosecution Service has instructed counsel. It’s another woman, Jill Whitehouse, someone I’ve defended against a couple of times in the Crown Court. I’m relieved to see her there – she’s very competent. She’ll run it well. Though I still don’t know what’s being run, whether it’s going to be a trial or whether they’ve managed to sort out a plea. From the tension I sense from the advocates, I’m not convinced that any arrangement has been met.
Looking behind the advocates to their clients, and the clients’ families, the tension becomes even more apparent. There are two women sitting together, Liam and Daniel’s mums, their partners, the boys’ dads, at their sides. Philip’s dad is clearly pissed off, continually checking his phone and his watch, before whispering in a hectoring way to Philip’s mum, a small, harried-looking woman who nods repeatedly as if to placate him. Philip himself is staring straight in front of him, his face rigid, while Liam and Daniel speak occasionally to each other, though never looking at him.
I’m normally hardened to the look of the defendants, so used to it after all my years of practice as a barrister that I rarely have much emotional response. Something about the look of these boys is getting under my skin, though. They seem so young, only fifteen.
So close to the age Linda was when she stood trial.
Not much younger than Tess and I were, too.
The prosecutor rises to her feet and opens the case. I clear my mind of all thoughts of the past and lean back in my chair, pen in hand, as I prepare myself to take notes.
10
She gives the bare facts. The three boys (all fourteen at the time of the offence) are charged with the robbery of a fifteen-year-old boy. It’s alleged that a knife was involved, and it’s an added complication that they all go to the same school. My feeling of reservation about my sentencing powers in the event of a conviction is strong – if all these facts are proven and the prosecution have got their evidence in order, it’s a nasty offence. I shake my head clear – I’m getting well ahead of myself. I need to see what they all have to say.
Rather than paying attention to the prosecution opening, Monique, representing the two boys in the dock, has been looking back at them, her face showing concern. As soon as Jill finishes her short speech, Monique stands up, leaning forward against the desk as if for support.
‘I’m worried about the perception here, Ma’am,’ she says. ‘It seems to me to create an unfair impression to have my clients both in the dock while their co-defendant is allowed to sit out in the body of the court with his parents.’
I look from one to the other. I can’t argue that she has a point. Jill stands up again for the prosecution.
‘I would have no objection to Philip joining his co-defendants in the dock,’ she says, drily. Monique nods.
‘That would be one solution,’ she says. ‘Or else what I would suggest is that all three are allowed to sit in court with their parents, as is befitting a Youth Court.’
Jill stands again. ‘Whilst in principle I would be inclined to agree with my learned friend, I am concerned that in this case, where there is already evidence of attempts at witness intimidation, the complainant may not feel at ease giving his evidence. As I say, I would have no objection to Philip being placed also in the dock.’
David butts in now. ‘I would have every objection to that, however. There is no justification for it. Philip is on bail and has caused no problems whatsoever in this case. I would argue that given we are fortunate enough to be presided over in this case by a professional,’ he says, bowing again in my direction, ‘there is no need to concern ourselves with the issue of perception. Our learned judge is more than capable of viewing a defendant with impartiality whether sitting in the court room or in the dock.’
I look away as he says this, determined to keep my expression impassive although I’m flattered by his comments. Perhaps he’s just saying what he would say in any case, to keep his client from being confined, but it seems to me that he might have a view already of my abilities, and that it’s good. With an effort I bring myself back to the proceedings.
‘I’ve taken note of Miss Price’s comments on behalf of the two defendants in the dock, and whilst I appreciate the point that has been raised, I find that the defendants should remain as they are. On the most practical level, the dock is too small to admit of one further occupant. I find that it’s preferable that we leave everyone where they are. The bench will put no interpretation on the seating arrangements but take the evidence into consideration as it’s presented.’
Monique looks unsurprised, and looks back again at her clients, nodding at them as if in reassurance. David’s face remains impassive, but Philip has leaned back in his seat slightly, more relaxed in his posture, though when he hears the victim’s name being read out he sits up again, tension running through him.
It’s time for the first witness to be called, the complainant Ryan Collins. As he walks in, his head held high, I can sense the same tension from the boys in the dock, too. All the parents are glaring at him, but he goes straight to the witness box, takes the Bible in his right hand, swears to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
He looks so young. If the prosecution had asked for special measures, I’d have allowed him a screen. When I had to give evidence, I’d have loved a screen, to block out Linda’s face as I spoke. To block out Tess’s intense stare at me as I testified, too, as she made sure I backed up her story.
The boy looks calm, though, unperturbed. No sign of the stress he must surely be feeling inside. I glance over at the defendants. All of them are looking at Ryan, barely blinking, lasers boring into him.
I’ve seen defendants facing complainants hundreds of times with no reaction of my own at all, but I can feel it getting to me, leaching under my skin. I’ve buried it down deep for over twenty years but now I’m there again, back in a court room in Edinburgh. I’ve seen that laser beam from a defendant before, felt its burn. I stood there in the witness box once, too, ready to give evidence against a classmate.
