Bitter Sweet (24 page)

‘Thank you, Mike.’

‘Now go and ask for a doctor.’

I stood my ground with Crawford
and got to see a doctor who examined the bruising to my head, arm and ribcage. The latter was painful to the touch, but not severe enough to warrant an X-ray examination. Concussion was ruled out; the symptoms occur within the first four to six hours and usually disappear within twenty four. I had none of the symptoms. The doctor gave me painkillers which I decided not to take as I didn’t want anything to impair my ability to function and to be able to think clearly in the morning.

Maybe I should have taken the pills. After I had seen the doctor, I sat for hours with my knees drawn up to my chin, staring at the blank cell wall, worrying about what was going happen, and whether Ivonne had made it to the refuge with the girls. I had bitten the two fingernails, whose extensions had been ripped off, right down to the quick. Eventually I had fallen into a fitful, but certainly not restful sleep. 

23

In the morning, I demanded to have access to a shower. The physical exertions of the last twenty-four-hours had left my body with the sensation of being encased in dirt and dried sweat. That shower and the ensuing sense of cleanliness drove away the feeling of mental and nervous exhaustion. Breakfast was, however, a no-no. My stomach, despite being empty, was knotted with tension. And the ride to the courthouse in the back of a police bus heightened my nervousness, making me feel nauseous.

I trusted Mike’s word. Still, no QC or solicitor had been in contact. Was I going to be left, at the last moment, to fend for myself and plead not guilty.

I stepped off the bus, the sunlight clear and bright, its warmth comforting. A few deep breaths of fresh air gave me momentary relief from the constant
what if
questions plaguing my mind.

A low whistle from the rear corner of the courthouse caught my attention. It was Mike standing next to a man who I assumed was the QC. His hair was collar length and blond shot through with a lot of grey. He stood nonchalantly with his hands in his pockets, slightly stooped as if his large frame was too heavy to keep upright. And despite being
immaculately dressed in a dark grey suit, he had something of a shaggy look. That impression was belied by the penetrating stare directed at me.

Mike smiled at me and raised his ri
ght hand, making an okay signal with his thumb and forefinger.

A custody officer waved me towards the entrance reserved for defendants.

Before entering the courthouse, I caught a last glimpse of Mike and the QC. The QC continued to stare at me whilst Mike stood, looking at the ground, shaking his head. I couldn’t tell if Mike had disagreed with something which had been said, or if he was shaking his head in amusement.

Momentarily, I wondered how Mike had presented my need for legal representation. Would he have come straight out and said that I was an escort in trouble? Would a knowing smile have slid across the QC’s face? Probably both had occurred. Mike, being Mike, somewhat innocent of the worlds in which he did not move, and not burdened with prejudice, would expect others to react with the same egalitarian principles which he possessed. The QC? Men are me
n, mention escorts and a normal sane reaction is nearly impossible.

The custody officer led me to the cells, where I expectantly awaited the arrival of the QC to question me on my version of events.

Left on my own in the cells with little knowledge of the court system and, having received as yet no legal advice at all, I began with mounting apprehension to attempt to figure out how it worked.

Firstly, I didn’t know why I was in a Magistrates’ Court. As far as I knew it was a place which dealt with speeding tickets – not that I’d
ever been caught – and such matters as neighbours squabbling over rights of way. I could remember my mum disputing a parking ticket at the local Magistrates’ Court, and she’d referred to it as the Petty Sessions.

Last night de
tective Crawford had said that assault occasioning actual bodily harm carried a sentence of up to five years. That didn’t seem like a petty offence.

I’d heard of a Crown Court, a High Court, the Court of Appeal and th
e Supreme Court. The latter two from their names alone, made sense. That was as far as my knowledge of the court system stretched. And with that I realised that I was at the mercy of people I did not know, people who earned their money from practicing the law. Was their main aim earning money? Or was it for them a game of one-upmanship of legal skills?

Who represented justice?

I was innocent, yet the police seemed convinced that they could send me to prison for defending myself whilst helping the victims of the inhuman crime of trafficking.

The door to the cells opened. The custody officer strode towards me.

‘Miss Thompson?’

My stomach did a flip. I stood and waited to be led into the Court room – I still hadn’t spoken to a lawyer.

24

I was shown to the defendant’s box and before sitting down I looked around the courtroom. To my surprise the judge was not wearing a wig or gown, simply a business suit. He’d have been better off wearing a wig as the lights glistened on his bald pate and a gown would have lessened his gnome-like appearance. Not that the old bugger even bothered to glance at me.

The prosecutor was another matter. He took a good look at me – it was the look of a player. He came across as being smart, the sort of superior smartness which grates. Under the stylish suit was a fit body; toned and tanned to impress. I guessed that even the glasses riding on his nose had been chosen instead of contact lenses to round off the image. His opinion; a perfect exterior and an intelligent mind. My opinion; a perfect cover to hide the inability to share deep and sincere emotions. 

I checked the rest of the room and spotted Mike in the area reserved for the public. He winked and smiled at me.

But, where the hell was my legal defence?

The judge muttered something and the Clerk of the Court rose from his desk and approached me. The door to the court opened silently. The Clerk began the process of identifying the defendant – me – to the court. The QC sauntered, his hands in his pockets, head bent, towards the empty desk adjacent to where the prosecutor sat.

As the QC reached the desk, the prosecutor turned so abruptly that he was forced to grab his glasses before they fell off his nose. I heard him say somet
hing about learned friend. The clerk paused and looked around.

The QC nodded to the judg
e, saying almost inaudibly; ‘Your Honour,’ and sat down, leaned back and crossed his legs at the ankles.

  
The clerk returned to the formalities of introduction and then moved on to read out the charge.

At that, I looked at the QC. He raised a finger to his lips signalling me to remain silent.

The clerk continued to read out the exact allegation, giving the date, time and place. He then summarily outlined the procedures which would be followed, and went on to explain the potential effects of a guilty plea, and that were I to plead guilty the court would proceed to hear the case as a guilty plea. Finally, I was advised that should I plead guilty, I may yet be committed for sentencing to the Crown Court if the sitting judge considered his powers of punishment to be insufficient.

Talk about laying it on thick. I knew I was being advised as to the court process and that the explanations were supposed to be for my benefit. The opposite had occurred. It all smacked of heartless reverence to the process. Actors on a stage, but it was my frigging liberty at stake.

The clerk paused.

In the ensuing silence, the QC cleared his throat and rose to his feet.

‘Your Honour,’ he addressed the bench and then looked at the clerk. ‘Learned Clerk, the defendant declines to plead.’

What the hell?

‘Your Honour,’ the QC said, once again addressing the judge. ‘I do not wish to further impose upon the court’s time. The offence is triable either way.’

‘Indeed,’ the judge said, swallowing a smile.

‘The defendant has no criminal record, is a fulltime student and will be sitting her finals in four weeks time. I petition the court to grant bail without conditions.’

The prosecutor moved to stand up. The judge waved to him to remain seated. The QC tilted his head, questioningly, at the judge.

     ‘Granted.’

25

I was clueless as to what had happened. The only thing I knew for sure was that I been released on bail.

Mike led me out of the courtroom, holding the door open for me. ‘Come on,’ he said, speeding me through the building. ‘It’s time for you to meet Oscar.’

Oscar was standing outside, one hand in his pocket; the other held a cigarette, the smoke curling away in the breeze. He looked up as we approached a big smile on his face.

He stepped forward. ‘Oscar Williams,’ he said, offering me his hand. ‘I do apologise for not having talked to you before the hearing.’ He let go of my hand. ‘Mike has told me a lot of good things about you.’

I smiled. They’d had the time to gossip before my court appearance, but seemingly not with me, the accused.

‘Look,’ Oscar said, glancing at his watch. ‘I must go. I’m due in the Crown Court in half an hour’s time – a real criminal this time.’

He gently laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘You did great,’ he said, giving my shoulder a squeeze. ‘I’ve agreed with Mike that we all meet up in his offices at five this afternoon. I’ll explain everything to you then, okay?’

‘That will be fine,’ I said, for want of anything better to say and gave Oscar another smile.

‘See you then,’ he said, returning the smile and then walked over to the taxi rank.

‘Mike,’ I said, placing a hand on my hip. ‘What the hell happened in there?’

‘He got you out on bail—’

‘I know that.’

‘By
shifting the case to the Crown Court, he has bought you time. Please,’ he said, putting an arm across my shoulders, ‘let him do the explaining.’

I shrugged Mike’s arm off. What was it with men and my shoulders this morning?

‘I need to buy a new phone – the police have got mine. I need to contact Ivonne and I need to go home.’

‘In that order?’

‘Yes, in that order,’ I said, walking off towards the street.

‘Then let me help you,’ Mike said, catching up and taking my hand.

I stopped, withdrew my hand and gave him a hard stare.

‘T
ina Thompson of fifty three Northwood Road.’

‘That’s right,
’ I said, ‘but don’t expect to be invited in.’

‘I don’t. I haven’t much time, today.’

I continued to give Mike the hard stare. It came as a shock that he knew my address. Silly really, it had been read out in the court. The boundaries between Nina the escort and Tina the student, had gone. It was time to erase Nina, and to do that I needed to get home to my laptop.

‘Deal,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’

In the first of the myriad stores which sell mobile phones, I scanned the shelves looking for the cheapest pay-as-you-go phone available. As I reached for a Nokia, Mike said; ‘Don’t. Take a smartphone, email and web access is worth having, and you don’t know when you’ll get yours back.’

‘True,’ I said, and moved along the rows of phones. And, although I wasn’t going to tell Mike, with a smartphone I’d be able to delete my profile on Es
cort England almost immediately and not have to wait until I got home.

I paid for the phone, a car-phone ch
arger and some credit. The next problem was contacting Ivonne – I’d left my work phone in Markus’s apartment, and that phone contained her number, and had she taken down her profile on EE, I would have a problem getting in touch with her.

As we walked towards where Mike had parked his car, I unpacked the new phone and slotted in the SIM card. Good, there was a bit of juice in the battery. I immediately brought up the EE mobile website.

‘Yeah,’ I exclaimed. Ivonne’s profile was still up. ‘Mike you got a pen?’

He reached into his jacket and handed me a cheap biro. Huh, accountants – real cheapskates.

I scribbled Ivonne’s number on my hand and then dialled. No answer, the voicemail clicked in. She’d be leery of unknown numbers.

‘Hi, Ivonne,’ I said, sp
eaking on the voicemail. ‘It’s Tina, phone me back as soon as you can,
please
.’  

We continued walking to the car park, where Mike pressed the remote control for his car. To my surprise it was some sort of an Alfa Romeo. He held the door open for me.

‘It’s cute,’ I said, getting in. ‘What is it?’

He smiled enigmatically. ‘What were you expecting?’

‘A bank manager’s favourite, a Mercedes C or E class.’

‘Even accountants have a heart.’

‘Yeah,’ I said softly.  ‘Don’t I know.’

Mike went around the back of the car and got in behind the wheel. ‘And to answer your question,’ he said. ‘It’s an Alfa Romeo Giulietta.’

  I could tell that Mike wanted to tell me more. ‘And?’

‘It’s only the second car I’ve bought in my life.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘No.’

Mike started the engine and drove out of the car park. ‘I had a teacher at school – taught English. He’d flown Spitfires in the war and was an Oxford Blue. Anyway, he made a lasting impression and I’d always admired the car he drove, a yellow Alfa Spider, series I.’ Mike chuckled. ‘He had to get rid of it when the floor fell through. That didn’t stop me from buying one, later. The exact same model, I’ve still got it, it stays in the garage now.’

I leaned back into the seat. I had begun to see men as stereotypes and that pained me.

‘Thank you, Mike,’ I said, leaning across, giving him a kiss on the cheek, ‘for all your help.’

‘Wow, that was nice.’

I leaned across again and gave him another kiss.

‘Watch it!’

Mike braked hard. The phone slid off my lap. I picked it up, connected the charger and started to delete my profile and reviews from Escort England.

‘What are you doing?’ Mike asked.

‘Going out of business.’

‘Good for you.’

‘Yeah.’ No more fingers and tongues in places I didn’t want and from men I didn’t know.

We stopped at a red light – appropriate maybe.

‘Do you need to fetch anything from the Merchant Building?’ Mike asked.

‘Not today.’

‘Don’t go there on your own, okay?’

I nodded.

‘The same applies to Ivonne.’

The light changed to green. It felt great to have made the decision. I continued to delete my reviews.

As we reached the university area, I looked up. ‘Take the next right.’

Mike parked in front of my other apartment. It was an old terrace house converted into glorified bedsits and marketed as apartments. You paid apartment rents but got a bedsit.

‘Are you safe here?’ Mike asked.

The question shocked me. ‘Of course I am.’

‘Erjon is still out there.’

‘He wouldn’t?’

‘I don’t think so, but what about moving to a new apartment just to be sure?’ Mike asked, staring at the house. ‘There are a lot of places in the city centre which do short leases.’

‘Don’t I know,’ I said, remembering the first apartment I’d taken as an escort.

Mike turned to face me. ‘I’ll rent it in my name.’

‘No, Mike. I’m safe here, this is student country.’

‘Still,’ Mike said, before reaching into the glove box. ‘I forgot to give you that.’ He handed me the tracking phone. ‘It might have made all the difference yesterday.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Keep it near you,’ Mike said. ‘And if anything and, I mean anything, doesn’t feel right phone me or the police.’

‘Nothing will.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Mike said.

‘I’ll see you at five.’

‘Oh, and let me know the moment Ivonne phones?’

I looked into his eyes, smiled and gave him a kiss.’

Do that again.

I did.

‘And next time I’ll invite you in for a cup of coffee.’

I opened the door, got out of the car and gave Mike a wave. Just a
s I entered my bedsit, the new mobile rang. It was Ivonne. She was fine and in her own apartment – the private one. And best of all, the four girls were in the refuge. We agreed to meet up for a coffee in the afternoon. I phoned Mike, told him the news and then booted up my laptop and closed down my website.