Hard (7 page)

‘What’s your problem?’ he asked quietly, sniffing then swallowing.

I could be bold, could answer that
he
was my problem, but that frenzied air about him increased and
frightened me a little.

‘Nothing,’ I whispered. ‘My arm slipped. Sorry.’

‘You’d better be.’ He smiled, but not in a nice way, and folded
his arms across his chest.

I glanced about, searching for a space I could slip into, away
from him. There
wasn’t
one and, although uneasy, I had
no choice but to stay put or push through the line or two of people behind us
and leave the courtroom.

I stared ahead,
tunnelling
my vision so
he failed to exist. His scent was the only indication he was still there — that
and the press of his arm on mine, packed in as we were. The black-haired woman
on the stand was using a tissue to wipe her cheeks, and she hiccoughed a sob
into the microphone, which echoed through the loudspeakers and sent a shiver
down my spine. A momentary pang of guilt snapped at me then. Here I was,
intruding on someone else’s pain, watching this woman’s hurt unfold before a
room full of people, and I still had no idea what the case was about.

‘Did you not think to telephone him?’ the solicitor asked,
striding up to the witness box with such speed I thought he might not be able
to stop in time. He slammed a hand onto the surface beside the microphone. ‘Did
you not, in the
seven hours
that he
had failed to contact you, imagine that something might be wrong?’

The woman dabbed her cheeks. ‘Yes, but —‘

‘But what,
Mrs
Knowles?
You did not do anything, did you? Is that not the way of it?’

‘I thought he might —‘

‘Come home?’

She nodded, and I felt so sorry for her that I wanted to rush down
there and hold her hand. The solicitor was aggressive, his
demeanour
that of someone who knew what he was about and how to get what he wanted.
Intimidating sprang to mind, and I wondered if he was like that in his
day-to-day life. No woman ought to have to put up with him. I tried to imagine
his life, him dishing out orders to his wife as though she herself was on the
stand, unsurprised that the scenario spilled into my head easily. It
wasn’t
difficult to
visualise
,
what with him being so brash.

‘Yet he didn’t come home, did he,
Mrs
Knowles?’ Without waiting for her to answer, he ploughed on. ‘He
didn’t
come home because someone had attacked then killed
him, is that not right?’

She sobbed again, louder this time, and I turned away, unable to
bear looking at her in pain a moment longer. I
shouldn’t
have come, shouldn’t be here, and tried to
manoeuvre
myself around so I could walk out and never come back. What had possessed me to
want to watch something as harrowing as this then write about it?

I accidentally jostled the man and inwardly cursed. He stared at
me as though I were poison. I mouthed ‘sorry’ and moved to squeeze past him,
but he gripped my elbow, then my wrist, and widened his eyes. A smidge of my
skin
was caught
between his finger and thumb, and I
looked down between us to see his thumb knuckle had whitened with the force of
his hold. I tugged politely and offered him a smile.

‘Please let go,’ I said, smiling wider, trying to appeal to his
better side, if he even had one.

‘Where are you going?’ he
asked,
voice
just this side of gruff.

He pinched my skin harder.

The woman on the stand continued to sob.

‘I have…I have to go,’ I said.
‘An appointment.
Please…’

His gaze held mine too tightly, so much so that even if I wanted
to look away I
couldn’t
. As well as that frenzied air
there was another bit of breeze to him — danger. I wished I could shift my
eyes, beg someone just by looking at them to step in and take over, make him release
his hold so I could get outside into the fresh air and go home where I was
safe.

‘Do you not think,’ the solicitor said loudly, ‘that if you had
telephoned the police earlier your son might be alive today?’

A collective gasp rose from the onlookers at such a cruel
question,
and I wrenched my attention from the man to glance
to my right. I prayed that while I studied the solicitor striding back and
forth in front of the stand that the grip on my wrist
would
be loosened
, if not relinquished altogether.

It
wasn’t
.

‘If… If…’ The woman took a deep breath. ‘He’d been missing before,
see, and when I’d telephoned the police that time they’d told me they wouldn’t
do anything about it until he’d been gone for forty-eight hours. I did nothing
wrong. I did what
I’d
been told to do before, so don’t
you dare try to get me to take the blame for my son’s death. Don’t you
dare!
’

She rose, placing both hands either side of the microphone.

‘Sit down,
Mrs
Knowles,’ the judge said,
a man of indeterminate age, hair
greying
at the
temples, his beard making his face appear bigger than it probably was. ‘And
calm yourself. Histrionics will help nobody.’

She lowered herself into her seat, biting her lower lip as if to
prevent herself from speaking.

The man leaned closer to me, the side of his head touching mine. I
winced, jolting away so that I shoved a lady to my right, but he jerked on my
wrist until I moved my head back to where it had been. Once
again
he rested his head against mine.

‘You see that woman down there?’ he whispered.

I nodded, bile threatening to come up. Shivers took over my legs,
weakening my knees, and I
didn’t
want to turn to look
at him, to see what emotion lurked in his eyes.

‘She’s next,’ he said.

I did turn then, turned my head quickly to catch an expression on
his face I
hadn’t
expected. He looked calm, as though
he
hadn’t
just said something so hideous,
so…impossible. The shivers intensified, and the urge to bolt was so concentrated
I thought I might even have the strength to break free of him. How had my jaunt
into doing something different turned into this? How had I found myself
standing next to someone like him? And, if he was being serious in what
he’d
said, did it mean he had something to do with that poor
woman’s son’s death? I swallowed, but bile surged up straight after. I lifted
my free hand to cover my mouth, and my cheeks burned. I wanted to cry — really
cry like
Mrs
Knowles — but I was stuck in place.

‘You’ll be back tomorrow,’ he said, a statement not a question. ‘If
you’re not, I’ll find you.’

I nodded, frantic bobs, thinking that no, I
wouldn’t
be back tomorrow. And how could he possibly find me?
We’d
only just met. Images flashed through my mind of him waiting outside and
following me home so he knew my address and could knock on my door at any time
if I
didn’t
show up here again. But could he really?
Did things like that happen to people like me?

‘Good,’ he rasped, breath hot and heavy on my cheek, its scent
that of fried onions and stale coffee.

I suppressed a gag and faced the main court area again, clenching
my jaw when he gave my skin another vicious pinch.

‘You’re hurting me,’ I said, not caring whether I disturbed the
proceedings. A little louder, ‘Please stop squeezing my wrist.’

‘Quiet in the gallery!’ the judge shouted, pursing his lips and
frowning.

I closed my eyes momentarily then opened them, my vision distorted
by tears brought on from pain, humiliation, and the child-like feeling that I
had no option but to remain where I was when I just wanted to go home.

‘
Mrs
Knowles,’ the solicitor
said,
his tone kinder. ‘Did you not say in your statement to
the police that a man visited your home just prior to the time when you
actually deigned to call the police?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what did this supposed man have to say?’

Mrs
Knowles fiddled
with her tissue, creating wrinkled strips that fell to the stand top then
glided off as she sighed. ‘He said I’d have to pay for what my son had done.’
She propped her forehead in one hand, her erratic breathing harsh-sounding
through the speakers.

‘And what had your son done,
Mrs
Knowles?’ The solicitor stopped in front of her and stared at the top of her
head.

‘I don’t know…’

‘Oh, come now. You said earlier that you and your son shared
secrets. How could you not know something of such magnitude? Why would your son
fail to tell you a secret as large as this when in the past he’d told you
everything?’

‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘I swear I don’t know. Maybe
he didn’t want to disappoint me.’

‘She’s lying. She knows everything,’ the man beside me whispered.

The hairs on the back of my neck rose, and I thought I might be
sick.

‘Do you see the man in this courtroom,
Mrs
Knowles?’ The solicitor swung around to gesture to the gallery, sweeping his
arm to encompass everyone in attendance.

Mrs
Knowles lifted
her head.

The man released my arm and stepped behind me, breathing on my
neck. ‘Stay where you are. She knows not to say anything, but you can never be
too sure of someone’s word.’

I wanted to retort that I was hardly able to move but remained
quiet. Still.

‘Yes,’
Mrs
Knowles said.

‘Bitch!’ the man behind me breathed.

She looked directly at me, and I glanced around, thinking
she’d
shift her gaze elsewhere any second.

‘Tomorrow,’ the man whispered in my ear. ‘
Here.
Right here.’

His weight left my back, and I felt his presence leave, felt
him
leave.
Listened as
the door behind me opened then closed softly.

‘He was up there,’
Mrs
Knowles said,
pointing. ‘Right up there beside that woman!’

It seemed everyone turned to stare at me then, and my face grew
hotter as I wrestled with feeling uncomfortable under their scrutiny.

‘Which woman,
Mrs
Knowles?
Could you be specific?’ the solicitor asked, turning his steely
gaze my way.

‘Her!
That woman there.
The one with the long brown hair and the red coat.’

A hand clamped down on my shoulder, and I jumped, letting out a
whimper. This could not be happening. Not to me.

‘This woman?’ a man said behind me.

I glanced at the hand,
then
looked over
my shoulder to see a security guard eyeing me. I turned back to
Mrs
Knowles, blood rising to heat my face.

‘Yes, yes, that’s the one,’ she said, wafting the remains of her
tissue.

I shook my head, my voice failing to work, and wished that I had
never, ever had the mad notion to visit a trial in session. Confused, I frowned
and gave the guard a smile, trying to convey that I was no one of interest.

‘Come this way,’ he said, jerking his head in the direction of the
door. ‘You have a bit of explaining to do.’

Chapter
Three

Now

I stared through the peephole of my flat door, heart going like
the clappers, my legs weak. The knock had startled me, and I wondered for a
second whether it was
him
again or another
tenant. Maybe they wanted sugar, some teabags. Maybe the postman had delivered
a parcel at the main door and I just
hadn’t
heard him
ring my buzzer. But then the fear kicked up a fuss,
barrelling
into me, harsh and unforgiving, and I thought of him, the man in the courtroom.

People like him,
well,
they knew how to
find someone, didn’t they?
He’d
done it before and I
knew he could do it again.

I leapt back from the door, stifling a groan, frightened from
seeing an eye on the other side. A hazel eye, its shape distorted by the
peephole glass, the whites streaked with faint red veins.
A
hazel
eye.
I swallowed and fought
to combat my pinging nerves. I wanted to run, hide in the corner of my bedroom,
me sitting on the floor, knees drawn up,
arms
around
them. I wanted to close my eyes and press myself into that corner until I
became invisible. I wanted my life back, me back, to rewind time and start
again.

Whoever was on the other side knocked again and said, ‘Rebecca?’

Relief then panic poured into me, my legs going even weaker,
the
urge to throw up strong. It
couldn’t
be Michael Jacobs, it just couldn’t, because he didn’t live around here and I
hadn’t seen him for ages. It was over, all of it, and he had no reason to be
visiting me now. He
shouldn’t
be here. It
wasn’t
wise for him to be. I
hadn’t
sacrificed being with him
to keep him safe only for him to mess it up now. He really ought to have kept
away, because if
they
were watching,
if they knew he was here,
they’d
expect me to do what
they’d instructed.