The Verdict (5 page)

There’s no such thing as a wholly truthful person. Everyone lies. That’s a given. Liars come in two forms – fibbers and omitters; storytellers and editors. I’m the latter, ‘economical with the truth’, as they say – a rationer of facts. Too much truth can be complicated.

So while Karen was making the drinks, I sat at the living-room table trying to work out how to proceed – what to tell her, what not to tell her; how far to go, and where to stop.

I’d been here before, literally, at this table, in this position. When we’d started getting serious – as in meeting each other’s families and talking about cohabiting – I made an executive decision about what to tell Karen about my past. As a single mother raising a young child she deserved to know what she and Ray were getting into. And I didn’t want her finding out about me from other people.

That was when we had the first of our coffee talks. Long, serious and all through the night.

I’d told her about my lost years – aka ‘The Dark Ages’, as we’d come to refer to that period. I’d been open with her – more so than with anyone – but only to a certain extent.

Which meant I hadn’t told her about Vernon James and what he did to me. There wasn’t any point. But just because he didn’t exist in our life, it didn’t mean my hatred for him had diminished. If anything it had intensified, because I’d nurtured it in secret. I’d never talked about him to anyone. I didn’t like it, not one bit. I wanted to be rid of it, but in the right way. With him paying for every wrong thing he’d done to me.

Karen came in with the coffee and tea and sat down. I looked at her for a moment, mousy blonde hair, eyes the colour of faded jeans, and thin lips she’d finally learned not to try and hide under over-applied lipstick.

‘So what happened?’ she asked.

I told her about Janet’s phone call; the new client – wealthy, high profile and a murder suspect.

Her eyes lit up.

‘She called
you
…?’

‘She actually called Adolf, but there was no one around so I answered.’

‘Adolf’ was our name for Bella – full name: Arabella Hogan. Same initials as Der Führer. Bella hated me, and the feeling was mutual.

‘That’s great, though, Terry!’ Karen said. The way she pronounced my name sounded like ‘terror’ –
Terruh
. ‘That could set you up. The promotion, the degree… We might finally be able to get out of here!’

‘Yeah. That’s what Janet said. In so many words.’

On average it took a clerk with a law degree about two years to become a paralegal, as long as they didn’t mind taking an industrial dose of shit. An unqualified clerk like me, however, rarely got a look-in – unless a law firm sponsored their degree. Few firms did, but KRP was one of them.

‘Hold up,’ Karen said. ‘You haven’t even told me this fella’s name yet – the murderer.’

‘
Alleged
murderer. Innocent until proven and all that,’ I reminded her.

‘Sorry, Your Honour.’

‘That’s American. Here it’s “My Lord”.’

‘Whatever. What’s his name?’

I took a deep breath.

‘Vernon James,’ I mumbled, looking down at the coffee I hadn’t touched, meeting my eyes in the cup.

‘Sounds like a hairdresser,’ she said.

‘Have you heard of him?’ I asked.

‘No. Should I?’

I could’ve left it there, carried on pretending I didn’t know him. But I was in deep trouble. And Karen was great in a crisis. Never lost her cool. Plus she was a company accountant, as good at solving puzzles as creating them.

‘There’s a problem with me and the case. A big problem,’ I said and looked at her. A long, lingering look. This was the moment right before our old life disappeared. Going…

‘I knew Vernon. A long time back. We were friends.’

‘In Stevenage was this?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How come you never mentioned him before?’

‘I haven’t seen him in eighteen years. Half my life ago. That’s as good as never seeing someone again. ‘

‘Yeah, but if I’d known someone who’d become rich and successful…’

‘Things didn’t end well between us. In fact, they ended about as badly as they possibly could.’

‘What happened?’

‘He fucked my life up.’

‘How?’

Then Karen started working something out. She and Ray both frowned their brows into the same walnut furrows when they were thinking hard.

I let her do the basic arithmetic.

2011
AD
minus 18 years, equals 1993
AD
.

‘This have something to do with the Dark Ages?’ she asked.

‘Just about everything.’

Karen pondered in silence.

The Serbian couple downstairs were rowing. Or at least they might have been. It was hard to tell. When they’d first moved in a year ago, all they seemed to do was argue, shouting at the top of their voices, sounding hysterical. We’d gone down to complain – and to make sure the woman wasn’t getting battered. Turned out they weren’t arguing at all. They were on the phone to their respective families back home. The lines were so bad they had to shout.

Karen clicked into gear.

‘Let’s isolate the problem, shall we?’

‘There’s more than just the one problem,’ I said, taking a sip of coffee. ‘As you know, I’ve lied on my CV. That’s a sackable offence anywhere, but in a legal firm it’s castratable. It’s all right to represent liars and lie on their behalf, but you can’t be one yourself. You’ve got to draw the line somewhere. As far as KRP are concerned I left school after my A levels. I haven’t mentioned my year at Cambridge, the law degree I never finished. I was at Cambridge with Vernon. All he has to do is tell Janet and that’s me out on my ear.’

‘Why don’t you say you can’t take the case for personal reasons?’ Karen said.

‘I could do that. But then I’ll have to explain why. And Cambridge’ll come up one way or another, whether I tell Janet or he does. And if she hears it from him it’ll be even worse: “Yeah, I knew Terry Flynt. He got kicked out of Cambridge for theft.”’

‘
Theft?
’ Karen started and almost stood up.

I hadn’t meant to say it the way I did, abruptly like that. I’d intended to build up to it slowly. But it came out anyway.

Karen looked at me like I’d turned into a complete stranger.

‘I thought you told me you got kicked out of Cambridge for failing your exams.’

‘
And
that,’ I said.

She sat back and glared at me. Her eyes had lost their clarity, gone a milky turquoise. If this was a police interrogation, I’d be screwed about now, caught out contradicting my statement; fair copped, guv.

I couldn’t hold her stare, so I looked away at the digital photo frame on the mantelpiece. There were pictures of the four of us over the years, going back to when we’d first met, our wedding, me in my clown suit on Ray’s third birthday, Ray holding baby Amy, the four of us at Ray’s prize-giving. It felt like I was watching the best part of my life flashing by.

‘Why don’t you start again, from the
very
beginning?’ Karen said.

‘I called him VJ. We were at the same school. He was the only black kid in class.

‘We didn’t become friends immediately. Though we lived on the same road, the only time I saw him outside school was every other Saturday morning. Him and his sister Gwen would help their mum do the shopping. They didn’t have a trolley, so they used this rusted old pram that didn’t have a canopy. It was a strange sight, them pushing that thing down the road. The wheels squeaked something terrible. You’d hear them coming a mile off.’

I smiled at the memory.

‘The other thing I remember about VJ was that on Mondays he always reeked of bleach. He only had two white shirts for school. His mum’d boil them on the weekends.

‘I remember the exact day we became friends. It was in March 1980. It was right after The Jam had gone straight to number one with “Going Underground”. This was a big deal in my household. My brothers were massive fans. Paul Weller was their icon, their working-class hero. They cheered when they heard. It was like
they’d
gone to number one.

‘Anyway I was on my way home when I saw this group of older kids surrounding him. They were pushing him, hitting him. They’d dumped his books on the floor, ripped pages out.

‘I told them to stop. They didn’t. There was this skip nearby. It was full of old bricks. So I grabbed one and threw it at the tallest kid. Caught him right on the temple. Then I threw another. Hit a kid smack in the face. Busted his nose, I think. They all ran off. I helped VJ pick his stuff up and walked him home.

‘Me and VJ walked to school together every day after that. We got to know each other. He was a total laugh. A really funny guy. Ultra-sharp. King of the one-liners.

‘As you know, my family isn’t academically inclined. There were no books in our house at all. No one read unless they had to. Not even a paper. I was expected to leave school at sixteen and go into the job market. I was dreading that.

‘The options were limited in Stevenage. But, thanks to being around VJ, I started taking my school work seriously. I saw it as a way out of a pre-planned life, that slo-mo trot to the knacker’s yard.

‘It was cramped where we both lived, so me and him used to do our homework in the local library. Studying became fun. We pushed each other.

‘For the first time, I started doing well in tests and exams. I suddenly had drive and focus. Where I’d been middling before, now I was coming second in the year. VJ was always top, of course. But there wasn’t much between us, grades-wise. I got twelve O levels, three A levels. Straight As. And we both got into Cambridge. We were the first people from our school to do that.

‘I owe it all to VJ. If he hadn’t come into my life, I don’t know what would’ve happened. And I mean that. No matter how bad things turned out later, I’d never take that away from him. And I never will. I hope our kids find a friend like that, I really do.’

I paused there. I couldn’t quite believe what I’d just said, the warmth of my tone, the stir of conciliatory feelings.

‘Now, VJ’s home life was horrible. They lived in two rooms in a basement. His dad – Rodney – was a nasty,
nasty
man. Six foot tall, bald and skinny. Looked like this dark praying mantis. He was bitter as hell, almost permanently angry and hateful with it. You’d be talking to him and suddenly he’d just grow quiet. And he’d get this look in his eye. You’d swear you’d said or done something wrong, but it wasn’t that at all. It wasn’t you. It was all his rage boiling up.

‘Rodney had come over to England from Trinidad. He’d been a “somebody” there – a bank manager in Spanish Town, the capital. When he came here, the only work he could get was manual – or “
de menial
” as he called it.

‘He took his frustrations out on his family. VJ, most of all. Not physically, but mentally. Rodney was always putting him down. In public too. Nothing VJ ever did was good enough. Nothing. He just kept on trying to crush him.

‘I once asked VJ why his dad treated him so badly. And do you know what he said? “It’s ’cause he knows that, one day soon, I’ll do something he can’t – and that’s leave and
never
come back.”’

‘How old was he then?’

‘Twelve or thirteen. Rodney was never going to get in VJ’s way, because VJ was one of those people who always knew what he wanted,’ I said.

‘I think there’s three kinds of people in the world. Those that know what they want from the start, and they get it. Then there’s those that don’t know what they want, but find out later and settle down. And then there’s the ones who never know what they want, and they never get anywhere. Life’s lost causes, the born losers. They drift and then they die.’

‘Which are you?’ she asked.

‘I’ve been the second and the third, but never the first. That was VJ,’ I said, fiddling with my cup handle.

‘In the early 1980s Rodney bought an old betting place opposite Stevenage train station. He reopened it as a cornershop. We used to work there, me and VJ, on weekends. It was one of the busiest shops in town. It was open seven days a week, six in the morning to ten at night. You knew if you ran out of essentials, you could always go to Rodney’s. Rodney as good as lived behind the counter. Never took a day off. Except Christmas – and that’s only because he couldn’t get a licence to open up.

‘Every month or so we’d go to France. Calais. We’d load up on cheap fags and drink. This was long before the EU regulations, so prices were low. We’d fill the van up and take the ferry back. Rodney’d sell the fags and booze in the shop cheaper than anywhere else in town. Made a fortune.

‘The family moved out of our road and into a semi-detached house in Stevenage Old Town. The posh part. But me and VJ still did our walk to school. I’d stop by the shop to pick him up, because he worked there with his dad in the mornings,’ I said.

‘Then, in 1989 Rodney was murdered. The police found him in the shop’s backroom. He’d been stabbed. Twenty-two times.’

Karen’s mouth dropped and her eyes widened.

‘
Christ.
’

‘The cops reckoned it happened just before Rodney was closing up. He was always on his own then.’

‘Did they catch anyone?’

‘No. There was no CCTV in the shop. No witnesses.’

‘Was anything stolen?’

‘Yeah. The safe and till were empty. And a load of fags and booze too.’

‘How did Vernon react?’

‘He was shocked, obviously, at first. But there were no tears. And I hate to say this, but afterwards he – well, he blossomed. Physically it was like he grew a whole foot taller. He became a lot more confident, socially.

‘We never talked much about the murder. He did once say it was a shame his last memory of his dad was a bad one. The morning of the murder they’d had an argument in the shop, right in front of me and all the customers. Rodney wanted VJ to leave school and work in the shop full time. VJ had his heart set on going to Cambridge. Rodney said – or shouted, more like – “
You’ll go to university over my dead body
.” And VJ said, “
Hurry up and drop dead, then
.”’

‘Famous last words,’ Karen said.

‘That’s one way of putting it,’ I said.

Now, we’d arrived at the crossroads moment of our Big Talk.

On my way back from Janet’s house I’d decided how much I could afford to tell Karen about my past – how much
more
, that is. My Dark Ages were about to become darker still.

Karen had an expressive face, as good as transparent when it came to telegraphing thoughts and emotions. It made the day-to-day easy in our marriage, as I could foresee potential arguments and conflicts and head them off in time.

Looking at her across the table, I watched the doubts and questions convening quickly behind her brow.

Here it came…

‘Did he…’ she started, and then paused for the right words. Not that there was a delicate way of asking what she wanted to know.

‘I mean… Do you think he could’ve…’

‘
Killed his dad?’ I prompted.
VJ had done me wrong in two big ways. I was about to reveal the first, but not the second.
That
wasn’t relevant. Not to Karen, not to the family, and not to the matter at hand. I was keeping
that
out
of it.

‘Yeah.’

‘I honestly don’t know. At the time – when it all happened, when we were still friends – I was
sure
he hadn’t done it. I was
convinced
he was innocent. Just
knew
it. That’s why we gave him the alibi.’

‘
The
…
?
You
what
?’

‘We gave him an alibi. Said he was with us that night.’

‘Whoa! Rewind, Terry.
Alibi?
… Your
family
?… You’re losing me.’

I leaned in, lowering my voice so the kids wouldn’t hear.

‘His mum and sister were out of town. Up in Birmingham visiting relatives. VJ was home alone that night. He told me he’d been studying.’

‘But he had no one to back him up?’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Stevenage was a rough old place back then, but murders were pretty rare. Rodney’s killing was big news. All anyone could talk about. The police were under a lot of pressure to catch someone.

‘The lead detective was a bloke called Quinlan. I forget his first name. He interviewed VJ for two hours. VJ came round mine straight afterwards. He was in a real state. Totally shook up.

‘He told us he’d lied to Quinlan. Said he’d been with me that night, in my house. He said he didn’t have any choice, that Quinlan had talked to him like he knew he’d done it.’

‘And how did you react?’

‘VJ was my best friend. My only thought was to help him in any way I could,’ I said. ‘Luckily for him, Quinlan didn’t get round to me for a couple of days. It gave us time to get the story absolutely straight. Yes, VJ was round mine that night, like he said. We did homework and ate dinner with my family.’

‘How was your family involved?’

‘Almost everyone was in the house when VJ came over after his interview. My mum knew the kind of trouble he was in, what it could mean for him. Arrest, remand, a trial. Even if he was found innocent, it would ruin his life. So she worked out what we’d all say. Her, me, my brothers.’

‘What about your dad?’

‘He was down the pub that night.’

‘So you lied to the police?’ Karen said.

‘It’s called “perverting the course of justice” – but yeah, I lied. We all did. For him.’

Karen was speechless. And then horror crept into her expression.

I headed it off.

‘Look, I was fifteen, Karen. I didn’t know any better,’ I said. ‘And we all loved VJ. We’re not the kind of people who throw their friends over.

‘Besides, it was unthinkable that he could have done it. He wasn’t violent. He never got into fights at school at all. On top of that, Quinlan didn’t have any evidence. The police searched VJ’s house and found nothing. No weapon, no traces of blood, none of the stolen goods. Nothing.’

Karen stayed in stunned mode. This was bigger than just me. This was her in-laws too, Ray and Amy’s grandparents.

‘Was that the end of it?’ she asked, after a while.

‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘Quinlan knew something was off.

‘He didn’t lean on my mum, or my brothers. He leaned on me. Went over and over my story. Kept on telling me he didn’t believe me, that I was protecting a murderer, that I wasn’t going to help my friend in the long run, that me and my family would go to prison too. But I stuck to my story.

‘VJ got it much worse. Quinlan made his life hell. He’d be waiting outside school when we got out, or when we were going in. Staring at VJ. A couple of times he came in to school and pulled VJ out of class for questioning.

‘We all used to think that was it, that VJ was going to get charged. Which was exactly what Quinlan wanted to happen. Start the old rumour mill going. Didn’t take much in Stevenage. Everyone thought VJ had done it.’

‘Could Quinlan do that to him – legally?’

‘This was still the Gene Hunt era of policing, so yeah, he could. And he did – until our headmaster intervened,’ I said. ‘He said Quinlan was only harassing VJ because he was black, and he got a London lawyer involved. The lawyer complained to Quinlan’s bosses. A week later Quinlan got taken off the case. I heard he got disciplined for mishandling the investigation.’

‘And the police never caught anyone, did they?’

‘No.’

Karen took her cup in her hands and half-raised it off the table, before putting it down.

‘What happened next?’ she said.

‘In 1991 we both went to Cambridge University. Same college. Sidney Sussex. I was doing law, VJ economics.

‘It was a whole other world. Full of bright, posh, rich, beautiful people.

‘I felt totally out of place there. The first term I was miserable, wondered what I’d got into, couldn’t wait to go home. VJ loved it, though. It was the first giant step to where he wanted to be.

‘At the beginning we saw a lot of each other. But we were doing different subjects and had different timetables. We also had different kinds of friends. That’s when I really started drinking – a lot. And doing a few drugs too. I started having a great time, but I lost focus. I forgot why I was at Cambridge. I was an unremarkable student, neither good nor bad, just doing enough to get by. A coaster in a racer’s world.

‘VJ fell in with this guy called Anil Iqbal, who was in his final year. Flash, rich. He had invites to all the best parties, and these really stunning girlfriends. Blondes. Always blondes.

‘He mentored VJ. He played the stockmarkets, recommended VJ go to work for an investment bank, because, after Thatcher’s Big Bang, the City was wide open and there were fortunes to be made if you were hungry, lucky and shrewd enough.

‘I didn’t get on with Anil. Putting it mildly. He was an arrogant prick. That arrogance of people who’ve never known a hard day in their lives. Never had to go out to work. Never had to worry about money. They just look down on everyone. He was like that. VJ was fascinated by him. I could tell he wanted – not to
be
Anil, but to have what he had.’