Читать книгу The Book of You - Claire Kendal, Claire Kendal - Страница 23

Monday

Clarissa was watching Robert. He was leafing through the jury file. He stopped at a photo of the van’s interior, studied it, and scribbled a note for the usher to take to the judge.

Mr Belford was peering dubiously at Miss Lockyer. ‘A story,’ he was saying, ‘of systematic beatings and torture, and violent acts of rape and forcible restraint. But hardly a mark on the victim.’

The judge interrupted with his usual formal courtesy, asking them to look at Robert’s photo. Behind the driver’s seat, nestled on top of a greasy and crumpled fast-food wrapping, was a green disposable lighter.

Mr Morden was beaming at Robert. Nobody had noticed that lighter before. It exactly fit with Miss Lockyer’s account of Godfrey burning her earring in the van.

It was another of the many breaks occasioned by Mr Morden and Mr Belford’s whispered arguments. Clarissa sat in her usual chair. Robert had taken to sitting opposite her, in the corner of the unnaturally bright, glaringly white little annex.

‘Poor girl,’ Robert said, not in the least afraid to state his sympathy directly.

Clarissa wondered how many men would speak up like that, in front of the others. ‘Yes,’ she said, nodding a little, her expression slightly sad. ‘Poor thing.’ And then, ‘I can’t believe you found that lighter. Are you a detective in your day job?’

‘I’m a fireman.’ He shrugged it off, modestly. ‘Most people don’t look around for potential causes of fires. It’s what I’ve been doing since I was twenty. Half my life.’

The usher was back already, calling them to return.

Clarissa picked up her bag and cardigan. She’d never met a fireman before. She’d surrounded herself with academics, though she’d decided not to be one herself. But it wasn’t lost on her that she’d run straight into the arms of one, in Henry, even if he was mostly a poet. She thought what Robert did was interesting and important.

‘It’s just a job,’ he said, as if he’d read her mind and was putting her straight. He spoke matter-of-factly, but in his friendly, even way. ‘We all do our part.’

‘You are yourself capable of violence, aren’t you, Miss Lockyer?’

Miss Lockyer shook her head at Mr Belford’s question as if it wasn’t worthy of an answer, Mr Morden jumped to his feet to object in absolute fury, and the jury found themselves walking out once more.

Again Clarissa was seated opposite Annie and Robert in the little annex.

She was remembering Wednesday night. The soap dispenser slipping from her fingers and shattering against the cloakroom tiles instead of Rafe’s skull.

You’d never be able to hurt me, Clarissa. I know you.

‘I’m not sure I’d be able to damage another person,’ she said, ‘but I’m beginning to wish I could.’

‘You don’t look like you could damage a moth,’ Annie said.

Robert was looking hard at Clarissa. ‘Hurting someone isn’t about physical strength. You’ve never been in a situation where you’ve had to. Anyone could do violence, Clarissa. I promise you could too, if you needed to.’

‘Have you, Robert?’ Annie asked.

His face was expressionless. He didn’t answer.

‘I didn’t really need to ask,’ Annie said. ‘Of course you have.’

Mr Belford gave the impression that he hadn’t taken his eyes off Miss Lockyer during the jury’s absence; a kestrel hovering above a field mouse, waiting for his chance.

‘Is it correct that your ex-partner has a new girlfriend?’

Clarissa looked in concern at Annie, whose husband had just left her for another woman. She thought of Rowena, too. And of Henry’s wife.

Miss Lockyer gazed at her hands.

Clarissa wondered what she would feel when Henry found someone else. She knew she’d feel a stab if he went through successful fertility treatment with a new girlfriend, and she should be bigger than that. Not that he’d be quick to put himself through such a thing again. Henry wanted people to think testosterone oozed from his every pore. He’d made her vow never to tell anyone that his small population of misshapen sperm all possessed five heads and ten tails and swam in demented circles, bumping into each other.

Mr Belford prompted the still silent Miss Lockyer. ‘Did you threaten to kill her?’

‘Of course not.’

He shook his head, making it clear that her responses were so absurd it was not worth speaking further to her.

She’d been so focused on Miss Lockyer and Mr Belford and her note-taking she hadn’t looked at the public gallery. A movement in the back row caught her attention.

A pale man leaned forward from where he’d been resting his pale head against the pale wall, looking only at Clarissa, forcing her to see him looking.

As Robert paused to let her exit the jury box before him, she stumbled, her cheeks growing warm, her breath speeding up, her heart pumping so fast she thought it must be visible, pounding beneath her dress.

Monday, 9 February, 5.55 p.m.

I sit in the jurors’ room pretending to be so lost in my book I don’t notice that everyone has gone. The jury officer is looking at me, loudly packing up her things. Finally, she tells me that the room needs to be vacated for the night and I see I cannot put you off any more.

Just as I expect, you are waiting for me right outside the court building. I march past you to the end of the road and turn left, acting as if you aren’t here.

‘Clarissa.’ You’ve caught up to me. ‘It’s ridiculous of you not to speak to me, Clarissa.’

I halt in front of the coffee stall, closed for the day now like everything else. I have never seen it so quiet, but there are a few people around. It still gives me the safety of public space.

‘Darling, please talk to me.’

I can’t help myself. The leaflets’ commands of silence are impossible. ‘I’m not your darling.’ You step closer. ‘Don’t come near me.’ My voice is shrill. I try to lower it. ‘Don’t you ever come here again. You had no right.’

‘It’s a public gallery.’

Unless I stop you from ever coming again, I won’t be able to enter that jury box and continue with the trial. Court 12 will become a trap, a place where I’m pinned down and on display for you. I realise how powerfully I care about the trial, how much it matters, that I’m actually immensely proud to be serving on a jury – it’s something I’d always hoped to do. Corny thoughts about public duty and citizenship are banging around in my head even in your presence.

‘If you come again I’ll tell them I know you. They may call off the whole trial. They don’t want jurors disturbed by people they know. I need to concentrate.’

‘The testimony upset you, Clarissa – I saw that it did.’

You are right. I hate your being right about me. I hate that I wasn’t even aware of you, watching. I hate that I don’t quite know what I would have done if I’d noticed you there while Court 12 was still in the throes of its ugly business instead of its last seconds.

‘There’s no law against the friends of jurors sitting in the public gallery.’

‘You aren’t my friend.’

‘You’re right.’ You correct yourself. ‘Lover.’

‘You’re not—’ I bite my lip. You look so sad anyone else would pity you.

‘I thought you’d be happy to see me.’

‘I’m not.’ It isn’t so difficult to be mean. I’m almost shaking with anger. My mother never could have imagined a man like you.

‘I’m not seeing Rowena any more.’

‘I don’t care who you see or don’t see.’

‘You’re cruel, Clarissa. I was worried. You were ill.’

‘I lied to you. I wasn’t ill. I didn’t want you to follow me that morning. I didn’t want you to find me. I didn’t want you to know I was here. I have a right for you not to know where I am. I don’t like being followed.’ This is better: firm and honest.

‘That was an evil thing to do. I thought better of you.’

‘I don’t care what you think of me. I don’t want you to think of me at all.’

‘Your mobile still isn’t on.’

‘I changed the number. You’re the reason I changed it. I want nothing to do with you. I’ve told you this a million times.’

‘I went into every courtroom in the building until I found you.’

I move my head slowly from side to side. ‘Don’t you see that that’s not normal?’

‘No. No, I don’t. It shows how much you mean to me.’

You hold your arms out, as if expecting for me to fall into them, and I step back. How can you imagine that I’d want that? ‘Did you like the ring, Clarissa?’

‘No.’

‘You’ve kept it, though. So you must like it.’

‘Don’t send me any more things. I want you to stay away from me.’ As I start to walk away you grab my arm. I jerk it free. ‘Don’t touch me. You make me sick. The things you do make me sick.’

‘You can’t just sleep with me and then change your mind. You can’t make me feel what you have and then ignore me.’

A phrase from one of the leaflets stabs at me.

One third of all stalkers have been intimate with their victim.

‘It was only one night. It meant nothing to me. It was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made and I wouldn’t have made it if I hadn’t been drunk. Or worse. Was there something worse?’ For once you don’t have anything to say. ‘Why can’t I remember any of it?’ And still nothing. ‘Why were there marks on me?’ For once I have more to say than you do. ‘Why was I so sick, afterwards?’

At last you speak, though I wish for your silence again as soon as the words are out of your mouth. ‘You were crazy with passion for me, Clarissa. You were out of control, the way you responded, the things you begged me to do to you.’

‘I was unconscious.’ I clutch my bag, trying to stop my hands from trembling. The coffee I drank during lunch is halfway up my throat. I swallow it back down. ‘Did you put something in my wine?’