Greenwich Park, Katherine Faulkner [ereader android .txt] 📗

toilets. It occurs to me how tired I am. I think about seeing Charlie tonight. He has promised to cook me pasta, and I can stop thinking about the case for a while. Maybe after dinner we can watch The Apprentice and laugh at the contestants. If I can get back in time – the last time I drove from Cambridge to Charlie’s flat in east London, it had taken me two hours. My heart had sunk when I’d seen the long snake of red brake lights cramped together on the motorway. It occurred to me how much I wanted to get back to Charlie, how homesick I felt for him, how much I longed to see the light on at the window of his little top-floor flat.

I step out of the cubicle to wash my hands. I close my eyes as the warm water washes over my hands, inhale the lemon smell of the soap. I haven’t had a day off for weeks now. I long to lie in a bath, soak the exhaustion from my body. Curl up under a duvet without first setting an alarm for 6 a.m.

When I open my eyes, she is standing straight in front of me, on the cheap lino of the courtroom toilets, next to the hand dryers. Her cuffs are pulled over her fingers, her fists balled up inside the sleeves of her cardigan as if for protection. Her hair looks unwashed, her eyes puffy. It’s Emily Oliver. The victim.

Our eyes meet. I take a deep breath. The situation feels surreal. Surely a victim in a criminal case has access to their own toilet? It seems hideous that she is here, that she should have to bump into me like this.

‘I got your letter,’ she says flatly. She rubs one eye with a balled-up hand. ‘But they told me not to talk to you.’ I notice the skin around her thumbnail is bitten to bleeding.

‘I’m sure they did,’ I say. I shake my hands dry gently, wipe them on my trousers. I don’t want to come closer, to risk setting off the hand dryers, breaking the spell. I don’t want any noise.

‘I can’t talk to anyone. Even my therapist,’ she says. She looks up at me, angry now. ‘Did you know that? Even what I say to my therapist could be used against me. That’s what they said.’ Her voice is brittle, catching in her throat. ‘I can’t talk to anyone.’

I pause, weigh my words carefully. ‘The police are right,’ I tell her, my voice so soft it is almost a murmur. ‘They’re trying to protect you. They’re right that you shouldn’t talk to anyone – not at the moment. Not before the end of the trial. So if anyone asks you to – any of the other journalists – I would say no.’

‘What about after?’

I take a deep breath. She is a bird, inching towards my outstretched hand. One false move and she will fly away.

‘That’s up to you,’ I say, slowly. ‘But, if you would like to tell your story, I could help you, if that was what you wanted.’

In the mirror I can see the door, its tarnished handle, the sign that says PLEASE WASH YOUR HANDS. I stare at the door and will it not to open. If anyone else comes in, this conversation will be over.

‘Do you believe me?’

I take a tiny step forward. Look her in the eye.

‘Yes,’ I tell her. ‘I do.’

‘Does the jury?’ Her voice is slow, controlled, but her teeth are gritted. ‘Or do they believe them?’ This last word is pronounced with quiet venom.

I hesitate. I think about saying yes. But I need to tell the truth. And the truth is that it is complicated. She is not the perfect victim. She drank. She flirted. She prevaricated over the decision to report.

‘I don’t know,’ I say, eventually. ‘But you have done everything you possibly could.’

The girl’s hair falls in front of her face. She pushes it straight back behind her ear, crossly, with a small, pale hand. When she hasn’t said anything for a few moments, I reach inside my bag, feel for the sharp edges of my business cards. I take one and slowly reach towards her, holding it between my thumb and forefinger.

‘I’m Katie,’ I say.

She stares at the card, the black-and-white logo. She doesn’t take it.

‘My dad doesn’t like your newspaper.’ She sniffs. ‘He says it’s a rag. That it twists things.’

I nod, shoot her a rueful smile. ‘It does sometimes,’ I admit. ‘But I don’t.’

‘He reads the Guardian.’ She eyes me carefully, goading me, wanting to see if I’ll react.

‘My dad reads the Guardian too,’ I say truthfully. ‘I’m a bit of a disappointment.’

She considers this. Looks down at my card.

‘You’re here every day.’ She sighs. ‘And all the others are blokes.’

I nod. Finally, she takes the card. Holds it between her fingers, as if she isn’t sure how it works.

‘Listen,’ I say. I take another tiny step towards her. ‘You need to concentrate on the trial. But afterwards, if you did want to … tell your story, I could help you do it in a way you were happy with. We could write it together.’

She looks up, a sceptical expression on her face. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I could send you the whole thing. Before we published. You could read it, and if you didn’t like it, we could change it.’ I look at her. ‘I swear. No twisting.’

I hold her gaze, try to ignore the roar of blood in my ears. Copy approval, that’s what I’m promising. Something we never promise, we never agree to. I hear the screams of my boss, Hugh, in my ears. But surely this is different. Surely Hugh will understand.

‘If I did it. You would pay me?’ She looks at the ground as if she is ashamed for asking. ‘It’s not about that,’ she mutters. ‘I just … we’re not rich.’

We are in dangerous territory now. I should not be having