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

‘Hard work at the moment, actually. I’m glad to have a night off.’

It had been past midnight when I’d finally got back last night. The drive home from Cambridge was a nightmare. The motorway had been closed because of an accident, and I’d had to take a detour down a rabbit hole of dark A-roads, the rain pelting, my windscreen wipers on full whack.

Hugh had told me to get a hotel. ‘You’re shattered, Wheeler. Don’t drive in this weather.’ He was being kind, but I couldn’t stay – I just wanted to be home, to be away from it for a bit. I only had one CD in my car, and I listened to it on repeat, the volume turned right up. I had hoped it would help me forget about the evidence that afternoon, about the splinters they said they had found under her fingernails. The way she’d looked down at the floor of the witness box, her hair falling in her face, as they’d said it. As if she was the one who should be ashamed. And how the defendants, in their expensive suits, just sat there looking bored, or passing notes, or smirking when the jury weren’t looking. Even when she had told the court how she felt after it had happened. How she thought she might be better off dead.

When they’d gone through the medical evidence, I couldn’t stop thinking about what it must have been like for her when they collected it, the fibres, the fluids. A white examination table, the cold touch of the metal instruments. I wondered whether I’d have had it in me, to go through all of that, after what had come before. As I was leaving court, I saw her across the street, belting her coat. Her lawyer was saying something to her, but she didn’t seem to be listening. She saw me and our eyes met, just for a moment. I nodded, and she looked away.

Afterwards, as I’d typed it all up in the pub down the road from the court, my jaw had clenched at having to be balanced about it, to report their side too. Both of the defendants deny all of the charges against them. When I’d pressed send I’d taken a long, deep breath.

I’d been so grateful to see the signs for London, the lights on the motorway, the drunk faces of the stumbling revellers in Camden Town. The scruffy terraces of the end of my road. The sound of my key in the lock, the purr of Socks, rubbing his cheek against my legs. My flat was a mess, the doormat piled with unread letters, the fridge empty. I’d turned the water on full, peeled my clothes off, and shoved them all on a boil wash. I’d stood under the shower for what felt like a long time.

‘I read your piece today,’ Rachel is saying now. ‘About those scumbag rapists.’ I startle at her language.

‘You know, I reckon they should just hang blokes who do stuff like that to women.’ She takes a swig from her mug. ‘Or, you know, firing squad, electric chair.’ She pops an olive into her mouth. ‘Whatever. Just as long as they’re fucking dead.’

To my relief, Helen appears in the kitchen. She heads to one of the cupboards, and then starts filling up bowls of nuts and crisps, as if this is her house, and not Rory and Serena’s. When she sees me, she smiles, then eyes Rachel warily, her smile slipping. Her nose and eyes look pink, as if she has been crying. Her bump looks so heavy under her dress.

I hug her. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Hmm? I’m fine.’

‘Your eyes look a bit red.’

She shakes her head. ‘I’m fine,’ she says again.

Charlie appears through the open veranda doors. ‘Hey you.’ He leans in to kiss me on the cheek and misses. Instead he catches the bottom of my ear, the side of my neck. He smells of tobacco and shampoo and something else, something that is uniquely him. I glance out at the garden behind him. I wish we weren’t standing in this hot kitchen. I long to be outside, in the cool. Charlie shoots me a curious look. Helen looks cross. Rachel is staring at me. No one is saying anything. Drinks, I think. I will get us all a drink.

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Does everyone want a drink? Are you, um, all right, Rachel?’

It turns out that everyone has a drink, and Helen doesn’t want one. All I’ve done is draw attention to Rachel’s coffee mug of wine. The four of us all look at the mug, the dark red liquid inside half drunk. The silence is deafening.

‘I’ll have a top-up,’ she chirps.

It feels odd, filling up a mug of red wine for a pregnant woman.

‘Cheers,’ she says, lifting up her mug. Everyone smiles politely, tilts their glasses to the middle. Rachel extends hers, insisting on a loud clunk with everyone before taking another gulp. It is all deeply uncomfortable. Charlie seems to be staring at Rachel, an odd expression on his face. Helen is looking nervously at me, as if hoping I will resolve the situation. I grasp at the only other passing person I recognise – Lisa, who works with Daniel and Rory.

‘Rachel, have you met Lisa?’

Lisa spins round when I say her name, as if I’ve caught her doing something wrong. As usual, her dress is elegant, expensive for a PA – though perhaps she just has a good eye. High at the front, bare on the shoulders. The kind of dress not many people can get away with. I suspect she spends a lot of time in the gym.

‘Hi, Rachel,’ Lisa says. She puts out a hand to shake Rachel’s. It feels a bit odd, overly formal, as if she is still in work mode, welcoming a client to the Haverstock offices.

Rachel looks at Lisa’s hand like it might be a trick. Then she takes it, but