But Carolyn had slumped onto the couch, her feet tucked under her, her glasses skew-whiff. She looked exhausted, as though searching for the timetable had siphoned all her energy. Becca was about to repeat her question, when Carolyn yawned and said, ‘The ballet class starts at two,’ before drifting off to sleep.
Becca felt uncomfortable about leaving her unattended. But what was she supposed to do? She removed Carolyn’s glasses and placed them next to her. It was like old times, when she used to help Tom put her to bed.
Closing the door behind her, she went into the café and knocked on the kitchen door.
She had to step back when the doors swung open. ‘What?’ the man said, looking her up and down.
‘Carolyn’s asleep in the office.’
He folded his arms across his chest. ‘What you want me to do?’
Helpful. ‘Err…nothing. I just thought I should tell you. Will she be okay?’
He grunted. ‘She always sleep.’ And with that, he let the doors swing shut in her face.
Charming.
Still, she had bigger things to worry about. Like trying her hand at teaching. And whether Carolyn would wake up before the class started.
More importantly, whether Carolyn would remember she’d offered her cousin a job.
Monday 11th September
When the buzzer of doom sounded, Tom Elliot uncrossed his legs and stood up. The jury had reached a verdict and were ready to come back into the courthouse to deliver their conclusion. Guilty, or not guilty? That was the question.
He glanced behind him to where his client sat in the dock, looking surprisingly cheerful for someone inevitably facing jail time.
Tom gave his client a questioning look, checking he was prepared for what was about to happen. Bobby Franco grinned and gave him a thumbs-up, which in the circumstances, was both highly inappropriate and stupidly optimistic.
The trial hadn’t exactly gone well. Bobby Franco was a fifty-year-old dishonest rogue who liked to bet on the horses and spent most weekends fighting at his local pub. On this particular occasion, he’d been charged with shoplifting. It was Tom’s job to defend him. Something that didn’t fill him with joy, but was a necessary evil of his trade.
It was a far cry from the high-profile cases he’d read about in the newspapers when he’d decided on a career in law aged just seventeen. But representing the likes of Bobby Franco was the reality of being a barrister. It paid the bills. Even if it didn’t prove very fulfilling. He firmly believed in everyone’s right to be represented in court, and some of his clients were even innocent. But the pressure to win cases, coupled with his stress levels exacerbating his asthma, meant being a barrister wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
The sound of footsteps approached. The jury. The door opened and in they walked, a mixture of modern society, some willing to serve justice, others forced to participate in their civic duty. Beads of sweat broke out under his wig. He could always predict the outcome of a case by whether the jury looked at him as they returned to their seats. On this occasion, they avoided eye contact. It was curtains for Bobby Franco.
The foreman, a man with tattoos and a ponytail, stood up.
The court clerk approached him. ‘Have the jury reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’
Tattoo man nodded. ‘Yes.’
No hesitation. No hint of ‘reasonable doubt’.
‘Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty of the theft of two marital aids from Ann Summers retail store in Reading?’
‘Guilty.’
What a surprise.
‘And is that the verdict of you all?’
‘It is.’
Tom glanced at Bobby. That was what you got for nicking a vibrator and a blow-up doll and trying to abscond with the items stuffed down your trousers.
But Bobby didn’t look remorseful. Far from it. He looked…smug.
‘Mr Thomas Elliot.’ The sound of the judge’s voice snapped Tom back to attention. ‘Your client has been found guilty on the most overwhelming of evidence.’
You don’t say. ‘Yes, your honour.’
‘In fact, this case shouldn’t have been in my court. This type of case should have been heard by the magistrates. Did you advise this man to elect to come to the Crown Court and waste thousands of pounds of taxpayers’ money?’
Tom had predicted a bollocking. He tried to look contrite. ‘No, your honour. It was my client’s decision.’ And a stupid one. But as his barrister, the judge clearly felt Tom should have dissuaded his client from the theatrics of trial by jury. What was he supposed to do? Bobby Franco wanted his day in court and every defendant was entitled to be tried by their peers.
The judge turned his wrath on the client. ‘Robert Lewis Franco, you will go to prison for thirteen weeks.’ And with that, the judge flounced out of the court in true dramatic style. Job done.
The client’s response was to laugh. Thirteen weeks was nothing. He’d served longer for ramming a shopping trolley into a security guard at Tesco.
The jury started whispering.
Bobby Franco was led from the dock.
Tom picked up his briefcase and left court seventeen, heading for the grand Robing Room upstairs. His chest was tight. He stopped in the corridor and patted his pockets, searching for his inhaler. His phone vibrated.
He checked the display, knowing it would be either his mother or his ex-girlfriend, both of whom had already called several times that day, despite him telling them he was in court and uncontactable.
It was Izzy. Should he answer it, or smash the phone against the nearest bench seat? Tempting. But she’d only keep calling. He raised the phone to his ear, his brain telling him it was a bad idea.
‘Hi.’ She sounded hesitant.
There was a time when the sound of her voice would have brought a smile to his face. Now it was just an unwelcome intrusion. A reminder of the life he no longer had, or wanted.
‘Tom…are you there?’
He needed to stay strong and not soften at the break in her voice. ‘I’m here.’
She sighed. ‘I’m sorry about last night… Are you okay?’
He swallowed. Was he okay? When she’d walked through the front door of the place they’d shared for two years and were currently selling, her arms around another man, he’d stood there waiting for pain to hit him full in the chest. But it hadn’t come. He’d felt…nothing. Well, not entirely nothing, a slight twinge, a stirring sense of familiarity, but nothing crippling. Strange then that the sound of her voice could threaten to weaken his resolve, when seeing her hadn’t.
‘What do you want, Izzy?’
‘We didn’t get a chance to speak yesterday.’
‘There isn’t anything left to say.’
She paused. ‘Isn’t there?’
He opened his briefcase, praying he’d find his inhaler inside. He could feel the sweat trickling down the back of his neck, an indicator that an asthma attack was looming. ‘Not as far as I’m concerned.’
‘I don’t