‘Where is your book?’ asked Lily when she returned.
‘I couldn’t find it.’
‘Are you all right? You seem very quiet.’
‘May I just watch television?’
‘Of course.’
‘And could I stay here. For the night?’
Lily gave her a cuddle. ‘We’ve only got one bedroom, poppet.’
Poppet? Lily had called her that before. Carla didn’t know what it was, but it sounded nice.
Then Lily shut her books. ‘Tell you what. I’ll do this later. Why don’t we make some fudge again? Then you can give your mother a piece when she comes home from work.’
There was the sound of a bell and a voice cooing through the letterbox. ‘Piccola? It is me.’
Carla’s heart sank. Instinctively, she knew Mamma was here because Carla had seen her at home when she was meant to be at work. And although Mamma’s voice sounded nice, she was bound to be cross when they were alone together.
‘In fact,’ said Lily brightly, ‘it looks like she’s back early.’
13
Lily
I’m running after Davina in the park. She’s holding something and I need to get it off her or my marriage to Ed is over. She’s slowing down, but every time I speed up, she zips ahead. Then she starts sneezing. So loudly that the thing she is holding falls out of her hand. I reach down to get it, but it keeps slipping out of my hand. Finally, in the light of the moon, I manage to pick it up. It’s a wedding ring. Just like the one that Ed gave me. The one that had belonged to his great-grandmother. But as I hold it, the ring crumbles in my hand. I try to piece it back together but it’s no good. The pieces dissolve into dust. Then Davina laughs. A high-pitched shriek of a laugh …
‘Can you turn it off?’
Ed’s sleepy voice comes from the other side of the bed. Slowly it dawns on me – what a relief! – that Davina’s laugh is the alarm clock. The light filtering in through the window is indeed the moon, but even so, it is time to get up. It’s 6 a.m. I need to get an earlier bus because I have a meeting with Tony Gordon. The man who might, or might not, help me release Joe Thomas from prison.
‘Let’s go over the facts one more time.’
Tony Gordon is the type of tall, imposing man who would be equally at home on the cinema screen as he is in his Lincoln’s Inn chambers. It isn’t just his breadth of shoulders or the assured way he wears his dark-grey suit. It’s also his deep, authoritative voice with its hint of gravel. His manner of walking that suggests an inborn confidence. His crisp, expensive-looking shirts (today it’s a baby-pink stripe that might look effeminate on anyone else). The unhurried way in which he answers the phone, even when under pressure. I wouldn’t mind betting this reassures the person at the other end. It certainly reassures me.
The longer I work with him, the more I feel that this is a man who knows what he’s doing, whether driving a car, hanging a picture, fighting for the release of a convicted murderer or making love to a woman.
Where did that last thought come from? As I listen to Tony go over the statistics – boiler figures; timing of the ‘incident’ – my thoughts skittle back to Ed’s cheek which I had barely brushed with my lips in the form of a goodbye that morning.
I am already dreading going home to my husband. On the outside, we seem fine. We go supermarket shopping together on Friday nights, watch our favourite TV shows next to each other on the sofa after work, and look after little Carla on Sundays. I make sure I give Ed space to paint in his spare time because that’s all he wants to do. How he resents working ‘for morons’ during the week. But it’s hard not to notice that his two glasses of wine a night have now become three or four. Or that he hardly ever tries to touch me any more.
I’m aware as I list these complaints that they sound like the disgruntled litany of a long-married couple. In fact, we’ve only been married for two months. Where will it all end?
‘What do you think?’
Suddenly I’m aware of Tony Gordon staring at me. I feel a flush of shame crawling over me. This is a famous barrister. He could be the key to saving an innocent man. At least, my gut instinct tells me that Joe is innocent, even though I don’t like him very much. And here I am, thinking about my failing marriage.
‘I’m not sure.’ It seems a safe thing to say.
‘Come on, Lily, stay with me. The extra psychologist’s report that I asked to be carried out says that our man shows signs of Asperger’s and also has obsessive behaviours.’ Tony Gordon glances down at his notes. ‘Both are broad labels and mean different things to different people. But in this case, one of our man’s “things” is he likes everything to be neat and tidy. It disturbs him when objects aren’t in their right place. He interprets language literally. He doesn’t always respond to situations in the same ways as other people. He has difficulties communicating with people. He also dislikes change of any kind. Good with numbers too.’
‘My brother is a bit like that,’ I hear myself say. Even as I speak, I realize I should have said ‘was’, rather than ‘is’. The truth is that I often do that. It makes it easier to pretend Daniel is still alive.
‘Really?’ Instantly I feel Tony Gordon’s interest sharpen. ‘Does it make him act oddly?’
‘When he was younger,’ I say slowly, ‘we were just told he was difficult. We weren’t given any label. But he could be charming to people one minute and rude or abrupt the next. He didn’t like change …’ Mentally I run my hand over the smooth saddle. Smell the wood. Cradle Amelia in my arms. No.
‘Are you all right, Lily?’
I look down at my shaking hand. ‘Yes.’
Yes, it made Daniel do strange things. No, I’m not all right.
But Tony Gordon has already moved on. ‘We’ve got to watch that,’ he’s muttering to himself. ‘Got to emphasize the facts and the figures rather than the emotions. In my opinion, the defence didn’t do that enough last time. It would help, too, if the jury is made up of people who like statistics: they need to be the type whose heads rule their hearts rather than the other way round. We also need to show that although people with Asperger syndrome all share common behaviours and features, everyone is different. Unique. They have their own personalities that have just as much of an effect on their behaviour as the syndrome itself. According to my research, this cold, unemotional, obsessive behaviour that’s recorded in his notes is not necessarily a consequence of the Asperger bit. Tricky. Especially if someone on the jury has personal experience which doesn’t fit in with Joe’s. Or if we put his case in a way that offends someone.’
I’m beginning to wonder if I even need to be here. After all, I’ve briefed my barrister. It’s up to him now.
‘Please ask your firm to make sure you are with me when I visit the client,’ he says. ‘Your experience could be very useful. There’ll be a lot of publicity surrounding this case, you know.’ He gives me another kindly look. Almost fatherly. ‘No one will like us,’ he adds. ‘We’ll be the devil, you and I. A murderer is always a murderer in the public eye, even if proved innocent. This case is of huge national importance. If it’s allowed to run and we win, it will open the floodgates to all kinds of suits. We’ve got to be careful.’
‘I know,’ I say, realizing as I do so that I don’t. But I mustn’t show my ignorance. I want to be grown up. I want to be good at my job. I want to be good at my marriage. I just don’t seem to know how.
I leave Lincoln’s Inn with its beautiful brick walls and rich green post-rain grass to weave my way through the midday tourist crowds. I like walking in London. It’s good to breathe the air after being in a stuffy office, and besides, it gives me time to think.