‘You raped Miss Taylor, didn’t you?’
Jamie’s eyes snapped open and looked straight at Polglase. ‘NO!’
No. No. No. No. The word vibrated on repeat until Polglase picked up the echo’s tail.
‘No further questions, Your Honour.’
The abruptness of his closure took everyone by surprise. Jamie Balcombe gawped at his parents as his chance to respond was snatched away. Sally Balcombe made a soothing, shushing sound he couldn’t have heard.
Fiona Price had only one further witness to call for the defence. Christobel Chase was a rangy girl in a bright green dress who took the secular oath in a loud, clear voice and confirmed that she had met Jamie Balcombe in her first week as an undergraduate at the University of Bath, in her capacity as the steady girlfriend of Jamie’s old rowing team-mate.
‘I’d like you to talk me through an incident that occurred in the final term of your first year at Bath, when the defendant Mr Balcombe came to your assistance,’ said Miss Price.
‘Of course,’ said Christobel. ‘So, it was the Christmas ball and I was really the worse for wear. I must have had about two bottles of wine over the course of maybe eight or nine hours.’ She glanced at Antonia, then at Jamie in the dock. ‘At some point I wandered away from the students’ union and ended up staggering around the campus. I couldn’t find my way home. Jamie noticed I was missing from the table and came out to look for me. I could barely stand, but he walked me back to my room, held my hair while I vomited into the toilet – not my finest moment – and helped me into bed and put a bucket by my side in case I got sick again in the night.’
Price nodded. ‘How would you describe his conduct?’
‘He was a perfect gentleman,’ said Christobel. ‘I’d want him looking after me every time.’
‘Thank you, Miss Chase.’
Nathaniel Polglase scratched underneath his wig.
‘Miss Chase; you were at the time already seeing one of Mr Balcombe’s close friends, is that right?’
‘Laurence, that’s right, yes. We’re still together.’
‘Had he taken advantage of you then, there would doubtless have been repercussions within his social circle?’
‘Well – yes. But he wouldn’t have.’
‘There is a world of difference, members of the jury, between homing in on a young woman alone, miles from home, at a remote festival, and treating with care a woman with whom one is already socially involved, and, may I say, for whom one already has respect. One doesn’t soil one’s own doorstep, as I believe the popular saying goes.’
‘Mr Polglase!’ said the judge. ‘This is veering dangerously close to a speech. Do you have a question for the witness?’
‘Apologies, Your Honour.’ Polglase closed the file in front of him with a click. The gesture was probably supposed to hide his frustration but only underlined it. ‘That concludes my cross-examination.’
Judge Frenchay peered at the clock. ‘We’ll save closing speeches, and my summing up, for tomorrow,’ he said. I had expected this, but still felt the internal plunge of disappointment; we wouldn’t be there to see it. Our tickets back to London were booked for the morning, and we barely had money to eat, let alone pay for new train tickets and another night’s accommodation.
As we stood for the judge’s exit I thought hard. Tomorrow’s speeches would probably make further reference to my own testimony. Fiona Price would try to discredit me again, drawing attention to the inconsistency in my statements. Truro Crown Court was the last place in the world I needed to be.
‘It’s scary how convincing he was,’ I said on the way down the hill. Kit took my hand and circled his thumb on my palm.
‘What if he did it but he thinks he’s innocent?’ he asked. ‘What if she thought it was rape but he didn’t?’ He wasn’t playing devil’s advocate, more acting on some kind of atavistic masculine solidarity. It was the first time that I realised that men must fear the accusation just as women fear the attack. ‘I mean, is it even possible?’
We came to a stop at the bridge. The Kenwyn flowed fast beneath us, two washed-out plastic bags chasing each other downstream.
‘Honestly?’ I stared into the water. The plastic bags parted ways at a fork in the current and disappeared under the bridge. ‘I think some men hate women so deeply, they don’t even know it. They don’t think in terms of violating consent because they don’t think about consent, full stop. Maybe Jamie Balcombe’s one of them. I don’t know.’
‘That’s not a defence though, is it?’ asked Kit.
‘Jesus, no,’ I said. ‘That makes it even worse.’
The following Tuesday, we let ourselves into the flat to find the light on the answering machine flashing red.
‘This is a message for Christopher McCall and Laura Langrishe,’ said a familiar, officious voice. ‘It’s DS Carol Kent from Devon and Cornwall Police here, it’s just gone three o’clock on Tuesday the sixteenth of May. We’ve got a verdict. Took the best part of a day, but the jury found Jamie Balcombe guilty by a majority of ten to one. The judge decided to sentence the same day, what with people travelling from so far and wide. He gave five years, which is the maximum penalty he could have awarded for an assault at this level. The judge made a bit of an example of him. You might like to know that Elizabeth was in court for the verdict and I think she’s very happy with it. I know we are.’ There was a brief pause. ‘Anyway, I wanted to thank you for your co-operation in the case. Your evidence was a big part of what put him away.’
The light flashed off and there were no more new messages. The jury saw through him, I thought, and it was as though someone had undone a giant bolt in my shoulders, screwed so tight for so long that my arms felt momentarily dislocated. I collapsed against Kit. ‘It’s over,’ I said to his thumping chest.
Second Contact
Chapter 22