I woke up slowly, a sliver of dull grey light peering through the crack in the curtain, giving just enough light to hint that night was over. In that moment, it was just the beginning of another dawn, another day that I would greet slowly, lazily with my usual routine; telling myself that I could have five more minutes in bed, taking that time to remember what was my diary, before hauling myself off the mattress to make a cup of coffee. For a sweet and innocent moment, everything felt fine until finally, like falling through a rotten floor, my stomach turned over and I remembered the day before.
Pete’s hands on my body.
My lies to the police.
His lips on my skin.
Perverting the course of justice.
The feel of his clammy fingers.
What have I done? My muscles tightened, saliva hot in my mouth, by the thought that he might still be there in the bed beside me. I froze listening for the soft whisper of another person’s breath. When I could hear nothing, I slowly turned my head, cracking my eyelids. The other side of the bed was empty. Pete had gone. I had no idea when. Certainly sometime after I had fallen asleep, although after sex, I was so repulsed with myself, with him, with the situation I had found myself in, that I had been unable to sleep for a long time, even after Pete had rolled over contented and spent, lightly snoring within minutes.
I sat up and observed the indentation in the pillow, a stray, unfamiliar red hair on the sheet – and I felt the sudden violent sensation that I was about to be sick. I covered my mouth and sprinted for the en suite, thumping to my knees in front of the toilet. I heaved over and over like the cold engine of an ancient car, but nothing came except a long string of spittle; it was almost as if my body wouldn’t even give me the release of vomiting it out.
I slid back on to the cold tiles, closed my eyes. There was no point wondering if I had made the right decision having sex with Pete Carroll. I hadn’t even had time to think it through. It had all happened so quickly; one minute I was listening to his thinly veiled threats, the next, his mouth had been on my lips and it had felt easier to go along with it, than to resist and face the immediate consequences: an angry and vengeful Pete Carroll, who I now knew was entirely capable of bringing my life tumbling down. But right then, that was little consolation. I felt punch-drunk and disconnected from the world around me; edgy and breakable as if I could touch my own skin and it would crumble away to dust.
I hated Pete Carroll, hated him. But most of all I hated myself and all the terrible decisions that had led me down an ever-narrowing alley where I was being squeezed, hemmed in on all sides, no light from above.
Breathe, I told myself. There’s always a way out. Think on your feet: it’s what you’re good at. It’s what you do. I nodded to myself. It came down to this: I could stay here, hunched on the floor. Or I could move, face the world and take action to try and remedy the mess I was in.
Pushing myself up on half-numb legs, I put on a dressing gown to cover my nakedness, trembling fingers tying it tightly around my waist. Then with small, unsteady steps I made my way downstairs to the living room, on red alert for Pete’s presence in the flat. Thankfully the place was empty and silent, except for the faint roar of traffic beginning to build up on the street outside.
The vodka was still on the kitchen table from the night before and I was tempted to drink the lot. Instead, I forced myself to drink a glass of water then took a shower, turning up the dial as hot as I could take it, and then as cold as it would go. My skin smarted from the two extremes of temperature but at least I felt cleaner once I’d scrubbed the smell of him into the drain.
I found the oldest and most modest underwear in my drawer, not the strips of expensive lace I’d bought for nights in with Martin, and put them on. I buttoned my white shirt up to the neck and put on my thickest black tights to wear under my sober suit skirt.
I tried not to look at the bed as I dressed but as the stale air overpowered me, I grabbed the duvet and threw it into the corridor, then tore the sheet from the mattress and kicked it down the stairs. I followed it down, grabbed a bin liner from the kitchen and pushed the soiled fabric inside it, fastening it tight in a big black bow.
I washed my trembling hands and opened the kitchen window as wide as it would go, taking big gulps of London air which had never tasted so fresh or so sweet. My hands clutched the cracked white sill, and as I looked down to the tiny backyard below I could see Pete’s bike propped against the wall. For a moment I thought of throwing myself out, but then I snapped the window closed.
My little sanctuary suddenly felt alien to me, as if it was no longer mine. At the same time, I was trapped. The man who’d violated me was sitting downstairs, a smug grin on his face, satisfied with a good night’s work of blackmail and forced sex, listening to my footsteps, planning his next move. And why not? That was how blackmail worked, wasn’t it? Once your victim had succumbed, you could keep coming back again and again, a bottomless well that never ran dry.
I grabbed my bag and coat and ran for the door. If I thought about it, I’d be frozen, hunted prey, a rabbit trapped in her burrow, sniffing the fox on the air. I winced at every step as I went downstairs, eyes fixed on the door at the bottom, my mind picturing Pete’s face appearing, leering like Mr Punch, his clawed hands dragging me into his flat. ‘You’re going to love this,’ he’d cackle. ‘Love it.’
But the door stayed closed and I ran out into the street, heels clacking on the pavement, feeling the skin on the back of my neck, expecting his foul touch, his breath, his murmured words. Instead I saw a wink of red ahead of me, the brake lights of the number 19 and I broke into a sprint, jumping on board just as the doors hissed closed.
I found a seat on the lower deck and tried to focus. I had a big case in court that day and knew I needed to pull myself together.
Welcoming the distraction from letting my mind stray back to Pete Carroll, I pulled the file out of my bag, wedged between my legs on the floor, and balanced it on my lap as I flipped through the paperwork, trying to familiarize myself with the case.
My client Holly Khan was trying to stop her ex-husband Yusef taking their ten-year-old son Daniyal to Pakistan for a family wedding, fearing that he might never come back. Yusef Khan, unsurprisingly, was pushing hard against Holly’s refusal, and Holly was so afraid that she might lose her child, she wanted a court order to legally stop him. On any other day, I would have relished helping out this vulnerable young woman, but this morning it felt like trying to high-wire walk in a gale. There was no doubt about it – professionally I’d taken my eye off the ball, and my lack of preparation for my cases was yet another source of shame.
I’d barely skim-read the file when we arrived at Holborn. Scooping up my things, I leapt off the bus, feeling my blouse stick to my back as the sweat ran between my shoulder blades.
I grabbed a coffee and hurried down Kingsway.
‘Francine!’
As I passed through court security I saw my instructing solicitor Tanya waving vigorously. I quickened my pace and followed her to one of the interview rooms.
It was the first time I’d met the client, which wasn’t unusual in family law cases.
‘Francine Day, this is Holly Khan.’
My new client was petite and attractive but with a careworn face and eyes that looked on the verge of tears.
‘I’m sure Tanya has briefed you well, Holly,’ I said, immediately flicking into work-mode. ‘There’s really nothing to worry about.’
The woman glanced across at Tanya and back to me. I could see how much she wanted to believe what I said.
Strangely, the client’s evident nervousness was easing my own anxiety. The familiarity of the work environment, I suppose, the soothing nature of ritual, going over the same old patterns. The law was complicated, but at least it had rules, at least you had some idea what was coming next.
‘OK, Holly, here’s what’s going to happen …’
I went over the basics of the case and explained to Holly that the purpose of the hearing was twofold. We were trying to persuade the judge to grant a prohibited steps order, effectively preventing her ex-husband from taking Daniyal out of the country, while his lawyers would be pressing for ‘permission for temporary leave to remove’.
‘Basically, we’re asking the judge to give you legal control of Daniyal’s movement, while Yusef is asking for the same thing.’
I peered down at the documents in front of me.
‘Why weren’t prohibited steps orders put in place at the time of divorce?’ I asked, looking up.
The young woman looked startled, like she’d been called in front of the headmaster. ‘Sorry,’ I said more softly, ‘I didn’t mean to imply you’d done anything wrong, it’s just these are the questions the judge is going to ask in chambers.’
Holly remained frozen.
‘We didn’t want the divorce proceedings to get ugly,’ said Tanya, jumping in. ‘We managed to get Holly a good financial settlement through mediation, and at the time we just wanted a clean break. Mr Khan can be a difficult man.’
‘But things are different now,’ said Holly, her voice small. ‘Back then he had a reason to stay in London, but he’s lost all his money. Even the money he hid from me in the divorce.’
‘Yes,’ I said, reading a section of the notes I had underlined in red. ‘And I gather you also think Mr Khan might have people after him? We haven’t got any statements to support that, I take it?’
Tanya fired back an apologetic grimace. She’d once given me a testimonial for the legal directory: Francine Day pulls off the impossible time and time again. And it was clear she wanted me to pull a rabbit out of the hat now.
‘Please,’ said Holly, looking at us with glistening eyes. ‘Can you help me?’
‘I will do my best,’ I said, trying to project more confidence than I felt. The truth was, I felt nauseous, ill-prepared and jittery, not exactly the best combination for going into court. Some barristers – like Tom – seemed to have a natural ability to busk it on the day, simply arguing the facts as they appeared before them, but I had always been a swotter, only really comfortable when I had all the facts at my fingertips and had prepared for every twist and turn. Today I felt like my safety line was missing. I looked at them both, knowing there were dozens of things I should be saying, but couldn’t think of a single one. There was an awkward pause, then Tanya coughed and said, ‘Well, we’d better go,’ leading us into the court.
I knew Judge Sheldon and Khan’s barrister, Neil Bradley, who was professional and competent; rumour had it he, too, was applying for silk this year. We exchanged pleasantries, took our seats and proceedings began; the judge listening to us in turn as we presented the facts of our case.
I’d expected to dislike Yusef Khan, but he was charm itself from the moment we entered judge’s chambers. As handsome as a Bollywood actor, he was sharp, convincing, and polite, in contrast to Holly, who was hesitant and glowered at her ex-husband throughout the hearing. This, I knew, was my fault. I should have run through this with her, told her he might be like this, that Neil Bradley – the competent one – would have advised this approach. Wrong-footed, I began explaining Holly’s reasons for wanting to stop Yusef taking Daniyal out of the country. I didn’t doubt Holly’s story that Khan had run into financial trouble. Tanya had told me that his string of restaurants had been subsidized by other interests including brothels and drug-dealing, which he’d pulled the plug on after he’d fallen out with some gangsters. But that sort of thing was hard, almost impossible to prove. We could hardly get statements from either the gangsters or his drug-taking customers, and Khan had recent accounts to show that the restaurants were doing fine. By the time we adjourned for lunch, I knew the other side were leading, but despite Holly’s downcast face, I also knew it wasn’t the end of the world. A strong closing statement could well be enough to make the judge err on the side of caution. After all, missing a wedding was an inconvenience, but a child being taken from his mother was a serious risk.
‘I can’t lose him,’ said Holly mournfully. ‘Yusef is smart. He’s so convincing out there. I think the judge believes everything he’s saying.’
I went and put my hand over hers.
‘I’ll be honest, it’s difficult for us to prove that Yusef won’t return to the UK. But what we have proved are the consequences of Daniyal not coming back and being kept in Pakistan by his father. His life would be turned upside down, and a child’s welfare is the top priority for any judge.’
She gave me a tight nod and I knew she was trusting me, putting all her eggs in one basket; my basket. And I was in no fit state to live up to that trust.
Tanya came back into the room with tea and drew me to one side out of earshot of Holly.
‘So, are you confident?’ she asked, looking at me sideways as she blew on her drink. Clearly, she wasn’t. I could hardly blame her.
‘We still need a fallback position,’ I replied briskly. ‘The trip to Karachi is supposed to be next week. There might not be enough time for an appeal. So we should put some safeguard provisions in place in case the judge allows them to go to the wedding.’
‘Like what?’
‘If Yusef doesn’t bring Daniyal back home, it’s abduction, no question. However, Pakistan is a non-Hague convention country and, as such, negotiating any return can be complex because there are no international agreements to help. But we could ask for Yusef to provide a security bond, or we can get Daniyal’s passport left with the British High Commission in Islamabad.’
Tanya snorted. ‘Security bond. You might as well get him to say Scout’s honour. If he goes to Pakistan, he won’t be coming back, you know that.’
‘It won’t come to that, Tanya,’ I said. ‘Trust me.’
Tanya raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, Holly doesn’t really have any other choice, does she?’
A bell rang to say that we were due back in court. I pulled my phone out of my jacket pocket and checked it quickly. Nothing. No message from Martin, nothing from Phil. With quiet resolve, I puffed out my cheeks and went back into chambers.
Immediately it began to go wrong. To give him his due, Neil Bradley was quite brilliant as he summed up Yusef Khan’s case for taking his son to Pakistan, pointing out that Holly had previously been in a favour of a trip when they were married, and shooting down our flimsy accusations that his client’s business was in trouble. He painted a vivid picture of the wonderful life Yusef had in Britain, including details of a new relationship he had with a woman who lived in Bedford – a crucial piece of evidence we should have known. Everything here was rosy, Bradley argued, so why on earth would Yusef leave all that behind?
‘Your honour, I have to reiterate that the consequences of non-return would be life-changing for Daniyal. He is doing well at school, he has just won a much-coveted place at a selective state grammar, he has a wide circle of friends …’
Justice Sheldon nodded in agreement as he read through the notes.
Neil was speaking again now. I was trying to concentrate, but my phone was vibrating in my pocket. It wouldn’t hurt to have another quick look, I decided, slipping it out on to my lap. I clicked on to Messages to see that there was something from Dave Gilbert.
The words blew off the screen like a hand grenade.
Martin Joy has been arrested.
I re-read the message and my head started to spin. Everything else had faded away so that I could just make out a voice in the background – Neil, or perhaps Justice Sheldon, soft and muffled as if we were underwater.
‘Do you have any proposals for safeguards?’ the judge’s words floated through.
I shuffled my papers ineffectually and tried to speak, but it came out as an incomprehensible stutter. The thought of Martin, arrested, was the only fact my brain could hold, the only thing that seemed to matter. I imagined him in handcuffs being led to a cold, dark cell; imagined him trying to get in touch with me, but not being able to.
My breathing quickened, darts of fierce, frightening energy fired to my fingertips.
Tanya was tapping at my arm but it was as if I had left my body. Floating, drowning, sinking.
There was a hissing in my ear, ‘closing remarks’, but I felt as if my brain was shutting down.
‘I have to go,’ I muttered as I stood up and collected my things.
Tanya stretched out. I felt her hand connect with my gown, but I spun away from her.
‘Miss Day?’ The judge’s voice was confused rather than angry. Perhaps he’d never seen a barrister suddenly jump up and flee the court before.
‘Urgent business,’ I muttered, and pushed past the tables through the double doors and out into the corridor, my heels tapping against the marble. My white collar felt tight around my neck, the walls pressing, leaning in towards me. I burst through the revolving doors and out into the brightness of the street, gulping at the fresh air, craving oxygen. But I couldn’t pause; I had to keep moving, had to get to Martin. The ground seemed to move under my feet as I saw a taxi and dashed for it.
‘Where we going, love?’ asked the driver, giving me a toothy smile.
I gaped at him: it was only then I realized I didn’t know where to go. I was desperate to see Martin, to be close to him. But if he was in custody, I couldn’t go there – he needed a criminal lawyer and it would look extremely strange if I showed up now.
‘Mayfair,’ I said. It was the only place I could think of to go.