Tuesday 19th September
Tom buttoned up his three-piece suit and straightened his wig and gown ready for the first hearing of the day. Wearing a double-breasted jacket was a requirement of all barristers when appearing in the Crown Court. If you turned up wearing a single-breasted, or heaven forbid, you weren’t wearing a waistcoat, then you’d be strung up by the judge and sent packing from the courtroom. He’d learnt that the hard way.
His client today was a twenty-five-year-old man charged with affray. Together with seven of his mates, his client had got completely pissed whilst out on a stag do and managed to get into a massive fight with another group of lads also celebrating their forthcoming nuptials. Their fiancées must be so proud. Unfortunately the fight was caught on CCTV, so there was little Tom could do in terms of mounting a defence.
Cases involving alcohol never sat well with him. It was too close to home. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d been contacted by the police to inform him that his mother had been found wandering down the road inebriated and was currently sleeping it off in a cell. He’d jump in his car, race down to Brighton and assure the desk sergeant that it wouldn’t happen again. But of course, it would. His mother’s reaction to waking up in a police cell varied from mortification and tearful apologies, to angry insults and accusations. ‘I have it under control,’ or ‘You never want me to enjoy myself,’ were common. ‘It’s your fault I’m this way,’ stung the most.
He knew that shifting the blame, manipulating loved ones and becoming abusive were all part of the illness, but it didn’t make it any less painful. The idea that one day her behaviour might result in her appearing in front of a judge made him sick to his stomach.
But the upside of today’s case was that it was being heard at Snaresbrook, one of his favourite courts. It was situated in the borough of Redbridge and was a beautifully ornate building with wonderful gardens and even a lake. Inside it was like Hogwarts, with its magnificent staircases, impressive turrets and mysterious locked doors. It was a showcase for how a Grade Two listed building could look if money wasn’t an issue. Next to Snaresbrook, the Starlight Playhouse looked like a rundown brothel.
He’d just left the Robing Room when he heard his name being called.
At first, he didn’t recognise the voice. Why would he? He hadn’t spoken to his father for several years. It was only when he turned and saw Harvey Elliot walking towards him that his brain made the connection. His initial instinct was to run, but that wouldn’t be overly mature, and besides, his feet wouldn’t cooperate.
‘When I saw your name listed today, I hoped we’d bump into each other,’ his father said on reaching him. ‘Good to see you, son.’ He held out his hand.
Tom stared down at his father’s outstretched hand, wondering if someone had transported him to a parallel universe – one where they weren’t estranged and his father hadn’t walked out on his mother eight years earlier. Tom’s gaze lifted to his father’s face, visibly older than when he’d last seen him, his hair and moustache silver-grey, his eyes surrounded by wrinkles and framed by thick-rimmed glasses with bizarre purple-tint lenses.
His father was a Silk. Queen’s Counsel to use its proper title. Their gowns were made of silk – hence the name, and they were considered the heavyweight boxers of the criminal justice system. They strutted and postured in court like sprinters before a hundred-metre final, acting as though they were intellectually superior to everyone else in the room.
His father’s attitude to parenthood had been just as intimidating.
Tom instantly felt his chest tighten.
But he was no longer a spineless teenager, too afraid to stand up to his father, or disobey his ultimatums. He might not be equal in terms of barrister status, but there was no way he was about to pretend the past hadn’t happened.
His father appeared unperturbed by his son’s refusal to shake his hand. ‘How are you, Thomas?’
It was such a simple question and yet one that was fricking hard to answer. How was he? What? For the past seven years? He opted for brevity. ‘I’m fine.’
‘And work?’
‘That’s fine too.’ Tom wasn’t about to share his growing sense of dissatisfaction about his career. Not least because his father wouldn’t understand. He’d never been ‘soft’ like his son.
‘What time are you due in court?’
There was no point lying – the trials were listed on the wall. ‘Soon.’ He kept his response vague.
‘Tricky case?’
‘Not really. Was there something specific you wanted?’ Tom rubbed his chest, wishing he’d taken a shot of Fostair this morning as a preventative.
His father glanced behind, waiting until the corridor cleared before speaking. ‘I wanted to let you know that I haven’t been…well.’
Time slowed. It took a moment before he realised the thumping he could hear was coming from his chest. But he wasn’t going to soften, not after all this time. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope.’
Harvey Elliot cleared his throat, as though debating whether to continue. ‘I was having chest pains. I was admitted to London Bridge Hospital for an angiogram. The test results showed the onset of atherosclerosis. It causes angina.’
‘Right.’ It felt like a pathetic response to such a big announcement, but what was he supposed to say? Despite everything that’d happened, he’d act like the dutiful son and bury the hatchet? That wasn’t going to happen. There’d been too many arguments over the years, too many hurtful accusations.
His father waited, but it was obvious Tom had nothing more to add. ‘I thought you should know.’
‘What’s the prognosis?’ Tom felt he needed to know what he was dealing with, even if they had burnt their bridges.
‘Medication. Eating better, taking more exercise. Less stress.’ His father tried for a good-natured smile. ‘Torture, right?’
Tom didn’t feel like engaging in friendly banter. ‘Surgery?’
‘Not at this stage. Hopefully it can be managed without the need for surgical intervention.’
‘Well, thanks for letting me know. I hope things improve.’ He went to leave, but his father caught his arm.
‘The thing is, it’s made me re-evaluate my life. Lying in a hospital bed waiting for results tends to focus the mind. Makes a man think about his life, his…decisions.’
Tom turned to look at the man who’d made his teenage life hell and walked out on his mother when she’d needed him the most. ‘And what conclusions did you come to?’
‘I decided that I didn’t want to miss out on any more of my son’s life.’ His father took a step closer. ‘It’s time to bury the hatchet. I’m willing to move forwards, if you are. I was hoping we could call a truce and forgive each other. What do you say?’
Tom rubbed his chest. ‘You think I need your forgiveness?’ He studied his dad’s face. There wasn’t a hint of insecurity. ‘I’m curious. What terrible crime have I committed that requires your forgiveness?’
‘You’ve barely spoken to me in seven years—’
‘And why is that?’
His father sighed. ‘Because you felt the need to punish me for leaving your mother.’
The man wasn’t stupid; he’d give him that. ‘She has an illness. She needs constant help and yet you decided to put your own needs ahead of hers.’
His father frowned. ‘Do you have any idea how hard it was for me?’
The blood drained from Tom’s face. ‘Hard for you?’
There were so many things Tom could have said, but at that moment he was genuinely lost for words. His father thought it would be that simple? That he could just decide it was time for them to ‘move forwards’ and forget everything that had gone before. Jesus. He really was a piece of work.
Tom was saved from saying something he’d regret by his phone pinging with a message. He glanced down, expecting to see Izzy’s name. They’d accepted an offer on the flat and were close to exchanging contracts. But it was a missed call from his mother.
Ignoring his father, he pressed play. Did you know you could get green apples…? From now on I’m only going to buy green apples. No other colour… Can you get other colours? Pink? I’d like pink apples. Add green and pink apples to my grocery shopping this week. Thank you, darling. Love you.
Tom didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The world was conspiring against him. An unwinnable case, his father having a mid-life crisis, and his mother losing the plot. And it was only bloody nine-thirty.
He turned to leave. ‘I need to deal with this.’
‘Will you think about it?’ his father called after him.
There was nothing to think about. Some things were beyond repair.
The relationship with his father was one of them.