A waitress brings two bowls of soup. The bowls are made of painted bamboo, so light and small they fit into the hand. “These bowls, for example,” he says, picking one up. “They’re old and they don’t quite match. That’s shibui.”
I take a mouthful of soup. Something wriggles against my tongue, a strange flickering sensation.
“They’re alive, by the way,” he adds.
“What are?” I say, startled.
“The broth contains tiny shrimp. Shirouo—the newborns. The chef throws them in at the very last minute. It’s considered a great delicacy.” He gestures at the sushi counter, where the chef bows to us again. “Chef Atara’s specialty is ikizukuri, live seafood. I hope that’s all right.”
The waitress brings another dish and places it on the table. On it is a red snapper, its brilliant copper-colored scales very bright against the strips of white radish. One side of the fish has been sliced neatly into sashimi, all the way down to the backbone. But the creature itself is still alive, its tail curling up like a scorpion’s before flapping feebly down again; the mouth gulping, the eye rolling in alarm.
“Oh my God,” I say, aghast.
“Try some. It’s delicious, I assure you.” He reaches out and takes a slice of the pale flesh between his chopsticks.
“Edward, I can’t eat this.”
“No matter. I’ll order you something else.” He gestures to the waitress, who’s at our side in moments. But the broth in my stomach is suddenly threatening to come back up. Newborns. The word starts to hammer in my head.
“Jane. Are you all right?” He’s looking at me, concerned.
“I’m not—I’m not—”
One of the strange things about grief is the way it ambushes you when you least expect it. Suddenly I’m back in the maternity unit, holding Isabel, frantically tucking her swaddling cloth around her head like a shawl to keep the last precious remnants of body warmth—my body warmth—from escaping, trying to postpone the moment when her little limbs go cold. I’m looking at her eyes, her tiny closed eyes with their sweet pouchy eyelids, wondering what color they are, whether they’re blue like mine or dark like her father’s.
I blink, and the memory’s gone, but the dull leaden weight of failure and despair has coshed me once again and I sob suddenly into my wrist.
“Oh my God.” Edward smacks his forehead. “The shirouo. How could I be so stupid?” He speaks to the waitress in an urgent stream of Japanese, pointing at me and ordering more food. But there’s no time for that now, no time for anything at all. Already I’m bolting for the door.
THEN: EMMA
Thank you for coming, Emma, DI Clarke says. One sugar, yes?
The detective inspector’s office is a tiny cubbyhole filled with paperwork and files. There’s a framed photograph, quite an old one, showing him in the front row of a rugby team, holding a ridiculously large trophy. The mug of instant coffee he hands me has a picture of Garfield on it, which seems too cheerful for a police station.
That’s all right, I say nervously. What’s it about?
DI Clarke takes a mouthful of his own coffee and sets the mug down on the desk. Next to it is a plate of biscuits, which he pushes toward me.
The two men charged in connection with your case have both pleaded not guilty and made bail applications. Regarding the accomplice, Grant Lewis, there’s not a lot we can do about that. But the one who raped you, Deon Nelson, may be a different matter.
Right, I say, although I don’t really see why he’s called me in to explain this. It’s bad news they’re pleading not guilty, of course, but couldn’t he have told me over the phone?
As the victim, DI Clarke continues, you’re entitled to make a Victim Personal Statement—what the press sometimes calls an impact statement. You can tell the bail hearing how the crime affected you, how you feel about the prospect of Nelson being free until his trial begins.
I nod. How do I feel? I don’t really feel anything. So long as he goes to prison in the end, that’s all that matters.
Seeing my lack of enthusiasm, DI Clarke says gently, The thing is, Emma, Nelson is a clever and violent man. I personally would feel much more comfortable if he were to stay behind bars right now.
He wouldn’t risk doing it again while he was out on bail, though, would he? I say. Then I see what the DI’s getting at.
You think I could be in danger, I say, staring at him. That he might try to stop me giving evidence.
I don’t want you getting alarmed, Emma. Thankfully, instances of witness intimidation are very rare. But in cases like this, where the whole thing basically hangs on one person’s evidence, it’s better to be safe than sorry.
What do you want me to do?
Write a VPS for the bail hearing. We can give you some pointers, but the more personal it is, the better.
He pauses. I should remind you, though, that once your statement’s been read to the court it becomes a legal document. The defense will be entitled to cross-examine you on it when it comes to the trial.
Who would read it?
Well, it could be the prosecution lawyer, or a police officer for that matter. But these things are always more powerful if they come directly from the victim. Even judges are only human. And I think you’ll make a very strong impression.