the shelf in the communal entrance hall. In it is a tiny box. You’ve wrapped it in gold embossed paper and decorated it carefully with curled silver ribbons. You’ve enclosed a heavy, cream-coloured card, imprinted with a rose. I notice what you love. Wear this for me.
My hands tremble as I climb the stairs to my flat, tearing open the box as I move, tripping on the landing at the sight of the ring I was caught by that night back in November, as if under a spell. You would never have bought it if you’d known I was thinking of Henry while I looked at it. I wasn’t thinking of you. Not you. Never you. My visions of you are only dark.
Madly, I think that the tips of my fingers will bleed as they brush over the small circle of cold platinum and the tiny diamonds that encrust it. The ring has flown to me like an evil boomerang.
As soon as I’m in my flat, I shove it all back into the padded envelope, including the card, slapping on parcel tape and fresh stamps, scribbling your name and the university address on it, crossing out my own. Above all else, I can’t let you think I’ve accepted something so costly from you. I’ll post it back to you first thing tomorrow morning.
But as soon as I begin to stuff the parcel into my bag in readiness, one of the leaflet’s commands freezes my hand.
Retain all letters, packages and items, even if they are alarming or distressing.
I have to hold onto the ring, however much money you spent on it. The ring is a gift, after all. Just not in the way you intended. I will add it to my growing collection of evidence. A grim assortment, but not yet irrefutable as proof.
Clarissa was watching Robert. He was leafing through the jury file. He stopped at a photo of the van’s interior, studied it, and scribbled a note for the usher to take to the judge.
Mr Belford was peering dubiously at Miss Lockyer. ‘A story,’ he was saying, ‘of systematic beatings and torture, and violent acts of rape and forcible restraint. But hardly a mark on the victim.’
The judge interrupted with his usual formal courtesy, asking them to look at Robert’s photo. Behind the driver’s seat, nestled on top of a greasy and crumpled fast-food wrapping, was a green disposable lighter.
Mr Morden was beaming at Robert. Nobody had noticed that lighter before. It exactly fit with Miss Lockyer’s account of Godfrey burning her earring in the van.
It was another of the many breaks occasioned by Mr Morden and Mr Belford’s whispered arguments. Clarissa sat in her usual chair. Robert had taken to sitting opposite her, in the corner of the unnaturally bright, glaringly white little annex.
‘Poor girl,’ Robert said, not in the least afraid to state his sympathy directly.
Clarissa wondered how many men would speak up like that, in front of the others. ‘Yes,’ she said, nodding a little, her expression slightly sad. ‘Poor thing.’ And then, ‘I can’t believe you found that lighter. Are you a detective in your day job?’
‘I’m a fireman.’ He shrugged it off, modestly. ‘Most people don’t look around for potential causes of fires. It’s what I’ve been doing since I was twenty. Half my life.’
The usher was back already, calling them to return.
Clarissa picked up her bag and cardigan. She’d never met a fireman before. She’d surrounded herself with academics, though she’d decided not to be one herself. But it wasn’t lost on her that she’d run straight into the arms of one, in Henry, even if he was mostly a poet. She thought what Robert did was interesting and important.
‘It’s just a job,’ he said, as if he’d read her mind and was putting her straight. He spoke matter-of-factly, but in his friendly, even way. ‘We all do our part.’
‘You are yourself capable of violence, aren’t you, Miss Lockyer?’
Miss Lockyer shook her head at Mr Belford’s question as if it wasn’t worthy of an answer, Mr Morden jumped to his feet to object in absolute fury, and the jury found themselves walking out once more.
Again Clarissa was seated opposite Annie and Robert in the little annex.
She was remembering Wednesday night. The soap dispenser slipping from her fingers and shattering against the cloakroom tiles instead of Rafe’s skull.
You’d never be able to hurt me, Clarissa. I know you.
‘I’m not sure I’d be able to damage another person,’ she said, ‘but I’m beginning to wish I could.’
‘You don’t look like you could damage a moth,’ Annie said.
Robert was looking hard at Clarissa. ‘Hurting someone isn’t about physical strength. You’ve never been in a situation where you’ve had to. Anyone could do violence, Clarissa. I promise you could too, if you needed to.’
‘Have you, Robert?’ Annie asked.
His face was expressionless. He didn’t answer.
‘I didn’t really need to ask,’ Annie said. ‘Of course you have.’
Mr Belford gave the impression that he hadn’t taken his eyes off Miss Lockyer during the jury’s absence; a kestrel hovering above a field mouse, waiting for his chance.
‘Is it correct that your ex-partner has a new girlfriend?’
Clarissa looked in concern at Annie, whose husband had just left her for another woman. She thought of Rowena, too. And of Henry’s wife.
Miss Lockyer gazed at her hands.
Clarissa wondered what she would feel when Henry found someone else. She knew she’d feel a stab if he went through successful fertility treatment with a new girlfriend, and she should be bigger than that. Not that he’d be quick to put himself through such a thing again. Henry wanted people to think testosterone oozed from his every pore. He’d made her vow never to tell anyone that his small population of misshapen sperm all possessed five heads and ten tails and swam in demented circles, bumping into each other.
Mr Belford prompted the still silent Miss Lockyer. ‘Did you threaten to kill her?’
‘Of course not.’
He shook his head, making it clear that her responses were so absurd it was not worth speaking further to her.
She’d been so focused on Miss Lockyer and Mr Belford and her note-taking she hadn’t looked at the public gallery. A movement in the back row caught her attention.
A pale man leaned forward from where he’d been resting his pale head against the pale wall, looking only at Clarissa, forcing her to see him looking.
As Robert paused to let her exit the jury box before him, she stumbled, her cheeks growing warm, her breath speeding up, her heart pumping so fast she thought it must be visible, pounding beneath her dress.
Monday, 9 February, 5.55 p.m.
I sit in the jurors’ room pretending to be so lost in my book I don’t notice that everyone has gone. The jury officer is looking at me, loudly packing up her things. Finally, she tells me that the room needs to be vacated for the night and I see I cannot put you off any more.