A Game of Proof

‘Well, you’re wrong, that’s all! I didn’t kill her and that’s it! It wasn’t me!’

For a moment none of them spoke. A tiny amount of Simon’s anger subsided and he said: ‘I loved that girl. You wouldn’t understand that — you hated her, both of you!’

‘I didn’t hate her, Simon,’ Sarah said.

‘Yes, you did! You drove her away! Not educated enough for you, was she?’ He snatched his hands away. Tears came into Sarah’s eyes.

‘This is hard for us all, Simon,’ said Bob. ‘Your mother had to identify her body, you know.’

Simon was shocked. ‘You had to do that? Mum? See Jasmine’s body?’

Sarah nodded. ‘In the mortuary.’

‘But … why you?’

‘They thought it was Emily.’ Sarah explained, briefly, the events of that awful day, and how Emily had given Jasmine her jacket at the protest. ‘She must have been wearing it, Simon, when you saw her.’

‘Probably. I didn’t think.’ Simon looked down again at his hands, and for a while none of them spoke, an island of silence in the noisy, crowded room. ‘What did she look like?’ he asked at last. ‘Jasmine. When you saw her?’

How do I answer that, Sarah wondered. None of this is easy. When she thought back to the mortuary all she could remember was the fear, and the appalling flood of relief afterwards. The body’s appearance had mattered less than who it was. And who it wasn’t.

‘I only saw her face. It was very pale, I think. Pale, with a bruise on her cheek, and … some marks of twigs on her skin. Her eyes were closed. She was … a very beautiful girl, Simon.’

‘Oh, I know that. Too damn pretty for her own good.’ He brushed the tears away roughly with the back of his hand. ‘And I hit her. God! I didn’t know I’d never see her again, did I?’

‘Did you cut her cheek when you hit her?’ Bob intervened, in a more conciliatory tone.

‘Oh come on, what are you talking about now? It was just a slap. Why …?’

‘I thought maybe that’s how her blood got on your trainers.’

‘No. Christ, what are you tormenting me with this for? How did you get blood on your shoes, all this! I don’t bloody know, is the answer!’

‘I’m only trying to help …’

‘Well don’t. I don’t want you here, go home!’

Sarah grasped her son’s hands again, across the table. ‘Don’t give up, Simon. I believe you. I’m your mother.’ But mothers don’t really count. She saw it in Simon’s eyes.

‘Yeah, but that’s just it, in’t it? It’s all these other bastards — Bob, the police …’

‘We’ll convince them too. You’re innocent until proven guilty. Remember that.’

‘That’s just lawyers’ talk, mum. They don’t think like that.’

‘I am a lawyer, remember? And it is true. It’s a lawyer’s job to make it true.’

‘Well, I hope to Christ you’re right, because it doesn’t look like that from here. And that other lawyer, that Lucy woman, she’s no friggin’ good, is she?’

‘She’s a good solicitor, Simon. She’s doing her best for you.’

‘Why am I banged up in here then? All day with nowt to do, and no room to move.’

‘Because it’s a serious charge, Simon. You don’t get bail for murder.’

‘I could get locked up for life, couldn’t I?’

‘Not if they can’t prove it, Simon. If you’re not guilty they won’t be able to.’

As she answered, Sarah realized that people were getting to their feet. A prison officer was coming straight towards them.

‘That’s not true, mum — innocent people get locked up, all the time. You’ve told me!’

The prison officer had his hand on Simon’s shoulder. ‘Time’s up, son.’

As Simon stood up, his eyes still fixed on his mother’s, she said: ‘Not this time, Simon. I won’t let it happen.’

She regretted those words all the long drive back to York. It was a promise too great to keep. She had meant to leave him some hope, but what hope was there, really? The evidence seemed too strong. Simon had been the last person to see Jasmine alive, he’d had sex with her, quarreled with her and hit her. Then he’d run away to Scarborough. If the blood on his trainers and breadknife were hers too, there was enough evidence for any court to convict him.

But I don’t believe it. I can’t.

Don’t. Can’t. Don’t. Can’t.

Well, which is it, she asked herself, as Bob drove the Volvo along the long undulating roads to York. Do I believe he’s innocent, or just hope he is because he’s my son?

I wouldn’t normally ask questions like these. If he maintained his innocence I would defend him, and what I believed wouldn’t matter. But I’m not his barrister now, I’m his mother.

Bob drove silently beside her. The tension in his manner had grown worse since they left the prison. Sarah ignored it, focusing her thoughts on Simon. Her son had always liked to be active, outdoors, involved in sports. What was there in the prison — a snooker table, perhaps, shared by a hundred young men? And most of the time shut up in a tiny cell. What would he do — press-ups on the floor, pace up and down, two paces north, two paces south, again and again …

‘I shouldn’t have come,’ Bob said.

‘What?’

‘He didn’t want me; I only made things worse. Anyway if he is guilty as it seems then …’

‘Bob? What are you saying?’

‘Just look at the evidence, Sarah. How could you say you believe him? He was the last person to see her, he hit her …’

‘Listen, Bob, there’s still a case to defend. There must be. There’s no evidence that puts Simon anywhere near this crime. He hasn’t confessed, and your horrid old man only saw him hit her in the face, nothing else. And you may not be aware of it, but the police are searching for a serial rapist in the York area. You’re not telling me that’s Simon too, are you?’

‘Not so far as I know, no, but …’

‘For Christ’s sake, Bob, what’s got into you? Not so far as you know!’

‘I’m sorry, but he did lie, Sarah, like he’s lied to us, lots of times. Especially to me …’

‘What about? Homework, drugs, pocket money? All teenagers do that, Bob. Look at your precious Emily, running off for days without a word! It doesn’t make her a murderer, does it?’

‘I’m just looking at the evidence straight, Sarah. We know he was the last to see her, we know he lies, we know he hit her …’

And so it went on; Bob’s voice clanged like a relentless bell in her ear. As they entered their drive she made a decision. ‘Look, Bob. You don’t believe Simon but I do. I have to. I need some time on my own to think this through, and get some rest.’

‘On your own where?’ Bob turned, puzzled, the front door key in his hand.

‘Simon’s house. I’ll spend tonight there — maybe two nights. You can look after Emily, and we won’t quarrel. It’ll be best for everyone.’

‘But you can think here!’

‘No, not with you in this mood. It’s serious, Bob — you think Simon’s guilty of murder!’

‘All I said was the evidence points that way. For God’s sake, Sarah! Emily needs you here, even if I don’t!’

‘She doesn’t need to hear us quarrel. Just a couple of nights, Bob. We’re under a lot of strain. I need space to think.’

‘Well … if you’ll be all right?’

‘I’ll be fine, Bob. Just leave me alone, OK? That’s all I need, right now.’

And it was easy, really. When she explained to Emily, the girl simply shrugged and turned back to her books. So Sarah packed a few clothes and cosmetics into the motorcycle panniers, climbed into her leathers, and rode