Rothman.
Two girls are sat outside on the remains of a bench. They are drinking Gold Label Merrydown cider and Benilyn cough syrup. A dog is barking at a frightened child in a pushchair, an empty bottle of Thunderbird rolling around on the concrete. The girls have dyed short rats’ tails and fat mottled legs in turquoise clothes and suede pointed boots.
The dog turns from the screaming baby to growl at you.
One of the girls says: ‘You fancy a fuck, fatty? Tenner back at hers.’
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ you say at the front door. ‘I got lost.’
‘You’re here now,’ smiles Mrs Myshkin. ‘Come in.’
‘Car be all right there?’ you ask her, looking back at the only one in the street.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You’ll be gone before the kids get out.’
You glance at your watch and step inside 54 Newstead View, Fitzwilliam.
‘Go through,’ she gestures.
You go into the front room to the left of the staircase; patterned carpet well vacuumed, assorted furniture well polished, the taste of air-freshener and the fire on full.
You have a headache.
Mrs Myshkin waves you towards the settee and you sit on it.
‘Cup of tea?’
‘Thank you,’ you nod.
‘I’ll just be a minute,’ she says and goes back out.
The room is filled with photographs and paintings, photographs and paintings of men, photographs and paintings of men not here -
Her husband, her son, Jesus Christ.
The fire is warm against your legs.
She comes back in with a plastic tray and sets it down on the table in front of you: ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Please.’
‘How many?’
‘Three.’
‘Help yourself to biscuits,’ she says.
‘Thank you,’ you say and reach over for a chocolate digestive.
She hands you your tea and there’s a knock at the door.
‘My sister,’ she says. ‘You don’t mind?’
‘No,’ you say.
She goes out to the door and you wash down the biscuit and take another and think about turning down the bloody fire. You have chocolate on your fingers and your shirt again.
Mrs Myshkin comes back in with another little grey-haired woman with the same metal-framed glasses.
‘This is my sister,’ she says. ‘Mrs Novashelska, from Leeds.’
You stand up, wipe your fingers upon your trouser leg, then shake the woman’s tiny hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’
Mrs Myshkin pours a cup of tea for her sister and they both sit down in the chairs either side of you.
Mrs Myshkin says to her sister: ‘He saw Michael on Saturday.’
The other woman smiles: ‘You will help him then?’
You put down your cup and saucer and turn to Mrs Myshkin: ‘I’m not sure I can.’
Both the little women are staring at you.
‘As I told you last week,’ you begin. ‘I don’t have any experience with appeals.’
Both little women staring at you, the fat man sweating on the small settee.
‘Not this kind of appeal. You see, what should happen, should have happened in Michael’s case, is that his original solicitor and his counsel, they should have lodged an appeal after his trial. Within fourteen days.’
The little women staring, the fat man roasting.
‘But they didn’t, did they?’ you ask.
Mrs Myshkin and Mrs Novashelska put down their cups on the table.
You wipe your face with your handkerchief.
Mrs Novashelska says: ‘They couldn’t very well appeal, could they? Not when they’d all told him to plead guilty.’
You wipe your face with your handkerchief again and ask: ‘But he did confess, didn’t he?’
Two little women in a little front room with its little photographs and pictures of men gone, men gone missing -
Only you:
The two little women, their four eyes behind their metal frames, cold and accusing -
Silent.
‘It’s difficult to appeal against a confession and a guilty plea,’ you say, softly.
‘Mr Piggott,’ says Mrs Myshkin. ‘He didn’t do it.’
‘Look,’ you say. ‘I’m very sorry and I would really like to help but I just don’t think I’m the man for the job and I would hate to waste your time or money. You need to find someone better qualified and a lot more experienced than I am in these matters.’
Their four eyes behind their metal frames, cold and accusing -
Silent,
‘Look,’ you say again. ‘Can I just outline what it would involve, why you really need to get someone else?’
Silent.
‘Firstly you need to apply for leave to appeal. This is usually before what we call the single judge who has to be persuaded by the material prepared that we can demonstrate that there are grounds to appeal against conviction or sentence. That involves the presentation, even in very skeletal form, of legal reasons or new evidence that clearly demonstrate a reasonable degree of uncertainty as to the safety of the conviction. This is unlikely in the case of a confession, a deal with the prosecution, and the consent of the trial judge, plus the Crown and the judge and the jury’s then acceptance of a guilty plea to lesser charges. But for the sake of argument, let’s say such grounds for appeal against conviction can be found, if then these grounds are accepted by the single judge, and that is a very big if, leave to appeal would be granted and then the real business begins. You would need to be represented by counsel and also need to apply for legal aid for the solicitor and counsel to prepare for a full appeal. Should that aid be granted then a date would be set and eventually the case would come before the Court of Appeal. This consists of three judges who would go through the material; the evidence, arguments, what-have-you, and decide whether or not the conviction was safe, after which a ruling would be handed down detailing their decision and the reasoning behind it. In other words, it takes forever and one mistake and you’re back to square bloody one. So you really need to find someone who knows what they’re doing, what they’re talking about.’
Four eyes, warm and welcoming -
Hands clapping.
‘Mr Piggott,’ beams Mrs Novashelska. ‘You seem to know exactly what you’re talking about.’
‘No, no, no,’ you say, shaking your head. ‘It really isn’t as simple as it sounds, plus I’ve never actually drawn up an application for leave to appeal and, to be frank, I don’t see what grounds there would be anyway, other than Michael’s changed his mind.’
Mrs Myshkin says again: ‘He didn’t do it.’
‘So you keep saying,’ you sigh. ‘But that doesn’t alter the fact that he did confess and he did plead guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility, as opposed to murder, and this was accepted by the prosecution and by the judge who did instruct the jury to do likewise which all in all, appeal-wise, is something of an own goal because you’re basically appealing against yourself.’
‘He had bad advice,’ says Mrs Novashelska.
‘So he doesn’t need any more,’ you say and stand up.
The two little women in the little front room with its little photographs and pictures of men gone, men gone
