Something dormant.
She scrolls and finds a picture of her husband. Not manipulated this one, though it would need to be if the man it showed were to resemble the man her husband has become. So much of that fudge-brown hair and he paid it such little heed. Even for a court appearance – for the most important court appearance of his career – he seems barely to have bothered with a comb. His suit is single breasted and looks, for one of Leo’s suits and as far as she can tell, reasonably sharp – which probably means that at the time it was antipathetic to the prevailing style. Antipathetic to the prevailing style. It sums up Leo’s younger self well.
And maybe not just his younger self. How much has he really changed, after all? Wasn’t that the point: that he didn’t change? That he would not.
In the photograph she can just make out the scar on her husband’s cheek. Still pink. Still liable to weeping blood. It lingered, she recalls, but faded eventually. Some scars do, after all.
He has left a message. Her phone is buzzing, propelling itself towards the table’s edge. She watches it until it almost falls, then rescues it and lifts it to her ear. The message plays but it is silence – for a second, two, then the message ends. He thought about it, then. He changed his mind.
She watches
The story features, of course, though it has been bumped from the headline slot to accommodate massive tragedy in the near abroad – the very minimum, perhaps, that could have provoked such a shift.
She switches off after the first segment: mentally, to what they are saying, not the television itself. She is not yet ready for a return to the quiet. She is not yet ready to go to bed. This is not over, it strikes her. This, the way things are: this is not an ending. This is not how she will let it end.
She stands. She picks up the remote control and hits standby just as the picture she should really have been expecting fills the screen. And that is what she is left with, as she hauls herself from stair to stair and slips her blouse from her back and her body between the sheets and lies restless in the shallows of sleep: the face of the child who killed. The child, as she will remember him, who cost them their own.
1
It had the babble of a celebration.
There were only twelve of them gathered in the office – twelve of a fifteen-strong practice – but he had lost track already of the number of times he had recounted his story. Just happened to pick up the telephone. That’s right: the call centre, with a message to ring the station. No, this was at the office still but ten minutes later and I would have been heading off to court. So, yeah, I get the message and I call the custody sergeant. And the custody sergeant says she’s looking for a duty solicitor and she asks me if I’m free. And by this time all I’m thinking about is a sandwich because I’ve been up since five and I’ve eaten what, a Mars Bar, since breakfast. Also, I’ve had just about enough after dealing with this Clemence character: you know, the drunk and disorderly? The football thing, right: three traffic cones and a whistle and he had the Plymouth fans driving round in circles. Not even a thank you, though. Not even a goodbye, come to that, or a glance as he walked out the door. So anyway, the custody sergeant, she hears me hesitate. She says, Leo, is that you? I say, it is, Gayle, but I was just about to head off to lunch. And Gayle, the custody sergeant… Do you know Gayle? She’s the skinny one, the only Sri Lankan, she says, in the whole of Exeter. So Gayle says, Leo, I think you should take this. And it’s the tone of her voice that does it. We get on well, Gayle and I, and I trust her. I sigh, I suppose, but I tell her fine. What have you got? Right, just like that. The biggest case in the county’s history and it’s mine, ours, this practice’s, all because I happened to answer the telephone. Well, we’ll see about that. Picking up that phone: it could just as easily turn out to be the worst mistake of my life!
He recounted it eagerly and did not wane in the re-telling. He took the call, he got the case. He should have told it with a shrug but like the others he was dizzy on caffeine and nerves. This was a beginning. For all of them but for Leonard Curtice in particular, this was where their careers would truly begin.
‘So what’s he like?’
It was Jenny, one of the admin girls, who had voiced the question but, from the hush that hurried in behind, she was clearly not the only one impatient to have it answered.
‘What’s who like?’ Leo said, as though for a moment he had been genuinely confused. ‘Oh, you mean the boy. You mean my client.’ There was laughter and Leo savoured it because he knew he was about to disappoint. The truth was, he had spent an hour in the same room as Daniel Blake and not once had he heard the boy speak. Not once, that Leo saw, had the boy even looked at him, nor acknowledged his presence on the Blake family’s side of the table. If Leo had not known better, he might have described his manner as shy. ‘Quiet,’ then, was all he could say. Also: ‘Just a boy. Just, I don’t know. Like a scared little boy.’
Collectively, his colleagues twitched.
‘Scared? I bet he was scared.’ Terry Saunders held his cup with his hand around the hot part. He jabbed the handle towards Leo. ‘I should hope he was. Little fucker. I mean, sorry, Jenny, sorry, Stacie, but – ’ Terry puffed his cheeks, as though his temper were straining just at the thought of it ‘ – but that’s exactly what he is. A little. Fucker.’
The others, the blokes at least, nodded. Even the girls made fair-enough eyes into their coffee.
‘I know what you’re saying, Terry, but—’
‘There’s no but, Leo. I mean, sure, he’s your client now and I understand, sort of, why you’re acting like you’ve just won the pools…’
‘Now hold on, Terry. That’s hardly—’
‘… but let’s not lose sight of who this kid is, shall we? Of what he did.’ Again Leo tried to interrupt but Terry angled himself to centre stage. ‘If it’d been me,’ he said. ‘If it’d been me with that kid in a room…’ Once again he inflated his cheeks. ‘Well. Let’s just say, when I came out, I wouldn’t have expected to be allowed to practise again.’
Terry stood to the height of Leo’s shirt collar and was an uncut toenail above ten stone. He might, Leo estimated, just about be able to handle a twelve-year-old child but his bluster was in reality nothing more than that. Still, it garnered appreciation. There was nodding and mumbling in general agreement. Jenny and Stacie both tutted but not, to Leo’s ear, entirely wholeheartedly.
‘Well,’ Leo said. ‘There’s no denying it was a terrible crime. But the boy – Daniel – he hasn’t been charged, not officially. He’s barely spoken. And anyway it’s hardly our place—’
‘Did he do it, Leo?’ This from Stacie. ‘Surely they wouldn’t have made the fuss they did if they weren’t sure he did it?’
‘Now, Stacie, you know I can’t… That is, I shouldn’t…’ But already her eyes were leaching disappointment and Leo was loath to let down the crowd twice. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I would say he did it. There’s not a doubt, if I’m honest, in my mind.’
Talk about bluster. He was worse, in a way, than Terry, with all his nonsense about beating up a twelve- year-old.
‘Leonard.’ A hand on his shoulder. ‘A word.’
‘Howard. Listen. I’m sorry if I…’ Leo gestured to the dispersing crowd, his colleagues drifting back now to flashing phones and rolls of faxes.
‘No, no. Enjoy the moment. It’s a coup, I grant you.’ Howard revealed a troupe of too-white teeth. Falsies, was the rumour, and there were doubts as well about the authenticity of the pelt on his crown. It was too thick, surely, to be home-grown; too solidly the colour of honey when a man of Howard’s age – sixty? sixty-five? – should have been struggling against a tide of baldness just like most of the younger men in the practice. ‘A real coup,’ Howard was saying. ‘Well done, Leonard.’ His boss’s hand was on Leo’s shoulder again. He found himself being led into a leafy corner of the open-plan office. ‘How’s your caseload? Got much on?’
‘No, not really. A few odds and ends. Bread-and-butter stuff, mainly.’ Drunk and disorderlies, exclusively,
