“You’re very little,” said Ingrid, inspecting her.
“I’m still waiting for my growth spurt.”
“What about this dress? You could hitch it up a bit.”
Tabitha took off the skirt and jacket. Her skin was white and pricked with goose bumps. Her legs were hairy. She took off her socks. Her toenails needed cutting. She pulled on the dark blue dress. Ingrid rolled up the sleeves, then folded it up at the waist to make it shorter. She tutted and twitched the material, gathering it here and smoothing it there. Tabitha stood very still. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had properly touched her, put an arm around her.
“There,” said Ingrid at last. “What do you think?”
“I can’t see myself. Will I do?”
“I think so. Have you got shoes?”
“Trainers.”
“What size are you?”
“Four.”
“Mine are far too big. Trainers will have to do.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” She scrutinized her once more. “You should wash your hair and comb it back from your face. It looks a bit wild.”
“I know.”
“Do you want to borrow any makeup?”
“I don’t think so. It’s just a brief appearance.” She swallowed hard. Her throat hurt. “I’m nervous.”
“That’s only natural.”
“I mean I’m scared. Really scared.”
Seventeen
Tabitha woke before it was light. She was very cold and her heart was knocking against her ribs. She used the toilet and then brushed her teeth so hard her gums bled. Michaela lay on the top bunk and watched her, not speaking. She put on Ingrid’s dress and tried to adjust it so it didn’t look ridiculous. She sat on her bed. Breakfast was impossible, but she had a mug of tea when it arrived. All around her she could hear the sounds of a day beginning. Doors scraping open, a cough, a dirty laugh, someone shouting boisterously along the hall. Her hands were shaking and her legs felt spindly, as if they might not hold her weight.
“You look good.”
Tabitha spun round. “Oh! Really?”
“Yeah.” There was a silence, then: “Good luck today.”
It was so little, a few basic words that anyone would say, but tears filled Tabitha’s eyes. She put a hand against the wall to steady herself.
At nine o’clock two wardens came and collected her. Tabitha thought the woman was one of those who had searched her, but she couldn’t be sure. She put her old jacket round her shoulders, glanced at herself in the little mirror as she left the cell. Pale smudge of a face, blinking eyes: she looked about thirteen.
As she walked through the central hall, people looked at her. Ingrid wished her luck; Orla shouted out an encouragement. Several women banged on their doors. Tabitha tried to smile at them.
Doors opened and doors banged shut, keys turned. Past steel lockers. A vending machine. Then she was out into cold damp air. The wall ahead was high and gray, with a coil of barbed wire snaking its way along its top. There was a white van, its back opened, ready for her.
“In you go,” said one of the wardens, giving her a little prod.
Tabitha climbed inside. The doors were shut. An engine revved and then she was moving, stopping, moving once more, gathering speed. She was in the world again, but the van was just another cell jostling her forward. She tried to concentrate. She had a pain in her lower back and thought she might be about to get her period, though it had been months. Out of the tiny window she could see trees, telephone wires, the sides of buildings.
The van came to a halt and the doors were opened. Tabitha climbed out. They were at the back of the court and it was only a few steps into the building. Along a corridor, down some stone steps and then another flight. A door was held open for her and she went into a small room and sat on a chair and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Tabitha.”
She looked up at Mora Piozzi. She had a leather satchel over her shoulder and was holding a cardboard cup of coffee in either hand.
“I don’t know if you take milk or sugar.”
“Black is fine.”
Tabitha took a sip, then another. Real coffee. It felt like a message from the outside world.
“How are you feeling?”
“OK.”
“We have half an hour.”
Tabitha nodded.
“Are you clear about the procedure of a plea and trial hearing preparation?”
Tabitha shook her head.
“It’s very simple and quick. You go into the dock. That might feel scary, but don’t worry. I’ll be sitting at the bench a few feet away. The judge will enter. Then the court associate will read out the charge and ask you for your plea.”
“Yes.” Tabitha took another mouthful of coffee.
“Then the judge will fix the timetable, which includes the date of the trial, but also a series of stages. The first-stage date is the one on which the prosecution must serve their evidence.”
Mora Piozzi took some papers and her laptop from her satchel, but she didn’t look at them.
“I have received the advance disclosure pack,” she said. “Basically, it’s the evidence the police have collected so far and the streamlined forensic report. There’s nothing in it we didn’t already know.”
She looked searchingly at Tabitha. “Have you thought about your plea?”
Tabitha nodded her head.
“Good. Have you reached a decision?”
Tabitha didn’t reply.
“Would you like me to go over their case against you one last time?”
“All right.”
Now the solicitor picked up a single piece of paper. “The victim was last known to be alive at around ten-forty because CCTV shows he drove his car through the village shortly before that, in the direction of his house and yours. His car was parked at your house. His body was found in the yard behind your house. His blood was on you. You have no alibi. You have a history of mental illness. You lost your father when you were thirteen and you were abused
