“I’ve come to tell you that Tom has pleaded—” she said to Jeanie and then, seeming to realize that it was Julius she should be talking to, quickly turned to him and added, “guilty.”
Bridget laid her palms on the table and breathed out a long breath. “Oh, that’s great news.” Jeanie tried to think of what terrible news she must have been expecting.
“You need to speak up,” Jeanie said to Alisha. “My brother can understand a lot, but his hearing’s not good.”
Alisha plucked at her shirt collar with her tiny fingers—no bigger than a child’s—and, louder and more slowly, she repeated what she’d said. Julius rocked his head, mashed his teeth and lips together, and made an incoherent noise. Alisha smiled and looked at Jeanie.
“I don’t think he thinks it is good news,” Jeanie said.
Alisha cleared her throat. “It’s good news in the sense that it means there won’t be a trial. You won’t have to face that stress. You and Julius won’t see Tom in court, you won’t have to be questioned or relive that night.”
“And bad in the sense that . . . ?” Jeanie asked.
“Not bad,” she said. “But it means there will be no opportunity to hear an explanation of what happened. I know some victims and their families want this. And your brother . . .” She looked at Julius, looked away. Jeanie wondered if she was actually going to say that they would never be able to learn it from him.
“Surely, Tom will tell you, tell the police?” Bridget said. “Can’t you just ask him?” And Jeanie felt a guilty pleasure that Bridget didn’t know the answer to everything.
“There’s no requirement for him to,” Alisha said.
Jeanie had gone over that night in her head many times, imagining what happened between the two men, and Alisha was right—Julius couldn’t tell her, or not yet. She thinks that in fact there’s nothing much to tell; it’s a simple story, even if it is one she holds herself responsible for. Tom was returning to the caravan with his shotgun to have another go at getting the money he believed was hidden there, and Julius was coming home because Jeanie had insisted on it, because Jeanie thought she was dying. Julius, perhaps remembering that Tom had threatened Jeanie, had confronted him, they argued, and Tom fired. Maybe it was supposed to be a warning shot since only three pellets found a target.
“I should also let you know,” Alisha continued, “that he’s been charged with and pleaded guilty to GBH, grievous bodily harm, and also possession of a firearm.”
“Not attempted murder?” Bridget said, and Jeanie put her hand on Bridget’s arm to quieten her.
“We don’t believe he went to the caravan with an intention to kill.”
“No, but—”
“And because he’s pleaded guilty,” Alisha went on, finally finding her stride, “there has been a plea bargain. The judge has already passed sentence.”
“Already? What?” Bridget said. She had to swallow a mouthful of tea before she could get the words out. Jeanie could tell from looking at Julius that he wasn’t following this, it was too fast, too quiet, too much. She would have to tell him later.
“Tom was sentenced to eight years.”
“Eight years!” Bridget slammed down her mug and tea slopped over the edge. “Eight fucking years. That’s pathetic. Look at what he did to the man.” She waved in Julius’s direction. Julius moved his head, mumbled again, and Alisha looked at him, then down at her tea.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Bridget, stop,” Jeanie said quietly. She needed time to process this.
“He’ll be out in, what, four, five years if he behaves. And then how safe will Jeanie and Julius be out here in the sticks? Eight fucking years.” Bridget had shaken her head.
A few times after Alisha’s visit, Bridget has brought up the subject of Tom and his sentence, and said Jeanie should at least consider the social worker’s offer for her and Julius to meet with Tom. Restorative justice the social worker called it, but Jeanie has decided that Tom doesn’t deserve any more room in her thoughts and refuses to discuss it. Meeting Tom now, Jeanie feels, would be either too soon, or too late.
In the old kitchen, Saffron says, “I brought a couple of Angel’s books with me. I thought you could try and read them to her. Can you believe this weather?” She goes into the new kitchen and fills a glass with water.
Jeanie puts a tray on the table and gets out a tin of buttons she bought at a local car boot sale. She seats Angel on a cushion on a straight-backed chair and turns Julius so he can watch. Angel tips the buttons into the tray at the same time as Saffron is speaking from the other room.
“What was that?” Jeanie calls. She likes the noise and bustle of Saffron and Angel in the house—thinking about what treat she can arrange for the child, enjoying clearing up the mess they leave behind—and then the quiet when they’ve gone.
Angel picks up individual buttons, has them introduce themselves to each other in squeaky voices as she slides them about. Saffron comes to the doorway of the old kitchen with the letter from the white envelope unfolded in her hands. It’s Saffron who usually reads aloud the letters that Jeanie receives—the ones with details of hospital and doctor’s appointments for her and for Julius—but Jeanie knows that this letter isn’t from the NHS,
