Page 44

‘We do, but it’s restricted. We can’t watch it all the time, and I try to stay away from the news as much as possible. I don’t need to be any more depressed than I already am. What are you going to tell me? Am I famous?’

‘Moderately. You’re not in all the papers and you haven’t made it to any front pages, but you got an article in the Daily Mail that was like…’ Angus uncomfortably shuffled around in his chair. ‘“Psycho Sexy Neighbour”,’ he recalled, it almost paining him to repeat the headline.

‘Psycho Sexy Neighbour, eh?’ I said, feeling the teeniest glimpse of a smile creeping along my lips. Now, that was a moniker.

‘Oh, God, please don’t ask me to bring in the paper.’

‘No, but just please keep a copy.’ I inhaled excitedly. ‘I might get a sexy prison pen pal.’

I heard Angus’s throat close up as he stifled a gag, but I could tell that even if he didn’t want to admit it, he found that a little funny.

‘It had an interview from your neighbour, too, the annoying one.’

‘Who?’

‘Beryl, I think her name was.’

‘Ah, shit.’

‘She actually said she didn’t believe it could be you.

Said you and Gareth were one of the sweetest couples she had ever met and she would be “blown down” if a jury found you guilty.

Which I suppose is good. Yes?’ He paused for a second, gearing up to ask a question he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to.

‘What do you think your chances are tomorrow?’

I had the urge to lie to Angus, to protect him from the reality of the situation.

But being realistic would be better for him in the long run.

With me in prison, he would have no one to check up on him, no one to make sure he was still somewhat connected to society.

I supposed that it was important I used the small amount of time I had left to prepare him for the worst.

‘Not good. I think I have a small chance with the jury if I turn on the classy waterworks.’

‘What’s the classy waterworks?’

‘Like, you know, the full waterworks is full-on blubbering, drooling, little bits of snot running down your face. Classy waterworks is like a single tear rolling down your face and a little bit of quiver in your voice, but very, very subtle. It’s meant to work a treat.

I watched a video about it on the internet. ’

‘God, you’re such a…’ Angus searched for the words. ‘Such a psychopath, sometimes.’

I hated that word, but maybe it was time to accept it a little. I was, in fact, a bit of a psychopath.

Angus chuckled, which turned into a laugh. It had been years since I had heard Angus laugh. Maybe it was the nerves, but to see him smile almost made me want to cry. God, what was wrong with me?

I almost wanted my last day in prison before my trial to drag.

I wanted the long, drawn-out hours to give me enough time to emotionally prepare and just think of something or anything that would somehow exonerate me.

But I had a feeling that there was no hail Mary, no eureka moment, no miracle coming my way.

As hard as I tried, I could barely eat anything on Sunday evening. I chased peas around my plastic tray as Lucy watched me.

I sat in bed long after lights out, wondering what Gareth was doing at that precise moment, how he was feeling after that phone call. I didn’t know what I wanted him to feel, as essentially, I didn’t know what I was feeling.

I knew some people longed to relive those romantic days where they’d had their first kiss with their partner, their proposal, their wedding – but all I could keep thinking about was Gareth coming home, slouching onto the sofa, and the way he would wrap his arm around me, kiss me on the forehead, and pull me close.

That was what I missed. I guessed that was what I’d given up.

I threw up almost five times before 5 a.m. and a few more after that – so much so that my cell neighbour even hollered for me to shut up and to vomit more quietly.

Which, attempting to be a nice future prison inmate, I did try to.

It was about utilising your jaw muscles, I learnt.

I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried to expel your bodily contents in a silent manner, but it turns out it’s actually quite difficult.

I was woken up before roll call, allowed to change into the clothes that Andrew had brought for me, presumably chosen by Gareth, and pushed into a police van where I sat for a few hours as we drove to the court.

I couldn’t really make out where we were for the whole journey, never sure if we were stopping because of a traffic light or because we were outside the courts. It was only when I heard the crank of the handbrake that I had realised we had arrived. Judgement Day.

I was escorted in. A few journalists were there snapping photos, but it was not exactly the huge crowds of paparazzi or furious sign-waving citizens I had imagined. I thought I was Psycho Sexy Neighbour?

They led me through the corridors of the court, the atrium filling up with people, a police officer on either side as I was guided into the dock.

It was somewhat reassuring to know there was nothing left to throw up, my innards continuing to writhe and tense as I sat on the poorly padded wooden stall.

I saw Andrew enter with his assistant, wearing their funny wigs, and then Isla coming in wearing the same.

Isla. There were a few times where I’d thought she wanted to shag Gareth, so I’d always kept her at arm’s length and had asked for Gareth to tell me only the breadcrumbs of any workday which involved her.

But he had told me how barbaric she was in court, and her track record as the prosecution was pretty much perfect.

The judge walked in and took her seat at her bench.

I glanced at the twelve members of the jury that all took their respective seats, and wondered how many could potentially be won over by my charm; I needed some allies.

There were a few middle-aged men who I could barely tell apart; balding, pot-bellied folks who looked like their perfect Sunday would be football, beer, and then a good shag with their missus doing cowgirl.

If I did the classic defenceless fawn act, I wondered whether they’d maybe have my back.

I needed those big, brave men to get me off a big nasty murder charge.

There were two people who looked like they had no idea what they were doing, two mid-thirties professionals who were almost certainly sleeping together, and a lovely looking old lady towards the front.

She had perfectly round glasses and the most innocent face I had ever seen, a face of pure unabashed neutrality.

No pursed lips of a resting bitch face, no scowling eyes, no fake smile.

A decent, genuine face if I had ever seen one.

I was hoping that even if the others thought I was guilty, she’d be my guardian angel in the deliberation room, fighting my case, arguing that I should be completely absolved of any wrongdoing – for just how virtuous I seemed.

The rest of the jury I couldn’t work out yet: a pretty diverse group of faces that I just hoped I could make something of a good impression on.

I took a glance at the gallery near the back of the court room: all of them faces I didn’t recognise, apart from one right at the back.

I had to stare for at it for a while, but it was unmistakably Gareth, although his patchy facial hair had begun to grow in, and his features seemed gaunt, as if he hadn’t eaten or slept in weeks.

He was looking in my direction, but he was too far away to see if he was making any actual eye contact with me.

My eyes glanced away as I saw Isla rise in her seat, my heart almost lurching in my stomach as I heard someone say with a big booming voice, ‘All rise.’

Andrew had told me that no one was stupid enough not to stand up at that part. I almost saw that as a bit of a challenge, but decided that maybe this would be a better experiment for when I was at court for an overdue parking ticket, rather than murder.

‘Francesca Donoghue lived next door to Gordon O’Neill, a retired pensioner, who enjoyed a quiet and solitary life,’ Isla began.

She turned to the jury. ‘You, the jury, will hear about the troubled upbringing of Francesca Donoghue, as well as the various eyewitness and video evidence that puts her at the scene of the crime during the estimated time that Gordon O’Neill is suspected to have been murdered.

You will hear from an eyewitness who saw a woman of Mrs Donoghue’s description disposing of what looked like body parts in the river, a knife found at a restaurant that Francesca frequented with her husband, as well as a statement from a member of the forensics team which will provide further proof to you, the jury, that Francesca Donoghue murdered Gordon O’Neill. ’

I watched the prosecution assistant hand out neatly laminated pieces of paper to the jury. Andrew told me that this would be a copy of the indictment, whatever the hell that was. I hadn’t really been listening when he’d explained the rather tedious particulars of a criminal trial.

‘It is well known that O’Neill was something of a philanthropist in his community, even donating to the children’s home Mrs Donoghue was a part of as a child. He had no record of criminality, no convicted charges, and was an upstanding member of society. A loving father and grandfather.’

Last I heard, his wife abandoned him and took their daughter with her, so I wasn’t sure why Isla was painting him as some kind of saint beloved within the community. Well, actually, I knew exactly why.

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,’ Isla said, glancing over to the jury members.

‘We believe the charitable endeavours of Mr O’Neill were why Mrs Donoghue killed him; that this was an act of someone angry at the system, killing someone she wrongly thought was responsible for her pain.

This is the case that the Crown will prove to you, leaving no doubt in your minds that Francesca Donoghue is guilty of murder. ’

Isla sat back down, looking pleased with herself, as she leaned over to see what one of her team was writing on a very ostentatious leather-bound notepad. She nodded in agreement. The few of them were crowded around like girls at secondary school, gossiping about the slutty geography teacher.

‘Thank you, Mrs Thorne,’ said the judge, leaning towards the mic on her stand. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have now heard the opening speech for the prosecution. Mr Shorestone, you would also like to make a speech for the defence?’

Andrew rose. I half expected him to tuck in his shirt as he did so, but he seemed comfortable, remarkably at ease in the courtroom.

The man who I had thought was going to collapse from a coronary at any minute, seemed somewhat…

confident. This chubby, boorish, and remarkably short gentleman had changed into a captivating, enigmatic man – who I now realised was actually quite handsome for his age.

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, some of what Mrs Thorne has said is true. My client was indeed seen with Mr O’Neill around the time of his disappearance.

She also has a troubled history within the social care system.

However, what Mrs Thorne failed to add was that this history shaped Francesca Donoghue into a compassionate member of society.

My client, Francesca, was helping O’Neill with his shopping at one point in time within the forty-eight-hour period in which his suspected murder may have taken place.

Let me ask you this: what kind of murderer helps someone with their groceries before stabbing them in the eye?

I hope we can understand the rather drastic and dramatic leaps in logic the prosecution is trying to convey. ’

Andrew twisted himself to address his next point directly to Isla in a way that oozed with confidence.

‘Further to that, I hadn’t realised that in this country, being brought up in the care system predetermined your future within society.

My client has had a reputable career within the social services and does a great deal to help children who have been in the same position as her.

I am looking forward to hearing what the prosecution has to say what someone like Mrs Donoghue has to gain by killing her next-door neighbour. ’

He had her there.

A few hours ago, I had been half expecting Andrew to just throw the towel in right there and then and tell Gareth to keep the money, but now I thought that perhaps there was some minuscule chance for me yet.