Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘Yes, well, I had to know sometime. What are they saying? Simon did this too?’

‘Not necessarily. They’ve taken a DNA sample from him, of course. But Simon’s done himself a service there, thank God.’

‘What do you mean? How?’

To Sarah’s astonishment, a faint smile flickered on Lucy’s lips. She laughed — a soft appreciative chuckle that gave Sarah the first tiny ray of hope she’d had that day.

‘You should have seen that detective’s face! He was sure Simon was going to confess and so was I, believe me. Simon said that semen’s mine — I tried to stop him but I couldn’t, and I thought that’s it, it’s all over, but it wasn’t. Because his story is that he and Jasmine made love that afternoon, inside his house. No rape, just sex. That’s why she came there, according to him — that’s what she wanted. It wasn’t the first time, either — apparently she’s been back several times, since she left him, poor lad. Do you think that’s likely?’

She glanced at Sarah, instantly regretting the question. What could Simons’ mother say but … ‘As a matter of fact, yes. He told me that before. He was besotted with her, and … well, I shouldn’t say this now she’s dead, but she had him wrapped round her little finger. She liked teasing him; maybe she did the same to her new boyfriend too.’

‘Well, there we are then. So he’s given himself a chance, at least, with this story. The trouble is, they still insist she was raped.’

‘How can they prove that?’

‘Bruising to the vagina, according to young Winston in there. He went on and on — how did Simon account for that? Did he like to hurt her when they made love? When he said they made love did that mean rape? On and on until I said he was harassing my client. He’s a nasty piece of work, I tell you.’

‘I’ve met him. But did Simon admit rape?’

‘No. He was quite clear about that and I don’t think he’ll change it. And of course, if he’s telling the truth and she was raped, later, by someone else, the DNA analysis ought to show the real rapist’s semen too. In which case, with the story he’s told now, I’d say your boy might just be in the clear.’

‘Yes. Maybe. If … and if that blood is his or at least not hers.’ Sarah took a long, shuddering breath. ‘So I suppose all we’ve got to do is wait.’

Lucy smiled, touched Sarah’s shoulder gently. ‘When was it ever any different?’

‘It was always different, Lucy. Always, every time before this. Because before, it happened to other people. Not to me.’

Sarah had been to Hull prison many times before, but today it was a different place. The great black-studded gates seemed larger; the echoing corridors louder, filthier; the cat-calls and wolf-whistles more threatening. She had to queue with other visiting mothers; have her handbag searched by a contemptuous prison officer.

She came with Bob, too, which made it worse. As they were herded through the prison yard he shuddered at the packets of excrement thrown from cell windows overnight, and shrank from the other visitors.

Simon sat opposite them and looked down at the table, ashamed.

‘You came then.’

‘Of course we came, Simon,’ Sarah said. ‘As soon as we could.’

‘Him too?’ He nodded at Bob.

‘Me too,’ Bob agreed.

For a while none of them spoke. Simon resumed his nervous scrutiny of the table; Bob stared at his stepson coldly, as though at a delinquent he was being forced to accept into his school. In the end Simon began.

‘You’ve spoken to that solicitor woman?’

‘Lucy? Yes, I’ve talked to her, Simon. It … doesn’t look brilliant.’

‘Not brilliant? They think I killed her, mum!’

‘And did you, Simon?’ Bob’s voice was hard, like a slap in the face.

‘What?’

‘Did you kill her?’

Simon began to shake his head, slowly at first, then faster and more violently. ‘No!’

‘Not rape her either?’

‘No, I bloody well did not!’ He got up abruptly, leaning over the table directly into Bob’s face. ‘How dare you come here, asking me questions like that? If you don’t believe me don’t come, you’re not bloody wanted!’

Heads turned in the room. A girl at the next table sniggered. The guard folded his arms.

‘You were the last one to see her, Simon,’ Bob persisted. ‘You hit her. A man saw you.’

‘What are you, a bloody policeman? Just shut up, will you!’

‘I need to know, Simon. We both do.’

Sarah thought Bob’s going to get hit, and he’ll deserve it too; but instead Simon pushed his face close to his stepfather’s and said: ‘Well I didn’t do it, OK? So now you know. If you don’t believe me you can go fuck yourself.’

Everyone was watching now. Here in a prison visiting room, my son swearing at my husband. From a deep well of sadness, Sarah spoke. ‘Simon, it’s all right. Sit down. Please.’

For a second he glared at her, as if trying to decide who she was and whether to spit in her face. Then the rage left him. He sat, running his hands through his hair. ‘I didn’t do it, mum, whatever he thinks. Whatever anyone …’

‘It’s all right, Simon, I believe you.’

‘ … I mean I don’t even know where it happened, so … you believe me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yeah, well. At least there’s one of you.’ He reached for her hand, across the table. She felt the tension in his fingers, and clasped his hand in hers, for comfort. He turned to Bob. ‘What about you then?’

‘I don’t know, Simon. I’d like to …’

‘Oh yes, you’d like to believe me,’ Simon sneered. ‘Only you can’t manage it, right? You’d like to believe your stepson isn’t a filthy murderer who raped his girlfriend and cut her throat, only you’re not absolutely sure so you’d rather think about it first and check in the Guardian to see what their opinion is this week, is that it? Then maybe you’ll let me know!’

‘Simon, stop it!’ Sarah clung tightly to his hand, partly to comfort him but mostly because she feared he might seize Bob by the throat. She should never have brought Bob; he just provoked Simon. And he wasn’t finished yet.

‘Sneer if you like, Simon, but that girl was raped before she died and you admit you had sex with her.’

‘Yes, well, so I did, but it doesn’t mean I raped her!’

‘They’ve found her blood on your trainers.’

‘It’s not her blood. They may not be my trainers for all you know!’

‘Oh come on, Simon, give the police some credit!’

Simon shuddered. ‘So you think I did it, then, do you? That’s all the proof you need?’

Bob shook his head sadly. ‘What else could any reasonable person think?’

‘Well, you’re wrong, that’s all! I didn’t kill her and that’s it! It wasn’t me!’

For a moment none of them spoke. A tiny amount of Simon’s anger subsided and he said: ‘I loved that girl. You wouldn’t understand that — you hated her, both of you!’

‘ I didn’t hate her, Simon,’ Sarah said.

‘Yes, you did! You drove her away! Not educated enough for you, was she?’ He snatched his hands away. Tears came into Sarah’s eyes.

‘This is hard for us all, Simon,’ said Bob. ‘Your mother had to identify her body, you know.’

Simon was shocked. ‘ You had to do that? Mum? See Jasmine’s body?’

Sarah nodded. ‘In the mortuary.’

‘But … why you?’

‘They thought it was Emily.’ Sarah explained, briefly, the events of that awful day, and how Emily had given Jasmine her jacket at the protest. ‘She must have been wearing it, Simon, when you saw her.’