Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘You were crying. I couldn’t help but see. Is there owt I can do?’

She let go of the rail and swayed. His hands grasped her shoulders as though she might break. ‘Nah then. Steady does it.’

‘Yes. Just hold me like that for a moment, if you wouldn’t mind.’ She smiled at him faintly, clutching his arm to balance herself. ‘It’s all very silly, it’s just … I can’t really say why.’

‘Would you like to come inside and sit down? Cup of tea maybe?’

‘No, it’s … there is something you can do to help me, though. If you wouldn’t mind.’

‘No problem, love. Just tell me what it is, and it’s done.’

‘It’s over here.’ She summoned up her strength and began to walk, rather slowly, towards the litter bin. He kept his arm round her shoulder and she leaned against him, this complete stranger, drawing warmth from the human comfort.

‘I put something in here a few moments ago, in a plastic bag.’

‘You did. I saw yer actually, from the window.’

‘Did you? Well, it was a mistake. There’s something sentimental inside … private … a ring and something else … I shouldn’t have thrown it away.’

‘You want it back? I’ll get it for you then.’ He reached inside the bin but his arm was too big, it was stuck. She tried too but although her arm was smaller she couldn’t reach far enough.

‘It’s got a lock on, look. You stay here and I’ll go and get the key. You okay now?’

‘Yes. Thanks. I’m fine.’ This is ridiculous, she thought when he’d gone. I could do this for myself, I don’t need a man to help. But he was so eager and the truth was that just now she was finding standing up and being polite quite enough to manage on her own.

He came back with a spotty young man and a key. This is a dangerous moment, she realized, I’ve made enough of an exhibition of myself already. When the boy unlocked the lid she pulled out the bag herself, forestalling him, and took out the ring.

‘That’s it. It was my mother’s. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

‘Sentimental value, like?’

‘Yes. You’ve both been very kind. I’m really grateful.’

‘You’ll have that cup of tea now?’

‘No. Really, thanks.’ She caught his hand and squeezed it. ‘You’ve been very kind but it’s best if I get home. I’ll feel better there.’ She began to walk away.

‘You sure you’re strong enough to ride that bike?’

‘Yes. Oh yes, I’m used to it, I’ll manage.’ She needed to reassure herself as well as them. I’ll have to manage, she thought. I can’t make a fool of myself again. She felt them watching her as she put the bag in the pannier, unlocked the bike, sat astride and strapped on her helmet.

‘Well, get that boxer husband to make tea when you get home, then!’ the man shouted.

Sarah smiled and raised her hand in thanks. ‘I’ll do that,’ she said.

As if.

When she got home Emily was in her bedroom revising. With a sense of disorientation, Sarah remembered that her daughter had sat her first GCSE exam that morning. In the midst of mayhem, other people’s lives go on as normal, she thought. She remembered a poem by Auden in which Icarus plunged from the sky to his death while a farmer ploughed his fields below, impervious to the tragic drama above his head. She went upstairs to her daughter’s bedroom.

‘Hello. How’d it go?’

‘Awful, thanks.’

‘Why? What went wrong?’

‘Fat lot you care.’ Emily hadn’t turned round. Sarah was forced to stare at the back of her daughter’s head, rejected. She sat on the bed.

‘What was it? Geography?’

‘German — see what I mean? And if you really want to know, I couldn’t understand the listening or translation either. So I’ve cocked that up. Anyway, why weren’t you here last night? The night before my first exam, of all nights.’

‘I’m sorry, Emily, really. I slept at Simon’s house, I told you. I went to see him again.’

Emily turned, examining her mother intently. ‘Are you and dad breaking up?’

‘What … no, I don’t think so. What makes you ask that?’

‘You running off. He seemed pretty cut up about it. It didn’t help me.’

‘Emily, I’m sorry.’ Sarah thought she should probably give her daughter a hug but the girl sat so stiffly that she feared a rebuff. ‘All this business with Simon, you know … it’s going to be hard for a while.’

‘It says in our social science textbook that families often break up when they’re under a lot of strain from some — what do they call it? — traumatic event. Like that Lawrence family whose son was murdered. They split up.’

‘Yes, well, you shouldn’t believe everything you read in social science textbooks.’ This time she did manage to reach out and hold her daughter’s hands. It was the right thing to do; Emily leaned forward earnestly, listening for once to what she said.

‘When I split up with Simon’s father Kevin before you were born it was nothing to do with strain from a traumatic event. He caused the trauma himself by finding another woman — there wasn’t one before. And … of course it’s awful about what’s happening to Simon but it’s no good if we don’t support him. That’s what …’ She hesitated, uncertain how to finish.

‘That’s what you were arguing about with Dad. Is that what you were going to say?’

‘Well, yes, in a way …’

‘There you are then. That’s probably what the book means.’

‘We’re not living in a school textbook, Emily! This is your brother Simon, he’s remanded in custody charged with murder!’

‘I’m not a child, Mum. I don’t need a lecture!’ Emily snatched her hands away.

If I’m not careful I’ll wreck this too, Sarah thought. I’ve got to get something right today. ‘All right, I’m sorry, Emily, OK? You’re right, this is a big strain for all of us. None of us needs it — especially not you with your exams.’

A sort of calm returned. Then Emily asked her big question. ‘Do you think he did it?’

Sarah tried not to avoid her daughter’s eyes. This was no time to lie. But how to answer?

‘I suppose there’s a difference between what I think and what I believe ,’ she began slowly, wondering if she understood herself. ‘If I start out by thinking , as the police and their lawyers will, then yes, there’s plenty of evidence to make it seem he’s guilty. He was the last person to see her, he hit her, he ran away to Scarborough the night she was killed … and other things.’

Including the contents of a plastic bag in the pannier of my bike, she thought despairingly. I can’t tell Emily about those; they’re my burden.

‘But if you ask me what I believe , then that’s a different question. Do I believe that Simon — I mean we all know he has faults because we’ve lived with him, but … do I believe that he could have killed that girl — raped her and cut her throat with a knife, then the answer has to be no. Doesn’t it, Emily? Whatever the evidence seems to say, there must be something wrong with it.’

Emily considered the answer she had been given. ‘You have to think — I mean, believe — that, don’t you, because you’re his mother?’

‘Yes. And you’re his sister.’ How often have I seen families in court, Sarah thought. With no idea how it must feel.

Emily nodded. ‘I don’t want him to be guilty either. But …’

‘But there’s a lot of evidence. That’s what Lucy, his solicitor, is looking at right now. And when it comes to court he’ll have the best barrister we can find — a QC I hope. That’s what lawyers are for.’ They sat for a while in silence, then Sarah got up. ‘You get on with your revision, now. Be grateful these aren’t decisions you have to make.’