Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘Nay lass, I saw what I saw, and it were none of that. Tha’ll not put words in me mouth.’

The old buzzard can go on like this all night, Sarah thought. With the jury happy to watch him, and no benefit at all to Simon. She sat down abruptly.

‘No more questions, my lord.’

The man had been in the car for nearly two hours now. He sat and smoked and watched the windows. From time to time he ran the engine to keep warm. It was a cool night, and the streets were swept by showers of rain. The tarmac glistened under the street lamps, and he switched on the wipers, to maintain a clear view.

The woman would be out soon, he told himself. He had watched her go in, and identified her by the expensive camera round her neck, the jeans, the anorak. She was not the sort of visitor the house normally had. A young woman, he thought, about twenty-five, brisk, self-confident. Not the sort to worry about walking these streets late at night in the rain.

Someone who was used to big cities, who would not see York as dangerous. Someone who was here to get the story, make the most of it, and move on. Who would use people like himself as steps in the ladder of her career.

The door opened at last, a crack of reddish light in the darkness of the street. The woman came out, making her farewells, her short blonde hair framed for a second in the light from the doorway. Then she was coming down the street towards him.

She moved with a swift, jaunty, athletic step, her unzipped anorak folded across her chest by her arms against the sudden damp cold of the night air. She was within ten yards of him, five.

He thought, I could open the door now, shove it rudely across the narrow pavement to make her stop. And then in the same swift violent movement I could jump out and … what?

Nothing.

She had gone past his car, around the corner towards the light and safety of the main streets and the warmth of her hotel. And the man sat silent, his fingers tensing and loosening on his steering wheel. Thinking.

That’s what it must be like. That’s how it’s done.

He got out of the car and walked towards the door from which the woman had left.

‘You could come and watch,’ Sarah said from the bed. ‘Then I wouldn’t have to repeat it all for you.’

‘I’ve got a school to run, Sarah. Anyway, Emily and Larry tell me most of it.’ Bob took off his jacket and hung it up.

‘So why ask me now?’ Sarah stretched her legs under the duvet, feeling the muscles relax. ‘I’ve had enough, Bob. I’m tired.’

‘I’m not surprised. You woke me four times last night, muttering away to yourself.’

‘Go in the spare room then.’

‘The bed’s too small. It’s not comfortable.’

‘God!’ Sarah groaned, thumped her pillow, and sat up. ‘Look, Bob, I’m sorry, I can’t cope with this. I’ve got a murder trial to defend and tomorrow, I’m going to ruin some poor boy’s life in order to save Simon. So right now I’m going to sleep and if you can’t manage the spare bed, I can. Just don’t wake me before seven.’

She snatched up two pillows and stomped out of the room. Bob watched her go, listening to the lights snap on and off and the door slam along the corridor. Then he climbed into the warm, empty bed, alone.

‘Who the hell is it? Oh no, not you!’

‘Yes. I’ve got to come in, Sharon.’

‘Not now. For God’s sake, I’ve just put the kids to bed.’

‘Great. Perfect timing. Come on, shut the door, it’s cold out there.’

‘But I don’t want …’

‘I do, though.’ He was inside, pushing her back along the hall. ‘What you going to do, call the police?’

‘You miserable bastard …’

‘Compliments, compliments. Come on, Sharon, do you want to do it here or upstairs?’

She had her face averted but he was kissing her neck, her cheek, her throat. He could feel himself hard and her slender body trying to push him away, which only made him more eager. He pinned her against the wall, kissing and fondling her while he overpowered her with his weight. The scent of her neck and hair combined with the rank smell of fear to excite him. He felt her resistance weaken.

‘Here, then?’

‘No, come up, for Christ’s sake. The kids.’

She wriggled out from between him and the wall and led him upstairs, his hand firmly clasped around her wrist. A bedroom door was open and a child’s voice called from within.

‘Mum? Has that lady gone?’

Sharon poked her head around the door. ‘Yeah, it’s OK, Wayne. Everything’s fine.’ Then, without looking at him, she led the way into her own bedroom. Her workplace. As he shut the door softly behind him, she kicked off her shoes and began unbuttoning her blouse. Her face was hidden by her hair. He stood and watched.

When her blouse and bra were off he hadn’t moved. She looked up, questioning. ‘What?’

‘Go on. All of it. Then you can do me.’

‘Pig!’ She unzipped her skirt, stepped out of it and began to peel off her tights. There was nothing provocative about the way she did it. Her manner was sullen, angry, brusque. ‘What the fuck you doing here at this time of night anyhow?’

He laughed. ‘What the fuck is exactly it. I was working late so I thought you could too.’

When she was naked she began, sulkily, to unbutton his shirt. He ran his fingers down her back and sides as she did so. His caresses evoked no response. She undressed him as though she were changing a nappy. ‘You’re a right bastard you are, Harry Easby.’

‘Am I?’ When he, too, was naked he shoved her backwards onto the bed, and climbed on top of her. ‘Then let’s see just how much of a bastard I can be, shall we?’

Afterwards he lay on the bed beside her, watching the smoke from his cigarette drift upwards towards the ceiling. She was curled away from him on her side. He patted her rump.

‘At least you give value for money.’

‘What money? You pig, you don’t pay.’

‘No, but if I did.’ He fished a fag from his packet and tossed it over to her. ‘Here.’

Sullenly, she put on a dressing gown, and lit the cigarette. ‘You staying long?’

‘For a bit. I’ve got some questions to ask you.’

‘Oh yeah. Funny way you’ve got of going about it.’

‘It’s my job.’ He gestured towards his groin. ‘Don’t get cheeky, you’ll stir him up again.’

‘Fat chance.’ The first hint of a smile crossed her face. ‘What questions, then?’

‘How’d it go with the reporter?’

‘Her?’ Sharon took a long drag on her cigarette and looked away, warily. ‘All right. She asked her questions, I answered them.’

‘So? What happens next?’

‘She writes her story, I suppose. That’s what journalists do, isn’t it?’

‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve never had one.’ Harry laughed at his own coarse wit. ‘What about the telly though — did she talk about that?’

‘She said she’d have to talk to some people. Editors and such, I don’t know.’

‘And then what? They make a film of you and the kids? And your clients too?’

‘Don’t be stupid. They’re not interested in them.’

‘Aren’t they? I bet they are.’ He smoked thoughtfully, watching her. ‘I could be in it. As a star performer, I mean.’

‘Men!’ She flipped his limp penis derisively with the hand that held the burning cigarette. ‘Star bag of shit more like. Come on, what are these questions? Or is it just about the journalist and that’s it?’

‘No.’ He got out of bed, put on his underpants and trousers, and took an envelope from his jacket pocket. Inside the envelope were two photofits. He spread them out on the bed. ‘I wanted to ask you about these.’