Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

She peered at them incuriously. ‘Yeah, what about them?’

‘Do you recognize the man in the picture?’

‘They’re the same feller then? Meant to be?’

‘The same lad, yeah.’

Sharon looked more closely, comparing the two, and her initial lack of interest began to fade. Harry watched her long blonde curls slide across her shoulder as she moved her head.

‘It is a bit like a feller I know, yeah.’

‘Oh yeah. Who’s that then?’

She considered him, cautiously. ‘I don’t know that I should say.’

He snatched her wrist swiftly, squeezing so that it hurt. ‘Ah, but you should, you see, Sharon. That’s why I’m asking.’

‘Let go me hand, then.’ She pulled, but his grip tightened.

‘Who is it? Tell me.’

‘A mate of Gary’s.’

The grip loosened. ‘Name?’

‘An Irish lad, calls himself Sean. Nasty piece of work.’

Harry let go her wrist, and sat watching her intently. ‘Good girl, got it in one. So tell me, Sharon. How do you know him?’

She laughed. ‘Same way I know you, as it happens. All’t bloody same, you men.’

‘He’s one of your clients?’

‘Was, yeah. Not any more.’

‘Why not? What happened?’

She got up, flicked her ash into a glass, and began to pace slowly by the window. ‘If I were a doctor, I couldn’t say, could I? They have clients , and they’re supposed to keep it all secret, aren’t they? Confidential.’

‘Yes, but you …’

‘I have clients too, even if some don’t pay as they should.’ She glanced at him scornfully. ‘But anyhow, that feller in them pictures, I reckon he needed a doctor as much as he needed me.’

‘Why? He wasn’t diseased, was he?’ Harry squirmed, feeling his groin for any unaccustomed aches or itches.

‘No, not like that. But he couldn’t do it proper. Unlike you, it has to be said.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, there was something wrong with him. He could get it up, see, but he couldn’t do it. No sperm, nothing like that.’

‘He couldn’t produce sperm?’

‘No.’ She tossed her head, drawing deeply on her cigarette. ‘Believe me, I checked. He wore a condom, but it were empty. I gave him a hand job, and — nowt.’

Harry stared, then began to laugh. ‘But … poor bugger!’

Sharon shuddered, and stubbed her out cigarette. ‘Yeah, well, it wasn’t so funny at the time, believe you me. That feller there …’ she nodded at the photofits ‘… is built like Arnold bloody Schwarzennegger and he’s got the mind of a fucking terminator as well. He could put you through that wall with one hand. Only there’s one part of his body that don’t work so well, see — his dick! It’s just dry and hard and drives him mad. And guess who he blames for that?’

Harry was still laughing. ‘His mother? Tony Blair?’

‘It’s not funny, Harry. He blamed me . I tell you, I thought I wasn’t going to get out of this room alive. He’s a fucking psychopath, he is.’

‘He threatened you, you mean?’

‘Threatened me? He had his hands round my throat.’ She shook her head, upset by the memory. ‘Anyway, what you after him for?’

‘He’s … a suspect in a murder case.’ Harry sobered. ‘So when did you last see this Sean?’

‘About a year ago now. Thank God. If I never see him again it’ll be too soon.’

Harry put on his shirt. ‘There you are, Sharon, you see. I knew you had something for me that couldn’t wait. That’s why I came.’

She watched him fumble for his socks and shoes. ‘Oh yeah. Why you came. Sure.’

He stuffed the photofits back into the envelope and put on his jacket, favouring her with what he imagined was a triumphant, sexy grin. ‘Thanks kid. You made my night.’

Sharon watched from the landing as he went downstairs and out of the front door. Then she switched out the light, leaned back against the wall, and slid slowly down it to the floor. She fumbled for a cigarette and lighter and sat there smoking, hunched, her arms around her knees, outside her children’s bedroom door.

David Brodie placed his hands on the edge of the witness box nervously, terrified to find himself the focus of so many pairs of eyes. Phil Turner began gently.

‘Mr Brodie, how well did you know Jasmine Hurst?’

‘Very well.’ Brodie smiled at some inner memory. ‘I was her boyfriend. I loved her.’

‘How long had you known each other?’

‘About … three months, I suppose.’

‘And how did you meet?’

‘At a party. She looked lonely and we got talking. She’d had a quarrel with her boyfriend, and had nowhere to spend the night. I said she could use my spare room if she liked. So she did.’

Sarah watched intently. He was speaking to the gallery, she thought, like Hamlet on stage. He hardly looked at Phil Turner at all.

‘Who was the boyfriend she had quarreled with?’

‘Simon Newby.’

‘Did you see any evidence of this quarrel?’

‘She showed me a bruise on her arm where he’d hit her.’

‘How did you feel about this?’

‘Well, shocked. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to hit her.’

‘So she stayed in your spare room?’

‘Yes.’ He blushed, aware of a possible misunderstanding. ‘I didn’t try anything on; I mean I wouldn’t. She just wanted someone to talk to, I think. I was a bit overawed, to tell the truth. She was a very beautiful girl.’

‘So how did your relationship develop?’

‘Well, next morning she went back to Simon to try to patch things up. I mean, they’d been living together for some time, and she had all her things there in his house. So I said fine, but if she needed to get away she was welcome to come back anytime. I showed her where I hide the key in case I wasn’t there. I’m a nurse, you see; I work late shifts at the hospital.’

‘And did she come back?’

‘Sure. One night, when I came home at 11 o’clock, there she was. She’d let herself in and had a meal ready for me in the oven, of all things. It was amazing. She said she’d quarreled with Simon again and was moving out, for good this time. She asked if she could stay for a few days till she found somewhere else to live.’

‘And you agreed?’

‘Too right I did. I said she could stay for as long as she liked and she did. She … she stayed for the rest of her life, in fact.’ His voice faltered, and his eyes strayed towards the jury to see if they understood what he meant. It’s all a performance, Sarah thought. He’s on stage.

‘And you became lovers?’

‘After a while, yes, we did.’ He looked down modestly.

‘Very well. Now during this time, did you ever meet the defendant, Simon Newby?’

‘Yes, I saw him several times. He found out where she lived, you see, and he used to spy on us and make our lives a misery. He hit me once.’

‘How did that happen?’

‘Well, Jasmine was going out of the house. I heard shouting, and when I came out he had his hand on her arm. So I told him to leave her alone and he yelled at me to, well, fuck off, he said. Then he hit me.’

‘How?’

‘Just punched me in the face. It was bloody hard. He’s strong, you know.’

Several jurors nodded, noting how much bigger and stronger Simon was than the witness.

‘So what happened then?’

‘Well, I fell over and Jasmine started screaming and kicking him. Then he ran off.’

‘Did you report this assault to the police?’

‘No. I wish I had now. If I had perhaps none of this would have happened.’

Again there was a slight, and to Sarah’s ear suspicious, catch in his voice. Or was she just persuading herself, screwing up her courage for action?