Nikki Owen - Spider in the Corner of the Room

The people in the gallery murmur. I sit back, allow myself the smallest of smiles. The DNA may not be reliable, and that can lead to only one conclusion: I didn’t do it.

‘But this knife,’ Harry says now, ‘it also contained blood from the victim, is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

Harry lifts the corner of a file. ‘So we have a knife with blood from the victim, and the defendant. But the blood from the defendant is so negligible that, in your opinion, it cannot be reliably tested. So therefore the defendant cannot be identified as the perpetrator of this crime.’

I hold my breath. The courtroom erupts. ‘Objection!’ says the prosecutor, rising. ‘Leading the witness.’

The judge bangs his hammer for silence then laces his fingers. ‘Sustained. Ask a question,’ he says to Harry, ‘we are not in the business of monologuing our witnesses or passing judgement. That, Mr Warren, is my job.’

‘Yes, Your Honour,’ replies Harry. ‘And the other items,’ Harry continues, ‘the shoe-a Croc-the crucifix, also found in the tool shed. How reliable, in your expert opinion, are they?’

‘The Croc contained dried blood, not fresh, from the defendant.’

Harry clicks his pen. ‘Consistent with, let’s say, a shoe rubbing a bleeding blister on a heel?’

‘Yes. It makes it unreliable as evidence, in my opinion.’

The courtroom buzzes. I squeeze my fists together over and over, suppressing the bubble of laughter that wants to pop out from inside me.

‘And the crucifix?’ Harry now says. ‘What about that as evidence?’

‘Again, the blood found on there is too small to test. Its age and origin are undetermined. So therefore, it is unreliable.’

Harry taps his chin. ‘So, Dr Gann, would you disagree with the statement that the blood on the crucifix belonged to the defendant?’

‘Yes. I would.’

Harry smiles. ‘Thank you. No further questions.’

I wipe the bridge of my nose as the gallery beyond descends into a rush of whispers, and I see him. Balthus. There, at the back. He meets my gaze, blinking at me, a loose smile on his face.

I turn back to the dock, unable to think of Balthus at this moment, think of anyone except the priest. Because if this expert witness questions the blood on the Croc, then is there a possibility she is right? I hold the thought, weigh it up, but no matter how hard I press it into my skull, no matter how much I will it to be so, the truth sparks up like a flame that will never go out: Father O’Donnell must have died by my hands.

I hold my fingers ahead of me, watch them, bathed in sunlight, shaking. My hands. Warm on the inside, cold on the outside. The hands of a covert killer.

I grab the door handle, but before I can prise open the lock, Kurt is pulling me away.

‘No!’ I scream, but he drags me over, onto his chair. The spider camera falls out of my hand and Kurt scoops it up. I grip the back of the seat, wrenching it from its moorings, and manage to kick out, knocking Kurt backwards slightly. Tumbling, I scramble across the carpet, my knee crunching on the broken vial glass, my blood smearing a trail behind me. I crawl to my seat, rip my bag from the armrest, stuffing my prison notebook deep inside, and feel for my mobile.

I haul myself up, dash to the door, when Kurt slaps my right cheek. A violent sting erupts all over my face. My head reels back.

He grips my arm. ‘You are not going anywhere.’ He raises the needle.

My eyes go wide. ‘No!’ I try shoving him with my fist. ‘Get. Off. Me!’

But he is strong, trained, and he grips me harder, so hard, he leaves me with no choice: I sink my teeth into his hand and bite down, tight, feverish, determined, and I feel so angry, so confused that the urge to keep biting through his flesh and down to his bone is overwhelming.

Kurt yelps. I let go, but he still has hold of the syringe, so I lift my fist and punch him straight in the face. He drops to the floor, his fingers releasing the needle, the whole length of it thudding to the ground as Kurt lies bent over, gripping his broken cheekbone. The needle rolls to a halt in front of me and I lift my foot and bring my heel down hard. The syringe buckles, the plastic bursting, liquid spurting out from it, soaking into the carpet, the drug oozing, merging into the fabric until it is impossible to tell where one begins and the other ends.

I take one last look at Kurt, then bang open the door lock with the heel of my hand and run as fast as I can.

Harry adjusts his robe as the latest witness is brought in. My body tenses: it is the DVD store owner. I remember him now from the first trial-eyes heavy, dark circles under them. His hair then was oily and long, his skin sallow and lined. But today his hair is clipped, neat, his complexion smooth and bright. Someone has cleaned him up.

‘Mr Granger,’ Harry says, addressing the witness, ‘can you tell the jury where you were at 10.30 p.m. on the night of Tuesday, the sixth of November.’

The store owner leans into the microphone. ‘I was closing up my store.’

‘And could you explain what your store is, please, Mr Granger?’

He faces the jury. ‘It’s a DVD store. I sell DVDs.’ He turns back to Harry.

The jury is smiling.

‘Mr Granger, would you say that the day in question was a regular day for you?’

‘Well,’ he says, ‘apart from seeing a murderer leave the convent across the road, yes.’

The people in the gallery let out a light laugh. I want to stand and shout out loud, ‘Don’t laugh! It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!’

Harry clears his throat. ‘What time does your store open, Mr Granger?’

‘Noon.’

‘Every day?’

‘We open at one on Sundays.’

‘In the afternoon?’

The witness pauses. ‘Of course, the afternoon.’

Harry shakes his head. ‘Yes, of course. Silly of me. And what time do you normally close?’

‘Ten-thirty-’ he leans into the microphone ‘-p.m.’

The jury lets out a small murmur. Harry smiles at them then faces the witness. There were no eye creases to his smile.

‘Mr Granger, have you always opened on time?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And closed on time?’

The witness pauses. I press my lips together, wait.

‘Mr Granger,’ Harry says, ‘I’ll remind you that you are under oath.’

The witness scratches his cheek and sniffs. Above him, the ceiling fan whirls. ‘Can you repeat the question?’

‘Certainly,’ Harry says. ‘Mr Granger, have you always closed your store on time?’

I want to yell at him to answer. The witness finally speaks into the microphone. ‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Objection!’ The prosecutor is standing. ‘The witness has already answered the question.’

‘Sustained. Mr Warren, move it on.’

‘Yes, Your Honour.’ Harry pauses. ‘Mr Granger, your DVD store-it is across the street from the Catholic convent at Draycott Road, yes? Number one hundred and twelve Draycott Road, Lambeth, London? Is that correct?’

‘Erm, yeah.’

‘And so, when you are not running your store on Draycott Road, what else do you do?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Do you take drugs, Mr Granger?’

I sit forward. Harry did not tell me about this. Have they found out he is lying? And why? Did the Project pay him to do it, to say he saw me that night?

‘Objection!’ The prosecutor is standing.

‘Overruled.’

‘Mr Granger,’ Harry continues, ‘do you take drugs?’

The store owner’s eyes dart around the room. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I will remind you that you are under oath,’ the judge says.

The storeowner hesitates. ‘I…I used to.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Harry says, ‘for the benefit of the jury, Mr Granger, can you repeat that a little louder?’