Beth O'Leary - The Flatshare

Ms Constantine: Thank you very much, Mrs Wilson. And in your experience of examining CCTV footage, what can you tell us about these two short clips that we have seen today?

Mrs Wilson: Plenty. They’re not the same bloke, to start with.

Ms Constantine: Really? You sound absolutely sure of that.

Mrs Wilson: Oh, sure as anything. For starters, look at the colour of the hoodie in the enhanced footage. Only one hoodie is black. You can tell by the shade that it comes out as, see? The black is a denser colour.

Ms Constantine: Can we have images from both up on screen, please? Thank you.

Mrs Wilson: And then look at how they walk! It’s a fair imitation, all right, but the first bloke is clearly fu— is clearly drunk, My Lords. Look at how he’s zigzagging. Almost walks into the display. Then the next guy walks much straighter and doesn’t fumble or anything when he reaches for the knife. Our first bloke nearly dropped the beers!

Ms Constantine: And with the new CCTV footage from outside Aldi, we can see the distinctively . . . zigzagged walk more clearly.

Mrs Wilson: Oh, yeah.

Ms Constantine: And of the group that we see walking by a few moments after the first figure, who we have identified as Mr Twomey . . . would you be able to identify any of those figures as the man with the knife in the off-licence?

Mr Turner, to the judges: My Lords, this is nothing but speculation.

Judge Whaite: No, we’ll allow it. Ms Constantine is calling on her witness’s expertise.

Ms Constantine: Mrs Wilson, could any of those men have been the man in the off-licence, looking at this footage?

Mrs Wilson: Oh, yeah. Bloke on the far right. His hood is down, and he’s not putting on the walk there, but look at how his shoulder drops with each step of his left foot. Look how he rubs his shoulder — the same gesture as the bloke in the off-licence makes before he pulls out the knife.

Mr Turner: We are here to examine an appeal against Mr Twomey’s conviction. What is the relevance of implicating an unidentifiable bystander?

Judge Whaite: I see your point, Mr Turner. All right, Ms Constantine — do you have any further questions which are pertinent to the case at hand?

Ms Constantine: None, My Lord. I hope perhaps we can return to this discussion at a later date, should this case be reopened.

Prosecution lawyer, Mr Turner, scoffs into his hand. Gerty turns a freezing cold glare on him. I remember how Mr Turner intimidated Richie at the last trial. Called him a thug, a violent-minded criminal, a child who took whatever he wanted. I watch Mr Turner pale under Gerty’s gaze. To my delight, even robed and wigged, Mr Turner is not immune to the power of Gerty’s dirty looks.

I meet Richie’s eye, and, for the first time all day, crack a genuine smile.

Step outside in the break and switch on my phone. My heart’s not exactly beating faster than usual, just beating . . . louder. Bigger. Everything feels exaggerated: when I buy a coffee, it tastes stronger; when the sky clears, the sun is stark and bright. Can’t believe how well it’s going in there. Gerty just doesn’t stop — every single thing she says is so . . . conclusive . The judges keep nodding. The judge never nodded first-time around.

I’ve imagined this too many times, and now I’m living it. Feels as if I’m inside a daydream.

A few messages from Tiffy. I go to tap out a brief reply, palms sweaty, almost afraid writing it down and sending will jinx it. Wish I could call her. Instead I check Tasha Chai-Latte’s Facebook page — Tiffy says she’s filming the book launch. There’s already a video on her page with thousands of views; looks like it’s from the launch, judging by the vaulted ceiling in the holding image.

I watch, settling down on bench outside the court building, ignoring the gaggle of paparazzi waiting there for the chance of shooting someone they might get paid for.

It’s Katherin’s thank-you speech. I smile as she talks about Tiffy. From what Tiffy says, editors never get much credit, and designers even less — I can see Rachel beaming as she takes the stage with Tiffy.

Camera jolts. Someone pushing through to the front. As he jumps up on to the stage I realise who it is.

Sudden awful, guilt-inducing urge to leave courtroom and go to Islington. Sit forward, staring at the tiny video playing out on my screen.

Video cuts after she’s said yes.

Surprising how truly terrible it feels. Perhaps you never know how you feel about someone until they agree to marry someone else.

Justin pulls me off the stage to the wings. I go with him, because more than anything else I want the noise and the lights and the crowd to go away, but as soon as we’re through the curtain I yank my hand from his grasp. My wrist sings out in pain; he was holding on tightly. We’re in a narrow, black-walled space to the side of the stage, which is empty aside from a black-clad man with a walkie-talkie and lots of cables around his feet.

‘Tiffy?’ Justin says. The vulnerability in his voice is completely contrived, I can tell.

‘What the fuck do you . . .’ I begin. I’m shaking all over; it’s hard to stand, especially in these high heels. ‘What was that?’

‘What was what?’ He reaches for me again.

Rachel bursts through the curtain behind us, kicking off her shoes. ‘Tiff— Tiffy!’

I twist towards her as she runs into me, letting her hold me tightly. Justin looks down at us both, eyes narrowed a little — I can see he’s calculating something behind those eyes, so I turn my head into the thick mass of Rachel’s braids and try very, very hard not to cry.

‘Tiffy?’ calls someone else. It’s Mo. I can’t work out where he is.

‘Your friends are here to congratulate you,’ Justin says benevolently, but his shoulders are stiff and tensed.

‘Mo?’ I call. He appears from behind Justin, through the curtains that separate us from the main backstage area; his jacket is gone and his hair is mussed as though he’s been running.

In a moment, he’s at my side. Behind me I can hear Katherin valiantly trying to bring the subject back to Crochet Your Way onstage.

Justin watches the three of us. Rachel still has hold of me, and I lean into her as I look up at Justin.

‘You know I didn’t say yes,’ I say flatly.

His eyes widen. ‘What do you mean?’ he says.

I shake my head. I know what this is — I remember this feeling, the nagging sense of wrongness. ‘You can’t make me believe something that I know isn’t true.’

There’s a flicker behind his eyes — maybe he’s thinking, I already have, plenty of times .

‘Not any more,’ I say. ‘And do you know what it’s called, when you do that? It’s called gaslighting. It’s a form of abuse. Telling me things aren’t the way I can see them.’

This knocks him. I’m not sure Rachel or Mo will notice it, but I watch him take the hit. The Tiffy he is familiar with would never have used words like ‘gaslighting’ and ‘abuse’. Seeing him waver sends a rush of fearful excitement through me, like the feeling when you stand close to the edge as the train rushes by.

‘You did say yes,’ he says. The light from the stage creeps between the curtains behind us, leaving a long stripe of yellow across the shadowy lines of Justin’s face. ‘I heard you! And . . . you do want to marry me, don’t you, Tiffy? We belong together.’

He tries to reach for my hand. The whole thing is so obviously a performance. I pull back and, quick as a flash, Rachel reaches out and slaps his outstretched hand away from me.

He doesn’t physically react. When he speaks, his voice is light and wounded. ‘What was that for?’