Authors: Kathy Lette
Phyllis gave a brittle sob of exhaustion. Roxy patted her arm until she was ready to go on.
‘Chantelle’s mum, she was raped. She used to be teacher’s pet. But these older men. They started buyin’ her gifts – cigarettes and vodka, then crack cocaine and heroin. Then the rapin’, the beatin’. When she got pregnant with Chanty, they threatened to murder the baby if she didn’t start recruitin’ younger girls for ’em. They said they’d chop Chantelle’s head off and put it in a suitcase, then kill me, too, real slow and painful like. So, she smuggled in drugs for ’em, from Europe. Only she got caught and sent down. For workin’ as a drug mule.’ Her face was knotted in pain. ‘I vowed on me ma’s grave never to let anythin’ like that happen to my darlin’ Chanty . . . And I failed. I failed!’ She buried her face in her chapped hands.
Roxy and I sat in sad silence for a moment, then my mother turned to me. ‘My hearing’s mucking up. I can’t put any of that stuff about Chantelle leaving the hospital in the statement, as it just wasn’t audible.’
‘We’re supposed to tell the truth, the whole truth, remember – not the varnished untruth. Besides, the prosecution are bound to find out,’ I warned.
‘Then we’ll claim mental myasthenia gravix.’
‘Christ, what’s that when it’s at home?’ asked Phyllis, alarmed.
‘It’s Latin for memory loss in the mental muscle,’ I explained to her.
‘So, how does it affect yer memory?’
‘I forget,’ said my mother, winking. ‘Besides, how can the prosecution find out that Chantelle left the hospital when we have the original documentation?’
‘You’re trusting an anonymous tip-off?’
‘Well, whoever nicked it is obviously on our side. We can easily keep this as our little secret . . . Phyllis, you and Chantelle must not mention this to anyone else, okay? Otherwise, Chantelle could be charged as an accomplice and you’ll both go down.’
Phyllis nodded furiously.
‘So, let’s talk about your defence again, shall we?’ Roxy continued. ‘You went around there with a firearm to protect yourself. Because it was the only way they’d listen to you and not denigrate your granddaughter. You had no intention of using the firearm. But it was when he pulled the knife out that you felt under threat and accidentally squeezed the trigger.’
I looked at my mother. There had been many times in my life when I’d wished that parents would be seen but not heard, but the predominant question on my mind right now was How could I ever have agreed to set up practice with a person who proved on a daily basis that the term ‘criminal solicitor’ is a tautology? Professionally, my mother and I had as much in common as a Las Vegas stripper and an Amish butter-churner.
‘Um, Roxy, need I remind you that lawyers can’t present a case in a way that is false to their knowledge.’
‘If opportunity doesn’t knock, get a doorbell. That’s my motto.’
‘You can’t expect Phyllis to lie under oath. Oh, I can’t believe what I’m seeing!’
‘Then look away, kid. After all.’ She winked again. ‘Justice is blind.’
‘Yes, and perjury is a real eye-opener.’
‘Hon, the law is nothing more than a legal lottery.’
I looked at my mother, aghast. ‘Sure . . . and Stonehenge is just a rock,’ I shot back. ‘The rule of law is the only rule I live by. It’s practically a religion to me. I know I sound like the Julie Andrews of the judiciary, but Phyllis will get a fair trial, without having to lie.’
It was my mother’s turn to eye me as though
I
were the one with a few kangaroos loose in my top paddock. ‘Matilda, if life was fair, Elvis would be alive and all the impersonators would be dead . . . Did you feel under threat, Phyllis?’ Roxy probed, more vociferously this time.
Phyllis thought for a moment. ‘Yeah. It was when he pulled out the knife. I felt under threat. The big, tall one,’ she improvised. ‘I was so frightened that I must have accidentally squeezed the trigger. I can’t remember doing it.’
Roxy patted her hand. ‘Thank you, Phizz.’
Our visiting time was up and we were being bustled out of the prison. There was no point arguing with my maverick mother – I would just have to jump off that bridge when I came to it.
Leaving Holloway, Roxy and I drove straight back to the estate to counsel Chantelle. It was vital that she didn’t talk to anyone about her moonlit flit from her hospital bed.
Whenever I ventured on to the estate, I felt as though I were wearing pork-chop jeans in a dog pound – a little something to do with the fact that parts of it are populated by people in ski masks who aren’t necessarily Olympic tobogganists. But Roxy was totally unperturbed. She stomped about as though she owned the joint. I led my mother to flat 49 on the twelfth floor of Hawthorn House.
It was a very different girl I encountered this time. Whereas on my previous visit Chantelle had been chippy and defiant, she now lay curled on the couch with her back to the room. She wouldn’t respond to my entreaties to talk to us. A wash of weak afternoon sunlight lay over the sofa, pale as the flesh of a lemon.
‘What’s happened?’ I asked her girlfriend, who was so tarted up I presumed she’d just got home from an audition for Britain’s Next Top Model and not her geography class.
‘Dunno. I just found her cryin’ an’ that. She neva said nuffin’. But that was tossed on the floor under the telly.’ She handed me a DVD case. I scrutinized the typed label. It read ‘Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed’.
‘Bugger it. The poor kid’s been got at.’ Roxy turned to the dolled-up teen and spoke harshly, like a foreigner. ‘Did you tell anyone that Chantelle was staying here?’
The girl shook her head violently. ‘Nobody knows nuffin’. Not even me mum. She works nights.’
My mother scowled, before entreating, ‘Chantelle, darling, talk to me, love. For your gran’s sake. Did someone come around here and intimidate you?’
When my mother rolled the teenager towards us, her eyes were red-rimmed crescents from hours of crying. Roxy scooped her up into a giant bear-hug. Chantelle lay limp in my mother’s strong arms. She then emitted the kind of noise you make before your car collides with a stationary object.
‘They filmed it. The attack. On their phone. It’s just close-ups of . . . the way they’ve cut it . . . it makes it look as though I’m enjoyin’ it. The note said they’ll put it up on Facebook if I don’t drop the charges. All my friends will see it.’ She drew a shuddering breath, then collapsed into heart-wrenching sobbing.
I felt my colon corkscrew. I would never complain about anything ever again. I mean, cystitis, childbirth, divorce – these are the jewels in life’s crown compared to the sheer horror of seeing your own rape recorded by your attackers. ‘This is blackmail. We’ll call the police.’
This only made Chantelle scream louder. She pushed Roxy away as though she were radioactive. ‘No! No! I don’t want no cops seein’ me like that! I don’t want anyone to see it, ever, ever, EVER!!’
Chantelle’s little schoolpal now moved to stand protectively between us and her friend. My mother and I locked eyes.
‘The level of sexual violence in these gang-afflicted innercity areas is comparable to a friggin’ war zone,’ Roxy sighed angrily. ‘If I had my way, sexual abuse would be regarded as being as harmful as a gun or a knife. How can the poor kid testify now?’
But any person with an IQ – even a moderately sized amoeba – would know that, if Chantelle withdrew her rape allegations, Phyllis would be in serious danger of being convicted. It was imperative that we got her case on first. There was only one solution . . . and I was looking forward to it about as eagerly as I would root-canal surgery with a jackhammer.
After Chantelle’s ordeal, would it be insensitive to call Amnesty International to say that my human rights were being abused by having to date Jack Cassidy? It certainly was a cruel and unusual punishment. These were my thoughts as I made my way through Camden to Primrose Hill.
Jack lived in a pretty, petal-strewn cul-de-sac near the park. Although the Saturday-morning air was crisp, the sun was shining. I’d decided to drop in on him at his four-storey Edwardian home, just to ascertain that there were no undisclosed professors’ wives or live-in gym junkies in residence. I walked up through the cobbled streets, past pastel-painted houses and into the village, with its cutesy baby and bridal boutiques, tea-cosy-twee bric-a-brac gift stores and quaint little cake shops. It was like walking through treacle. I grabbed the lion’s-head knocker and banged loudly on Jack’s door.
‘Are you working?’ I asked, noting the Montblanc pen in his hand when he answered my knock.
‘Just busy converting my bar bills into legitimate legal expenses I can charge to the client.’
‘Gee, you’re really putting that starred First from Oxford to good use. Don’t you worry about what people think?’
‘Nope. After all, they don’t do it very often.’
‘Are you sure you’re not busy seducing a client or preboarding a flight attendant or something?’ Jack gave me a slight frown of annoyance. ‘Okay, then. May I come in?’
‘Do you have any blood-splattered fugitives with you?’
‘No.’
‘That’s disappointing.’ I could hear a laugh beginning to surface in his voice, which was beyond annoying. He stood back from the door and beckoned me inside with a courtier’s bow. The high-ceilinged cream rooms with their dustless wooden floors warmed by rich rugs and shards of sunlight, the cool green air of the park opposite breathing fresh oxygen into the hall through the wide, open windows, the piles of hardback books on side tables, spines not yet cracked, the velvety sounds of a Bach cello suite wafting on air scented by the blossom of luxuriant flower displays – it was the opposite of my current abode, with its chaos, feral canines and curling carpet.
I followed him through the house, past an atrium and conservatory and into a luxurious sitting room.
‘So, how’s your testicle festival going?’ Jack flung himself back into a leather armchair and crossed one sockless ankle nonchalantly over the opposite knee, preparing to be amused.
I sat primly opposite him on a hard-backed chair. ‘That’s why I’m here. I’ve decided that I will go out with you . . . in exchange for scheduling my granny’s case before the rape trial.’
‘Well, that’s an interesting turn of events. I got the impression that you would rather ride the Death-defying Space Mountain rollercoaster, followed by a quick spin in the Tower of Pain, than be seen with me in public. So, what changed your mind?’
‘I’m sorry. Am I under oath? I don’t remember agreeing to a cross-examination. Let’s just decide where and when and what we are doing so I can get it over with.’
‘Hmm. Good question . . .’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘We’d better not sit side by side in a dark theatre, as an erection is so tricky to hide in the interval.’
I realized then that what I had thought was my mild disdain for Jack Cassidy had morphed into acute repugnance. I glared back, lips curled.
‘Although a hard-on in the car home afterwards is considered very good manners in most social circles,’ he teased.
‘Really? I find saying to a man’s face that he’s an irritating fucking bastard is considered rude in most
social circles
.’
Jack Cassidy narrowed his eyes at me. If he and I
were
in a Spencer Tracy/Katharine Hepburn movie, as my mother had suggested, I’m pretty sure this would be the moment when he’d put me over his knee and spank me. ‘Let’s do dinner, then. I find dinner dates are a good time to talk over each other’s sexual preferences.’
‘My only preference is for men who want to make the world a better place.’
‘Yes, you’re so right. If only I worked at the UN. Then I could just tell nations like Belarus that they’re grounded. Or maybe drive around Iran with a sign on my bumper: ‘Honk if you still have hands.’ . . . As fighting is clearly foreplay for you, why don’t we just skip dinner and pick up where we left off?’ he baited, extracting a slim cigar from his pocket. The man was enjoying playing with me – think cat, think mouse.
‘Because I no longer find you remotely attractive. Not since you sold out and became a cigar-addicted corporate-cowboy cliché.’
‘Cigar smoking is not remotely addictive. I should know. I’ve been doing it for years,’ he said glibly, picking up a lighter.
‘I recently met the man I thought you’d turn into, actually. He’s given up working at a bank in the City to help disadvantaged kids.’
Jack put down the cigar, unlit. ‘What do you mean “given up”? That’s clearly a euphemism for “getting the sack”. Probably from Lehman Brothers, or some other bank that crashed and burnt.’
‘Actually, he was very high up at Credit Suisse. But he had an epiphany and left to give back to the world in some way.’
‘Ah, the Swiss. While they were dipping fondue, Britain was – oh, wait. What were we doing again? . . . Oh yes, I remember. Waging war against the Nazis.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve always liked the idea of an army which carries corkscrews instead of machineguns.’ I rose to my feet. ‘Well, I’d better let you get back to your “work”,’ I said derisively, before moving back down the hallway.
Jack followed. ‘Well, I’m sure we can discuss this further at dinner. Over the Swiss cheese course, perhaps?’
‘Yes, let’s have dinner. I find that having dinner before diving into bed gives a girl a chance to re-evaluate and maybe just flee home for a hot encounter with her vibrator . . . So, where are we going? Do I need to bring anything?’
‘Not much . . . just your birthday suit and a large tub of mango love butter.’
‘You disgust me. Were you always this sleazy? Or have you been taking lessons?’
‘Would you have gone out with me otherwise? . . . I’ll be in touch to discuss details.’ Jack was positively gloating. The man would win the Gloat Vote at a Gloat Festival. And it was nipple-numbingly annoying.
‘I knew you’d come to your senses eventually, Tilly.’ He gave a cat-that-got-the-cream smile, then opened the door and leant against the wall so that I had to brush past him to escape.
Come to my senses? Going on a date with the misogynistic, amoral Jack Cassidy, I was clearly out of my mind.