Benighted (44 page)

In the pause while the judge deliberates, people stand up and walk around the room. Paul looks at me, and I take one step toward him, my whole body yearning, as if I were nothing but a hand reaching out. Something checks me, though, and I nod instead to Becca, point at my watch and raise five fingers, five minutes. She understands, nods back to me. I look at Paul, he looks at me. Then I turn and slip out of the room.

Out in the corridor, I lean my hands flat against a wall, breathing in and out. The air reflecting back off the painted surface is warm against my face. I lean for a few seconds, then I walk down the hall.

The other trial is still not finished, the Seligmann case. There’s a little square of glass in the door, and I peer through it. Seligmann himself sits in the dock, a crutch beside him, bandages on his wounded leg showing thick through his clothes. His posture has changed from when I first saw him. The hunched shoulders and lupine, pulled-back neck are still there, but off to one side, curved around the place where I shot him, as if that silver bullet were the new center point of his body.

Johnny’s family sit on the benches. Peter and Julio sit side by side. Julio’s face is blank; he’s sitting upright and brave, keeping his eyes dry and his mouth still, not giving his pain away to anyone. Peter has one leg crossed into his lap, and it jiggles, almost too fast to see, until Sue reaches out a round, loose arm and stills it. She lays her hand on his foot, and doesn’t let go. Sue is a sphere by now, the baby will be born any day. You can almost see it moving through her clothes. Her free arm rests around her daughter, who lies with her head against her mother’s shoulder, a thumb in her mouth. They don’t look at Seligmann much. The four of them hang close together, huddled on the narrow bench, waiting for it all to be over.

Sooner than I expect, I’m tapped on the shoulder and sent back in to my own trial. Ellaway looks at Franklin, grips his fists together as the judge prepares to announce his verdict, but I feel no tension or anticipation. There are no doubts about what’s coming. I can’t remember the last time I felt that way.

I thought I’d be happy to lose this case. I thought it would be a blow for our side, vengeance for Johnny, for something. When the judge sentences Ellaway to twelve years’ imprisonment, though, there’s no joy, no righteous anger. His face goes white, he stares at the judge, unable to believe that this is real, and then people come and put his hands in cuffs and take him away.

I don’t feel like hanging around to discuss the verdict. I take off, go out into a quiet corridor and light a cigarette. I’ll talk to Bride later. I’ll talk to Becca later.

I’m leaning against the wall, watching the smoke coil around my hands, when I hear a voice. It’s hoarse and damaged, but I recognize the polite greeting. Marty still sounds like himself.

“How’s it going?” I say to him.

He smiles, baring his teeth. The scars on his neck don’t move. “Bastard’s going down,” he says. “No question about it. The judge has to give him life, doesn’t he?” The question isn’t savage. It’s more hopeful than anything else.

I tap ash into a tray on the wall. “Yes. It’s mandatory in cases of murder. It would be the same however many murders, whatever kind he committed.” I clear my throat. “How long he actually serves depends on how he acts in prison.”

“I thought the judge could recommend a minimum?” He still wants to know things, he hasn’t stopped learning.

I nod. “He can. Don’t know how much they’ll listen to it in a lyco prison, though.”

Marty looks at the floor.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” I say.

He looks back at me, shrugs. “I don’t know.” He doesn’t touch his throat, his hands stay by his side. It’s just a little dip of his head, his chin shielding the damaged skin. “I just don’t get it. There’s all that evidence that he did it, that’s all they’re talking about. I—guess I want to know why. What he was thinking. I don’t know.” His eyes are on the floor again, as if he was hanging his head. But it’s not a stupid question.

I inhale smoke, exhale. Gray dust rises slowly to the ceiling. “It’s worth asking,” I say. There’s only a moment’s pause before I go on. “I don’t know, really. I know someone you can ask, though.” I take a notepad out of my pocket, write down a number. There’s no need to look it up. I remember it perfectly. “Give this guy a call. His name’s Paul Kelsey.”

Marty gives me a quick look.

I shake my head. “Never mind what you’ve heard about him,” I say. “He’s okay. I think he might be able to tell you a bit about it. Tell him it was me suggested you call.”

Marty looks doubtful. “I don’t want to just call him…”

“It’s okay, he won’t mind,” I say. I’m almost sure he won’t. “You should call him. He’s a pretty decent guy.”

Later that day, I wander back through the building. As I pass by the trial rooms, I hear a noise. The door opens, and two tall men come out. Between them, hands chained together, is a dark-haired man, limping, one leg dragging under him. He looks up. Seligmann. He looks at me. I look back at him. He doesn’t snarl, he doesn’t pull a face, he just looks at me, his eyes stay on me until the guards walk him past me, their strong hands clasped under his arms to hold him up.

The trial room empties. Sue Marcos walks out, her arms around her children. There are too many people around her for me to be able to get to her, but she sees me, raises her hand. I sign,
I’ll call you,
and she nods. Debbie clings to her hand as they walk down the corridor.

The crowd clears, until there’s no one left in the room. I walk in. It’s very quiet, the air still warm from so many bodies. It doesn’t look like much, this room it ended in. Just walls, chairs, benches. Very likely, Seligmann never entered this room before today. I know he’ll never see it again in his life.

I look at the chair he was sitting in. It’s gray plastic, the legs shining black, splaying backward and forward to support the structure. There are thousands like it, but somehow it holds my attention, as if I’ll never forget the sight of it.

FORTY-SIX

Y
esterday I took Leo in his stroller and went for a walk in the park. It was one of those spring days that come before the season really turns, the sky a deep unearthly blue, the sun bright but not yet warm. The little paper mobiles I tied on the hood of his carriage had been untied and refixed to the stroller with neat, careful knots, and this made me want to cry for a moment. Instead I tapped them to make them spin, and Leo reached up his hands with perfect aim to pat them.

I thought of taking him to Abbot’s Park, where Johnny died. Or I could have taken him to Queens, where Ellaway mauled him, or Spiritus Sanctus, where Seligmann killed Nate. I could have taken him on a whole pilgrimage. I didn’t. I walked with him through Kings, heading for the open spaces, and in the vernal light, the grass was golden under my feet.

It’s cooler today, as I walk with him again. The year isn’t ready to be warm yet. I wheel him quietly, watching from above as his small fingers curl around his jacket sleeves. The wheels of his stroller rattle just a little, and I think about taking him to another park, but it’s too cold for grass today, and I feel like a change. Leo is getting big enough to push against his straps, and he arches his back, kicking his legs out stiff, feeling too grown-up to be strapped in a stroller. I try singing to him, beginning with something soothing: “Care is heavy, therefore sleep you. You are care, and care must keep you…” He cranes his neck up at me, and says, “Bb.” When I lean down and start dancing with him, he smiles, and pulls against my hands, wanting to lead. Maybe he’ll be a dancer someday, I tell him, and I lean down and give him a kiss, then stand up and carry on pushing him. He bounces a little in his seat, dancing alone.

I remember, suddenly and clearly, how much I loved music when I was a child, the few lessons squeezed in between studying catching and curfew law, how carefully I practiced the piano at home, knowing I’d be left alone as long as I was practicing, free to enjoy myself, listening to the music I was making. There’s a music shop only a few streets away. I pass it on my way to work, the days when I walk. Years ago, I forbade myself to stare into the windows, wishing for things I couldn’t afford. I think I’d like to go there now. Maybe I’ll buy Leo some maracas, something he can shake, so he can make a fine noise and let everyone know he’s there. I remember how good that feels.

I have to back through the shop door to get both of us inside, but once we’re in, the air is warmer, soft like dust, only the shop itself is very clean. White piano keys gleam, trumpets and flutes sit immaculate on their stands. There are some small percussion instruments, easy things to shake about, and I take down some Mexican-looking things, bright colored with carvings on the handle, and offer them to Leo. He reaches out and grasps one, holds it, admiring it. It’s only when I close my hand around his and rattle this new toy that he realizes its use, and sets about swinging it from side to side, happy. He doesn’t make much noise with it, he hasn’t figured out quite how to make the beans rattle yet, but he’ll get there.

Not wanting to deprive him of his new plaything, I take the other shaker to the register and pay for it while leaving him to enjoy the one he has. It’s cheap, I won’t have to forgo anything to afford it, and it occurs to me then that I’m a little richer than I used to be. The pay raise has come through, some more money every month. I wondered for a while whether to take it. In the end, I decided I would, I’d take the money and try to work well enough to justify my pay. I’m still in the habit of living cheaply, though. It means I actually have some spare money.

Leo looks curiously at the pianos as I wheel him back toward the door, and I stop, consider. I’ve thrown away a lot of my possessions, and I have a little extra cash. I’d always thought I couldn’t fit in or afford a piano; I’d given up on playing. I’ll still never run to a concert grand, but there are some electric keyboards here, quite cheap, quite small. I’d always refused to try them before, because I know they don’t compare to real ones, but all the same, maybe something small would be better than nothing.

To Leo’s delight, I unstrap him from his stroller and set him on my lap as I sit down on a stool before one of the small keyboards. He reaches out, strokes the keys with a cautious hand, and I lay my hand over his. We press the key together. Leo grins and gives a little squeak of delight at this new sound, stretches out for another note. He hits a deep bass, and I reach around him, play a little arpeggio. My fingers aren’t as awkward as I’d expected. I’ve grown since I last tried this, the octaves are easier to span.

We play together for a while, before Leo gets bored and wriggles. I set him down in his stroller, give him the shakers, and let him knock them against his lap. I stretch my hands, reach out from note to note.

To begin with, I play simply. Scales, up and down. Major for a while, then minor. It comes back easier than I anticipated. The keys sink under my fingers, a little too resilient, but the tone is pleasant, and I find I can remember some of the pieces I used to know. Music drifts around me.

The clerk passes me, smiles. I relax back on the stool, playing better. I make mistakes and carry on, and Leo sits beside me, happy and absorbed with his toy, as I run my hands up and down the keyboard. It’s an old skill, and I’m out of the habit, but I sit and play for a long time.

Light shines in through the windows, a shaft of it falling clear on the floor in front of me. Specks of dust drift and glimmer in it, slow and bright, like a snowfall of stars. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’ve been exceptionally lucky in the people around me, and I owe a lot of thanks. To my indefatigable agent, Sophie Hicks, and all at Ed Victor Ltd., Philippa Harrison, and all at Random House, especially Betsy Mitchell, Dan Franklin, and Ellah Allfrey: it’s a privilege working with you. To my family, for their support, moral, financial, and emotional, much love; to my friends, for their encouragement, willingness to let me pick their brains, and just brightening up my life, thanks all around, especially: Ana-Marie and Ben England for being great friends, as well as lending me the use of their flat, cat, and expertise technical, medical, and musical; Louisa Chrisman, for medical expertise again—any errors remaining or liberties taken in the book are my fault rather than theirs; Dharminder Kang, for liking it and for a mouse pad I’m still using; Paddy McBain for his tolerant advice; Melody Bridges, Rich Cole and Rachel Flowerday, for being sweet when I was worried; and my housemates and other friends, for putting up with my moods and being happy for me when it came through. For historical pointers that were a great help, thanks to Malcolm Gaskill and Bill Ellis. Three people in particular deserve special thanks: Joel Jessup, my generous and egregiously talented friend, who inspired me with the original idea; Peggy Vance, mentor and top pal, without whose endless backup I don’t know where I’d be; and Gareth Thomas, my dearest, whose love, kindness, and sense of humor saw me through the final push and beyond.