I really need your help. I know youāre the right solicitor. I donāt trust anyone else to defend me. But I want to meet you. I need to talk in person. I wonāt put anything in writing or speak on a phone. Anon.
Iām coming. Iāll be in the bar at 7 p.m. Regards, Alice Johnston.
My fingertip touches the send icon, and a whizzing, flying sound tells me the reply to Anonās email has sent. Done. Thatās it, Iām obligated now. Risk taken. Iāve grasped hold of the reins of my life.
The phone vibrates a millisecond before it chimes. A text. Joseph. Itās the tenth message in the last half an hour.
My thumb settles on the off button and then slides across the screen, shutting the phone down. Enough. No more apologetic pleading. The silenced phone is rammed into the side pocket of my handbag with a violence that pulls the broken threads in the seam of the tan leather as my elbow bumps the arm of the man sitting beside me. Itās his fault, heās hogging the thin armrest between the trainās seats.
Men. In the end they are all self-centred. Thatās why Iāve dedicated my career to defending women who are backed into corners and forced to defend themselves. I fight for the wronged. I never expected to end up amongst them again, though.
My forearms are stacked on top of each other, resting on the handbag thatās on my lap.
The concrete pillar outside the window moves, sliding slowly away. Of course, itās the train moving not the pillar. The 8.45 Great Western Railway train from London Paddington to Exeter St Davidās leaves six minutes late.
I draw a breath that floods my lungs, as though I have not breathed for hours. The pulse of my heart throbs through my body in an anxious rhythm that beats along to the pace of the trainās rock along the iron tracks.
The carriage is full. Iām lucky to have a seat. A dozen hot sweaty people stand in the aisle. The air conditioning blows a stream of cold air from above onto my forehead, cooling my temper down.
The tall embankment wall passes by as the train picks up speed. Bright sunlight picking out the colours in the graffiti.
āHey, lady, youāre in my seat!ā a large twenty-something man with dark sweat marks on the underarms of his grey T-shirt shouts from further along the aisle. People squeeze back against the seats to let him and his huge rucksack pass.
There is a reserved sign on the seat. Iād assumed, as the person had not occupied it, they were sitting elsewhere, or theyād missed the train. Like the rest of my life today ā Iām out of luck. As people say, Iād bet on the wrong horse ā the wrong husband and now the wrong seat.
āLady!ā he yells along the train.
I acknowledge him with a raised hand, palm outward, in the universal symbol to say stop, and rise, sliding out of the seat. The man standing beside it steps back to make room. I avoid looking at his face, staring at the neck of his mauve T-shirt as I hang the straps of my handbag over my shoulder. I detect the smell of cologne. Itās a brand Joseph wears sometimes, although he doesnāt wear as much as the man next to me.
In my mind, Joseph smiles, all white teeth. A crocodile smile. False. Our marriage was a pack of lies. I could easily punch a fist into those teeth, and with the strength of anger I bet Iād knock a few out. My mindās eye throws him over my shoulder, flooring him with a karate move that would leave him as winded as he made me feel last night when heād poured out his confession. Iād believed in him. Believed we wanted the same things, had the same morals. He was my best friend. Now what?
The large man reaches up to slot his oversized rucksack on the shelf. After a considerable amount of shoving and tucking, the rucksack is precariously stored, and he crams himself into the seat just as forcefully, wiping the sweat from his brow.
It takes an hour and thirty-six minutes to reach Bath Spa. I hope I donāt have to stand for the whole journey. The carriage sways along the tracks, and the last of Londonās suburbia passes by. I cross my arms over my chest and balance better, preparing for a long ride standing in heels. Suburbia becomes green fields. Cows. Trees. The clear blue sky.
My thoughts focus on where Iām going, not where Iāve come from. Anonymous. The woman Iām meeting in Bath. Sheād sent three emails with the same question before I replied.
Just that. My first answer had been a simple
How?
I canāt tell you in writing.
Then call me.
That was when she had asked me to travel to Bath. Iād left that message unanswered for three weeks, until this morning. I donāt know what sheās done, but the caution in her emails implies sheās scared, and I know how that feels. Itās why I help the accused. Fear is never easily forgotten, and fear can make you do things you would not otherwise dare. It forces you to take risks.
This is risky. Itās foolish, heading out to meet an anonymous client on their territory, and not telling anyone where Iāll be. But risks make my blood flow, defending the indefensible makes my blood flow. In the last two years of what I thought was a happy, peaceful marriage Iād forgotten how good a real risk can make me feel. Joseph had made me tame. Iām not naturally a docile woman. I see it now, what Iāve overlooked for years, thereās more than one way to control. Itās not only in violence itās also in indulgence. I thought I was content, but I was ā¦ no longer me. This is me. Nothing Joseph and I did made my heart race ā but he was seeking thrills elsewhere.
āWas I just an accessory in the legal world for you? A partner who helped your career?ā Iād yelled.
āYou know thatās not true. I admire you. What youāve achieved, what youāve lived through. I fell in love with you because you inspire me. You broke free from the past. Me too. Thatās what I want again. Youāre a strong, brave woman, thatās why I love you.ā
Except heād taken the need to be brave away from me. To be brave, sometimes I also need to feel fear, and being strong in the face of fear reminds me how brave I can be.
Anon is afraid, and she is probably right, I am the only solicitor who will help her. Others would encourage the obviously guilty to make a deal. Not me. I fight for the guilty victims and I have never once been denied the justice of a not-guilty verdict. I defend people who, black or white, right or wrong, British laws let down. Thereās a raft of colours in the middle of law. I present the full picture to a jury.
āExcuse me.ā The man who moved me out of his seat is getting up and asking me to move out of his way again. He squeezes past. āExcuse me.ā He navigates his way down the aisle, I presume to the toilet or the refreshment carriage.
āWhy donāt you sit down until heās back?ā the man next to me says.
Hazel eyes gaze into mine with enquiry, as though heās looking for something inside me.
āI can manage standing.ā
The ring of a text arriving jolts every muscle in my body. My phone is turned off; it isnāt Joseph.
The man in the seat by the window reaches for his phone.
Donāt go. Donāt leave me over this nonsense. Please. It happened three years ago.
That desperate tone was never in his voice until this morning. My capable, confident husband usually comes across as arrogant. He lost his swagger at one a.m., when circumstances forced him to come clean.
I know heās overcome difficult things too. He grew up in a deprived area. Broke the mould, and every expectation, and worked his way through university. But difficulties donāt excuse everything you do for the rest of your life.
āI was dating her before we started. It didnāt mean anything. It was a bit of fun, and I didnāt think weād ever really get together.ā
āYouāre telling me you had no respect for her or me, then!ā
I know he doesnāt respect his mother. Heād become a solicitor despite her. Sheās a bitter-tongued, judgemental woman. But I hadnāt noticed that toxic emotion spilling into our relationship until last night. Every good relationship begins with respect. I thought that was our foundation when he used to say I inspired him.
My hand strokes from my elbow up to the hem of the short sleeve of my pussy-bow blouse. I stop the self-comforting action, breathe in deeply and sigh the breath out slowly as I stare through the window.
I havenāt told my sister or her police officer wife what happened or where I am, because Mandy and Elouise would flood my phone with stranger-danger warnings. In my experience, and this has endorsed it, danger comes from those you know. The devil is more often found in your own bed. I hardly slept last night, because the devil slipped into the room every time I shut my eyes. Iāve rarely seen him in the last four years since I began a relationship with Joseph. There was no reason to recall him. But Josephās revelation made me a victim, and that crushing, restricting emotion let the devil crawl out from the dark recesses of my memory. There was zero respect in my first marriage.
āExcuse me. Excuse me.ā
The large man is back. I move out of his way for the third time.
The man beside me moves too, making space. āDo you want to lean against this seat?ā he offers.
āNo, donāt worry, I think Iāll walk along to the refreshment carriage and have a drink.ā
I turn sideways to pass him. Thereās plenty of room for two slender people, but he turns to make it awkward.
My response is to stand still until he steps back a bit.
But once Iāve walked past, he follows. āGood idea.ā
A hand lifting, I turn back. My fingertips push on the warm mauve cotton of his T-shirt, holding him away as I look him dead straight in the eyes. āThat was not an invitation.ā
My thumb tucks under the straps of my handbag as I turn away and weave through the standing passengers. Avoiding the attention of men used to be an art of mine after the death of my first husband. But six months of flowers, gentlemanly gestures and constant kindness had tempted me to try with Joseph. He is a charming, convincing liar and I had let my guard down and become a gullible idiot.
The door int...
