The Flatshare(31)

Just . . . don’t want to face her before I’ve read the letter.

So. Clearly, must read letter. In the meantime, might hide out on Kelp Ward to avoid unplanned mid-corridor encounters.

Pass through reception en route and am accosted by June, who’s at the desk.

June: Your friend has arrived!

Only told a couple of people that this crochet event was organised by my flatmate. It has proven to be incredibly interesting gossip. Everyone seems insultingly surprised that I have a flatmate; apparently I look like a man who lives alone.

Me: Thanks, June.

June: She’s in the Leisure Room!

Me: Thanks, June.

June: She’s ever so pretty.

Blink. Haven’t given Tiffy’s appearance much thought, aside from wondering whether she wears five dresses at once (would explain sheer quantity hanging in our wardrobe). Am briefly tempted to ask if she has red hair, but think better of it.

June: Lovely girl. Really lovely. I’m so glad you’ve found such a lovely girl to live with.

I stare suspiciously at June. She beams back at me. Wonder who she’s been talking to – Holly? That girl has become obsessed with Tiffy.

Do odd jobs on Kelp Ward. Take unprecedented coffee break. Can’t put this off any longer. Not even any seriously unwell patients to keep me busy – I’ve got nothing to do but read this letter.

Unfold it. Look away, heart twisting. This is ridiculous. Why does it even matter?

Right. Looking at letter. Confronting letter, like adult faced with opinion of another adult who has asked them to read something and whose opinion shouldn’t even matter.

Does matter, though. Should be honest with myself: I like having Tiffy’s notes to come home to, and I’ll be sad to lose her if she is cruel to Richie. Not that she will be. But . . . that’s what I’ve thought before. Never know how people will react until you see it.

Dear Richie,

Thanks so much for your letter. It made me cry, which puts you in the same category as Me Before You, my ex-boyfriend, and onions. So that’s kind of impressive. (What I’m saying is, I’m not a willy-nilly crier – it takes some serious emotional turmoil or weird vegetable enzymes to get me weepy.)

I can’t believe how shit this is. I mean, you know things like this happen, but I guess it’s hard to relate to until you hear the full story from someone’s own mouth/pen. You didn’t tell me anything about what it felt like being in that courtroom, what prison has been like for you . . . so I can imagine the parts you’ve left out would make me cry even more.

But it’s no use me just telling you how shit this is (you already know that) and how sorry I am (you probably get that a lot from people). I was thinking that before I wrote this letter, and feeling pretty useless. I can’t just write to you and say ‘sorry, this is shit for you’, I thought. So I rang my best friend Gerty.

Gerty is a superb human being in the least obvious way. She’s mean to pretty much everyone, totally obsessive about her work, and if you cross her she’ll cut you out of her life completely. But she is deeply principled in her way, and very good to her friends, and values honesty above all else.

She also happens to be a barrister. And, if her ridiculously successful career is anything to go by, a bloody good one.

I’ll be honest: she looked at the letter as a favour to me. But she read the transcript of your trial for her own interest, and – I think – for you, too. She’s not saying she’s taking on your case (you’ll see that from her note, enclosed), but she has a few questions she’d like answered. Feel free to totally ignore this – you probably have an awesome lawyer who has already looked into this stuff. I mean, maybe getting Gerty involved was more about me than you, because I wanted to feel like I was doing something. So feel free to tell me to piss off.

But if you do want to write back to Gerty, send something in your next letter to Leon, and we’ll get it over to her. And maybe . . . don’t mention it to your lawyer. I don’t know how lawyers feel about you talking to other lawyers – is it like adultery?

Tons of stamps enclosed (another victim of the ‘wanting to help’ impulse I’m struggling with here).

Yours,

Tiffy

*

Dear Mr Twomey,

My name is Gertrude Constantine. I suspect Tiffany will have given me some sort of grandiose introduction in her letter, so I shall skip the pleasantries.

Please let me be clear: this is not an offer of representation. This is an informal letter, not a legal consultation. If I offer advice, it is as a friend of Tiffany’s.

? It appears from the trial transcript that the friends with whom you visited Daffie’s, the nightclub in Clapham, were not called as witnesses by either prosecution or defence. Please confirm.

? ‘The Bloods’ are not mentioned by you or any other person in the trial transcript. I presume from your letter that you only became aware of this gang’s chosen name while in prison. Can you confirm which information led you to believe that the group you saw at the nightclub, and the man who assaulted you in the toilets, were members of this gang?

? Did you report the assault in the nightclub toilets?

? The bouncers at the nightclub gave evidence that the gang (as we shall refer to them) left the club soon after you did. They were not questioned further. From where they stood, might they have been able to indicate whether you and the gang were travelling in the same or a similar direction?