The Flatshare(81)

‘I should have just taken it. Served my sentence and got out, and let him get on with his life in the meantime. All this – it’s only going to make everything worse for him.’

‘Leon was going to fight no matter what you did,’ I say. ‘He was never just going to let his little brother get picked on. If you’d given up, that would have hurt him.’

He takes a big, juddering breath, and lets it out again.

‘That’s good,’ I say. ‘Breathing. I hear that’s a good one for those with delicate nerves. Have you got any smelling salts?’

That gets another chuckle, a little less strangled this time.

‘Are you calling me a pussy?’ Richie asks.

‘I fully believe that you’re a very brave man,’ I tell him. ‘But yes. I’m calling you a pussy. In case that helps you remember how brave you are.’

‘Ah, you’re a good girl, Tiffy,’ Richie says.

‘I’m not a dog, Richie. And – now that you’re hopefully less green . . . Can we go back to how you just said “Leon’s girlfriend”?’

There’s a pause.

‘Not Leon’s girlfriend?’ he says.

‘Not yet,’ I tell him. ‘Well, I mean, we’ve not discussed that. We’ve only been on a few dates, technically.’

‘He’s mad about you,’ Richie says. ‘He might not say it out loud, but . . .’

I feel a twinge of anxiety. I’m crazy about Leon, too. I spend most of my waking hours thinking about him, and a few of the sleeping ones too. But . . . I don’t know. The idea of him wanting to be my boyfriend makes me feel so trapped.

I adjust my dress, wondering if I’m the one having the problem with corsets and nerves. I really like Leon. This is ridiculous. Objectively, I would like to call him my boyfriend, and introduce him to people as such. That’s what you always want when you’re crazy about someone. But . . .

What would Lucie say?

Well, she’d probably say nothing, to be honest. She’d just leave me to stew on the fact that this weird fear of getting trapped is almost certainly to do with the fact that I was in a relationship with a man who never really let me go.

‘Tiffy?’ Richie says. ‘I should probably get going.’

‘Oh, God, yes,’ I say, coming to my senses. I don’t know what I’m doing worrying about relationship labels when Richie is about to walk into court. ‘Good luck, Richie. I wish I could be there.’

‘Maybe see you on the other side,’ he says, voice trembling again. ‘And if not – look after Leon.’

This time, the request doesn’t sound strange. ‘I will,’ I tell him. ‘I promise.’





58


Leon

Hate this suit. Last wore it for court case number one, and then shoved it in wardrobe at Mam’s place, tempted to burn it like it was contaminated. Glad I didn’t. Can’t afford to keep burning suits every time the legal system fails to deliver justice. This might not be our last appeal.

Mam is weepy and shaking. I try so hard to be strong for her, but can’t bear to be in the room with her. Would be easier with any other person, but with Mam, it’s awful. I want her to mother me, not the other way around, and it almost makes me angry seeing her like this, even while it makes me sad.

I check my phone.

I’ve just spoken to Richie – he called here for a bit of a morale boost. He’s doing fine. You’re all going to be fine, whatever happens. Text me if there’s anything I can do. I can always duck out for a phone call. Tiffy xx

I feel warm for a moment, after a morning of sustained cold fear. Remind myself of new resolve to tell Tiffy explicitly how I feel and move things in direction of seriousness, e.g. meeting parents etc.

Mam: Sweetie?

One last look in mirror. Thinner, longer-haired, stretched-out Richie stares back at me. I can’t get him out of my head – I keep remembering how he looked when they read out his sentence, the endless barrage of nonsense about his cold-blooded, calculated crime, how his eyes went wide and blank with fear.

Mam: Leon? Sweetie?

Me: Coming.

*

Hello again, courtroom.

It’s so mundane. Nothing like the wooden seats and vaulted ceilings of American legal dramas – just lots of files on desks, carpet, and tiered benches from which a few bored-looking lawyers and journalists have come to spectate. One of the journalists is trying to find a plug to charge his phone. A law student is inspecting the back of her smoothie bottle.

It’s bizarre. Earlier this year, I would have wanted to scream at both of them. Pay some fucking attention. You’re watching someone’s life being destroyed. But it’s all part of the peculiar drama of this ritual, and now that we know how to play the game – now that we have a lawyer who knows the rules – the ritual doesn’t bother me so much.

A wizened man in a long cloak like a Harry Potter character enters with prison guard and Richie. Richie is not cuffed, which is something. But he looks just as bad as I suspected. He’s bulked up in the last few months, exercising again, but with his shoulders slumped the muscle seems to weigh him down. Can barely recognise him as the brother who first walked into court last year, the one with total confidence that if you’re innocent you walk out free. The brother who grew up at my shoulder, matching me step for step, always having my back.