When You Are Mine(103)

‘Please, sit down,’ I say.

‘Make me.’

‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘Oh, this won’t hurt a bit,’ she says, grabbing at my hair.

I grip her wrist with both hands and pull her arm towards me, spinning and trapping it under my armpit. She tries to struggle. I add pressure. She cries out in pain. I could break her arm with very little force.

When I let her go, she reels away, rubbing at her elbow and bashing her fist on the door. An officer comes. The same one.

‘What’s wrong, Josephine?’

‘She attacked me. Damn near broke my arm.’

The sergeant glances at me. I’m sitting on the bench, hugging my knees.

‘What happened?’

I shrug.

He turns to Josephine and tells her to be quiet. She calls him a pig. He ignores her. The door closes. The cell goes quiet.

The woman on the floor makes a gurgling sound and gets up on to all fours, vomiting between her hands.

‘Bloody Norah!’ says Josephine, holding her nose.

‘Is that her name?’ I ask.

‘How would I fuckin’ know?’

‘I thought she was with you.’

‘Nah.’

I kneel next to the woman, rubbing her back, asking if she needs a doctor.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she says apologetically. She sits up, leaning against the wall.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Katrina.’

‘I’ll get you some water.’

‘And a cleaner,’ says Josephine, wrinkling her nose.

I bash on the door, calling for the sergeant, but he ignores me, fed up with interruptions.

‘Have you taken drugs, or swallowed anything?’ I ask.

Katrina shakes her head. I push back her hair, revealing piercings around the shell of her ear and a small tattoo lower down her neck. She’s young.

‘Are you a nurse, or something?’ she asks.

‘No.’

‘Here. Sit up.’

I help her to the bench seat, where she curls up on her side, resting her head on her hands. She shouldn’t have been put in a cell in this condition. A detainee has to be able to stand and walk unaided, or to say a few words, otherwise they must be transferred to hospital.

Katrina’s eyes are open. ‘Will you tell me a story?’

‘What sort of story?’

‘You choose. My mum used to tell me stories when I was sick.’

‘Were you sick a lot?’

‘Yeah.’

I tell her about being on the number 30 bus at Tavistock Square when a bomb exploded and all that happened in the aftermath.

‘I don’t remember the bombings,’ she says.

‘How old are you?’

‘Nineteen.’

Suddenly, I feel old.





57


‘Silence, please! All rise.’

The clerk of the court has a face like a funeral director and a commanding voice. He looks around the vaulted courtroom, defying anyone to speak, as the three magistrates enter and sit side by side at a large table. Dressed in layman’s clothes, the two men and a woman look more like librarians than legal officers.

I have been brought upstairs from the cells beneath Westminster Magistrate’s Court, using a private staircase that emerges directly into the dock. Two court sheriffs are on either side of me. My handcuffs are removed and I rub my wrists.

The chairman tells me to stand.

‘Are you Philomena Claire McCarthy?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘It is alleged that between August 20 and August 21 you did murder Darren Charles Goodall. Do you wish to enter a plea?’

‘Not guilty.’

‘You may sit down.’

I look up at the public gallery. My mother is sitting straight-backed, as though posing for a photograph. She has a handkerchief in her hand, which flutters as she waves to me. Further along that front row I see Clifton and Finbar and Daragh. My father is at the end, his hands resting on the bulb of a walking stick that is braced between his knees. I search the other seats, looking for Henry, but know instinctively that he hasn’t come.

Helgarde introduces himself and broaches the subject of bail. The prosecutor, Mr Summers, asks for a separate hearing, suggesting the Crown Court decide the issue next week.

‘My client shouldn’t have to spend another four days in custody if we can come to an agreement today,’ says Helgarde. ‘Her family is willing to put up a substantial surety. And my client is willing to abide by any reporting restrictions that are deemed appropriate.’

Mr Summers chuckles drily.

‘Is there a problem?’ asks the chairman of magistrates.

‘My learned friend seems to have forgotten how things are done in the lower courts. Perhaps he’s spent too long under a horsehair wig.’

Rather than insult Helgarde, the prosecutor seems to have annoyed the magistrate.

‘Are you suggesting that we’re not qualified to hear this bail application?’ asks the chairman.

‘No, not at all. I didn’t mean to …’

‘Perhaps you should be quiet, until it’s your turn to speak.’

‘Yes, Your Worship.’

Helgarde has enjoyed the exchange, but doesn’t let it show.