500 Miles from You (Scottish Bookshop #3)(81)

She felt the tears welling up again.

“Are you all right?” came a soft voice.

She froze again. She hadn’t even thought so far ahead, just knew she had to escape that airless little room, the words in front of her, the memories.

But time was moving on; they were going to call the case. There was a whole roomful of people waiting for justice, waiting for her to help Kai. She had to be there. But she couldn’t.

THERE WAS A silence. Cormac cursed to himself. He couldn’t believe he’d spoken. Now what kind of trouble was he in?

If he said who he was, she might get really upset or take umbrage, or it might be just incredibly weird. If he didn’t and she found out later, that would be awful too. But he couldn’t run away. She needed help. He knew she did. He couldn’t leave.

That was when Cormac MacPherson, in a split second, made possibly the most ridiculous decision of his entire life.

“Yeah, awright, luv, tell me what’s up, duck.”

He winced at himself. He sounded more Welsh than Cockney, probably. Or just downright insane.

Lissa squinted. The voice—she couldn’t tell where it was from—sounded kind. She threw some water on her face, trying to make her heart stop racing. She couldn’t stay like this, she couldn’t.

Snuffling slightly, she moved a little closer to the door, tried to catch her breath. “I have to . . . I have to testify.”

On the other side of the door, Cormac blinked. He wished he could go inside, hold her, tell her everything was going to be all right. But he didn’t know this person. He didn’t know her at all. Instead, he found himself saying, “Oh yeah. Innit?” Then wincing all the more.

“I . . . It should be straightforward. Just . . . just say what happened.”

“Yeah, that sounds awright.”

“And . . . I’m just so scared.”

“Wot ’appened, then?” said Cormac. “Tell me . . . duck.”

He wasn’t at all sure about “duck.”

“Weren’t rude or nuffin’?”

Lissa slumped to sit down, her back to the door. Cormac sat down too, his back on the other side, separated only by a few centimeters of wood.

“Oh . . . no,” she said, half smiling. “No, nuffin’ rude.”

She squeezed her eyes together. A kind stranger on the other side of the door . . .

“Sorry, do you really need the bathroom?” she said, suddenly gripped by the worry that it might be an actual wheelchair user outside.

“You’re awright, luv,” said Cormac, begging himself to stop talking.

There was a pause. And somehow, Lissa found her heart rate slowing a little, as everything went quiet.

“I just have to tell them . . .” Lissa began.

Cormac pressed his head against the door to hear her better.

“I just have to say . . . that I saw the boys shouting and arguing. And then I saw the car. And the man in the car. And I saw him hit the boy. That’s it. That’s all I have to say. That’s all . . .”

Her voice caught as she saw once again the phone whipping through the air, heard the hideous clunk of Kai’s head on the concrete.

“Yeah,” said Cormac. “You can do that. You can tell the truth. Telling the truth should feel easy.”

“I saw . . . I saw the car come round,” said Lissa again, her voice still wavering. “I saw it come round too fast. I saw the color of it. I saw it.”

“Yeah,” said Cormac, more encouraging now.

“I saw it hit . . . I saw it hit the boy. I saw it. I saw him. I saw him hit the boy, and Kai . . . Kai’s . . . the boy’s . . . Kai’s phone. Went up. In the air. I saw it. And he went up, he was thrown up, and . . . and he killed him. I saw it. I did. I saw it. I was there.”

“’Scuse me.”

Cormac blinked, the spell broken, and looked up. A large girl with a lot of straw-colored blond hair and a crop top that seemed slightly unusual in a court situation was glaring at him.

“Need to use this loo.”

She didn’t seem obviously disabled, but Cormac knew better than to judge that. On the other side of the door, Lissa had gone totally silent, just, Cormac thought, as she needed to speak up.

“There’s just someone in,” said Cormac. “Is it urgent?”

“Fuck off,” said the girl.

There was a slightly awkward standoff. Cormac stood up carefully. “Could you just give us a minute?”

“No,” said the girl. “I’m gluten intolerant?”

“Oh,” mumbled Cormac. “Oh, okay, I see . . .”

On the other side of the door, Lissa struggled to hear what was going on outside. She had been so caught up in the moment. She stood up and threw some more water on her face.

Oddly, she felt better. She’d said it. Aloud. She’d said it, seen it in her head as she spoke aloud.

Even talking to a stranger—or perhaps exactly because she had been talking to a stranger—had let her say the words out loud, the words she needed to say; to prepare to point the finger she needed to point, to get justice for the Mitchells, to see justice be done without letting anyone down.

She decided to open the door, thank the odd chap who’d been there, start to move back . . . Roisin must be wondering where she was; she’d left her phone on the table. And her bag. She couldn’t decide if your handbag would be safer in a crown court or much less safe.