Blood Sisters(71)

So he does believe me. I can see Robin is hurt. We might not have been boyfriend and girlfriend. But there’s a fine line between love and friendship.

And that’s when I realize something else. People are wrong when they say teenage cuts are the worst. It’s the middle-aged ones that hurt the most. Why? Because there’s been time for both parties to contemplate the reasons and effects. For them to sink ever deeper.

Robin is writing more things down now with a fountain pen. Its nib scratches on the paper. Every word that I am saying is also being recorded. I won’t be able to tear it up, as I did my forced confession.

‘When I first came to see you professionally, I asked if you were allowed to represent me.’ I swallow. ‘You said you could, providing there wasn’t a conflict of interest. Does it matter that you were at the party too?’

‘No,’ says Robin curtly. ‘I didn’t see the … the alleged offence so it’s all right.’

There’s a deeply awkward silence. Then he speaks again. More quietly. ‘At the trial,’ says Robin, ‘Crispin said that you and your sister were “scuffling around” right in front of the car. But you said you were both simply crossing the road.’

I can hardly talk. But I have to.

‘I lied. Like I said just now, I pushed Kitty. I was so angry with her. You know what she was like. But I didn’t mean …’

This time he seems to believe me. Robin’s face is stunned with shock, yet my shoulders feel lighter than they have for years. The relief is so great that it’s as though I’ve lanced a boil. And then, all at once, comes a terrifying feeling of foreboding.

Robin starts to speak and then stops as though something is stuck in his throat. Then he starts again. ‘Did you see the car coming when you pushed her?’

My chest is so tight that I can hardly get the words out. ‘Yes. No. I’m not sure. It’s all such a blur. But I do know I didn’t want to hurt her.’

He is staring into space. Then he makes a noise. It could be a groan. It might be a sigh. Either way, it doesn’t sound good. ‘You do realize that lying to a court means you could go to prison.’

Haven’t I been telling myself that every day since it happened?

Robin’s fingers are tapping urgently on the desk. I have a sudden memory of him doing that at school. He talks rapidly now, as though speaking to himself. ‘Crispin was driving too fast. But he could have argued that your pushing was a crucial factor. And this might have led to a shorter sentence if you had told the truth. But from your point of view, the fact that he raped you could be a mitigating circumstance for your untruthfulness.’

I cannot face him. Instead, I stare at the certificates on the wall. But the silence when he finishes is deafening. I turn back again.

Robin is now scratching his chin, the way I remember. Running his hands through his hair, just as he had when trying to solve a mathematical problem.

‘We may have a defence that could work.’ His voice is tight. As though he is wary of me, despite the ‘mitigating’ circumstances. Yet his face suggests a certain sympathy. This was my friend, I remind myself. The only person who understood me as a teenager.

‘Really?’ I don’t know whether to feel hopeful or not. I glance away. Then back again because there’s no escape from his face. ‘I’m sorry. For everything.’

He’s about to say something. But then the phone rings. ‘Yes?’

The old Robin never used to bark like that.

‘Tell her I’ll be out in a minute.’ Then he gets up. ‘I’ve got to talk to someone. I’m afraid you’ll need to make another appointment. There’s a lot more we need to discuss.’

‘I’ll do it when I’m home,’ I murmur. ‘When I’ve got my diary.’

As soon as he leaves his office, I reach for my mobile. There’s only one person in my current world who might just understand.

Please be in, I pray.

He picks up on the seventh ring.

‘It’s me,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been able to return your calls. But I need to see you now. I’m in trouble.’

‘It’s all right,’ says Lead Man in that deep reassuring voice. ‘Tell me where you are. And I’ll come and get you.’

I’d never brought anyone back home apart from Mum. But there’s nowhere else I want to go. Or anyone else I want to be with.

He doesn’t ask questions. It’s as if he knows I don’t want to talk. Instead, he just helps my shaking body in through the door and carefully steers me to the sofa.

Then he finds the kettle without being asked and brings me a mug of coffee. ‘I brought some brandy with me,’ he said. ‘I know you don’t drink, but you need something.’

I don’t argue. Instead, I sip it gratefully, the Indian sofa throw draped around my shoulders. I want him to sit next to me but he is looking around my flat.

‘Is this you?’

He picks up a picture of me next to my sister in our navy blue uniform. It’s on top of a stack of photographs which Mum had brought round on her last visit because she thought I might ‘like’ them for ‘old times’ sake’. What I’d really like is to throw them out, but I can’t quite bring myself to do so. Besides, what if Mum asks where they are?