The Things You Didn't See(72)

Daniel. In his smart suit, with his dark looks. So handsome, so controlled, and I see women in the public gallery pointing him out to each other, wondering if they dare ask for a selfie with him later. But what they can’t see is that his leg is shaking, jiggling up and down.

There’s movement, a door is opened and Dad is led to the witness box. He slides into the wooden seat, head high and I notice the web of broken veins across his nose and cheeks that redden his skin. His nose, prominent on his face, is fleshy and broad. A weathered face: no mistaking that this is a man who works the land in all seasons. Whatever grief he feels, he’s keeping it held in.

The excited chatter in the public gallery gathers momentum, and I see Alfie Avon exchange a few words with Dave Feakes, who looks sullen, seated on the end of the row. Whatever Alfie’s asking, no doubt seeking some sensational headline linking this case to the Port Authority’s desire to buy our farm, Feakes isn’t inclined to answer.

Victoria fidgets, shuffles her black skirt lower over her knees. She’s wearing her school uniform, but without the tie, the only suitable clothes she had. She’ll probably wear the same outfit at your funeral. She watches the activity in the gallery.

‘Look, Mum,’ she says, tugging my sleeve, ‘it’s Ash!’

I look up, see him take a seat in the back row beside the woman who runs the Spar shop in the village. Dad has noticed too, gives him a sorrowful nod. An intimate moment passes between them and I feel a pang of envy, then anger. He should be in the witness box, not Dad. My scar itches under my blouse, as if sending confirmation.

Then I notice Holly, taking a seat in the public gallery, but in the corner. She gives me a small smile, which I return. She’s here for me, sending me support across the room.

Rupert Jackson appears, like an actor stepping onto a stage, striding to the front desk – in his element here. In seconds, the usher says, ‘All rise, please’, and from a door at the back of the room, three magistrates appear: two men in suits and one lady in pearls. We all stand, waiting for them to take their seats beneath the crest and Latin motto, the woman in the middle.

Dad’s poise deserts him, his face pales and even from here I can see him shaking. I notice he’s wearing the checked shirt he’s worn to farmers’ conventions and a badly fitting navy jacket – an expensive one I don’t recognise.

‘Where did he get that jacket?’ I ask Daniel, in a hushed whisper.

‘It’s mine. I took it when I went to visit.’

I turn and stare at him, thinking again how little I know this man. How many more secrets does he have? He keeps looking ahead, to where the action has begun.

Dad watches Mr Jackson as he would an untested bull just released into a field of cows: everything depends on his performance.

Rupert Jackson begins, his plummy, over-loud voice, punctuating every sentence with Your Worships, and Madam, referring exclusively to the woman in the middle, who I gather is the most important. She’s the only one who looks up; the men are writing with their heads bent. He points me out as he explains the bail application, using more words than needed, enjoying the moment.

I realise that I won’t have to say anything. My very presence, the fact of me sitting here, is enough to suggest that I want Dad home and that I’ll look after him.

Dad holds himself still, looking ahead. Only his gnarled right hand moves, shaking hard until he grips onto the balustrade to steady himself.

The magistrates don’t even retire to decide their course of action. The two men whisper to the woman, she speaks to each, nods, then finally she asks Dad to stand.

‘Hector Hawke, you will be bailed to your daughter’s home. Bail conditions are that you must attend all appointments with Dr Clive Marsh, take any medication prescribed and co-operate with the sleep tests both at home and the hospital. Your case will be committed to the Crown Court for trial, and you will await notice of this date.’

Just like that, it’s over.

And then it isn’t. We’re outside, on the court steps, and there’s a circus around us. Dad’s in the centre of our family circle, hands bunched into fists, blinking in the daylight, but so is Alfie Avon.

‘How does it feel to be free?’ he shouts. ‘What will happen to the farm now?’

Cameras click, people push, there’s too much noise.

Holly’s trying to catch us up, but the crowd are seeping around us, a human barrier. Alfie Avon turns to her. ‘What do you make of what just happened, Holly? Any comment?’

She catches my eye, shakes her head at Alfie, but it’s enough for me to understand: he knows her, they’ve spoken. Why didn’t she tell me this?

I’ll follow you home, she mouths, over the heads of the crowd.

Then Avon turns to Daniel, his voice raised above the chatter of other reporters. ‘If it isn’t The Samphire Master himself. Is there any truth in the rumour that Maya wasn’t as well as you said on your radio show? That your claims to cure cancer are just a big con?’

It’s too much, and Daniel lunges forward, ready to punch Avon. Jackman is quicker though, pulling him back, just before Daniel’s fist meets Avon’s jaw. Avon pulls the ugliest, most joyous grin and I see that he wants Daniel to hit him, how perfect that would be for his next article.

‘Temper, temper!’ he crows. ‘Doesn’t that meditation work either, then?’