Conviction, p.27
Conviction, page 27
‘You’re knackered, aren’t you?’
I force a smile. ‘Exhausted.’
‘Why don’t you go up to bed? The telly will be naff anyway. I’ll call Hannah in a bit and then I’ll come up and join you.’
‘You sure?’ I ask, my tone tinged with relief. ‘That won’t make me horrendously boring?’
He comes over and kisses my hair. ‘You could never be boring.’
I tug his T-shirt as he goes to pull away, and bring him closer to me. Our lips meet. Soft, familiar, tasting of wine.
‘You’re an amazing man, you know that?’
‘I try,’ he replies with a wink, kissing me again before returning to his game.
As Matthew putts the ball with the same wince-inducing sounds, I head up the stairs for bed, silently praying that tonight is the night I sleep straight through. But even as I lie in bed, I can hear each tap of the ball echoing up from the floor below, chipping away at my hold on myself; a chisel working its way into a crack until I finally burst open.
Please, for the love of God. I just want to go to sleep.
* * *
I release a hot, ragged scream.
I am holding a golf club above my head and straddling a man in the dark.
I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what I’m doing. Only that I’m terrified. A church bell is sounding from somewhere; a deep, sombre song that makes me flinch with each note.
A swirling shriek of noise screams from behind me, terrifying me in the dark, followed by an explosion of colour on the other side of the window. The man kicks out beneath me, tugging violently at the clothes covering my chest. He shouts something through the noise, and I feel his hand lunge for my neck. I swing the club back and bring it down with a scream as the church bell rings out.
Gong.
Thwack.
Gong.
Thwack.
Gong.
Thwack.
The church bells stop ringing after twelve tolls to ring in midnight, and I pant for breath, my face and body splattered with blood, the metallic taste of him in my mouth. Fireworks light up the sky on the other side of the window, bathing us in red, blue, white. With each flash, I see more of my surroundings. I’m on the landing. The walls are painted with violent swipes of blood, sprayed along the ceilings. My clothes are covered in it. Below me is a man. His face is mangled; wet, fleshy pulp flashing with each explosion. The hand that had been tugging at me releases its grip, and falls to the floor with a lifeless thud, as a ragged breath bubbles out of his mouth, and I spot the wedding ring on his finger.
I recognise that wedding ring.
And then everything goes dark.
* * *
I wake up in bed, my eyes flickering open to the distant sound of the bell tower.
The nightmare I had comes back to me all at once. The blood. The violence. The terrifying confusion I’d felt, totally at a loss as to what was happening, and the horror I’d felt as I recognised Matthew’s wedding ring, just before I woke.
My heart is pattering fast in my chest at the thought. I’ve never had a dream so visceral in my life. I instinctively reach for Matthew on his side of the bed so that I can pull in close to him, feel his warmth and kiss the nape of his neck in sweet apologies for thinking such a vile thing, even if it was against my will. I paw his side of the bed blindly.
Matthew isn’t there.
I frown in the dark, and perch on my elbow to peer at the clock on the nightstand.
It’s just turned three.
Where the hell is he?
And then I feel it. The wet, sticky substance on the sheets.
I reach for the lamp on the side, flick the switch, and freeze.
Blood. So much blood. It is splattered across the white bedding in violent splashes. There are lashes of it up my arms; my hands are smothered in it.
The headboard begins to shiver against the wall from my violent shaking.
‘Matthew?’
My voice echoes through the open doorway, followed by nothing but silence and the incessant racing of my pulse pounding in my ears.
I peel back the sheet, feeling where it has stuck to me with blood. I am completely covered in it: frenzied splashes dashed across me in all different directions. The skin on my face feels dry, and I reach up to inspect it with my fingertips and find more there, dried on me in flecks.
I stumble out of bed, flattening myself against the wardrobe doors, unable to shake the fear throttling the air out of me to make sense of the scene.
‘Matthew?’ I call, and look to the open doorway, longing to hear his reply. He had a nose bleed in the night, that’s what he’ll say. He has just gone downstairs for supplies to clean up the mess.
A minute passes with no response. Then another.
I force myself away from the wardrobe door and walk shakily into the hall, heading for the stairs to call down to him, when I step in a wet spot on the carpet.
I look down and see dark blood soaked into the carpet.
This isn’t happening This isn’t happening I’m still dreaming
I reach a quivering hand towards the light switch on the wall, and flick on the light.
That’s when I see Matthew, lying in the same spot he had in my dream. His face is crushed as it had been. The blood is splashed up the walls in the same frenzied pattern. The golf club I’d held is beside him, smothered red with blood, the end tufted with skin and hair.
My knees buckle and I hit the floor with a thud, as a scream works up my throat. I clamp my hands over my mouth and bellow.
I stare at his body; the animalistic groans claw out of from my chest and the tears leak from my eyes, as the truth slowly sinks in.
It wasn’t a dream.
PART III The Defence
Day Four
43
Imagine going to sleep and dreaming up the most terrifying moment of your life. A dream where you’re in the dark, fighting against an unknown assailant, struck by the instinctual need to protect yourself. To fight and hit and scream, pummelling the man to death to the call of the church bells ringing out Midnight Mass. You wake up with a pounding heart, relieved to escape such a dark, imaginary place. Then you realise it wasn’t a dream at all. You wake with no recollection of what led you to such violence, and no control over your own autonomy. No clarity. No answers. All you have is the bloody aftermath and your husband’s body ground to a pulp on the hallway floor.
The aftermath is almost as much of a blur as the violence. I wasn’t thinking logically, but instinctively. People often imagine how they would act in a desperate situation such as this. I can see them now, watching a crime drama on the television of an evening, shouting profanities at the protagonist as they take the wrong turn. If they were me, they would do everything right. They would call the police. They would contact a lawyer. They would act rationally. Perhaps that sort of response might be expected of me because of my work. My entire role is to be concise, controlled, level-headed. But the truth is, there is nothing rational about waking up to find you have murdered your husband. You cannot think clearly as you wash your loved one’s blood from your face, with little memory of how it came to get there but for flashes in a dream.
There was a brief moment in which logic prevailed: as I knelt beside Matthew’s body, I began to type out the number for emergency services. The first nine, then the second. Then I thought of Hannah. She would hate me for what I had done. How could she not? I would not only lose the love of my life, but the only family I have ever known, the same family I had craved ever since I can remember. I would be thrown in prison for something I would never do while awake, punished for an act I never wanted to commit, with no one missing me on the other side of the prison walls.
So, I acted irrationally.
I buried the body. I bleached every wall and surface, ripped up the carpet and bleached the stained boards below, before sanding them down, and laying the new roll of carpet myself, after painting the walls and ceiling. I hid the club, the spade. I tried to hide the memories within me too. As the whole street celebrated Christmas, I spent three days working to cover my tracks, redecorating the hall as we had planned, making sure nothing looked out of place, all the time concocting my lies while I worked. If I had done the right thing and called the police, I wouldn’t be in this position now.
Matthew and I had an argument, that’s what I would tell the police. I packed a duffel bag of his clothes, toiletries and medication, and placed them in the boot of his car. I told the police I thought he had left to stay at his mother’s the night of our argument, which was vacant while she was away with family, and it was only when I finally picked up the phone three days later and Maggie asked to speak to him that I realised he hadn’t been seen for all that time, and I discovered his bag in the car. The three days he was supposedly missing gave me time to cover my tracks, to work on my alibi as closely as possible, digging myself a deeper hole the more I plotted, until I saw no way out but to continue on with my lies. I worked to conceal my husband’s murder while those around me were distracted with Christmas celebrations; holding their loved ones close as I buried mine.
And the rest, as they say, is history.
Now I am here, finally paying for what I have done; all of the mayhem I have caused thereafter. Fredrick, Melanie: more blood, which would never have been shed had I faced the consequences of what I had done. I would never have met Melanie – her obsession with the missing person’s case wouldn’t have been born. I wouldn’t have met Fredrick at Blackfriars Station on that cold winter’s day. I would have never met Wade Darling, or been sucked into the Messenger’s game.
My mind spins as I think of all the lies I have told. Lies, upon lies, upon lies. It’s easy for a person to lose who they are among them after so long; fact and fiction bleeding together as one. Because once made, the lies can never stop being told. That is, unless I finally tell the truth.
Before I make any plans, I need to make sure Hannah is safe from the Messenger, should he retaliate. I reach for my phone and call Maggie.
‘Yes?’ she asks pointedly.
‘Is Hannah okay?’ I ask.
‘She left your house in tears. What do you think?’
I bite down on my lip. Now is not the time to argue with her.
‘Maggie, I need you and Hannah to get away for a bit.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You both need to leave London. Just until the trial is over.’
She scoffs. ‘And why on earth would we do that?’
‘Because those close to me are a security risk right now.’
She pauses.
‘At risk from who?’
‘People are very invested in this trial, and they won’t like it if my client succeeds. They may want to retaliate. If you won’t do this for me, please – do it for Hannah.’
As my words sink in, I cradle the phone to me, silently willing her to shed her usual stubbornness and to listen.
‘This all sounds a little dramatic…’ she says.
‘It isn’t.’
She falls quiet again. I stand listening to my pulse racing in my ears.
‘Perhaps you could stay with your sister,’ I say.
‘I’ll decide where we go, thank you,’ she snaps. But my racing chest eases with relief; she is considering it.
‘So you’ll do it?’
I listen to her breathing on the other end of the line.
‘For Hannah, yes.’
She hangs up the phone and I close my eyes, rub my temples.
Hannah will be safe.
I look at the clock on the wall. I haven’t long before it’s time to lay out the defence’s case. Before Wade himself steps into the box. Hannah will be safe now, at least for a while, until I plan my next steps. But first, I must focus on the matter at hand.
It’s time I set the record straight and give my client the fair trial he deserves.
It’s time I stop running from my past, and pay for the consequences of my crimes.
44
Wade enters the witness box, pale and visibly shaken as he gives his oath. Every pair of eyes will be on him: judging him, condemning him. They have heard of his alleged crimes in gruesome detail; many will have decided on his guilt before he has even opened his mouth.
I stand in the courtroom feeling surprisingly calm, despite the course I am about to take. The Messenger sits behind me in the public gallery, expecting me to condemn my client. I wonder how much time will pass before he realises I have changed tack. How long it will take for him to set the wheels in motion to expose my crimes.
Wade raises the plastic cup of water to his lips, the liquid jumping about until it drips from the rim.
‘I understand that this is going to be very difficult for you, Mr Darling, so I will go through this as quickly as I can. It is not easy to stand where you are today. Do you need more water?’
I want him to appear almost child-like in the eyes of the jury. He is someone who needs attention and care; the polar opposite of the man they will have imagined he’d be after hearing of his alleged crimes.
He shakes his head. ‘No, thank you.’
I look down at my notes, allowing this idea to take hold: he is not the monster they imagined. The tension drags out until it is unbearable. What I am about to do will change everything. For my client’s case. For me, and the objective I have been given by the men staring into the back of me from the public gallery. Once I do this, there is no going back.
I brace myself and look up towards the witness box.
‘When did you learn of your wife’s affair with your business partner, Mr Darling?’
Several gasps break from the public gallery, muttered conversations breaking out until the judge has to call for quiet. During the commotion, I glance towards Niall at the other end of the bench. The smirk has been wiped from his face. I daren’t look behind me towards the Messenger.
Wade clears his throat, and the room falls silent.
‘About six months before the fire,’ he says. ‘An employee raised concerns about two mobile phones on the work plan that didn’t appear to be assigned to any particular employees. She had accessed the call logs as the representative of the company who had organised the phone plan, and discovered… unprofessional messages.’
‘What constitutes unprofessional messages, Mr Darling?’
He looks down at his hands, his cheeks blushing pink.
‘They were of a sexual nature.’
A nervous cough from the gallery. It never surprises me, the reactions the mention of sex in court will bring. We talk about blood, murder, a ream of injustices, and yet sex is what makes the British public the most uncomfortable.
‘And who did these phones – these messages – belong to?’
‘My wife, Yolanda, and my business partner, Alex Finch.’
I turn to my attention to the jury and ask them to open their evidence packs. As they turn the pages, I pick up my copy of the call log and read the text messages aloud.
‘ “I want to fuck you on top of his desk” Alex wrote on the fifteenth of September, 2015. Yolanda replied three minutes later with, “There is glass, people will see.” To which Alex replied immediately, “I want them to see.” Whose desk are they referring to in these messages, Mr Darling?’
‘Mine.’
The room is hanging off our every word.
‘How did this make you feel?’ I ask softly.
‘I was devastated.’
‘Were you angry?’
‘Yes. I think anyone would be.’
‘Did you ever think of hurting Yolanda, for betraying you?’
‘No,’ he replies sternly. ‘I was angry for the children’s sake, and I was deeply hurt, but I’m not that kind of man.’
‘What did you do then, when you discovered their affair?’
He pauses, emotion welling in his eyes.
‘I just… let it happen.’
‘You didn’t say anything to your wife or Mr Finch?’
‘No. I had to protect my children and my business. I couldn’t let their affair destroy everything we had. They were being reckless; one of us needed to hold the fort.’
‘That’s very admirable of you, Mr Darling.’
I take a moment to collect myself as I flush hot beneath my robes. Whenever I ask a question, I think of Mr Viklund in the public gallery, planning on how he will make me pay for this. I fight the urge to dab at the sweat gathering beneath the rim of my wig.
‘How did keeping this secret impact you? Knowing the affair was going on right under your nose?’
‘I fell into a deep depression. However hard I tried to hold things together, I could feel myself losing my wife, and the business was failing under our broken leadership. Through it all, I hoped and prayed that Yolanda would see sense. That whatever phase she was going through would pass. That she would come back to me.’
‘And did she?’
He smiles softly.
‘Yes, she did.’
Another pause. A juror shuffles noisily in their seat, the wood creaking beneath them. I can see Wade’s testimony is getting under their skin; many of their faces have softened towards him.
‘When did this reconciliation happen?’ I ask.
His smile falls.
‘The night of the fire.’
You could hear a pin drop in this room. The pluck of a hair, popping in the silence.
‘You reconciled the night Yolanda and your children died?’
‘Yes. The business was going under, and our marriage seemed to be hanging by a tether. I had been trying to hold down the fort, hoping things would work out in time, but things were too far gone. I had planned to confront her, but I didn’t need to. She came to me and confessed to the affair, and that it was over. She wanted to try and make our marriage work.’
‘And you took her back?’
‘Without question.’
I look to the jury, make eye contact with the front row, before returning my attention to Wade.
‘You didn’t hold anything against her? You didn’t at least give her a hard time?’
