‘How is the trial?’ I ask.
‘They seem to waste so much time arguing over what evidence is admissible and not admissible. The jury gets sent out. The judge makes a ruling. Then they troop back in again.’
She adjusts her hair. ‘Stacey Dobson gave evidence yesterday. She’s the sister of Gary Dobson - one of the accused. The day before the firebombing she made a complaint to the police that she’d been raped. She said four men had lured her into a van and taken her to a house. They were asylum seekers and she named Marco Kostin.’
‘And they raped her?’
‘No, she made it all up. She and Marco were sweet on each other. They’d been out a few times.’
‘Why would she make up a story like that?’
‘Stacey thought she was going to get into trouble for staying out late. Her parents were angry. They called the police and Stacey was too frightened to recant. Eventually she told the truth, but Marco’s house was firebombed the next night.’
‘As payback.’
‘That’s what the prosecution is arguing.’
Julianne notices Charlie sitting at the top of the stairs and quickly changes the subject. ‘The girls have eaten. There are leftovers if you’re hungry.’ Raising her voice slightly, ‘Charlie should be doing her homework.’
She glances up the stairs again. Empty now.
A car pulls up outside. Harry drives a black Lexus, which he replaces every year. Julianne grabs her handbag but stops before she reaches the door.
‘My pashmina - I left it on the bed.’
‘I’ll get it.’
‘No, I’ll go.’
She hurries upstairs while I watch Harry get out of his car and adjust his trousers, touching his hair. The Lexus lights up from every corner as the central locking engages.
He rings the doorbell. I don’t want to talk to him but Julianne hasn’t returned.
‘Harry.’
‘Joseph.’
A touch of concern appears in his eyes, like a slight fever.
‘Julianne won’t be a moment. She’s getting something upstairs.’
‘Right. Good.’ He rocks on his heels. ‘This is a little embarrassing.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, you know . . . you being here.’
‘It’s still my house, Harry.’
‘Of course.’
I step to one side, allowing him in, trying to sound relaxed and friendly, when in reality I want to take a swing at his jaw or sink my fist into his stomach, which looks soft and flabby.
Maybe I should warn him about Julianne’s little foibles - how she likes dunking chocolate biscuits in her tea and how she always has to wear something blue, and that when she plays Monopoly she insists on being the boot.
Harry hasn’t asked to see the owner’s manual. He doesn’t know that she likes having her feet massaged and hates having her earlobes licked. That she thinks all professional sport is manufactured drama with overpaid actors and trying to explain the offside rule with salt and pepper shakers, silverware and a loud voice is not going to make it any easier for her to understand.
Why should I? Why should I give him any help at all?
Harry’s hair is neatly parted on the right and I can smell his aftershave.
‘She’s great, isn’t she?’ he says, referring to Julianne.
I can’t believe it. He wants to talk about my wife. When he’s known her for twenty-six years and been married to her for twenty - then we can talk.
‘She shouldn’t be long,’ I say. ‘She’s just taking her medication.’
‘Medication? Is she ill?’
‘No, of course not, not really.’ I lower my voice. ‘She doesn’t like to talk about it. Upsets her.’ I glance up the stairs. ‘You could do me a favour.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Don’t let Julianne order dessert. See if you can talk her out of it. It’s the sugar. She craves it but she shouldn’t have any. Too much and . . .’
‘What?’
I hold a finger to my lips. ‘It’s not a big deal - just keep her away from the dessert trolley.’
Harry nods. ‘I will. Definitely.’
He looks positively grateful, eager to help. I should feel guilty. Jealousy is a terrible thing. I know all the psychological triggers. The fear of losing control, the fear of loss, the fear of abandonment, neglect and loneliness . . . But the most destructive thing about jealousy is that it kills what it values - the love you want to save won’t survive the constraints of jealousy. There is no entitlement. Love is either equal or a tragedy.
Julianne appears. The pashmina is wrapped around her shoulders. She smiles at Harry and looks at me questioningly.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Fine.’
‘Don’t let Emma stay up to late.’
‘I won’t.’
‘That was pretty weird,’ says Charlie, appearing on the stairs again. She’s dressed in her flannelette pyjamas, a pair so stretched at the waist they hang on her hips. ‘Did you want to hit him?’
‘Why would I want to hit Harry?’
‘Isn’t that what boys do when they’re jealous?’
‘No, not always. Hardly ever. And I’m not jealous.’
‘So you’re OK?’
‘I’m good.’
She gives me the same sort of questioning look I got from her mother. Leaning against the wall, I close my eyes and try not to picture Julianne and Harry in the car, in conversation.
‘So what do you think of Harry?’ I ask.
She shrugs. ‘He’s okay, I guess. He cooks Coca-Cola-flavoured chicken and has a cool car.’
‘Coca-Cola-flavoured chicken?’
‘It tastes better than it sounds.’ She hesitates, tugging at her bottom lip with her front teeth. ‘He’s not a loser, Dad.’
At that moment I feel something stretch and break inside me. Not something vital or essential, but a single strand that floats broken in the wake of Charlie’s words.
Emma wanders out of her room. She wants a story. This will mean reading two stories and making a third one up involving stuffed animals and the ‘tickling spider’ that lives in my pocket.
Later, when she’s finally asleep, Charlie and I watch a movie which isn’t age appropriate according to the British Board of Film Classification, but a few swear words and a token fight won’t scar her emotionally. The elephant in the room is Sienna. Charlie hasn’t mentioned her but I know she wants to ask.
The credits are rolling. She stares at her feet.
‘Kids were talking yesterday.’
‘At school?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What were they saying?’
‘That Sienna has been charged with murder.’
‘That’s true.’
Charlie shakes her head adamantly. ‘She didn’t do it.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Yes, I do. She was scared of her dad. She didn’t like him. But she wouldn’t kill him.’
‘People don’t always do what we expect.’
I’m thinking of Julianne and not Sienna.
Charlie hikes up her pyjamas. ‘Are you going to help her?’
‘There’s nothing I can do.’
‘Yes, you can.’
‘It’s not as simple as that.’
‘But you know people.’ She wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her pyjamas. Still they shine. ‘You can find the person who did it.’
‘I’m not a detective.’
I know what she’s suggesting, but she’s asking too much.
‘You’re tired. Go to bed. Get some sleep.’
I hear the stairs creak as she climbs them. She pauses on the landing, speaking in a stage whisper.
‘Goodnight, Dad.’
15
Perched on the edge of the Bristol Channel, surrounded by nineteen acres of grounds and ringed by trees and an iron-spiked fence, Oakham House is called a Regional Secure Unit. In the old days it would have been an asylum or a special hospital, but no matter what label they assign it now, the stigma remains.