On the fourth day both barristers summed up their cases to the jury. The barrister for the prosecution took the minimum time that he decently could to outline what he clearly saw as a very weak argument. He was undoubtedly expecting an acquittal. Her own barrister, however, proceeded slowly and methodically. The argument that had been overheard by the neighbour was, he said, utterly trivial. No reasonable man could believe it would be the motive for a murder. It could be true that somebody had put sleeping tablets into the omelette but, if so, could the jury really be certain who had done it? He rather thought not. People did commit suicide unexpectedly. And if the manner of this suicide was odd, surely the decision to end one’s own life was in itself perverse? Logic — and at this point he looked at the male members of the jury — dictated that they could not possibly convict. He had strutted back to his seat, head held high.
Margaret watched her almost-all-women jury return to their room to deliberate.
“So how long until I get acquitted?” asked Margaret. “I need to get to the travel agents. I want to book a flight to Bhutan.”
“We can’t be certain...” said her barrister.
“Nine out of twelve of them are completely on my side,” said Margaret. “I know that much.”
“You haven’t had any contact with the jurors?” asked the barrister, frowning. “That would mean that the jury would have to be dismissed, and you and they would be in contempt of court—”
“Chill,” said Margaret. It was what her children said to her. It sounded cool. “Chill the beans, barrister.”
“Just so long as you haven’t...”
Margaret looked at him with amused contempt.
“Of course not,” she said.
“Well,” said the barrister, “if they reach a verdict in the first half hour or so it almost certainly means you have been found not guilty. The longer they take, the more doubters there must be and the less certain we are.”
It took the jury ten minutes.
“Guilty,” said the foreman of the jury.
The two barristers exchanged puzzled glances.
“But...” said Margaret. She didn’t quite hear what the judge said thereafter. She was expecting the foreman to suddenly smile and shake her head and say: “Oh, sorry, did I say guilty? What am I like? I meant of course...” But she didn’t. One or two of the jurors smiled apologetically. The judge finished speaking. The jury filed out. Margaret was taken back to the cells.
As she walked along a dingy corridor a jolly ringtone announced a text message. She took out her phone and read it.
You have the sympathy of the whole jury, it said. We’d have murdered the bastard for that too.
Nemo Me Impune Lacessit
Denise Mina
God, they were tired. Long-term tired. Give-up tired. Jake’s loud singing was drawing the eyes of everyone in the street to them.
“The cas-TLE! Cas-TLE! Casss-TLE!”
Audrey wasn’t enforcing his rigid behavioural program properly anymore. It wasn’t changing anything. She had even stopped forcing his medication into him. She was so tired.
Jake was eleven and didn’t sleep. He skulked around the house at night. He stood at the end of their bed for hours, staring at them. They had installed CCTV in their room and saw him do it. One morning they found a hammer at the end of the bed. When they watched the recording back they saw him practice-swing it at Audrey’s head and laugh to himself. They installed pressure alarms on Jake’s bed after that to wake them when he got up. Audrey knew it was coming to a head. She could feel it. They all could.
At the top of the hill a man in full Braveheart costume crossed in front of them, looking down at Jake’s loud singing. He had a blue Saltire flag painted on his face. Jake saw it and changed his shriek to “Blue-LOO-LOO-LOO.” He sang in soprano. As they approached the Royal Mile his voice was increasingly amplified by the high tenements.
Trailing behind Jake were six-year-old Simon and seven-year-old Hannah. His little brother and sister kept their hands deep into their pockets, their heads down. Audrey and Pete followed up the rear, both shamefaced and thinking the same thing: they should have kept Jake on his medication. The pills made him fat and tearful, he wet the bed more than usual and that made it hard for them to go away anywhere. Audrey had to corner him and pinch his nose to make him open his mouth. She had to force him to take them. She didn’t know if she could manage his behavioural problems anymore.
Years ago, when Jake tried to drown Simon in a paddling pool and laughed when they told him off, Audrey’s mum said: “He hasn’t got behavioural problems, he’s just a vicious little arsehole.”
Audrey had sobbed at that. Her mum cuddled her and cried with her and said no, sweetheart, look, he’ll grow out of it. If someone doesn’t kill him first. Ha ha. Have you considered exorcism?
Audrey stayed away from her mum now. Jake didn’t need any more negativity around him. He got enough of that at school. He’d killed the class gerbil, he hurt other children if he was left alone with them. Play dates and parties always ended unceremoniously. Only Audrey saw how isolated Jake was, how vulnerable. He was desperate for friends. He didn’t care what age they were. He was always wandering off when they were shopping, following children or adults. He seemed terribly alone and it would only get worse. She knew that.
At the end of the road Jake saw the castle, threw his head back and ululated, “CASTLULULULULULUL!”
Their last faint hope was that Jake would grow out of it. He had been on different types of medication, seen psychologists, psychiatrists, ministers, been on behavioural boot camps. When he beat the neighbour’s dog to death with a brick two years ago, social work moved him to a different school. They wanted him to go to a residential facility. Pete was keen but Audrey couldn’t send him away. Their last and only hope was that he would grow out of it.
“CASTLULULULUUUUUU!” Jake’s eyes were protruding. He was shaking. He was going to blow.
It was a busy street. Everyone was looking at Jake. His body was rigid, his blue hoodie was drawn tight around his intensely red face. Tourists were watching him, not judging, just interested in the mad singing boy. They had no idea how bad things were about to get.
Little Hannah put her arm out to stop her little brother from walking into Jake’s clawing radius. She grabbed Simon’s green hood, pulled him back down the hill to a safe zone. She looked imploringly back to her parents.
Audrey hurried over and knelt down in front of Jake. He looked feral, eleven but small. His eyes were wide and blank. He couldn’t see her. She leaned in, filling his field of vision with her face, and held him firmly by the shoulders.
“Jake, I need you to calm down.”
“CALM! CALMLULULULUL!” He ululated in her face. Spit flecked her eyelids.
“I need you to take a deep breath and caaaalm yourself down.”
Audrey moved her hands to his upper arms and held him tight, ready for a secure hold if he went for her. “Breathe in and out, in and out. Do it with me.” She breathed deeply, setting an example.
Sudden as a cat spotting a mouse, Jake focused on her face. “I fucking hate you, Mummy.”
“That’s it, breathe in.”
“I hate you.”
“And out.”
“I’ll bite you again.” He looked at the scar he had gnawed on her chin.
Audrey was very, very angry but she blinked it back. Jake was being provocative to get a strong reaction. She would only have to act calm for a short while because it was Pete’s turn to drag him back to the hotel and guard him while he had a tantrum in a stimulation-free environment.