‘Aha.’
‘Thomas McNiece would know, of course, that you were a prostitute?’
‘Aha. I said he kent.’
‘And you also said that the two of you were friends?’
‘I thocht so. Aha.’
‘In fact, so friendly that I understand that you and he had a drink together before you went for your shopping?’
‘Aha.’
‘And the night of fifth of October you willingly accompanied…’
‘Aye! Accompanied!’ Annie Wright cut in, only to be interrupted in her turn by the languid tones of the lawyer.
‘If I might finish? You willingly accompanied Mr McNiece up the stairs to his flat?’
‘Aha, I said I done that, but I didnae expect him tae attack us!’
‘So. You both had a drink together. Then he invited you up to this flat, knowing that you were a prostitute, and you willingly accompanied him there?’
‘Aye.’
‘Mr McNiece will tell the Court that you, his friend, agreed to have sex with him.’
‘I niver done.’
‘And that you willingly did have sex with him?’
‘How come then I got they twa keekers tryin’ to fight him oaf?’ Annie Wright interjected angrily.
‘I was coming to that, to your “injuries”,’ the QC replied smoothly, brushing imaginary dirt off her fall. ‘Mr McNiece will maintain that after the sexual intercourse had finished you demanded money from him. He declined to pay you, no question of payment ever having been discussed between you beforehand, and you physically attacked him. In the course of defending himself he lashed out, accidentally hitting you on the face.’
‘Rubbish! That’s rubbish!’ The witness shook her head and then said, plaintively, ‘Miss, if it wisnae rape then why d’ye think I’m here, eh? Why’d I go along wi’ the polis an’ all?’
Sylvia Longman smiled. Things were working out better than she could have hoped. ‘Mr McNiece’s evidence on this matter’, she said, ‘will be that these proceedings, or at least your part in them, arise as a result of your desire for revenge. Revenge for the “freebie”, I think it’s called. What would you say to that?’
‘Me?’ the witness sighed, recognising defeat. She tugged nervously on a chain around her neck, pressing a small, gold crucifix between the tips of her fingers. ‘Me? I’d say nothin’ to it. Nothin’ at a’. No point. Yous hae got it a’ worked oot.’
Only the well-dressed matron noticed the smirk that flickered momentarily across Thomas McNiece’s features. But the Judge immediately stopped his note-taking and replaced the cap on his fountain pen.
‘Ms Wright,’ he began in his sonorous baritone, ‘I need to be absolutely clear about this. Are you accepting Counsel’s suggestion that you complained about Mr McNiece raping you in order to get revenge on Mr McNiece?’
‘Naw, yer Honour. I wisnae the wan who reported it oanyway. It wis ma daughter, Diane. She got the ambulance an’ the polis came at the same time.’
Lord Culcreuch nodded his head. ‘So your position remains that you never consented to sexual intercourse with the man?’
‘Aha.’
‘And that no question of payment by him ever arose?’
‘Aha.’
‘And your explanation for your injuries is what, exactly?’
‘Like I said. He belted me when I wis tryin’ to get him oaf o’ me. He slapped me, ken, richt across ma face.’
The older lady, Mrs Bartholomew, listened intently to the Judge’s charge to the jury. Only with such guidance would she be able to discharge her duty properly. Conscientiously. The onus, or burden of proof, it had been explained, was on the Prosecution to establish beyond reasonable doubt, that the accused had engaged in sexual intercourse with the witness and without her consent. And after three whole days of listening, she thought, three utterly exhausting days, they had better get it right. Of course, it was far too late now. She had already missed her own ‘surprise’ birthday party, not to mention the promised theatre matinee. So, justice had better be damn well done.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of her closest neighbour doodling on a notepad. Some kind of motorbike or push-bike or other wheeled thing. Well, really! The lad looked too young, too immature, to be on jury service, fulfilling an important civic duty, and now appeared to be wilfully deaf to the guidance issuing from on high. Before she realised what she was doing, she surprised herself by releasing a loud ‘Tut, tut,’ only to be met with an amused grin and the closing of the pad.
Neither the dry address delivered by the Prosecutor nor the emotional appeal made by the female QC clarified anything for Mrs Bartholomew. And no wonder, she thought. She had, after all, heard all the evidence for herself, already formed her own impressions of the witnesses and knew exactly whom she believed. And, as importantly, whom she did not. But, of course, one could not be sure. How could one be unless one had been in the very room, at the very time, with the two individuals concerned? Had she been in the victim’s unhappy predicament she would have tried to fight off the Neanderthal and sustained bruising, abrasions and so on at his hands. A creature, she noticed, now so relaxed, that he appeared to be dozing during his own trial.
On the other hand, and there always was another hand, Mrs Wright was a self-confessed streetwalker. She would not be too choosy, and perhaps there had indeed been a misunderstanding. The accused’s version of events, it had to be accepted, was perfectly plausible and could account for everything, including the woman’s injuries.
But, she kept returning to it, it was Annie Wright whom she had believed. The prostitute’s fear, in the witness box, had been positively contagious. Watching her twisting and turning her poor, blotched hands, she herself had become apprehensive, on edge, afraid in fact. And nothing in the woman’s manner had suggested vengeance. It spoke far more eloquently of an unwillingness to participate in the proceedings, a clear reluctance to give evidence. In addition, the policewoman’s testimony about the victim’s shocked and distressed state immediately after the assault had seemed completely convincing. But again, that could be equally well explained away by the fight that McNiece spoke about. I’d be shocked if I’d been slapped in the face, however it happened, she thought. It was useless. She was going round and round in circles.
The discussion in the jury room was brief, hastened by the unspoken desire on everyone’s part to avoid, if at all possible, yet another unpalatable lunch courtesy of the Court Services. Yesterday’s macaroni sludge was still vivid in their memories. In any event, most of the jurors considered the case to be unprovable, as it amounted to no more than one person’s word against another’s.
However, to Mrs Bartholemew’s surprise, the scribbler boy argued passionately that the prostitute’s evidence should be believed, and tried to convince the others to accept, as he had, her account of her ordeal. In the face of increasingly voluble resistance from the other jurors, he pointed out her ill-concealed reluctance to play any part in the trial. She must have known, he said, that a working girl’s version of events would be viewed with scepticism. She appeared intelligent. For her, this would be a poor way of getting revenge. In fact, he said, she had spoken out not in order to get even, but to put a rapist behind bars.
‘No,’ the man with the food-stained jacket observed laconically, ‘she just miscalculated. Plenty of females better than her have done just the same, son.’
At last the longed for Silk Cut. Annie Wright leant against the statue of David Hume, a traffic cone sitting incongruously on his sculpted head and banging against it with each gust of wind. As she slowly inhaled, she felt calmer, almost as if she had, in some intangible way, regained control of her life. Of tomorrow, at least. Well, she thought, I’ve done what they wanted. Done my sodding duty, for all the good it has done me.