Her hands shook as she tried to light her cigarette. There was a breeze and so Daniel cupped his hand around it. When it was lit, she sucked hard before turning to him, deep frown lines cutting into her brow.
‘I know it’s hard on you, Charlotte, but think how it is for Sebastian. Right now every single person that gives evidence is castigating him.’
‘He’s my son. They’re castigating me too.’
‘You have to be strong. This is just the beginning. It’s only going to get worse.’
‘They shouldn’t be allowed to say such things,’ she said. ‘That I can’t control him; that I didn’t care when he threatened other kids. I wasn’t there when he tried to cut another child with a piece of glass.’
Her voice was shrill, her face crumbling. She seemed so old suddenly.
‘Try to remind yourself that when they stoop to things like this – bad character, hearsay – it’s because they need to. Their evidence is mainly circumstantial. With his school reports showing a history of aggression this was bound to come up, but try to remember that it doesn’t prove—’
‘I’m to blame – that’s what they are trying to say. This is to be my trial. Find him guilty and say it’s all my fault?’
Daniel reached out and squeezed Charlotte’s shoulder. ‘Nobody’s saying that …’
She turned away and when she turned back to take another drag from her cigarette, Daniel saw that she was crying. Her tears were black and they washed fragile white veins through her foundation.
‘You’re his mum,’ said Daniel. ‘He’s eleven years old and on trial for murder. It will affect the rest of his life. He needs you to be strong for him.’
The prison vans were huddled dark and forbidding in the courtyard. It reminded Daniel of the farm at night: the sheds where the animals were kept. The emergency exit door they had slipped out of banged in the wind.
‘Strong like you, you mean?’ she said, knuckle to her lower lids, careful not to smudge. She placed her palm on Daniel’s chest. Under his shirt, he felt his skin tingle at her touch. ‘Feel how strong you are.’
‘Charlotte,’ he whispered, taking a step back and feeling the building behind him. He smelled her heady perfume and then her cigarette breath. Her lips were millimetres from his own. A column of ash trembled and fell on to the lapel of her jacket. Daniel stood up straight and let the back of his head touch the outside wall.
She let her hand fall slowly and he felt her long nails on his lower abdomen. He tightened his stomach muscles, and, under his shirt, the skin of his stomach withdrew from her.
There was something almost abhorrent about her, eye makeup smudged, foundation thick over her pores, but he felt a flush of empathy.
‘Enough,’ he whispered. ‘Your son needs you.’
Charlotte moved back, chastened. She seemed almost heartbroken, although Daniel knew that it was not just this rejection which had crushed her. Her eyes were smudges, her yellow fingers shaking the butt to her lips. ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed.
She let the cigarette fall to the ground. Daniel held the door.
*
‘The Crown calls Geoffrey Rankine.’
Daniel watched the man stand and walk to the witness box. He seemed too tall for the courtroom, trousers skirting the tops of his shoes. He had neatly trimmed, receding hair and eyebrows that were perpetually raised. When he swore to tell the truth before God he had a slight smile on his lips.
‘Mr Rankine, you reported to the police that you witnessed two boys fighting in Barnard Park on the afternoon of 8 August. Is that correct?’
‘That’s correct. I’ve been watching the news since, and thinking if only I’d done something … ’ Rankine’s voice was apathetic.
‘You mention two sightings of the boys fighting in your statement of 8 August. When did each of these occur?’
‘It was about two in the afternoon the first time I saw them. I always take the dog out about then, just for a quick walk after lunch, let him do his business.’
‘Can you describe the two boys you saw fighting?’
‘Well, it was like I said to the police: they both had short brown hair and there wasn’t much of a difference between them in height, but one was slightly smaller. One was in a long-sleeved white top and the other in a red T-shirt.’
‘My lord … if I may direct your lordship and the jury to page fifty-seven in your bundle, and the picture and description of Ben Stokes’s clothing on the day that he died, particularly the red T-shirt,’ said Gordon Jones, allowing his glasses to balance on the end of his nose as he viewed his own bundle. ‘And on page fifty-eight the clothing recovered by forensics and worn by the defendant on the date of the murder … Did you know either of the boys, Mr Rankine?’
‘No, not by name, but I had seen them both around. Their faces were familiar. We live not far from each other and I’m always out with the dog.’
‘Tell us about the first time you saw the boys that day.’
‘I was walking my dog, not in the park but along the pavement that runs down Barnsbury Road. He’s an old dog, you know, likes a good sniff around. I’m a keen walker and I get frustrated with him. That day was like all the others, he was possibly even slower than normal. It was sunny. The park was busy, I would say, and I knew some of the other dog walkers who I normally see, but then I became aware of two young boys fighting on the crest of the hill.’
‘How far away were you from the boys, would you say?’
‘Maybe twenty, thirty feet – no more.’
‘What did you see?’
‘Well, at first I wasn’t much concerned. It was just two young boys having a bit of a scrap, but one of the boys began to get the upper hand. I remember he grabbed the smaller boy by the hair and forced him down on to his knees. He was punching him in the kidneys and the stomach. I have two sons and boys will be boys, and normally I wouldn’t interfere, but this seemed rather excessive, somewhat dangerous or … violent.’
‘Which of the boys you described seemed to be “getting the upper hand”?’
‘The slightly taller boy, the one in white.’
‘You spoke to the boys – what did you say?’
‘Well, it just seemed they were getting a bit rough with each other, you know. I told them to cut it out.’
‘What happened?’
‘Well, they stopped and one of the boys turned to me and smiled, and said they were only playing.’
‘Which boy was this?’
‘The defendant. I wasn’t entirely reassured, but boys will be boys as I say – I left them to it.’ Rankine’s cheeks became suddenly grey. He hung his head. ‘I keep reliving it. I shouldn’t have walked away, you see. I should have done something … If I had only guessed what would happen.’
Rankine stood up straight suddenly. He looked up the centre of the court in the direction of the Stokeses. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Gordon Jones nodded understandingly, then continued: ‘You say they were being rough with each other? Did you regard it as rough play which was just getting out of hand, or would you say that one of the children was the aggressor?’
‘Maybe, yes, I think so. It was a while ago, but I think the boy in the white top … He was the one the police asked me about, after they found the … body.’ Mr Rankine shook his head and put a hand over his eyes.
‘What did the boys do after you spoke to them?’
‘Well, they went their way and I went mine.’