If You Only Knew Page 9

  By now my stomach was quite round. And yet I don’t think anyone suspected I was about to give birth. People must have thought I’d simply gained weight. I hadn’t made any friends and had mostly managed to avoid Luigi. He was too busy partying. I hid under increasingly large sweaters and wore coloured scarves to draw the attention away from my belly.

  By the time I got on the bus, the pain had intensified. But at least it came in short spurts that weren’t too frequent. It was difficult to lug my bag off the first bus and up to the second one, and the last leg of the journey was atrocious. It was getting dark by the time I got to the bus terminus, even though it was still late afternoon. At the clinic I was examined and admitted. The adoptive parents had splurged on a private room for me, and I was grateful. I flicked through the channels on the TV until I came across an episode of Beverly Hills 90210, thinking how excited the parents must be. Sometimes I thought it was odd that I thought of her as their daughter already, even though she was still inside me. I had declined the offer to meet them, but Steven had said that they were in their early thirties and had a heartbreaking history of infertility. The husband was an accountant and the wife was a former teacher who would stay at home with the baby. They had moved to the US for the husband’s work but still owned a house in England, and Steven said they might return once the adoption was finalised. They seemed perfect, and a world away from me.

  Three hours later and I was feeling less positive. This hurt. The nurse kept reassuring me that it would be over soon and the baby would be born before midnight. Midnight? That was hours away! But there was nothing I could do. Instead, I just pulled the gas mask to my face and took a deep breath, allowing the drugs to take the edge off the pain for a short time. It was the only thing I could do and damn right I was going to do it.

  In the end the nurse was right. The baby was born just before midnight. I was exhausted and emotional, more from the pain of the past hours than anything else. Or at least that’s what I kept telling myself. I didn’t want to think that I was in any way upset about giving away this baby. I had tried my utmost to keep an emotional distance throughout the pregnancy and was not going to ruin it now.

  Yet when the nurse handed me the little blood-covered human, I felt a surge of tenderness and my heart rose to her. I looked at her little face, crumpled and red, and at her tiny hands and feet, quickly counting her fingers and toes. Saw the fine hairs on her head, already with a tinge of red.

  The sight of blood, the redness smeared over her small body, made me tremble. But what took my breath away were her eyes. As the nurse brought her closer, the baby opened her eyes. She looked at me, as if she knew exactly who I was and what I was about to do, and I caught myself staring into murky pools of grey. Eyes that were so beautiful and intense and I knew right away that they would turn green. Just like his, the person who was responsible for all this. And I was suddenly transported back to that unspeakable series of events. Seeing her brought back images of John Larkin, his furious cruelty as he raped me and then lying in a pool of his own blood, his eyes open as he took his last breath.

  It was at that moment that I knew that even if I wanted to, I would never have been able to raise this baby. I could never look at her every single day and be reminded of him. It wasn’t her fault, but she would have been a constant reminder of what had happened, of the day that would change my life forever. The day I became a killer.

  It was as if that whole night flashed in front of me, in fast-moving nightmare-inducing images, and I shook my head at the nurse. “You should take her to meet her parents,” I said, looking away.

  From the corner of my eyes I saw a look of pity come over the nurse’s face. “You can have some time with her if you want,” she said gently.

  But I shook my head again. “I don’t,” I said with as much strength as I could muster, feeling my eyes welling up with tears and a lump starting to wedge itself firmly in my throat. “Please, take her away,” I added before my voice broke.

  I kept my eyes averted as I heard the nurse scurry away, the click of the door closing sounding so final. I knew that I had made the right decision and was certain that the pain I felt in my heart, seemingly crushing my soul, would one day go away. I asked for a sleeping pill and slept soundly for the first time in months.

  Chapter 11

  2014

  George Winters is barely visible behind the files piled high on the desk in front of him. Sitting down across from him, I crane my neck to see him properly. “Excuse the mess.” He clears a small space between the two of us.

  Despite being a tough opponent, I’ve always known George Winters to be fair. Unlike some of his peers, he doesn’t lobby for excessive sentencing and tends to give space for the accused to explain themselves. But his usual leniency doesn’t extend to Chloe.

  “Why didn’t she say anything before?” he asks gruffly when I divulge Chloe’s revelation of rape.

  “George, she’s a kid. She was scared and probably ashamed.”

  “She almost killed the guy,” George says. “And now she’s crying rape.”

  “You can’t just dismiss it,” I insist. “She’s a minor. Aren’t you going to take action against him?”

  He shakes his head, looking completely exasperated. “Where’s the proof? If she had spoken out when the police first brought her in for questioning, they would have investigated. Of course we’ll look into it but it looks like she’s coming up with excuses.”

  Proof. That’s what this case lacks. That’s what every case like this lacks. Chloe has provided no evidence that Ben raped her. And how could she, my inner voice retorts? It’s nothing but her word against his, while his injuries are clear for all to see. Unless there’s something she’s not telling me.

  “What if there’s proof?” I ask.

  “Are you going to manufacture proof? I would think that’s beneath you,” he says, eyeing me for a second too long. I flush, remembering a rookie mistake, when I had inadvertently encouraged a client to provide proof that didn’t exist. It was a domestic violence case that we were losing when midway through the trial our client, the plaintiff, seemed to suddenly remember photos she had taken of her bruises from a beating she claimed happened a few years beforehand. Despite my suspicion that she had never mentioned the photos before, I pushed my mistrust to the back of my mind, knowing that they could help us make our case. I was so excited that this was the proof we needed to win, that I failed to do my due diligence. Thankfully my boss was not so naive and got our investigator to look into the photos. It hadn’t taken him long to find that they had been taken recently, when the defendant was out of the country, saving us the embarrassment of presenting fake evidence in court. But the case file, with the photos, had already been shared with the prosecution, and I always wondered whether George was aware of the ensuing effort to retract the new details.

  “You know I’d never do that,” I retort. George doesn’t need to know that there have been moments when I wondered whether there’s something everyone had missed in Chloe’s file, some small detail that can be magnified. “All I’m saying is perhaps the police should speak to her again and investigate the rape,” I insist, before I leave.

  The rain is coming down heavily outside and I struggle to find a taxi. My small umbrella is useless against the strong winds on Southwark Bridge but I try to hold it above my head as I struggle to open the taxi door while holding my bag. “Here, let me get that for you,” a man says, opening the door for me. He seems familiar; I’m certain I’ve seen him before, but cannot remember where or whether I’m being paranoid. A shiver runs through me as I push the thought aside and get in the car.

  Cursing my waste of time mission, I sit back in my seat, uncomfortable in my sodden clothes. The car moves a few inches, then stops, then starts again only to come to a jerking halt just seconds later as traffic clogs up the streets. There’s nothing I can do but sit back and contemplate the bind I’m in. Cases like Chloe’s seem to seek me out, almost as if desti
ny wants me to continuously relive my past. See if I can make up for my mistakes. Jolt me awake lest I get too comfortable in my seemingly perfect life and forget that there’s someone out there who knows what I did.

  Forcing myself to snap back to the here and now, I think about Chloe’s upcoming trial and all the work that still needs to be done to prepare her, to make sure that she’s ready, that she won’t snap under the pressure.

  My hair and clothes are still soaked by the time I get to the office, the leather at the edge of my soles darkening in a growing stain from the water. Chloe is already sitting next to Jennifer’s desk. “Come into my office.” I lead the way. I would have liked some time to dry myself, have a cup of warm tea, but don’t want to keep her waiting

  Her skirt rides up as she sits down and I notice the hole in her woollen tights. Chloe follows my glance and looks irate as she covers the offending rip.

  “I need you to think back to the events of September the twentieth. Is there anything that we can use as evidence of Ben’s assault on you?” I ask.

  “Like what?” She suddenly looks even younger than her fifteen years.

  Exhaling slowly, I wonder how far I can push her. “Anything you can think of. Did you leave any marks on him, maybe scratches as you fought him off? Could you have left something in his bedroom in your rush to leave? Was there any bleeding that could have stained the car seat?”

  “I’m not sure, I can’t think of anything, I can’t remember.” Chloe’s mouth is still open, as if she’s about to talk more but unsure of what she’s trying to say.

  Leaning against my desk next to where she’s sitting, I put an arm on her shoulder. “I know this is hard, but I really need you to think. Any marks on your skin? What about the clothes you were wearing? Any tears or signs of force? We need evidence if we have the slightest chance of the jury believing he raped you. Tell me even the smallest, most inane sounding detail and then let me decide how to play it up.”

  *

  “You need to look the part, Chloe.”

  “What part? I’m not playing a part.”

  “Don’t smile when you talk about Ben,” I say for the third time.

  “I’m not smiling.”

  I take a few deep breaths to calm down, trying to forget the work that I set aside to concentrate on Chloe’s case. Even though it’s not her fault, it still irritates me when she doesn’t follow my simple instructions. “Yes, you are.” Walking towards the camera that’s recording our sessions, I press rewind. “Here.” I show her the offending footage, leaning towards her until our heads almost touch. “That was a smile and the jury won’t like it.”

  She purses her lips and huffs.

  “This is important,” I insist, my voice softer. “If they don’t like you, they’re not going to want to acquit you, no matter what I say to try and convince them.”

  “Fine, I’ll try not to smile,” she says, rolling her eyes.

  “I saw that. Don’t roll your eyes either, irrespective of how much you disagree with what the prosecution, or especially the judge, says. It will backfire.”

  Glancing at my watch, I see it’s late and feel a mixture of anger and disappointment. As much as I want to prove Miles wrong, show him that I can defend the girl without allowing the case to encroach on time with my family, I find myself getting home later every day as I struggle to juggle my other cases while still giving Chloe the time she needs.

  “Let’s wrap up for today,” I say, gathering my bag and still wet coat. “We’ll continue in a few days’ time.”

  She stands up and steadies herself against the desk. For a few moments she doesn’t move, but her forehead knots into a frown and her arms wobble slightly underneath her. Dropping my coat and bag, I’m by her side in a second. “Sit back down,” I encourage, helping her ease back into the chair behind her. She looks ashen and I bring the paper basket closer to her. “Let me get you something to drink.”

  The look on her face is one I’ve felt myself. In the kitchen I raid the cupboard for some Jacobs crackers and a bottle of Sprite, hoping that she won’t be sick in my office once again. My mind is whirring, wondering if she’s hiding something under her ill-fitting clothes, proof we need that Ben raped her.

  “Here, have some of these.” Opening the packet of crackers, I put two in her hand. Chloe takes a small bite out of one and a gulp of Sprite. Her face is still grey and I keep an eye on her while sorting out some paperwork. She keeps glancing up at me, her eyes shifting from my face to the drink in her hand, almost as if she expects me to walk away.

  “Thank you,” she says after a while.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Better.” She gives me a watery smile.

  “How many times has this happened?”

  She thinks for a moment. “Only a couple of times, when I stand up too quickly.”

  “Have you been feeling any differently lately?”

  “Not really. Maybe a little more tired, but that’s because I’m staying up late finishing my homework.”

  “Perhaps you should see a doctor, get yourself checked out.” I hate myself for hoping she’s wrong, that the tiredness and nausea aren’t due to the stress of the investigation.

  “Yes, sure,” she says dismissively, putting her jacket on.

  Although eager to get home, I’m worried about Chloe and don’t want her to take the bus all by herself. She seemed so fragile last time and I worry that she will have another episode while she’s on her own. Anyway, it would be good to spend more time with her, pierce through her exterior and find out her story. I need her to trust me, to want to open up to me, to feel comfortable sharing even the smallest detail that might seem innocuous to her but might make the difference between winning and losing the case. The more I look at her, the stronger my determination to help her.

  Even if I rush, by the time I get back Leah and Julian will be fast asleep. So I take the long route, aware of Chloe’s reluctance to get back to the children’s home.

  For a while we drive in silence. I steal glances at her by my side, and I’m sure she does the same to me. The evening can’t hold much fun for her, but if she’s found guilty in this trial, this might seem like one of her happier memories. “Is there anyone your age at the home?”

  “Yes, there are a couple of other girls.”

  “That’s good. Have you tried to make new friends?”

  She shrugs and looks out of the window, her face averted so that I cannot see her expression.

  “Are they nice?”

  “I don’t know, they haven’t spoken to me.” Her voice is edged with bitterness. “I’ve seen them whisper among themselves and laugh when I enter the room.”

  “Have you tried talking to them?”

  She shrugs again, but this time looks at me, sad, resigned. “Why bother?” She pauses, and her voice sounds harsh when she continues. “Anyway, I’m not good at making friends.”

  A wave of melancholy washes over me. Her loneliness is heartbreaking. “Perhaps you need to try harder.” The irony doesn’t escape me, having always been just like her. A loner. Making friends was never my priority. Even now, I don’t have any close friends, anyone I can call to talk with. Except for Luigi and Ellen. The only difference is that at least I have a family who love me.

  “I was just like you.” I decide to confide in her. Perhaps my experience will show her the error of her ways. “Always thought I’d be better off on my own. I focused on school, on getting the best grades, making sure I got into the best university.”

  Chloe shifts to look at me. She’s paying attention, her eyes riveted to the side of my face. Turning quickly, I smile at her, before continuing: “It seemed like the best choice at the time. It got me where I wanted. But sometimes I miss having friends that I can share memories of our teenage years with. People who I have grown up with. Who know me well.”

  Tearing my eyes off the road, I look at her. There’s a sadness in her eyes that pulls at my heart. Taking my left hand of
f the steering wheel, on an impulse I clasp hers and squeeze tightly. Her hand is cold and I feel a slight tremble. “It’s not too late for you. You can make new friends, people who will be there for you when you need them, who you can share your thoughts and fears with. A proper support system.”

  Chloe’s hand stiffens under my grasp and I think she’s about to pull away. I’m about to let go when she relaxes, then turns her hand over and clasps mine tightly, like she’s thirsty for human contact. But the vulnerability is only momentary. Her hand soon slips out of mine. Her lips are pursed in a thin line, muscles on each side of her mouth twitching as she clenches her jaw tight. But as her gaze drifts to the window, it’s her eyes that strike me, full of sadness, and completely resigned.

  *

  The Spencer’s case starts dominating my time, forcing me to cancel my upcoming sessions with Chloe. My eyes are bleary from staring at the fine print in their divorce papers, trying to find a small loophole that would allow Mrs Spencer a portion of her husband’s recent inheritance. Despite numerous readings, nothing has caught my eye and I’m starting to lose hope. But the firm cannot lose her as a client. She is easy money for us, racking up several billable hours of usually straightforward work each month. We need her. And she was also one of our first clients. Somehow I feel we owe her our best efforts.

  There’s a knock on the door and I look up, squinting my tired eyes. Jennifer walks in and closes the door behind her. “Chloe’s out there,” she whispers. “She’s insisting on seeing you, even though I told her you’re busy and can’t be disturbed.”

  The gladness I feel takes me by surprise, but I chalk up my feelings to relief at being able to take a break from the toxic divorce documents I’ve been poring over all day. “Show her in, but come back to get her in ten minutes.”