Chapter 31
Matthew can’t get out of court fast enough.
Only the third day and he’s done, his head ready to explode with it.
The fear on Sasha’s face as she talked about the last incident in the shed was infectious – he’s shaky, unsettled, a feeling of unease that persists even when he gets outside.
It’s the most important piece of evidence they’ve been given so far – an actual act that could be seen as causing the death.
Knife-wielding, shouted threats. At last Matthew starts to understand why they’re all there.
He wants it to be spelt out more clearly, though, the prosecution case to be laid out in bullet points in front of him.
He remembers how pleased he was to discover there wouldn’t be an opening speech, only the reading of the indictment before the evidence started – he could punch himself for his naivety.
They’re all still groping in the dark to find out exactly what it is that the prosecution say these girls have done, how they murdered Christian, but at least there’s a bit more information available now.
The rest of the jury were all buzzing with it.
For the first time someone raised the idea of going for a drink, although ever-sensible Roderick kicked that into touch.
Not appropriate at the moment, he’d said.
Matthew thought he was being a bit prissy but didn’t argue.
There’s only one person he wants to discuss the case with at the moment.
He wants to talk to the blonde. He wants a name for her, for her to explain exactly why she’s there, taking such copious notes, intent on the evidence as it unfolds in front of them.
She’ll have insights that will help, a sounding board for his concerns.
He hovers across the road from the court entrance, hoping to spot her on her way out, but she’s obviously got out before him.
She’s never there when he wants her. Does she even exist?
At those words, he blinks. The question hadn’t even occurred to him before. But maybe he’s so desperate for a friend in this alien place that he’s conjured her out of thin air. She seems to come and go as the wind.
Feeling strangely bereft, he wanders down the Mound and makes his way home.
He should clean up – mundane household jobs usually calm his nerves.
He makes a start, but he’s too restless to finish anything off.
He’s got to let the evidence they’ve heard today sink in, process itself through him.
It’s frustrating to be so docile, such a passive recipient of information, but that’s the nature of the job.
Matthew needs to trust the process. The wheels of justice are turning.
His time for action will come. He folds up some clean shirts and switches on the television.
At least life without his mobile phone is peaceful.
He hasn’t switched it back on since his drunken night out.
There’s nothing anyone has to say to him that’s of any interest. Dominic might be begging for his help, Rosalind for his company, Daisy for .
. . well, money, at least, if nothing else.
Olivia, too. Though he might get in touch with her over the weekend.
But not before. It’s like being young again, free, when he was accountable to no one, at the end of no one’s chain.
All he needs is a wristwatch and an alarm clock.
Besides, he doesn’t risk turning his phone on for more sinister reasons.
He knows how much interest there is in the trial – every billboard for the Edinburgh Evening News is already emblazoned with the news about the PIGEON SACRIFICED IN WITCH TRIAL.
It’s even made the Daily Mail, though he has been strongminded and resisted the temptation to read what’s being said about the case, true to his juror’s oath.
It wouldn’t surprise him if someone has managed to intercept his messages and his calls, so they can see what the jurors might be thinking.
He wouldn’t put anything past journalists with a story this big.
He’d almost said that to the other jurors at the end of the day, while they were collecting their coats and bags from the jury room.
Jasmine was updating her Instagram as usual and Matthew was about to tell her to be careful when he bit his lip.
Not for him to interfere. He can only take care of his own security. He’s not responsible for anyone else’s.
At least he’s not at home. No one has tracked him down here – they won’t be able to bug the flat or anything.
Unless of course someone has followed him home .
. . At this point he checks himself. He’s got to stop getting carried away.
Hard not to when dealing with a situation like this, but that’s all the more reason for him to keep his cool.
He’s trained to withstand extreme pressure, moments when hearts stop beating in the operating theatre – it’s about time he started applying that training to this trial, too.
And there’s another reason to keep offline.
Less extreme, but still important. Despite the temptation to conduct his own research into the case, Matthew understands how strict the rules are for jurors.
Even though he knows he’s sensible, that it wouldn’t do him any harm, it’s best not.
Not while they’re still finding out the evidence, at least. He wants to be a blank slate for the prosecution case, let Mr Alexander tell the story to him in his own way without trying to edit the process.
How then to square this with his desire to talk to the blonde woman?
Matthew knows there’s an inconsistency there.
It’s different, though. She’s sat through the case; she knows the rules.
And let’s be honest, what he really wants from her is not a detailed discussion of the fine details of the evidence.
It’s something very different. Unloved by Rosalind, bored by Olivia, there’s a vacancy in Matthew’s life that’s the perfect fit for the blonde.
He flicks through the TV channels. There’s a Hitchcock film on Channel 4 – Vertigo.
Not one he’s seen before, though that could be said of many films, to be fair.
The life of a medic doesn’t leave much room for culture.
He’s going to take as much as he can get over the next few days, leaning back on the sofa to enjoy Kim Novak at her finest.
He wakes with a jolt many hours later, having fallen asleep sometime after Scottie sees the woman fall to her death from the bell tower.
He hadn’t quite finished his lasagne, pushing it to one side on the cushion next to him, and he’s managed to slump over it, sticking his elbow right in it.
He pulls off his jumper, swearing at the mess on the sleeve, before crawling into bed without undressing further or cleaning his teeth.
Sleep comes easy but he’s restless, tossing and turning through the night, falling through clouds and waking with a jolt just before he hits iron spikes below. He doesn’t wake enough to get up, though, trapped in the gap between dreams and reality.
Before dawn, he lies in bed, eyes suddenly wide open.
The blonde woman is in the room, walking around, her back turned.
He sits up to greet her, relief flooding him that at last he’s found her, tracked her down.
He calls out – ‘You, hey you, you there with the blond hair!’ – and she turns, smiles. Comes close.
That’s when he sees her eyes. Amber, flame-ringed. Pupils in the shape of rectangles.
The Devil’s eyes.
He screams. She comes closer and closer, the scent of roses around her, until her eyes are right at his and he can smell her breath now too and it’s the same as before, rotting flesh.
Shit. Matthew rolls over, hiding his head in the pillow.
If he can’t see her, she can’t see him. He’s invisible now, he’s safe – at last his breath returns to normal.
He’s woken an hour later by the alarm, sweat dripping off him, his neck stiff from the angle at which he’s slept. The blonde woman is not in the room.
But he could swear that she was, a trace of shit and roses still lingering in the air.