Chapter 1 Eleven Months Later Miles
Eleven Months Later
Miles
He sits at a table in a plain white room.
The AirPods in his ears play an audiobook, but the words stopped registering at least an hour ago.
That’s because his head is already full of noise.
There comes a point when the brain has been put under so much stress that it pulls up the drawbridge and refuses to allow in any non-essential information.
His toes fidget inside his shoes, and what’s left of his fingernails drum the table.
Opposite him, David, his solicitor, is tapping away on a laptop.
Apart from that, the only other objects in the room are a couple of disposable coffee cups and Miles’s duffel bag – the most dreadful bag he’s ever packed.
A few weeks earlier, when they entered this room for the first time, David explained that the lack of non-bolted furnishings and objects was a precaution.
There could be nothing in here that could be used as a weapon.
They were taking precautions, Miles instantly realised, against people like him: people who enter this place with their character in the grey purgatory between innocent and guilty.
David has been distracted by something on his phone. He frowns, then waves to get Miles’s attention.
Miles’s heart kick-starts. He hurriedly pulls his earphones out. ‘What is it?’
‘There’s been a knock,’ David says.
‘A knock?’
‘From the jury. They want to communicate something to the judge. It’s probably just that they have a question for her. Eleanor has gone to find out.’
Miles sits up straight, pulling the fingers of his left hand. ‘Could it be a verdict?’
‘It would be very quick. They’ve not long been deliberating. They’ve probably just got a question about the evidence. It happens all the time.’
‘But it could be a verdict?’
‘Well, yes. It could be.’ David adjusts his spectacles, straightens his navy tie. He’s almost as fidgety as Miles. ‘And if they’ve reached a verdict this quickly then it’s probably a good thing for us.’
Miles stares at the bare white wall. ‘Probably.’
‘You know there are no guarantees, but I think we’re in a strong position. Try to stay positive. Eleanor will be here in a minute.’
David gives him a reassuring smile, and Miles breaks eye contact.
He looks down at his bag, which contains the essentials he was advised to bring – clothes, books, toiletries, a list of phone numbers – in case he’s remanded in custody.
Miles almost refused to pack it. Doing so added a real, tangible weight to the possibility that he might be found guilty, and he’s been doing his best not to believe it could genuinely happen.
Because it couldn’t possibly happen, could it?
He’s read about people being unfairly accused, about miscarriages of justice.
But it doesn’t seem possible, in this day and age.
In a developed country. It doesn’t seem possible that someone like him could get sentenced to life in prison.
But it’s now undeniably possible, because he’s packed a bag for it.
His lawyers have done well to keep him on bail until this point, but a guilty verdict would mean immediate custody.
Miles stares at the door, waiting for his barrister to appear.
He’s restless, fidgeting, knitting his fingers together, jiggling his knees.
Then he hears it: faint at first, the clacking of heels in the corridor.
The sound grows steadily louder, then stops.
After a short pause, there’s a tap on the door, which then opens.
Eleanor strides in, dressed in her wig and gown, and closes the door behind her.
‘Hi, Miles.’ She gives him a half-smile – he gets a lot of those, at the moment. They’re smiles of goodwill and sympathy, because there is sod all to genuinely smile about. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m good.’
Again, she gives him that half-smile. But this time Miles sees something on her face he didn’t notice earlier.
Her make-up is always perfect, as if this is all showbusiness, which, he supposes, in a way, it is.
But today it’s been applied more heavily, especially around the eyes, and her skin has a matt glow.
It knocks his heart up another gear; he knows there’s only one reason anyone puts make-up on that thick – they’re about to go on camera.
Or they think they might be about to. ‘Is it all right if I sit down?’
Miles gestures to an empty seat next to him.
Eleanor lifts the lower fabric of her black gown and sits.
The smile has gone, her lips now pressed into a straight line.
‘It appears things have progressed a little faster than we’d expected.
Remember what I told you: if it’s good news, try to take it with good grace, no whooping or punching the air.
There’s a family in there who have lost their daughter, their sister .
. . and you can’t be seen to be celebrating. No matter how relieved you might—’
‘Wait, are you telling me they’ve made a decision?’
Miles is sure he knows the answer, but he needs her to say it anyway.
‘That’s right. We’ll be going back into court soon. The jury has reached a unanimous verdict.’