Chapter 49
‘Catlin you have to prepare for the fact that things may not go our way on Monday,’ said Hugh. He stood at a place of safety behind the large and ornate kitchen island. ‘There’s no point being in denial about this. Your solicitor has told you; your barrister has told you that—’
‘Will you just stop? I don’t want to hear it,’ Catlin shouted, slamming the soapy mug hard onto the granite worktop.
She looked down and saw the handle had broken into two, and a shard of porcelain had embedded itself into her soft flesh.
Blood oozed across her palm, turning the white suds pink as she removed the shard.
‘You’re hurt,’ Hugh said, grabbing sheets of kitchen towel. ‘Let me—’
‘Don’t touch me,’ Catlin spat viciously as she forcefully pulled her wounded hand away. ‘All of this is because of you.’
Hugh watched Catlin open a drawer, and search for a box of plasters. ‘You and that woman.’
‘I didn’t betray you. Our marriage has been over for a long time and it’s not because of anything I’ve done,’ said Hugh, slowly backing away from Catlin.
‘You hurt your own sister, scarred her for life and you broke your family. If it wasn’t for our son, and the fact that I know you’re looking at a prison sentence, I would have kicked you out. ’
Catlin silently watched Hugh.
‘Twelve to sixteen years,’ Hugh said boldly, surprised by the confidence that had swelled in him.
‘The judge will take into account that you’ve never been in trouble before, that you’re a respected member of the community, charitable,’ Hugh said, repeating the barrister’s advice that he’d committed to memory.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Catlin. ‘I’m innocent.’
‘You threw acid in your sister’s face,’ said Hugh.
‘I was defending myself.’
Hugh stared at his wife with disbelief. He’d sat in Wood Green Crown Court for two weeks watching the jury intently and listening – not always to the evidence, but – to them.
He’d worked as a sound engineer for twenty-seven years and his ears were finely attuned to the sounds people weren’t aware they made; the tuts, the snorts of disbelief, a cough to conceal a snigger, the shuffling of discomfort, heavy short breaths to conceal disbelief and disgust. He’d heard it all from the jury and he’d deciphered the sounds as twelve people deciding that his wife was guilty.
Hugh picked up his tumbler of whisky and walked past Catlin. ‘I’m going upstairs,’ he said.
Catlin grabbed Hugh’s upper arm, her nails digging into his skin. ‘Why?’ she demanded.
‘Your barrister said to pack a bag,’ said Hugh, shrugging her off. ‘One of us needs to be prepared.’
The wind did the job of slamming the front door shut for Catlin. The leaves and tree branches danced chaotically, the yellow streetlamp casting demonic shadows on the pavement as she walked away from her house.
‘Bastard,’ Catlin muttered under her breath as she walked.
She squinted as the full beam of a car headlights turning on Artesian Road hit her square in the face, the engine revving as it gathered speed.
She stopped momentarily and put a hand to her chest. The palpitations had returned, pounding on the door of her increasing anxiety.
She’d been telling herself that women like her don’t go to prison but she was struggling to believe it.
She felt her heartbeat slow down as the car passed.
She could see the light of the corner shop in the distance and quickened her pace as the wind whipped grit into her eyes.
‘Hey, Ca—’
The increasing wind coupled with the sounds of a group talking loudly as they left The Draftsman pub on the corner drowned out the person who was calling.
‘Hey, Catlin, I thought that was you.’
Catlin turned around as a figure moved out of the sealed church doorway.
‘Yes, it’s definitely you. Recognise you anywhere.’
The headlight of a motorbike approaching in the opposite direction placed a temporary spotlight on the person standing on the street, giving Catlin a moment to search the person’s face.
‘Sorry, I don’t—’ Catlin paused when she saw the large bottle in the woman’s left hand.
For a millisecond, Catlin thought the woman had thrown water into her face, but then her skin started to burn as though she’d been doused in petrol and set alight.
Catlin’s screams travelled down the road.
The burning intensified as the acid penetrated her retinas, stripped through her skin, melted the hair on her head and fell in rivers down her face.
The material on her chest and the gold chain around her neck dissolved and welded to her skin.
She ran blindly, screaming and pleading for help.
A heavy blow in her back propelled her to the floor, her legs contorting, her torso twisting as she withered in pain.
In the tortured mist she felt cold steel pierce her back, tearing through her thoracic aorta.
She weakly stretched her arm along the ground, her cries reaching out to the sound of voices who would be too late to save her.