a poet. She thought what Robert did was interesting and important.
‘It’s just a job,’ he said, as if he’d read her mind and was putting her straight. He spoke matter-of-factly, but in his friendly, even way. ‘We all do our part.’
‘You are yourself capable of violence, aren’t you, Miss Lockyer?’
Miss Lockyer shook her head at Mr Belford’s question as if it wasn’t worthy of an answer, Mr Morden jumped to his feet to object in absolute fury, and the jury found themselves walking out once more.
Again Clarissa was seated opposite Annie and Robert in the little annex.
She was remembering Wednesday night. The soap dispenser slipping from her fingers and shattering against the cloakroom tiles instead of Rafe’s skull.
You’d never be able to hurt me, Clarissa. I know you.
‘I’m not sure I’d be able to damage another person,’ she said, ‘but I’m beginning to wish I could.’
‘You don’t look like you could damage a moth,’ Annie said.
Robert was looking hard at Clarissa. ‘Hurting someone isn’t about physical strength. You’ve never been in a situation where you’ve had to. Anyone could do violence, Clarissa. I promise you could too, if you needed to.’
‘Have you, Robert?’ Annie asked.
His face was expressionless. He didn’t answer.
‘I didn’t really need to ask,’ Annie said. ‘Of course you have.’
Mr Belford gave the impression that he hadn’t taken his eyes off Miss Lockyer during the jury’s absence; a kestrel hovering above a field mouse, waiting for his chance.
‘Is it correct that your ex-partner has a new girlfriend?’
Clarissa looked in concern at Annie, whose husband had just left her for another woman. She thought of Rowena, too. And of Henry’s wife.
Miss Lockyer gazed at her hands.
Clarissa wondered what she would feel when Henry found someone else. She knew she’d feel a stab if he went through successful fertility treatment with a new girlfriend, and she should be bigger than that. Not that he’d be quick to put himself through such a thing again. Henry wanted people to think testosterone oozed from his every pore. He’d made her vow never to tell anyone that his small population of misshapen sperm all possessed five heads and ten tails and swam in demented circles, bumping into each other.
Mr Belford prompted the still silent Miss Lockyer. ‘Did you threaten to kill her?’
‘Of course not.’
He shook his head, making it clear that her responses were so absurd it was not worth speaking further to her.
She’d been so focused on Miss Lockyer and Mr Belford and her note-taking she hadn’t looked at the public gallery. A movement in the back row caught her attention.
A pale man leaned forward from where he’d been resting his pale head against the pale wall, looking only at Clarissa, forcing her to see him looking.
As Robert paused to let her exit the jury box before him, she stumbled, her cheeks growing warm, her breath speeding up, her heart pumping so fast she thought it must be visible, pounding beneath her dress.
Monday, 9 February, 5.55 p.m.
I sit in the jurors’ room pretending to be so lost in my book I don’t notice that everyone has gone. The jury officer is looking at me, loudly packing up her things. Finally, she tells me that the room needs to be vacated for the night and I see I cannot put you off any more.
Just as I expect, you are waiting for me right outside the court building. I march past you to the end of the road and turn left, acting as if you aren’t here.
‘Clarissa.’ You’ve caught up to me. ‘It’s ridiculous of you not to speak to me, Clarissa.’
I halt in front of the coffee stall, closed for the day now like everything else. I have never seen it so quiet, but there are a few people around. It still gives me the safety of public space.
‘Darling, please talk to me.’
I can’t help myself. The leaflets’ commands of silence are impossible. ‘I’m not your darling.’ You step closer. ‘Don’t come near me.’ My voice is shrill. I try to lower it. ‘Don’t you ever come here again. You had no right.’
‘It’s a public gallery.’
Unless I stop you from ever coming again, I won’t be able to enter that jury box and continue with the trial. Court 12 will become a trap, a place where I’m pinned down and on display for you. I realise how powerfully I care about the trial, how much it matters, that I’m actually immensely proud to be serving on a jury – it’s something I’d always hoped to do. Corny thoughts about public duty and citizenship are banging around in my head even in your presence.
‘If you come again I’ll tell them I know you. They may call off the whole trial. They don’t want jurors disturbed by people they know. I need to concentrate.’
‘The testimony upset you, Clarissa – I saw that it did.’
You are right. I hate your being right about me. I hate that I wasn’t even aware of you, watching. I hate that I don’t quite know what I would have done if I’d noticed you there while Court 12 was still in the throes of its ugly business instead of its last seconds.
‘There’s no law against the friends of jurors sitting in the public gallery.’
‘You aren’t my friend.’
‘You’re right.’ You correct yourself. ‘Lover.’
‘You’re not—’ I bite my lip. You look so sad anyone else would pity you.
‘I thought you’d be happy to see me.’
‘I’m not.’ It isn’t so difficult to be mean. I’m almost shaking with anger. My mother never could have imagined a man like you.
‘I’m not seeing Rowena any more.’
‘I don’t care who you see or don’t see.’
‘You’re cruel, Clarissa. I was worried. You were ill.’
‘I lied to you. I wasn’t ill. I didn’t want you to follow me that morning. I didn’t want you to find me. I didn’t want you to know I was here. I have a right for you not to know where I am. I don’t like being followed.’ This is better: firm and honest.
‘That was an evil thing to do. I thought better of you.’
‘I don’t care what you think of me. I don’t want you to think of me at all.’
‘Your
