Prologue
First, you light a cigarette, the smoke curling in on itself and up towards the ceiling. It catches at the back of your throat with the first draw before seeping into your lungs and easing into your bloodstream with a tingle. You put the fag down in the ashtray before turning to set your scene. Kneeling over the back of the sofa, you tie the rope onto the shelves, the smoke sliding up your face and stinging your eyes.
Next, you wrap a silk scarf round the rope to soften it and pull at it once, twice, to make sure it’s secure. You’ve done this before. You have practiced, tested. Measured it to a perfect calibration. So far, and no farther. No drop. Only a little death wanted here.
The screen is set up, the film you selected ready to play.
And the final cut, the orange you have laid out on a plate. You pick up the knife, a sharp one with a wooden handle, a steel-dappled blade, and you push it into the fruit. A half, a quarter. An eighth. The peel orange, the pith white, the flesh bleeding out to red at the edges, a sunset spectrum.
These are all the textures you need. The sting of the smoke in the air, the figures dancing on the screen before your eyes. The padding of the silk soft against the coarse rope. The thumping of the blood in your ears as you come closer and closer, the sweet burst of citrus on your tongue to pull you back from there to here, before the point of no return.
It works every time. You know you’re safe, alone.
Behind the locked door, just you and the glorious summit you’re about to reach.
Only a few beats away.
1
The October sky lies gray above me and my wheelie bag’s heavy but I wait for the bus and count my blessings. The trial is finished, kicked out at halftime after a legal argument on the basis of insufficient evidence. It’s always pleasing to get one up on the prosecution and my client’s over the moon. And the biggest plus of all, it’s Friday. Weekend. Home time. I’ve been planning for this—I’m doing things differently tonight. One drink, two at the most, then I’m off. The bus pulls up and I make my way back over the Thames.
Once I arrive at chambers, I go straight to the clerks’ room and wait for them to notice me amid the ringing phones and whir of the photocopier. At last Mark looks up.
“Evening, miss. The solicitor called—they’re well pleased you got that robbery kicked out.”
“Thanks, Mark,” I say. “The ID evidence was crap. I’m glad it’s done, though.”
“Good result. Nothing for Monday, but this has come in for you.” He gestures down to a slim pile of papers sitting on his desk, tied together with pink tape. It doesn’t look very impressive.
“That’s great. Thank you. What is it?”
“A murder. And you’re leading it,” he says, handing the papers over with a wink. “Nice one, miss.”
He walks out of the room before I can reply. I stand holding the bundle, clerks and pupils moving past me in the usual Friday rush. A murder. Leading my first murder. What I’ve been building up to all my professional life.
“Alison. Alison!”
With an effort, I focus on the speakers.
“Are you coming for a drink? We’re on the way.” Sankar and Robert, both barristers in their thirties, with a collection of pupils trailing behind them. “We’re meeting Patrick at the Dock.”
Their words sink in. “Patrick? Which Patrick? Bryars?”
“No, Saunders. Eddie’s just finished a case with him and they’re celebrating. That fraud, it’s finally come to an end.”
“Right. I’ll just put these away. See you in there.” Clutching my brief, I walk out of the room, keeping my head down. My neck’s flushed warm and I don’t want anyone to spot the red blotches.
Safely in my room, I shut the door and check my face. Lipstick on, flush toned down with powder. Hands too shaky for eyeliner but I brush my hair and reapply scent; no need to carry the stench of the cells with me.
I push the papers to the back of the desk, straighten the photograph frame I’ve nudged out of line. Friday-night drinks. But I’m only going for one.
Tonight it’s going to go to plan.
Our group fills half the bar’s basement, a dingy place frequented by criminal lawyers and their clerks. As I walk down the stairs Robert waves his glass at me and I sit down next to him.
“Wine?”
“Wine. Definitely. Only one, though. I want to be home early tonight.”
No one comments. Patrick hasn’t said hello. He’s sitting on the opposite side of the table, engrossed in conversation with one of the pupils—that Alexia—holding a glass of red wine. Distinguished, handsome. I force myself to look away.
“Looking good, Alison. Had a haircut?” Sankar’s buoyant. “Don’t you think she’s looking good, Robert, Patrick? Patrick?” More emphasis. Patrick doesn’t look up. Robert turns from talking to one of the junior clerks, nods and toasts me with his pint.
“Well done on the murder! Leading it too. You’ll be a QC before you know it—didn’t I tell you, after you did so well in the Court of Appeal last year?”
“Let’s not get carried away,” I say. “But thank you. You seem in a good mood.” My voice is cheerful. I don’t care if Patrick noticed me coming in or not.
“It’s Friday and I’m off to Suffolk for a week. You should try having a holiday sometime.”
I smile and nod. Of course I should. A week on the coast, perhaps. For a moment I imagine skipping through the waves like a figure in the playful portraits seen in a certain kind of holiday cottage. Later I’d eat fish and chips on the beach, wrapped up against the October chill blowing off the North Sea before lighting a fire in the wood-burning stove in my perfectly appointed house. Then I remember the files squatting on my desk. Not now.
Robert pours more wine into my glass. I drink it. The conversation flows around me, Robert shouting to Sankar to Patrick and back to me again, peaks and troughs of bad jokes and laughter. More wine. Another glass. More barristers join in, waving a pack of cigarettes around the table. We smoke outside, another, no, no, let me buy some more I keep stealing yours and the search for change and the stumble upstairs to buy some from behind the bar and no Marlboro Gold only Camels but for now who cares yes let’s have some more wine, and another glass and another and shots of something sticky and dark and the room and the talk and the jokes whirling faster and faster around me.
“I thought you said you were leaving early.” Focus now. Patrick, right in front of me. He resembles a silvered Clive Owen from some angles. I look for them, tipping my head one way, another.
“Christ, you’re pissed.”
I reach out for his hand but he moves sharply away, looking around him. I sit back in my chair, pushing my hair off my face. Everyone else has left now. How did I not notice?
“Where is everybody?”
“Club. That place Swish. Fancy it?”
“I thought you were talking to Alexia.”
“So you did notice me when you came in. I wondered…”
“You were the one who was ignoring me. You didn’t even look up to say hello.” I try and fail to hide my indignation.
“Hey, no need to get stressed. I was giving Alexia some career advice.”