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“Now I’m living here I’ve noticed a few things that could be better, that’s all. The cutlery, for example—I don’t know what I was thinking of when I chose the Jean Nouvel. And I think the sofa invites us to slouch. Really, two armchairs would be better. Le Corbusier’s LC3, perhaps. Or the Ghost chair by Philippe Starck. I’ll give it some more thought.”
Already, in the short time since Edward has moved in, I’ve noticed a difference—not so much in my relationship with him, as in my relationship with One Folgate Street. That feeling I used to have of playing to an invisible audience has been replaced by the consciousness, the ever-presence, of Edward’s discerning eye; a sense that the house and I are now part of one indivisible mise-en-scène. I feel my life becoming more considered, more beautiful, knowing that he considers it. But for that very reason, it becomes increasingly hard to engage with the world beyond these walls, the world where chaos and ugliness reign. When choosing cutlery is this difficult, how will I ever decide whether or not to sue a hospital?
“Anything else?” I ask.
Edward thinks. “We need to be more disciplined about putting away toiletries. This morning, for example, I noticed you left your shampoo out.”
“I know. I forgot.”
“Well, don’t beat yourself up. It takes discipline to live like this. But I think you’re already discovering that the rewards are worth it.”
THEN: EMMA
I’d been dreading the identification parade. I’d been imagining me and Deon Nelson eyeball-to-eyeball as I walked slowly along a line of men in a small bright room, like in the movies. But of course it’s nothing like that these days.
This is VIPER, DI Clarke informs me genially as he puts two mugs of coffee down next to his laptop. Short for Video Identification Parade Electronic Recording, apparently, though if you ask me, someone at the Home Office just figured a sexy acronym would help it catch on quicker. Basically we put the suspect on video, then the system uses facial recognition software to find eight other people from its library who look quite like him. It used to take weeks to set up an ID before we had this. Let’s get started, shall we?
He takes some documents from a plastic sleeve. Before we start, he says apologetically, you’ll need to sign some forms to say you’ve only ever seen the accused when the alleged offense was taking place.
Of course, I say airily. Do you have a pen?
The thing is, Emma, he says, looking a little uncomfortable. It’s very important that you’re absolutely certain you couldn’t have caught sight of him at the bail hearing.
Not that I’m aware of, I say, then mentally kick myself. If I’m saying I remember Nelson from the assault well enough to make a positive ID, then of course I ought to know if I saw him anywhere else. But DI Clarke doesn’t appear to have noticed my slip.
Of course, I believe you completely. But you should be aware, because it may come up at trial, that the defendant is alleging you and he exchanged a glance, as it were, outside the court.
Well, that’s nonsense, I say.
Furthermore, his lawyer is saying he remarked on it at the time. She says she looked up and saw you passing within fifteen feet of her client.
I frown. I don’t think so, I say.
Yes. Well, it’s made the lawyer fairly agitated, anyway. A formal complaint, plus notification that, er, witness veracity will be an issue at the trial.
Witness veracity…I repeat. Whether I’m telling the truth, you mean?
I’m afraid so. She may try to put this together with the whole amnesia thing. I’ll be frank with you, Emma: It’s not the nicest experience when a tricky defense lawyer tries to pick holes in your story. But that is her job. And forewarned is forearmed, yes? Just stick to exactly what happened and you’ll be fine.
—
I sign the forms, identify Nelson, and walk home seething. So now I’m going to be attacked in court by a lawyer bent on undermining my story. I have a horrible feeling that by trying to make up for the police’s failures I may have made things a whole lot worse.
I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts that at first I don’t notice the kid on the BMX bike who’s slowed to walking pace beside me. When I do become aware of him I see it’s a teenager, about fourteen or fifteen years old. Instinctively I move away, as close as possible to the wall.
Effortlessly he rides the bike up over the curb. I try to duck back the way I came, but he’s a little behind me, cutting me off. He leans forward. I tense for the blow but instead he snarls at me.
Oi you. You’re a lying bitch. That’s a message, cunt. You know who from.
Almost casually he bumps down the curb again, does a U-turn, and pedals away. But not before he’s made a stabbing gesture at me. Bitch, he shouts again for good measure.
—
Edward finds me huddled in the bedroom, sobbing. Without saying anything he wraps me in his arms until I’ve stopped shaking enough to tell him what happened.
