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FIFTY-EIGHT
Regardless of which way it went, I’d been sure the verdict would give me closure. So sure, so stupid.
My mother stuck a Post-it note up in the living room not long after we moved to London—
The biggest mistake a person can make is being afraid to make one.
‘It’s wrong,’ I told her. ‘I can think of plenty of things worse than that.’
‘What it means is, you’ll never realise your potential if you’re scared of messing up.’
‘Potential?’
‘What you’re capable of. Think of all the great scientific discoveries. Antibiotics, vaccinations—’
‘Televisions. . .’
She laughed.
‘Yes, even televisions. If people had been afraid to try something new, we wouldn’t have any of them.’
‘So, you’re saying mistakes are good?’
This boded well.
‘I’m saying you can’t live life without making a few. Mistakes are okay so long as you learn from them. And as long as you make amends,’ she added.
She was as keen on saying sorry as she was on teachable moments. Nanna G was the same. Back in Newton, she found something I should apologise for most days. You have to mean it though, or it doesn’t count.
When the verdict was read out, ‘sorry’ was the word I whispered, though, as my grandmother was fond of remarking, Saying sorry doesn’t always make things right.
But how could I make something right if I didn’t know whether what I’d done was wrong? Had I screwed up? Or was my real mistake not acting sooner?
Matty’s lawyer read out his statement to the press on the steps of the Old Bailey, reporters and camera crews jostling for position.
‘A terrible miscarriage of justice has taken place here today,’ he intoned in his deep courtroom voice, wispy hair fluttering in the wind. ‘I am innocent of these murders which have rocked the world and caused women everywhere to fear going out alone.’
It brought to mind Judge Krause’s pronouncement just before sentencing:
‘The jury could have gone either way. . .’
It was almost as though he and Matty had conspired to raise questions over the verdict, questions that would continue to be asked for decades to come.
I looked around at the swarm of placards and protesters milling around the courthouse steps. Matty’s supporters turned up every day. It didn’t seem to matter to them whether or not they got a seat inside the chamber. They were able to make their presence felt just as well outdoors.
MATTY IS INNOCENT, their notices read.
POLICE STITCH-UP
TRIAL BY MEDIA
Then on the other side of the road, the two groups separated by uniformed police officers with truncheons at the ready, were all the folk who thought he’d got his just desserts. They carried placards too, and homemade banners painted on bedsheets.
MONSTER, they said. And, STOP VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN.
‘Come on,’ my mother urged, pulling me by the sleeve– voice and hands quivering.
She’d been the first to doubt Matty, but now she believed a terrible injustice had occurred. As we staggered away from the Old Bailey in the same way we’d staggered out of our building on the night of the fire, we passed a knot of men who plainly hadn’t been rooting for our guy.
