The Walking Dead

He would read, in the lunch adjournment, another, page and another entry of lost hope and growing misery. He could not help himself…The hatred surged in him for what the diary had made him.

His teeth scraped together. Then he bit savagely at his tongue — because that was what loathing did to him…And his bloody Principal — a hero of the hour — sat too damned close to the woman in the blouse and the full skirt.

He was gone again, had returned as a witness to the wire and the foxholes, and he seemed to hear the thunder of exploding shells and to lie on the dusty earth as aircraft circled above him, searching for targets. He could not free himself from it.

They were like those twins, joined at the hip…and unlike those twins featured on TV, joined also at the knee.

If she didn't like it, she was free to have shifted in her seat.

Perhaps she had not wriggled clear of him because she hadn't noticed that his hip and his knee were against hers, perhaps she didn't give a toss whether his hip and knee were pressured against her, perhaps.. God, the prosecution's wind-up speech was crushingly dull. Why bother? Guilty on all counts and chuck away the bloody key.

What mattered now to Jools Wright was the afterwards, and the afterwards was getting damnably complicated. They'd all been given the lecture on Duty of Care…but not given an answer to the question of how long Duty of Care ran for. A week, a month, a year after the finish of the trial? Didn't know. How long would he have a sour-faced policeman travelling with him, sitting with him, not speaking to him? Didn't know. Where were they going to be living, him, Babs and Kathy? Didn't know. When was he going to be able to go back to work once the jury-service cash finished? Didn't know…What was lovely was the soft, giving feel of the pelvic bone against his hip, and her knee against his. Nice lady, Vicky, and to be respected because there weren't many who could make their own shoes — and there was a quite lovely beddable scent to her, as if she hadn't washed well that morning in the stampede to get breakfast down, be on the charabanc and out of that dismal camp — and there weren't many who would have tolerated his hip and knee against hers. Had he ever spoken to her? Anything more than 'Excuse me, could you please pass the salt?'

'Excuse me, the brown sauce, please.'

'Excuse me, do you have it verbatim what that Forensics woman said?' No, he didn't think so. It was almost cheeky of Vicky, but half the buttons on her blouse were undone, and the ones that were fastened bulged fit to bust. A very nice lady was Vicky…No, the afterwards concerned him.

He looked up. God, the man looked miserable. Furrows on the forehead that came together in a knotted mess. He stared across the court and felt the slight motion of Vicky's body as she wrote busily on one of the sheets of paper pulled from her chaotic tapestry bag. He had heard not a word the barrister said. What had that bloody detective on his mind that pulled a face so damn abject? What was his 'afterwards'? Mr Banks, because he only responded if given a title, had allowed — with bloody awful grace — one phone call to Babs, from the breakfast room. He'd said quietly, 'Just thought you'd like to know, my love, where your spirit of Trafalgar Day bravery — and your ethical certainties — have left us. We had a Molotov cocktail through the front window this morning. Not to worry, minimal damage to furniture and fittings, and the Criminal Compensation crowd will meet the cost. Hope you're both well, and my regards to your parents…Oh, I've stolen your glad rags. To the police, I'm an alpha-grade hero for doing my duty, a shining example to a law-abiding society…Lots of love, have to dash, off for a spot more heroism. 'Bye.' None of the others knew it was him who'd coughed the load, under duress. His little secret. Tools could have said, 'I am not what I am'—Othello, good old Shakespeare — but would not: the deception gave him pleasure. He stared across the well of the court. His glance was met coldly…bloody miserable sod. The detective — fools reckoned — looked like the burden of life crushed him…Finally, the prosecution had sat-down, and that smug look played at the lawyer's mouth, must have given a peroration at the end, and he couldn't recall a word of it. Three cheers, caps in the air, and the defence was on his feet. They were getting there, nearer to the afterwards.

His imagination? Was the pressure of Vicky's hip harder against his? Just so damn lovely to dream.

Jools thought he sleep-walked — trouble was, he didn't know the destination.

* * *

A convoy had come, with no regard for the legal speed limit, south down the M1.

A motorcycle, lights flashing, had cleared the fast lane in front of the two performance cars that rushed towards the capital.

A prisoner, huddled in the back of the lead car, sat sandwiched between two Branch men and wore white-paper overalls.