I’ll be honest: she looked at the letter as a favour to me. But she read the transcript of your trial for her own interest, and – I think – for you, too. She’s not saying she’s taking on your case (you’ll see that from her note, enclosed), but she has a few questions she’d like answered. Feel free to totally ignore this – you probably have an awesome lawyer who has already looked into this stuff. I mean, maybe getting Gerty involved was more about me than you, because I wanted to feel like I was doing something. So feel free to tell me to piss off.

But if you do want to write back to Gerty, send something in your next letter to Leon, and we’ll get it over to her. And maybe . . . don’t mention it to your lawyer. I don’t know how lawyers feel about you talking to other lawyers – is it like adultery?

Tons of stamps enclosed (another victim of the ‘wanting to help’ impulse I’m struggling with here).

Yours,

Tiffy

*

Dear Mr Twomey,

My name is Gertrude Constantine. I suspect Tiffany will have given me some sort of grandiose introduction in her letter, so I shall skip the pleasantries.

Please let me be clear: this is not an offer of representation. This is an informal letter, not a legal consultation. If I offer advice, it is as a friend of Tiffany’s.

• It appears from the trial transcript that the friends with whom you visited Daffie’s, the nightclub in Clapham, were not called as witnesses by either prosecution or defence. Please confirm.

• ‘The Bloods’ are not mentioned by you or any other person in the trial transcript. I presume from your letter that you only became aware of this gang’s chosen name while in prison. Can you confirm which information led you to believe that the group you saw at the nightclub, and the man who assaulted you in the toilets, were members of this gang?

• Did you report the assault in the nightclub toilets?

• The bouncers at the nightclub gave evidence that the gang (as we shall refer to them) left the club soon after you did. They were not questioned further. From where they stood, might they have been able to indicate whether you and the gang were travelling in the same or a similar direction?

• It appears that the jury made their decision on the basis of only one segment of CCTV footage, filmed from within the establishment. Was CCTV from Clapham Road, Aldi car park and the adjacent launderette requested by your legal representative?

Yours faithfully,

Gertrude Constantine

21

   Tiffy

When it comes to the part where we take crochet hooks and wool out to the crowd, I head towards the little girl who was staring at me earlier. She grins as I approach, all big front teeth and cheekiness.

‘Hello,’ she says. ‘Are you Tiffy?’

I stare at her, and then duck down to the level of her wheelchair, because looming feels weird. ‘Yeah! People keep asking me that today. How did you guess?’

‘You are pretty!’ she says gleefully. ‘Are you nice as well?’

‘Oh, I’m horrible, actually,’ I tell her. ‘Why did you think I might be Tiffy? And’ – as an afterthought – ‘pretty?’

‘They said your name at the beginning,’ she points out. Oh, right, of course. Though that doesn’t explain all the creepy nurses. ‘You’re not really horrible. I think you’re nice. It was nice of you to let that lady measure your legs.’

‘It was, wasn’t it?’ I say. ‘I think that particular act of niceness has gone quite underappreciated up until this point, actually, so thank you. Do you want to learn how to crochet?’

‘No,’ she says.

I laugh. At least she’s honest, unlike the man behind her, who is valiantly having a go at making a slip knot under Katherin’s supervision. ‘What do you want to do, then?’

‘I want to talk to you about Leon,’ she says.

‘Ah! You know Leon!’

‘I’m his favourite patient.’

I smile. ‘I bet. So he’s mentioned me, has he?’

‘Not very much,’ she says.

‘Oh. Right. Well—’

‘But I told him I’d find out if you were pretty.’

‘Did you now! Did he ask you to do that?’

She thinks about it. ‘No. But I think he wanted to know.’

‘I don’t think he does . . .’ I realise I don’t know her name.

‘Holly,’ she says. ‘Like the Christmas plant.’

‘Well, Holly, me and Leon are just friends. Friends don’t need to know if friends are pretty.’

Suddenly Martin is right at my shoulder. ‘Can you pose with her?’ he mutters in my ear. God, that man knows how to creep up on you. He should wear a bell, like cats that eat birds.

‘Pose? With Holly?’

‘The leukaemia girl, yeah,’ Martin says. ‘For the press release.’

‘I can hear you, you know,’ Holly declares loudly.

Martin has just enough decency to look embarrassed. ‘Hello,’ he says in a stilted sort of way. ‘I’m Martin.’

Holly shrugs. ‘All right, Martin. My mum hasn’t given permission for you to take my photo. I don’t want my photo taken. People always feel sorry for me because I don’t have very much hair and I look sick.’

I can see Martin thinking that that was pretty much the idea. I am overcome by a sudden but not unprecedented urge to punch him, or at least kick him in the shins. Maybe I could stumble over Holly’s wheelchair and make it look like an accident.

‘Fine,’ Martin mutters, already off in Katherin’s direction, no doubt hoping that she’s located a similarly cute patient with fewer qualms about being plastered all over the Internet in order to further Martin’s career.

‘He’s horrible,’ Holly says matter-of-factly.

‘Yes,’ I say, without really thinking. ‘He is, isn’t he?’ I check my watch; we finish up in ten minutes.

‘Do you want to go and find Leon?’ Holly asks, looking at me rather cannily.

I glance over at Katherin and Martin. I mean, my work as a model is done, and I’m not even any good at crocheting, let alone teaching other people to do it. It’ll take them ages to get all this wool cleared up, and it would be quite nice not to be here for that bit.

I tap out a quick text to Katherin. I’m just heading off to find my flatmate to say thanks for organising. I’ll be back in time to tidy up xx (I definitely won’t.)