There’s a pause.

‘Not Leon’s girlfriend?’ he says.

‘Not yet,’ I tell him. ‘Well, I mean, we’ve not discussed that. We’ve only been on a few dates, technically.’

‘He’s mad about you,’ Richie says. ‘He might not say it out loud, but . . .’

I feel a twinge of anxiety. I’m crazy about Leon, too. I spend most of my waking hours thinking about him, and a few of the sleeping ones too. But . . . I don’t know. The idea of him wanting to be my boyfriend makes me feel so trapped.

I adjust my dress, wondering if I’m the one having the problem with corsets and nerves. I really like Leon. This is ridiculous. Objectively, I would like to call him my boyfriend, and introduce him to people as such. That’s what you always want when you’re crazy about someone. But . . .

What would Lucie say?

Well, she’d probably say nothing, to be honest. She’d just leave me to stew on the fact that this weird fear of getting trapped is almost certainly to do with the fact that I was in a relationship with a man who never really let me go.

‘Tiffy?’ Richie says. ‘I should probably get going.’

‘Oh, God, yes,’ I say, coming to my senses. I don’t know what I’m doing worrying about relationship labels when Richie is about to walk into court. ‘Good luck, Richie. I wish I could be there.’

‘Maybe see you on the other side,’ he says, voice trembling again. ‘And if not – look after Leon.’

This time, the request doesn’t sound strange. ‘I will,’ I tell him. ‘I promise.’

58

   Leon

Hate this suit. Last wore it for court case number one, and then shoved it in wardrobe at Mam’s place, tempted to burn it like it was contaminated. Glad I didn’t. Can’t afford to keep burning suits every time the legal system fails to deliver justice. This might not be our last appeal.

Mam is weepy and shaking. I try so hard to be strong for her, but can’t bear to be in the room with her. Would be easier with any other person, but with Mam, it’s awful. I want her to mother me, not the other way around, and it almost makes me angry seeing her like this, even while it makes me sad.

I check my phone.

I’ve just spoken to Richie – he called here for a bit of a morale boost. He’s doing fine. You’re all going to be fine, whatever happens. Text me if there’s anything I can do. I can always duck out for a phone call. Tiffy xx

I feel warm for a moment, after a morning of sustained cold fear. Remind myself of new resolve to tell Tiffy explicitly how I feel and move things in direction of seriousness, e.g. meeting parents etc.

Mam: Sweetie?

One last look in mirror. Thinner, longer-haired, stretched-out Richie stares back at me. I can’t get him out of my head – I keep remembering how he looked when they read out his sentence, the endless barrage of nonsense about his cold-blooded, calculated crime, how his eyes went wide and blank with fear.

Mam: Leon? Sweetie?

Me: Coming.

*

Hello again, courtroom.

It’s so mundane. Nothing like the wooden seats and vaulted ceilings of American legal dramas – just lots of files on desks, carpet, and tiered benches from which a few bored-looking lawyers and journalists have come to spectate. One of the journalists is trying to find a plug to charge his phone. A law student is inspecting the back of her smoothie bottle.

It’s bizarre. Earlier this year, I would have wanted to scream at both of them. Pay some fucking attention. You’re watching someone’s life being destroyed. But it’s all part of the peculiar drama of this ritual, and now that we know how to play the game – now that we have a lawyer who knows the rules – the ritual doesn’t bother me so much.

A wizened man in a long cloak like a Harry Potter character enters with prison guard and Richie. Richie is not cuffed, which is something. But he looks just as bad as I suspected. He’s bulked up in the last few months, exercising again, but with his shoulders slumped the muscle seems to weigh him down. Can barely recognise him as the brother who first walked into court last year, the one with total confidence that if you’re innocent you walk out free. The brother who grew up at my shoulder, matching me step for step, always having my back.

Almost can’t look at him – it’s too painful seeing the fear in his eyes. Somehow, from somewhere, I manage an encouraging smile when he looks at me and Mam. They put him in a glass box and close the door behind him.

We wait. Journalist succeeds at plugging in phone, and continues to scroll through what looks like the Reuters homepage, despite enormous sign forbidding use of mobile phones directly above his head. Smoothie-bottle girl is now pulling loose threads out of fluffy scarf.

Have to keep smiling at Richie. Gerty is here, dressed in that ridicu­lous outfit, almost indistinguishable from the rest of the lawyers even though I’ve seen her eating Chinese takeaway in my kitchen. I feel myself bristling just at the sight of her. It’s something guttural, instinctive now. Have to remind myself over and over that she’s on our team.

Wizened robed man: All rise!

Everyone stands. Three judges file into the room. Is it generalising to point out that literally all of them are white middle-aged men whose shoes look like they are worth more than my mother’s car? I try to quell my rising hatred as they settle into their seats. Flick through the paperwork in front of them. Look up, finally, at Gerty and the prosecution barrister. Not one of them looks at my brother.

Judge 1: Shall we begin?

59

   Tiffy

Katherin is a tiny, black-clad stick figure on the stage. Behind her, blown up to terrifying proportions, she’s repeated in close-up – one screen is just her hands, so viewers can watch how she uses the crochet hook, and the other two focus on her face.

It’s amazing. The whole crowd is rapt. We’re so overdressed for a daytime event about crochet, but Katherin insisted on the dress code – despite all her anti-bourgeois values, she bloody loves an excuse to wear something fancy. Women in cocktail dresses gaze up at Katherin’s enormous face, immortalised on the big screens beneath the vaulted ceiling. Men in tuxedos chuckle warmly at Katherin’s witticisms. I even catch one young woman in a satin gown copying the movements of Katherin’s hands, though all she’s holding is a miniature goat’s cheese canapé, no crochet hook in sight.

Despite all of this, all its distracting absurdity, I can’t stop thinking about Richie and the way his voice trembled on the phone.

Nobody would notice if I just sneaked out. I might look a little incongruous for the courtroom, but maybe I could head via my flat, and pick up a change of clothes for the taxi ride . . .