The Walking Dead

She used her arms, extended, to warn herself of obstructions— the toppled, legless settee, broken chairs, torn-up carpeting — went back into the kitchen, and stepped over the fallen cooker. She went down on her knees and pushed back the bottom plank that had been nailed against the outside of the door and that she had prised away with a half-brick. She lay on her stomach, in the dried filth, wriggled through the gap and emerged into the light. She gasped down the cleanness of the air, then crouched in the rain and replaced the plank.

She crossed the garden area, overgrown with grass and weeds, ignoring the rubbish scattered there, and went through the broken fence on to the waste ground. Faria retraced the way she had come from where she had left them, went to tell them that she had found a safe-house, that the trust in her was well justified.

* * *

'The prosecution's case, members of the jury, is a concoction of innuendoes, half-truths and — believe me, I get no pleasure from stating this, but it must be said — slanders against the good names of my clients. I am asking you, most earnestly, in the name of justice to reject that concoction.'

Banks listened from the public gallery, and thought he despised the barrister.

'Much has been made by the prosecution of the supposed identification of my clients by that conveniently produced eye-witness. I urge you to reflect on how much weight you can place on the word of a young woman, scarcely out of her teens, who has lived for months cheek by jowl with police officers, who, of course, are anxious to obtain a conviction. I am not saying she lied…I am saying that she was influenced — I am prepared to believe in her innocence — by those officers. I put it to you that this simple young woman, without education, has sought to please. Can you say, in all honesty, that her evidence was not doctored, was not rehearsed under the supervision of the officers? I doubt it.'

He had not, of course, seen the witness give her evidence, but he had Wally's description of her. The inspector was beside him, his body tilted back and his face impassive. What David Banks thought, as the barrister droned, was that the previous evening — for a mature adult, who'd been given responsibility, had been issued with a killing weapon — he had made a complete and utter idiot of himself. It had gone on too long.

'You find yourself, members of the jury, asked to convict two businessmen whose sole interest in life — other than caring for their sick mother — is trading, buying and selling. I cannot tell you that their dealings with the Revenue are totally transparent. Nor can I say that their returns on VAT demands are wholly satisfactory…You are not, and I emphasize this, judging my clients on matters of taxation. You are hearing a case that involves a quite desperate and reckless attack on a jewellery shop, and the prosecution's efforts to vilify my clients — in respect of it — have failed.'

The barrister's voice had an oiled sincerity. Never could tell with a jury, Wally had said. Unpredictable, they were. Could be swallowing what was served up to them — not one of them, his Principal. His Principal, for what it was worth, had played hero. What happened to him, weeks and months ahead, was not Banks's concern. What was his concern, it had gone on too long. He squirmed in his seat.

'I will say what I can on an area of extreme delicacy — and you will receive further guidance on this from our judge. There are now restrictions on your movements and freedoms, and I regret them. You should, however, understand, that no connection exists — I repeat, no connection — between my clients and such restrictions. You will, and I rely on you, as do my clients, ignore the circumstances under which you are hearing this case.'

He thought of them in London, in the capital under lockdown, the men of Delta, Golf and Kilo, doing what he should have been doing. Sitting in court eighteen, he realized he did not care a damn whether Ozzie and Ollie Curtis went down, whether they had an arm long enough to reach from a gaol cell and hit Julian Wright, his Principal. He had short-changed himself…It had gone on too long, and he would grovel, whatever it took. He imagined the racks behind Daff's counter — emptied, the ammunition issued — and heard the Welsh lilt of the armourer: If you're in shit, get clear of it. If you're in a quagmire, crawl out of it. Banksy, don't let the bastards destroy you. Always believe it, something'll turn up. He seemed to hear the gallows humour around him, and rough camaraderie, and his isolation from his team ate at him…and he craved it. He stood up, bobbed his head at the judge.

He walked out of court eighteen.

He crossed the forecourt and strode towards the centre of a great expanse of grass. Ahead of him were the lake and the geese. The rain was in his face.

He took his mobile from his pocket, and dialled.