The Walking Dead

'So, Mr Curtis, you would have the jury believe that you are the unhappy victim of what would be, in effect, a conspiracy of lies by the prosecution's witnesses. The conspiracy, which you claim has put you before the court, involves sworn — and therefore perjured — evidence from a young woman who is sure she saw you, evidence from the owner and staff working in the jewellery shop, evidence from reputable police officers of which several have commendations on their records for outstanding conduct…and they all lied. I am being blunt, Mr Curtis. That seems to be the defence you are offering to these very grave charges. I see you shrug. I take that as the answer you are providing. They are all lying. You alone are giving the members of the jury the truthful version of events. No more questions.'

Jools saw the theatrical roll of the barrister's shaggy eyebrows, as if the whole thing was a game. But not a bloody game to anyone who had been in that shop and who had faced the open barrel of a pistol and a revolver: Jools didn't think it was a bloody game. His eyes followed Ozzie Curtis's back as the horrible bloody man was taken from the witness stand to the dock — could look at him then because the damned intimidating eyes gazed the other way.

He heard the judge: 'We've had a long and concentrated session, and I don't think we should start with the evidence of Mr Ollie Curtis before the morning. Ten thirty tomorrow.'

The clerk sucked in breath to make herself better heard: 'All rise.' Another day gone.

Actually, quite a good day — one of the best.

A day of good entertainment…not in court but at the lunch break.

A wholesome spat, if he did not feature in it, always entertained Tools Wright. The argument, materializing from nowhere, had been worthy of one of those bickering catfights in the staff common room. The dispute had featured Rob, the foreman, and Peter, the moaner. The first complaint Peter had thrown at Rob had involved the quality of the rice pudding served to them: was it not Rob's function, as jury foreman, to lodge the matter with the catering manager? Rob had said, 'You want a damn nanny? Well, you can find one for yourself. My job, as leader of the jury, is with the case we're hearing, not wet-nursing you and your bloody dietary groans.' Seconds out. No holding. Blows above the belt, please. A good clean fight, gentlemen. The bailiff had rung the bell, end of the round, and called them back. But it had been good spectator sport, and the pleasure of it had lasted Jools Wright through the afternoon as Ozzie Curtis had wriggled and lied and pleaded loss of memory through the prosecution barrister's final and impeccably polite onslaught.

He loved a catfight, claws and teeth, when he was a spectator. Didn't love the ones at home.

Couldn't abide them when he was the receiver and Babs on the attack.

She didn't do teeth, claws and insults. She hit with endless silences, occasional tears, and her ability to move around in a room as if he did not exist and had no place in the house. Perhaps she knew, perhaps she didn't know, of Hannah and the weekends, but it was not spoken of. Nor had their financial state, getting worse, been recently discussed. Tears were in another room. Weeping usually followed his bald statement that he would be going to see 'Mum and Dad' for the weekend because 'they're not getting any younger and it's the right thing to spend what time I can with them before they're gone'. He had no intention of leaving home, couldn't bloody well afford it. He was, he didn't deny it to himself, a low-life, a deceiver, a man who did not deserve trust — and he lived for the days when he was gone early through the front door and on his way to court eighteen, and for the weekends when Hannah shagged him. Could have been worse…

From the locker allocated to him, he took his green anorak and zipped it over his shirt, then slid the navy rucksack on to his shoulder. Because he had enjoyed his day, Jools called cheerfully from the jury-room door, "Bye, everybody. Have a nice evening. See you all tomorrow.'

He noted it as one of those daft afternoons when the sun shone between darkened clouds. It lit the brightness of his shirt and highlighted the gaudiness of his socks, but he had to pull up the anorak's hood to protect his hair from the shower. The socks might get really wet if the rain came down any heavier. He lengthened his stride down the Snaresbrook driveway and hoped he wouldn't be kept waiting at the pedestrian lights across the main road. Then there'd be the charge in the open up the hill to the station.

He knew nothing of counter-surveillance procedures, nor had any reason to wish he had been taught them. He did not look behind him as he went for his train, and would not look beside him and along the platform when he waited for it.

Jools Wright was in ignorance of the world in which he moved, an innocent, and would have been bemused had he been told that the price of innocence could be costly.

Chapter 5