The Walking Dead

'No, I'm not. It's a new war and a new enemy, and maybe they are brave and principled. I don't have the answers — others do, but not me. Daff, I feel like I'm flawed.'

'What do you want me to say?'

'Don't know.'

'Well, I'll offer this. If you're in shit, get clear of it. If you're in a quagmire, crawl out of it. Hack on in there, Banksy, don't let the bastards destroy you. Always believe it, something'll turn up.'

'If only it were that easy. I'll see you, Daff.'

At the top of the stairs to the basement he met the crowd of Delta, Golf and Kilo guys and was ignored. Without him, with their briefing finished, they went to draw their weapons.

She sat on the bed and her silent sobbing shook her. From the next room, she could hear the beat of Kathy's music. Beside her, on the duvet, was the brown-paper package with one end torn open and the banknotes exposed.

She had found it an hour earlier when she had brought the ironing upstairs and two pairs of his socks had fallen as she had stacked his clothes on the wardrobe's shelves. The socks had dropped among the shoes at the bottom. It was so obviously hidden and not intended that she should discover it. She had, and she had ripped back the paper. It was more money than she had ever seen. She knew of no reason, other than a criminal one, for so many banknotes to be in her house.

The door clicked downstairs. His voice called, 'Hi, love, you up there? Everything fine? Mum and Dad send their love.'

She heard his footsteps on the stairs and pushed the package further away from her, so that he would see it better when he came into the room.

She wiped her eyes and twisted to face him, contempt coursing through her. She saw his face go ashen.

Chapter 9

Monday, Day 12

He handed the envelope to the jury bailiff. The man studied it, a frown knitting his forehead. He seemed to hold it with suspicion, but he read what was written: By Hand — for the personal attention of Mr Justice Herbert, Court 18. There was hesitation. 'Is this something I can deal with?'

Jools said tartly, 'No. If it were I would not have addressed it to Mr Justice Herbert.'

'Actually, in the hour before his court sits, he's rather busy.'

'I'd like it delivered to him now.'

'And when he's busy he has a short temper. Are you telling me this is urgent?'

Jools looked sharply around and behind him, but the remainder of the jury seemed not to have noticed his conversation with the bailiff. 'Look, it's not some bloody complaint about the food or the chairs we sit on. It's urgent and should get on to his desk soonest — like now.'

'Right, then. Be it on your head.'

All the way to the door, the bailiff examined the envelope as if still doubtful of its importance, then was gone. Could not be called back. Jools thought he had cast the die. He was sure that nothing in his life would be the same again.

He felt sick. Vomit had risen from his stomach and was lodged in his throat. He swayed. His eyes, bleary and bloodshot, ached…as well they might. He had been up half the night as Babs had scalpelled the truth from him; In the bedroom, her voice stiletto sharp and quiet, his murmuring early evasions and late honesties, she had cut the story out of him. When she had finished, he had been tossed aside. He had spent what was left of the night on the living-room settee, and when he was about to leave she had hurled the package, now retaped, into his midriff. He had clutched it against his chest, under his anorak, all the way to Snaresbrook Crown Court. It was now in his locker, hidden under his coat.