Please see author notes for a summary of what has happened in previous chapters.

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Stacey

‘Mrs Dale . . . Mrs Dale.’

No. Not now. My son’s lawyer is still trying to grab my attention. I won’t talk to him. He let my son down. He promised the case against him was flimsy and would be thrown out; I hate him for what he’s done to us; he’ll still have his career, his life, while we’re forced to be swallowed up by the gutters and spat out with the sewerage.

Bodies swarm in front of me, barring my way as I leave the courtroom, intent on making it outside, before my son’s lawyer manages to corner me. The moment I leave though, I’ll be facing the wrath of the journalists, and the public, demanding my son be hanged. How can they say this when they know nothing about him? If I could take my son’s place so he’d be free of this, I would, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Bring back the death penalty, some of them cried on social media following his arrest. But they haven’t seen the bigger picture; I have to keep reminding myself that.

The sneer on the face of Detective Inspector Dominic Hitchin’s, as my son was led away, was surely evident for all to see, it was a good job there were so many obstacles in my path to stop me from jumping down and pummelling my fists into him, oh it would’ve been such a delight to throw him to the ground. He’s the man who’s destroyed our lives.

I drink in greedy gulps of grimy, heated, air as I crash out of the court and onto the steps outside. London is going about its normal day as though nothing else is going on. Red busses travel past, office workers in suits hurry up and down the street, phones clamped to their ears. The pack of journalists are standing to my left, thank God they haven’t noticed me. Right now, DI Dominic Hitchin’s is delivering a statement on behalf of the victim’s family so their attention is focused on him. He’s all smiles. His blue eyes twinkle in the sunlight. He’s quite an attractive man, I must admit I thought that when I first saw him, I thought he was on our side, but the sight of him repulses me, he makes me want to puke.

‘This has been a tough and deeply heartbreaking case. I am pleased that the jury came to the decision they did today and that justice for Susannah Taylor has been served.’

I want to go over there and launch myself at him, shove him to the ground, punch the living daylights out of him, he sent my son to the wolves, took his future from him. But this is my opportunity to slip away, without being caught by the journalists. The papers would be full of it tomorrow if I was to lose my temper here.

Keeping my focus on getting to the nearest tube station, St. Paul’s, I break into a run. Ahead of me the shadow of the Lady Justice statue stretches out on the ground, mocking me. Justice. What justice? My son’s been sent down for a crime he didn’t commit. I don’t look back, my feet slam hard into the concrete, just keep moving. If I get the next Central line train, I’ll be back at my home in Essex within the next hour or so. Home, what’s waiting for me at home now? A lump bobs into my throat.

Don’t cry in public. All it’ll take is for one person to recognise you, snap a picture on their phone and your face will be splashed all over social media for the world to see. Then it’ll be in the Daily Mail, yes, they’re the ones who’ve spearheaded the inaccurate stories about this case.

Pulling my hood up, I dive into St Paul’s station and touch down using my debit card. Around me there are young mothers with children, people holding brief cases, all going about their daily lives. I wish I could trade my life with just one of them. Shit, what am I thinking? How can I think that? My son needs me. I can’t abandon him.

The central line train screeches to a halt in front of me, and I slip onto it, heart pounding in my chest as I find a chair to sit on.

I glance further into the carriage as the train rockets away from the platform. Most people are gazing at their phones, or have ear phones plugged in, oblivious to what’s going on in the world around them. How many of them have heard the news that my son’s been found guilty yet?

My eyes fall on a young woman standing to my right, holding onto the yellow pole. She’s talking on her phone. I’m about to look the other way, then I stop. No it can’t be. My chest tightens, oh my God, it is; it’s her. It’s the woman I named Georgia, the foreman. I’m sure of it.

I’m not sure if Georgia noticed me in the public gallery. She would’ve been focused entirely on my son, and on the evidence, as it was presented to them.

She must’ve got the same train here and back with me every day, it’s crazy. My heart pounds in my chest. I can’t believe I haven’t noticed her before, or, indeed, that she hasn’t noticed me. I crane my neck and try to listen in to what she’s saying, I wish the person sitting beside me would turn off their bloody phone, they don’t seem to realise that no one else wants to listen to their stupid rap music, which I can’t stand anyway at the best of times.

The jury aren’t supposed to talk to anyone about the case. But I’m sure people do. It’s a bit of gossip at the end of the day, particularly if it’s a famous case, like my son’s.

‘Yeah, heading home now, God it was tough,’ Georgia says. I imagine she’s talking to her partner, if she has one. ‘Okay, yes, sure. Love you lots.’

Georgia ends the call.

I look into my lap. Perhaps I should move further down the carriage so she doesn’t see me, but what if? No don’t be stupid, you can’t speak to her.

I pull out my phone and try to concentrate on Word Trip. The speakers announce Liverpool Street is the next stop, the station I need to get off at, I look up. As the train slows, Georgia shows no sign she’s intending to get off.

As the doors slide open I watch her, but she only moves when someone else appears next to her to grab the pole after they’ve boarded the train.

The sensible thing for me to do right now would be to get off and go home. But I don’t. I let the doors close and the train whisks away from the platform, jerking a little too violently for my liking.

I glance at Georgia and remember what I thought about her back in the courtroom. This could be my one chance to speak to her, find out what she really thinks. I breathe in a lungful of air, knowing now I can’t blow this opportunity.