A Twist of Fate (26 page)

Christmas came and went. I spent it at my parents'. They talked a lot. Even they'd given up asking about Rupert. He hadn't been in touch, for which I was glad. That would have confused me even more.

I managed to make it to a New Year's party but the champagne tasted bitter and the canapés stale. The chimes of Big Ben sounded up the river. I checked my phone to see if the time tallied. A few seconds later I had a text.

‘I hope the New Year brings you all you want, Callie. By the way, I'm still here.'

My hand shook as I clutched the phone. I stared down at the words, my emotions writhing like a caged beast.

My phone pinged again.

‘I still love you. Can't help it.'

Oh God, Paul, please don't do this to me.

I couldn't help it either. I replied to his text.

‘When is the trial?'

Seriously? The man I couldn't stop thinking about sends me a profession of love and I respond by asking him about the timing of a legal procedure?

I didn't get an immediate response and when it did come I could almost hear his wry chuckle accompanying it.

‘Last of the romantics, Callie. Trial starts in April.'

I waited at least five minutes.

‘Are you alright?'

‘As alright as I can be.'

‘What does that mean? Are you worried about the trial?'

‘No, I'm missing you.'

‘This is wrong, Paul. No more texts. I haven't changed my mind.'

There were no more texts that night. Or for the next month. And then on February 14
^th
at 11:59 p.m., I had another. ‘I'm still here. And, yes.'

I knew what it was in answer to. I asked myself the question every day: Does he still love me?

If school hadn't been so busy I would have gone mad. Fortunately, with exams imminent, I barely had time to worry about myself.

The Easter holidays were fast approaching. And so was the trial.

Thirty

It was only in the last week before the Easter holidays, as I sat engulfed by revision papers, that it hit me. I turned on the news for some distraction. It was the second item on the headlines.

‘The trial of Paul Mason, the survivor of the Maldives air crash, begins tomorrow. Mr Mason is accused of armed robbery and assault in a crime dating back to 2007.'

I stared at the screen as the images were paraded before me again. I wanted to see a recent image of Paul. I thought perhaps they'd catch him leaving work or his house. And then another fear took hold. What if he was not alone? What if he had someone with him? Dawn, perhaps? I dismissed that thought. She wouldn't go near him with a bargepole now. He was damaged goods. Stupid bitch.

But then … hadn't I behaved exactly the same?

But they hadn't caught Paul leaving his house, alone or otherwise. He'd clearly been lying low.

I reached for my phone, bringing up the message thread between us.

‘Are you alright?' Before I had a chance to change my mind, I hit send.

I received no answer that night. In the morning, I still hadn't. It was the first day of my holiday, usually a day of lazing in bed and eating endless bowls of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes. Today, I was frantic.

The answer came at half past eight, although it seemed later. ‘Missing you.'

‘I meant about the trial.'

‘I know what you meant. That's how I am. How are you?'

‘Good,' I put. That was all. I felt foolish for letting it get to me. My defences were up again. I threw my phone into my bag and buried it under old Extra Strong Mint wrappers.

I went to my mother's for lunch – a bad idea, as it turned out. Radio 4 was like crack to her – she needed a constant hum of it in the background to keep her going. Every hour, I heard his name; ‘Paul Mason is in court today …', ‘The trial of Paul Mason begins today …', ‘Paul Mason's trial gets underway at the Old Bailey …'

My mother tutted loudly each time his name was mentioned. ‘Thank God you weren't on the island with that man a moment longer. Goodness knows what he would have done. A man's true nature can never be hidden for long.'

I stood, my body propelled up through anger. ‘You have no idea! I'd be dead if it wasn't for him! Don't you realise that?' I stormed out of the room, leaving her staring behind me open-mouthed and, for once, silent.

I could have gone. I decided not to. At least for the first day. I avoided television and the internet assiduously, even steering clear of the electrical section of Sainsbury's so that I didn't inadvertently see a reporter standing outside the Old Bailey. I knew I'd soon be summoned to witness.

I visited friends, I read trashy books, I did some marking and preparation, anything to distract me. But at ten o'clock that night, I succumbed. I watched the news. It was the second item. They said little but some details of the case emerged: the wounds on the victim (horrific), the damage to the store (extensive). And there was footage of Paul emerging from court, his face impassive but calm. He strode ahead, even telling a photographer to be careful when they nearly fell off the kerb in the jostle to get a photo.

He looked wonderful. In his dark suit and his hair still thick but tamed, I wanted to reach into the screen and take him out. At one point he looked briefly into the camera, probably inadvertently. After the report had ended, I rewound that part and froze it at the moment his eyes were staring out, right at me. I stared right back. Paul. My Paul.

I went the next day. I hadn't intended to, I hadn't even decided to that morning. But at ten past nine, I couldn't stand it. I practically ran through the streets to get there. As much as anything, I wanted to see him. I wanted to be in the same room as him again. I wanted to breathe in the same air, know that if I took a few steps, I'd touch him.

The court was full, the public gallery crammed, but when the official saw who I was, she put an extra chair out for me. I sat as quietly as I could right at the back. Nobody had seen me slip in. I could only just glimpse the dock but I saw him immediately and, despite reason telling me otherwise, my belly leapt as it had when I'd first made eye contact with him on the plane.

He sat still, listening intently to proceedings, his eyes trained on the barrister speaking at the time. He had one hand to his chin and his fingers stroked along his bottom lip distractedly. I looked from him to the jury. Twelve good people and true. That was the hope, anyway. As all were in suits, I found it hard to identify what traits and characteristics they might have. I searched their faces. On the whole they seemed thoughtful and pleasant, almost ridiculously sensible, in fact. Seven men and five women, ranging in ages from early twenties to late sixties, it seemed. I tried to gauge their sympathy. How agreeable were they, even before evidence was presented, towards an ex-soldier Yorkshireman accused of assault and armed robbery? I closed my eyes to it. What was the point in speculating?

One of the forensic officers who had cleared the scene was giving evidence. Paul's fingerprints were everywhere, he said. His blood was found in various locations, including on jewellery removed from display and scattered on the gun and on the victim. It had been matched after his arrest. My spirits sank. I looked at Paul. He was sitting as calmly as ever, not even leaning over as he usually did. Did I believe him to be capable of this? I had grown accustomed to him displaying anxiety from time to time. He wasn't doing that now. He wasn't leaning forward in the tense manner he adopted when he was stressed. This was the Paul who had saved me, the Paul I relied on.

But my doubts lingered to torment me. I had decided, hadn't I? I had pushed him away for a reason, even if I hadn't understood it. Wasn't it a gut instinct? I remembered the dead Afghans, I remembered him pinning Tom Yearsley to the wall, I felt again the intensity of our lovemaking, of his dominance when he took me. Was it so hard to make the leap to the violent man in Caton's Jewellers? I took a staggering breath and tried to refocus.

Paul's lawyer stood up to cross-examine the policeman. His barrister was young, perhaps too young. But he had a quick mind and delivered his points clearly and sharply; Surely there were hundreds of fingerprints in the store that day? There were, but it had been cleaned at lock-up, and there were more of Paul's than anyone else's. Wouldn't this be consistent with him trying to defend Miss Sunley, the victim? It would.

It was the first time I had heard her referred to by name apart from on television. Natalie Sunley. I scanned the court to try to see her. Would she be obvious, this person who had altered my life, either ruining it or saving it? I found her immediately. She was small and brunette, with a quiet face and fine features. Pretty but discreet. She looked lovely, I could only admit. Her face was entirely without malice or intent. How could anyone not believe her? I could see no obvious facial scarring, but as I looked more closely, there was mottled skin on her neck from a long scar.

The day wore on. Legal proceedings were long-winded and onerous, but I sat there, listening to facts and figures of blood spatters and the exact serial numbers of bracelets and rings and necklaces.

Paul hadn't seen me, but just before adjournment, he let his head fall back, as if stretching out his tension, and, when his neck was fully extended he opened his eyes and looked above him. Almost immediately they shifted to me, as if sensing me.

Paul locked eyes with me and the rest of the court vanished from my awareness. It was him and me, just the two of us again, clinging together.

At first he looked surprised to see me. But slowly, as the seconds stretched out, his expression softened into one of utter contentment. I didn't look away. I owed him that. And then he smiled. That slight, skew-whiff quirk of a grin, the left hand side jigging up just enough to make me want to absorb all of him into me.

I forced myself not to smile back, but I still didn't look away. He stayed like it, just smiling at me, and I was happy again for the first time in months.

‘Callie?'

Someone behind me was speaking my name. I ignored it.

‘Callie?' It grew insistent and a hand was placed on my shoulder. I had no option but to look around at the voice.

It was Anna. ‘Oh!' I gasped, at once furious with her but pleased it was no one I couldn't cope with. ‘Hello.'

I stood up, half looking back at Paul. He was being accompanied from the dock, still staring up at me. He soon disappeared from view. I had no choice but to turn back to Anna. I managed to smile weakly.

She embraced me. ‘How are you?'

‘Oh, you know …'

‘I've been meaning to get in touch but I knew you'd contact me if you needed me. This is all rather …' She couldn't finish. She ended with a concerned frown.

‘Yes.'

‘I can't believe he'd do it.'

I didn't answer. I didn't want anyone else's opinion. I resented her having an opinion. This was all too complex for that. Only Paul knew the truth and only I was able to understand it, whatever it was. For no matter what the truth was, I did understand it, even if I couldn't live with it.

‘Have you spoken to him recently?' Anna asked.

‘Not really.'

‘But he's all right? He won't answer my calls and emails.'

‘He's on trial, but he's Paul. He's a survivor.'

She smiled, then, sensing my reluctance to talk, patted me on the arm and took paces away. ‘You know where I am. I'll probably see you around here.'

‘Probably.' Would I come back? Probably.

Thirty-one

I did go back. The prosecution was in full flow and I found myself sitting in the same place in court. It was time for Natalie Sunley to give evidence. She approached the witness box with her head up, her hair tied neatly back, a dark blue suit fitting trimly to her slim figure. She had a slight limp as she took the stand and the scar on her neck was more prominent today, probably on direction from her lawyer. I liked her, as much as it surprised me. The jury would like her too.

She was sworn in and the prosecution lawyer, Mr Thirle, an indomitable man with thick grey hair, stood up.

‘Miss Sunley, could you tell us in your own words what happened after ten p.m. on Saturday, June 16
^th
2007?'

She swallowed. She was clasping her hands tightly, but apart from that she showed no sign of stress. She spoke clearly and calmly.

‘I had stayed on late as we were stock-taking. I didn't usually, but I was getting overtime and needed some extra money. It was my niece's birthday and I'd promised her a day out to a pony sanctuary.' The jury would like that. I glanced at them. Several were smiling.

‘The owner had been working late with me and had intended to stay. He didn't like me working on my own.'

‘This is Mr Caton?'

‘Yes.'

‘He has since passed away, is that right?'

‘That's right, yes. Anyway, he had set the security screens to close, but we'd been having some problems with the electrics. The CCTV wasn't working properly and the screens hadn't closed fully. I told him not to worry about it. His wife wanted him home. I told him I'd close them by hand, which was possible, after I'd finished the last few items. The front doors were locked, and I thought it was almost impossible for people to get in. I could pull down and lock the screens by hand when I left. I didn't want Mr Caton to be troubled with it.'

‘He left you alone?'

‘Yes, reluctantly, but he'd just taken a phone call from his wife. She was insistent, let's say. I stayed on the shop floor, sorting out the last few items. It happened suddenly, almost immediately. There was a rustling noise at the door. At first I thought it was an animal – a fox, maybe – they sometimes sniff around outside. But then there was this tumultuous banging. Someone was barging into the shop. It opened remarkably easily. I stood there at first, just watching it happen. I was waiting for the alarms to go off, but they didn't.'