Into the Darkest Corner (41 page)

“Show yourself!” I screamed. “What are you waiting for?!”

From here I could see to the front door, slightly ajar, the light from the hallway filtering in. “No,” I muttered to myself, and ran toward the door after him.

He was behind the sofa and stood suddenly, tripping me, the can of deodorant and the lighter skittering out of my hands and across the floor as I landed facedown on the carpet with a forceful thump.

He laughed, his face manic in the half-light, his face wet with tears, residue from the spray smeared around his eyes. “You’re not afraid? Huh? Is that what you said?” He was sitting astride my chest, my fists pounding him as hard as I could everywhere and anywhere I could reach, but clearly not bothering him in the slightest.

“Get off me, you shit,” I hissed. “Get the fuck off me!”

He caught one of my hands and was trying to get the other one as I slapped him and punched him and tried to get to his eyes, scratching anywhere I could get to. If he got my other hand, if he tied me up, it was all over.

“Where’s Sylvia?” I shouted at him. “What have you done with her?”

He laughed, again, as though what I’d said was funny. “Sylvia—Christ. Let’s just say she won’t be putting in a complaint.”

A car’s headlights outside brightened the room for a second and I saw his eyes, the expression in them—and the fear almost overtook me. Until then I hadn’t been afraid. But now I saw he was going to kill me. And this time he was going to be quick.

Instead of going for his face, my left hand grasped into my pocket and found the potato peeler. With as much force as I could muster, I rammed it into his side and almost immediately he fell off me, gasping and clutching his side.

The handle of the peeler stuck out from his side. He twisted around to look at it and touched it gingerly.

I crawled away into the shadows, feeling around the carpet for the can and the smooth metal of the lighter, and my fingers made contact with them just as he grabbed at my ankle. I kicked backward as hard as I could and my sneaker made contact with something that made him yell.

In the meantime I turned, sprayed and clicked.

The jet of flame shot halfway across my living room, over the figure that was sprawled on his back. I saw his eyes and the shock and the fear in them for a moment before I adjusted my aim full into his face. And then he was just a figure, engulfed in flame, falling backward with his hands over his face, arms flapping. I thought he would be quiet but he was screaming, his mouth full of flames and the sound coming out of it the most terrible noise I’d ever heard.

My hands were burning too and I managed to drop the can. I stood for a moment wondering if I should do something, as he dropped to the carpet and rolled left and right, writhing like a man possessed. The flames were gone and he lay still, his face blackened, his shirt tattered.

I let out a breath, a sob, just as I heard feet on the stairs, louder than the rain hammering on the window outside, louder than the bleeping smoke alarm above my head, and the door flew open. I looked behind me at the shapes coming through the doorway, only two of them, only two of them in uniform—what did they think? But I was never more grateful to see two people in my whole life.

I fell to my knees onto the carpet, and wept.

Wednesday 4 March 2009

From where I sat on a low wall outside the main building, I saw him running across the parking lot, watching for a gap in the traffic then risking it and weaving between the cars, slowing down as the lights changed.

He was out of breath when he finally got to me.

“Hi,” he said. “Am I late?”

I shook my head. “There’s some sort of a holdup—they’re not starting until half-past. They’re all still waiting in the corridor outside.”

“Is she in there?”

“Yes.”

He kissed me, a quick kiss on the cheek and then another one, lingering. His fingers on my cheek were cool.

“Stuart. You’re nervous.”

“A bit. Aren’t you?”

“A bit.”

“Let’s go inside. Get it over with.”

Sam Hollands was waiting for us inside.

“How are you feeling, Cathy?” she asked. She looked good today, in a pantsuit and with a fresh haircut. She’d given her evidence this morning.

“I’m okay. Thanks.”

“They’ve delayed the start,” Sam said to Stuart. “It seems Mr. Brightman isn’t feeling well again.”

“What a surprise,” Stuart said.

I was half listening to them, scanning the waiting area, watching the people coming and going, looking for her. Where was she? She was supposed to be here.

“Sam, where . . . ?”

“She went to the bathroom.”

Stuart still had tight hold of my hand. He kissed it. “Go and look for her,” he said. “I’ll see you in there. Don’t look at him. Just look at me, if you need to.”

“Just go in,” I said. “I’ll be fine. Really.”

He went through the door, looking for a seat in the public gallery. The courtroom was filling up.

“I’d better go in, too,” Sam said. “Unless you want me to wait?”

“No, you go in. I’ll go and find her.”

She hesitated for a moment. The usher was hovering by the door, looking fidgety.

“We’re going to nail him,” she said.

I smiled, and she went inside.

Inside the ladies’ bathroom, Sylvia stood by the sink, staring at her reflection in the mirror. “Hey,” I said.

She’d made an effort to put on some makeup, brighten her face up a bit, but she still looked terribly pale.

“I’m afraid, Catherine,” she said.

“I know.”

“You were so brave, yesterday. They listened to you.”

“They’ll listen to you, too.”

I watched her face start to crumple and stepped forward to hold her. She was shaking, her thin shoulders rigid with fear.

“It’s all right,” I said. “It’s all right to be scared. But you know what? He’s more scared than you are. You’re the one with all the power now. You know that? He can’t hurt us again. We’ve just got to get through this, and it will be all right.”

She pulled back, fiercely dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “I know, I know. You’re right. But—”

“Did you hear his voice on the first day? Remember when they asked him his name and he entered the plea? It was just a squeak. That’s all he has left. He is nothing.”

She nodded, and smiled, a slight smile. A deep breath.

“Don’t look at him, if you don’t want to. Look at me, or Stuart, or Sam. We’re all there for you. We’re all in this together. Right?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go,” I said.

“One more thing.” She fiddled around in her handbag, and found some lipstick. Bright red. When she applied it, her hand was steady.

It was time.

Inner London Crown Court

R-v-BRIGHTMAN

Wednesday 4 March 2009

Morning Session
Before:
THE HONORABLE MR. JUSTICE McCANN