When Nothing is Ever Simple

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"The direct examination will be a doddle, it's the cross you have to worry about." I've seen enough Judge Judy to know what Cedric is talking about.

"Okay."

"You don't sound too confident."

"Yeah well, I'm just a teensy bit nervous," I say tersely. I'm still not on good terms with Cedric. Me and Mum are in his car and Cedric's driving. I turn to look out the window of the passenger seat. Mum is in the back, gnawing at the skin around her fingernails. The car is a Mercedes. Lawyers get paid a lot. I couldn’t handle a career like that though; I'm still not sure what I want to do. Not medicine, I've heard the stats, how only about thirty percent of people actually get anywhere with it. Maybe banking. I'm good under pressure, good with numbers and you get paid a small fortune. My dad did banking. I know money isn't everything but  because I've grown up in the habit of scrimping and saving, I want to experience living with a bit of cash to spare.  

Cedric's voice jolts me back to reality. "We're here." I look round. Mum's skin gnawing has become more aggressive. Blood drips down the side of her finger. She glances up at me and offers a feeble smile.

"Good luck," I tell her because I can't think of anything else to say to her. In some ways, I think 'good luck' is a completely pointless expression because why would saying those words actually make any difference? Especially if half a dozen people tell you exactly the same thing.

I step out the car, squinting in the sunlight and follow Pope into Manchester and Salford Magistrates' court. Mum is close behind. The kids are at school but I've had permission to take the day off. It's Special Circumstances, as Mr. Beer had said with a reassuring hand on my shoulder. Though no doubt he was thinking what a screw-up my mother is and debating whether it's his duty to contact social services. Well, if they come knocking on the door, we'll know why.

We have to pass through a metal detector on our way in and then an overly jolly woman ushers me to a small, square room where I have to wait until I testify. I'm not allowed to watch the trial until I have given evidence.  The room is grey-walled and empty aside from a couple of hard-backed plastic chairs which remain unoccupied in the far corner, and a coffee machine next to the door, which spits out a thin brown sludge. No thanks.

 I look around at the other witnesses. Rudy Skinner stands in a corner, nursing a polystyrene cup of coffee. He acknowledges me with a nod. A short, balding man, maybe in his early fifties, shifts from one foot to another. I recognise him as the bloke who leads the AA meetings Mum goes to each week.

The only other witness I can identify is Kirsty Dyson, who I remember from Mum's thirtieth. She is nibbling at her bottom lip and twisting a lock of dyed black hair around her little finger. Wearing a too-short grey skirt and a white blouse revealing a large amount of cleavage, the young woman is inappropriately dressed for the occasion. Her face is heavily made up, though it has the opposite effect she was hoping for, serving only to draw attention to the fact that she is trying to conceal her age. Dirty little liar. I have to restrain myself from going over to her and saying exactly what I think of her.

I hear the usher's booming voice and then a few indistinct murmurs coming from the court room. Carol Gardner's trial has begun.