Dishonour (11 page)

‘Raffique,’ Mrs Holmes addressed him directly, ‘would you agree to those conditions?’

Raffy got to his feet.

‘You don’t have to stand,’ said Lilly, taking his elbow.

Raffy slapped away her hand with a ferocity that startled her.

‘I do not accept your British laws.’ He pointed at Mrs Holmes. ‘And I do not accept the legality of your courts.’

It was Lilly’s turn to groan.

‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Mrs Holmes.

Raffy threw back his shoulders. ‘You have no jurisdiction over me.’

Anwar jumped to his feet. ‘Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.’

‘Everyone sit down, now,’ ordered Mrs Holmes.

‘Raffy, please.’ Anwar stumbled towards his brother. ‘Tell her you didn’t mean it.’

‘I said sit down,’ Mrs Holmes’s voice was steely.

The guard moved towards Anwar and grabbed his shoulder, the sleeve of his uniform riding up to reveal a bulldog tattoo. He clutched the material of Anwar’s new suit. The force knocked Anwar off his feet and he grasped at the advocates’ desk for ballast, knocking papers and files across the courtroom before falling to the floor.

Raffy sprang over the bench and stood between his brother and the guard. ‘Don’t you touch him.’

A smile spread across the guard’s face as if he couldn’t believe his luck. ‘You want some, do you?’ he snarled.

Raffy didn’t reply but his body language was challenge enough.

The guard took a lunge at him but Raffy dodged backwards. The guard grunted and his nostrils flared.

Fearing her client was about to receive the worst beating of his life, Lilly slid her arm in front of him.

‘Stop this right now.’

‘He started it,’ shouted Raffy, still every inch the petulant teenager, so different from the posturing extremist of moments ago.

‘I don’t care,’ said Lilly. ‘Just move aside now.’

She could feel the muscles of his chest like stone, every sinew taut, against the flimsy barrier of her arm.

‘You,’ she glared at the guard, ‘need to calm down.’

She could see a vein in the man’s thick neck throbbing and his jaw clenched rhythmically She held her breath until the guard took one small step back. Her arm was beginning to ache as she pushed it against her client.

Raffy looked at the guard, a tiny smile playing at the corner of his lips. Don’t you bloody dare, she thought. He muttered something under his breath but Lilly caught it.

‘Pussy.’

The guard heard it too and swung back his arm. Lilly tried to move out of the way. Too late. The punch, aimed at Raffy, glanced off her shoulder and sent her spiralling to the ground.

Raffy took one look at his solicitor and head-butted the guard. His brow connected with the bigger man’s nose with a wet crunch.

The guard collapsed, out cold.

‘Is it always this boring?’ Taslima held a wet tissue against Lilly’s cheek.

Lilly attempted a smile. ‘Ow.’

They were sitting in the magistrates’ chambers, the
room behind court, waiting with Kerry and DI Bell for Mrs Holmes.

‘You’ll find that Lilly attracts excitement,’ Kerry advised Taslima.

Lilly wanted to argue but her face hurt. She had caught it on the corner of the table as she fell and it was swollen and hot. God knows what Jack would say when he saw it. If she were a better liar she’d make something up, anything to avoid a scene that would rival the one they’d just had in court.

‘What about junior?’ Taslima gestured to Lilly’s pregnant bump. ‘OK?’

Lilly nodded. ‘I think all the excitement has woken him up. My ribs hurt almost as much as my face.’

Mrs Holmes bustled into the room and took a seat.

‘The ambulance has taken the security guard to the hospital,’ she said. ‘His nose is broken.’

‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer person,’ said Lilly.

Mrs Holmes gave a disapproving look.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Lilly, ‘but the man is a thug.’

‘I admit his handling of the situation could have been better,’ said Mrs Holmes.

Lilly turned to Bell. ‘You should nick him for assault.’

Mrs Holmes spread her hands flat on the table. Her nails were short but perfectly smooth.

‘I’ll deal with him,’ she said. ‘And in the meantime I suggest you go home and put an ice pack on that.’

Lilly waved the concern away. ‘We didn’t sort out Raffy’s bail.’

‘You cannot be serious,’ said Kerry.

Lilly ignored her and spoke directly to Mrs Holmes.
‘You seemed to accept my argument that a child should not spend time on remand if it can be avoided.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs Holmes.

‘Then we can’t let an incident that was not of my client’s making override that,’ said Lilly.

She could hear the snorts of derision coming from her left but she refused even to acknowledge them. She kept her eyes trained on Mrs Holmes and willed her to grant bail.

‘You seem to be forgetting what precipitated all this,’ said Mrs Holmes.

Lilly shrugged.

‘The defendant’s little outburst about not being subject to the law,’ said Mrs Holmes.

‘Silly nonsense from a young boy,’ she dismissed it.

Mrs Holmes raised her eyebrows. ‘He’s fifteen, Miss Valentine—and he sounded as if he knew exactly what he was saying.’ She let the words hang in the air until they were an established detail with which Lilly could not argue.

‘The fact remains,’ said Lilly, ‘that a child should not be in prison.’

‘The fact also remains,’ countered Mrs Holmes, ‘that I cannot release someone who refuses to even recognise the conditions of his bail.’

Lilly let out a long breath. Raffy had backed Mrs Holmes into an impossible corner. There was no chance of bail and her cheek hurt.

Kerry leaned over and patted Taslima’s arm. ‘With Lilly, there’s never a dull moment.’

The Clayhill Estate was a shithole.

Jack had spent over ten years in Child Protection in Luton and had visited every tower block more times than he could remember. The Clayhill had to be the worst.

He parked outside a children’s playground, the swings long since abandoned by young mums. Every year the council would spend thousands clearing away the smashed glass and used condoms. A new roundabout would be installed and cheery footprints painted on the ground but days later the low-life would creep back in.

He double-checked his car was locked and headed towards the nearest block of flats. The group of boys huddled at the foot of the slide didn’t glance his way, but mumbled into their freezer bags of glue. Jack knew he should get their names, send them on their way, but what was the point? They’d be back before he had time to input their details on the police computer. These kids didn’t go to school, would never work, might be dead before they were thirty. Christ, it was all so depressing.

He pushed on to the address Mara had given him. Ryan Sanders lived in the very heart of this cesspit.

As Jack entered the walkway to Ryan’s floor he put his hand over his mouth to avoid the stench. Even through the thick rubber soles of his boots he could feel the sticky mess of vomit. How could people live like this?

Of course, Jack knew the answer: they had no fecking choice. And for kids like Ryan, who grew up thinking this was perfectly normal, there was no reason to change it.

But Ryan could change things—for himself, at least.
He had a talent and, in Mara, someone who cared enough to watch out for him. That was far more than most. Though the boy probably couldn’t see it, he was bloody lucky.

Jack knocked on the door and waited. When no one answered he knocked again. He could hear muffled sounds from within, someone moving around. Still no answer.

Jack bent to the letter box and peered inside.

‘Mrs Sanders,’ he called, ‘it’s the police.’

He heard an exchange of voices in a distant room, one definitely male and angry.

‘Come to the door, Mrs Sanders,’ Jack shouted.

At last he saw a slight figure shuffle towards him. The door was unbolted in almost slow motion and at last it was pulled ajar.

The woman standing in the sliver of light was painfully thin, her skeleton protruding violently through her clothes. She gripped the side of the door with shockingly white fingers, her nails ragged and bloody.

‘Mrs Sanders?’ Jack asked.

The woman didn’t look at him, but nodded.

‘Can I come in?’ he asked.

‘Why?’ Her voice was tiny, childlike.

‘I’d like a word with you about Ryan.’

Mrs Sanders threw a nervous glance over her shoulder.

‘Give me a second,’ she whispered, and shut the door.

Jack waited outside the door, listening to another exchange, the male’s voice becoming increasingly angry. When the door finally reopened Mrs Sanders was visibly shaking and her son stood behind her, his face a study in fury.

‘Hello, Ryan,’ said Jack. ‘We met at school, remember?’

Ryan glowered at Jack. ‘I ain’t got Alzheimer’s.’

‘He wants to come in,’ said Mrs Sanders.

‘Has he got a warrant?’ asked Ryan.

Mrs Sanders’ fingers flew to her mouth. ‘I didn’t ask him.’

‘How many times have I told you?’ Ryan shouted. ‘Do not let them in without a warrant.’

Mrs Sanders ran her cuticle across her front teeth. It was so raw Jack was certain it must hurt.

‘So,’ Ryan spat at Jack, ‘have you got a warrant?’

Jack ignored him and smiled gently at Mrs Sanders. ‘I just want a chat.’

‘Tell him, Mum,’ said Ryan.

Mrs Sanders bit the ragged skin until a fresh drop of blood rose like a crimson flower.

‘Tell him,’ repeated Ryan.

‘You’re not welcome here,’ she said, and slammed the door in Jack’s face.

For a second Jack remained outside the flat. He wasn’t shocked. Coppers were well used to a less than enthusiastic welcome, especially on estates like the Clayhill, but usually the venom came in equal measure from adults and children alike. Mrs Sanders hadn’t reacted like that.

He put his ear to the door, pretty sure he could hear crying.

Mrs Sanders wouldn’t be the first parent to be afraid of her teenage son.

Aasha puts up her hand and asks to be excused. This is the third time she’s pretended she needs the toilet so
she can check the art rooms on the way. She scuttles through the corridor but Ryan is nowhere to be seen.

As soon as the bell goes for break she grabs her phone and checks her messages.

‘I don’t know why you’re so stressed.’ Lailla applies a fresh coat of mascara to her long lashes. ‘That boy is always bunking off.’

True enough, Ryan has hardly done a full week all term.

‘I just want to know he’s all right,’ says Aasha.

Lailla looks at her through heavily blackened lids.

‘It’s not like you’re going together, Ash,’ she says. ‘Not like me and Sonny.’

‘I know that,’ Aasha gulps, ‘but he does like me.’

Lailla returns to her reflection, leaving Aasha to call Ryan’s number. Again.

Aasha can’t remember when she’s last been as happy as she was this morning with Ryan in the May sunshine.

It had been wrong, of course, to truant like that, and her dad would kill her if he found out, but just the way Ryan looked at her was enough to make her forget all that.

They strolled through the park, hand in hand, until Ryan stopped.

‘You going to let me kiss you then, or what?’

Aasha blushed. She wished he hadn’t asked, wished he’d just gone and done it.

‘OK,’ she said at last.

So he pulled her to him and pressed his lips against hers. Then he’d pushed his tongue into her mouth, which had startled her so much it had made her gasp.

‘See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’ he laughed.

Aasha didn’t trust herself to answer. Bad? It had been absolutely fantastic.

Then two junkies had wandered over, whistling at Aasha. Ryan put his arm around her waist.

‘Piss off,’ he growled.

‘Why did you do that?’ she whispered.

‘You’re my girl, innit.’

Aahsa was about to ask him what exactly that meant when someone called Ryan on his mobile and he’d had to rush off, leaving Aasha to sneak back into school herself. Now she didn’t know what to think.

Ryan’s number rings twice, then he answers. ‘Yeah?’

‘It’s Aasha.’ Her words tumble out.

‘I know.’

‘I just wondered why you weren’t at school.’

‘Things to do, innit.’

There’s no laughter in his voice. He sounds distant and cold.

‘I thought you might be sick or something,’ she says.

‘Nah.’

She doesn’t know what else to say but he saves her the trouble.

‘I gotta go.’

He hangs up.

Aasha closes her phone carefully and slides it back into her bag. Lailla leans on her shoulder so that Aasha can barely breathe for the smell of Charlie Pink.

Lailla giggles. ‘Looks like you’ve been dumped.’

Lilly limped out of court. Her cheek throbbed and she felt completely wrung dry. Taslima, carrying the bags and files, followed her to the car.

Lilly nodded to the Leg of Lamb, a dingy pub with peeling paint and a welcome mat sprinkled with dog-ends. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy a drink?’

Taslima wrinkled her nose.

‘I’ve been sticking to five units a week,’ Lilly said, ‘but it has been a bugger of a day.’

Taslima looked at the ground. ‘I don’t drink alcohol.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m a Muslim…’ Taslima’s words trailed away.

Lilly felt her face redden. ‘I did know that, I just didn’t think.’

Taslima smiled. ‘There’s no reason why you should.’

They slipped into the car and Taslima drove them back to the office. In minutes Taslima had fixed the coffee machine and placed a steaming mug in front of Lilly.

‘Have you never been tempted,’ Lilly asked, ‘by just a small glass of wine?’

Taslima laughed. ‘Of course. I’m a Muslim, not a saint.’

‘I don’t know about that.’ Lilly raised her coffee in salutation.

Taslima waved the praise away and plonked a huge pile of papers in front of her boss. Lilly raised an eyebrow.

‘It’s the prosecution evidence against Raffy,’ said Taslima. ‘We need to know how they intend to fight Raffy’s case.’