‘We don’t take charity, Mr Stanhope,’ Mum said, tightlipped.
‘It’s not charity,’ Mr Stanhope shot back. ‘I was told to inform you of that in the strongest possible terms.’
‘By who?’ Mum asked.
‘As I said, I received a banker’s cheque and a typewritten, unsigned note with certain instructions,’ said Mr Stanhope.
‘May I see the note?’
‘I’m afraid not. One of the conditions on it was that you shouldn’t be allowed to see it.’
‘I see.’
I’m glad she did, ’cause I sure as hell didn’t.
‘Mrs McGregor, this is your husband’s one and only chance to emerge from this case a free man. I would strongly advise you to take it.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ Mum said slowly. ‘The only reason you’re still involved in this case is because someone has paid you to stay involved – is that right?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that . . .’
‘And the only reason Kelani Adams is involved is because she’s being paid a great deal of money – is that right?’
‘No,’ Mr Stanhope said at once. ‘The money allowed me to approach the best and she’s it. The best does not come cheaply. Once she’d read your husband’s file, she was more than prepared to take the case.’
‘And I’m meant to be grateful for that, am I?’
‘If gratitude is too much to ask, then your acceptance of the situation is all that will be required,’ said Mr Stanhope.
Mum turned to me. ‘Callum?’
It was hard to be asked for my opinion. Part of me wanted to leave it all down to Mum. Lynette was gone, Jude had disappeared, Dad was in prison and Mum and I were left floundering on our own. I wanted Mum to turn to me and tell me that everything would be OK again. I wanted her to make all the decisions, even the wrong ones. Especially the wrong ones.
‘Mum, I think we should do whatever it takes to get Dad out of prison,’ I said at last.
‘OK then,’ Mum said to the solicitor. ‘I’ll go ahead with whatever you and Ms Adams suggest. But first of all I’d like to speak to my husband as soon as possible.’ She looked from me to Mr Stanhope. ‘Alone.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ came the solicitor’s reply.
And all I could do was hope that Mum and I weren’t making a big, big mistake. Not just for our sakes – but for Dad’s as well.
But for me the most sickeningly humbling thing of all was I knew who had sent the money to Mr Stanhope.
Sephy.
I had no idea how she’d done it. And I had even less idea how I was ever going to thank her, never mind repay her. But I would. I sat in Mr Stanhope’s office, on his expensive brown leather chair and swore an oath before God that I would pay her back. If it took me every penny I earned for the rest of my life, I would repay her.
sixty-three. Sephy
I came home from school and got the shock of my life. Dad’s suitcases were in our hallway.
‘Dad? DAD?’
‘I’m in here, Princess.’
I raced into the family room, following Dad’s voice like I was tied to it.
I leapt into his arms.
‘Dad! I’ve missed you.’
‘I’ve missed you too.’ Dad swung me around – at least he tried to. ‘Good grief! What have you been eating?’ he exclaimed, dropping me. ‘You weigh a ton!’
‘Thanks!’ I giggled with pure joy. Dad was home. Dad was back. ‘Are you staying for good?’
‘For a while at least,’ Dad nodded.
But not in my direction. For the first time I saw that we weren’t alone.
Mother was sitting in her rocking-chair, moving slowly backwards and forwards as she watched us.
‘What . . . what’s going on?’ I asked.
‘Ask your father. He has all the answers,’ Mother replied.
I clicked then. Clicked on and died inside. Dad wasn’t back for Mother. He wasn’t back for any of us. Ryan McGregor and politics were the ones who’d brought him home – nothing else.
‘You’re only here until after the trial, aren’t you?’ I asked Dad.
‘The trial of the century’ was what the newspapers and the telly were calling it. They should call it the miracle trial of the millennium if it managed to bring Dad back home.
‘It’s all up in the air,’ Dad smiled, stroking my cheek. ‘Nothing’s decided.’
I took one look at Mother and I knew that was a lie. At least, she believed it was a lie, which was probably the same thing.
sixty-four. Callum
‘Ah, Callum. Come in.’
I was seeing a lot of plush offices this week. First Mr Stanhope, now Mr Costa, our headmaster. It was only the second time I’d been in Mr Costa’s office. Crosses seemed to be big on mahogany! And his carpet was like walking on spring grass, soft and bouncy and lush. Mr Costa sat down behind his mahogany desk and leaned back, then leaned forward, his elbows on his table as he tried to figure out which would be the most favourable position. His chair was more like a throne than otherwise, making the headmaster seem even more imposing. The sunshine shone through his crystal-clear windows behind him, making him even darker, like he was a powerful silhouette.
‘Sit down please.’
I sat down in one of his squeaky leather chairs.
‘Callum, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’m going to get right to the point.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Until the matter regarding your father is satisfactorily resolved . . .’
The alarm bells now pealing in my head were deafening.
‘The governors and I have decided that it would serve everyone’s best interests if you were suspended for a while.’
So that was that. I was out.
‘I’m guilty until my dad’s proven innocent? Is that the way it works?’
‘Callum, I do hope you’re going to be reasonable about this.’
‘Should I empty my locker now or will the end of the day be soon enough?’
‘That’s entirely up to you.’ Mr Costa folded his arms and sat back in his chair.
‘You must be so thrilled,’ I told him bitterly. ‘Three down, only one more to go.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning Colin has gone and you couldn’t wait to get rid of Shania and now it’s my turn.’
‘Shania was expelled for gross misconduct,’ Mr Costa said haughtily.
‘Shania only slapped Gardner Wilson because he hit her first,’ I shouted at him. ‘And everyone knows that, including you. How come Shania gets expelled and Gardner gets away with a telling off? Why isn’t it gross misconduct when a Cross does it?’
It was the same story up and down the country. In the few schools into which us noughts had been allowed, we were dropping like flies. Expelled, or what the authorities euphemistically called ‘excluded’, for those things which would get Crosses detention or a severe telling off. The odd Cross or two may even have got suspended once in a while. But they certainly weren’t being expelled with anything like the frequency we were.
‘I have no intention of justifying school policy to you.’ Mr Costa stood up. Our meeting was at an end. ‘We’ll be happy to review your situation once the dust from all this clears.’
But the dust was never going to clear, was it? And we both knew that.
‘Good luck to you, Callum.’ Mr Costa held out his hand.
‘Yeah, right!’ I looked at his hand with disdain.
Good luck to me, as long as it was somewhere else. The further away the better. As far as Mr Costa was concerned, I had already gone. I stood up and marched out of the room. I wanted to slam the door shut behind me, bring it off its hinges, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of saying, ‘See! I was right about him. Behaved just as I thought he would.’
And then I thought better of it. I turned back and slammed the door as hard as I could. I only just got my fingers out of the way in time but it was worth it. I
t was a futile gesture, but it made me feel good.
I strode down the corridor. Mr Costa came thundering out of his room.
‘Callum, come here.’
I carried on walking.
‘I said, come back here,’ Mr Costa called after me, furiously.
I smiled – and carried on walking. I wasn’t part of his school any more. I didn’t have to do what he said. I wasn’t part of the whole Cross way of life. Why should I do what any of them said? Only when I heard Mr Costa slam back into his office did I slow down. My throat had swollen up from the inside out. I was being gutted like a fish wriggling for its life on a slab. I was out of Heathcrofts.
And I was never coming back.
THE TRIAL . . .
sixty-five. Sephy
I hesitated for only a moment. Steeling myself, I knocked on my sister’s bedroom door.
‘Go away!’
I walked in, darting to my left as a pillow came hurtling towards me.
‘Don’t your ears work?’ Minnie fumed. She was sitting up on her king-size bed, scowling like it was going out of fashion.
I wanted to giggle but I knew that might make her suspicious. Anyway, it would be a cider-induced giggle, not a real one. I wasn’t so drunk that I didn’t know that much.
‘Minnie? I want to ask your advice about something.’
‘Oh yes!’ My sister raised a sceptical eyebrow. She’s very good at that. She’s going to be a Mother-clone when she grows up. Just like me, I guess – if I didn’t do something about it.
‘What would you say if I told you that I’m thinking of going away to school?’
I instantly had her full attention.
‘Where?’
‘Chivers.’
‘The boarding school?’
I nodded.
Minnie looked me up and down until I began to feel really uncomfortable. She asked, ‘What does Mother say about it?’
‘She said no, but . . .’
‘But then she would,’ Minnie finished for me.
‘So what d’you think?’ I repeated.
‘I think it’s an excellent idea. Which is why I asked Mother the exact same thing a few weeks ago.’ Minnie smiled dryly.
‘You did!’ I was astounded.
‘You’re not the only one who needs to get out of here.’
I sat down at the foot of Minnie’s bed. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Sephy, you and I have never got on, and I’m sorry about that,’ Minnie sighed. ‘Maybe if we’d been able to count on each other, we’d have done better. Instead we’ve both tried to get through this on our own.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Come off it, Persephone. You drink to escape, I become more bitchy and spiteful. We each do what we have to do.’
Flames shot through my body. ‘I don’t drink . . .’ I denied.
‘Oh?’ Minnie scoffed. ‘Well, unless you’ve taken to wearing cider perfume, I’d say you’re into booze big time.’
‘Cider isn’t alcohol.’
Minnie started laughing.
‘Not like wine or whisky or something,’ I said, furiously. ‘And I just like the taste . . . That’s the only reason. I’m not a lush.’
Minnie shuffled towards me as I spoke before she put her hand on my shoulder. ‘Who’re you trying to convince? Me or yourself?’
And then I did the last thing either of us expected. I burst into tears. My sister put her arm around me then, allowing my head to rest on her shoulder – which just made me feel worse.
‘Minerva, I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to, before I explode.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m working on it with Dad.’
‘Yeah, for yourself. But what about me?’
‘No, I’m working on Dad for both of us,’ said Minnie. ‘I keep telling him that we both need to get away from the atmosphere in this house.’
I pulled away from Minnie to ask, ‘Are you getting anywhere?’
‘I think so. I’m wearing him down.’
‘How come you didn’t tackle Mother?’ I had to ask.
‘Because she cares too much,’ Minnie replied.
‘Whereas Dad doesn’t care at all,’ I said, bitterly.
‘Not true. Dad does care in his own way.’
‘Just not as much as he cares about his political career,’ I added. ‘He only moved back so it’d look good for the McGregor trial. And he’s meant to be back but we hardly ever see him.’
‘D’you want to see more of him then?’ Minnie asked.
I considered. ‘Not particularly.’
‘Then be careful what you wish for,’ Minnie told me. ‘Don’t worry, Sephy. Come September, you and I will both be out of this madhouse.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I promise.’
sixty-six. Callum
I sat up high in the packed public gallery. Far below me and to my right, I could see my father. Just the bruised left side of his face. It was only the second time I’d seen him since the police had crashed into our lives. The judge was droning on and on at the jury, telling them what the case was about and what it was not about. Twelve good men and women and true, hanging on the judge’s every word. Twelve good Cross men and woman, of course. How else could justice be served? My stomach churned as the clerk of the court finally stood up and faced Dad.
‘Ryan Callum McGregor, on the charge of Political Terrorism, how do you plead – Guilty or Not Guilty?’
‘DAD, DON’T DO IT!’ I couldn’t help it. Even as the words left my mouth, I knew I was doing more harm than good but how could I just sit idly by and watch this . . . this farce of a trial.
‘Any more outbursts from the public gallery and I will have all members of the public evicted from this court. I hope I’ve made myself understood,’ Judge Anderson threatened.
He was glaring at me – as were all the members of the jury. Mum put a restraining hand over mine. Dad looked up and our eyes met. He looked away again, almost immediately. But not before the image of his battered face had burnt its way into my mind. His split lip and his bruised cheek and his black eye. But there was no condemnation on his face, just a sweeping, intense sadness. The clerk repeated his question.
‘On the charge of Political Terrorism, how do you plead? Guilty or Not Guilty?’
Silence.
Silence that went on and on and on.
‘The defendant will please answer the question,’ Judge Anderson said brusquely.
Dad glanced up at Mum and me again.
‘Not guilty!’ he said at last.
A collective gasp broke out from every corner of the courtroom. Mum squeezed my hand. Whispers and inaudible comments flew around the room. Dad’s lawyer turned around and smiled briefly at us. She was careful to wipe all trace of her smile off her face before she turned back to face the judge.
‘You are charged, by means of the afore-mentioned state crime of political terrorism, with the murder of Aysha Pilling,’ the clerk continued. ‘How d’you plead? Guilty or Not Guilty?’
Dad’s reply was stronger this time. ‘Not guilty.’
And that was his reply to each of the separate charges read out to him. By the time the clerk had read the seventh murder charge, he had to shout to make himself heard.
So did Dad. ‘NOT GUILTY!’
The courtroom erupted. The judge had everyone in the public gallery thrown out of the court, but I didn’t care. It was one of the happiest moments of my life.
Not guilty! You tell ’em Dad!
sixty-seven. Sephy
I got the shock of my life. I received a subpoena saying I had to be in court on the following Monday. The subpoena was sent via Mother as I was underage, making her directly responsible for making sure that I turned up on the right day at the right time.
‘Why do they want me there?’ I said horrified, as I stared down at a whole load of legal jargon that I didn’t really understand.
‘That’s what comes from hanging around noughts,?
?? Minnie told me maliciously.
I was about to tell her where to go, when to my surprise, Mother jumped in before me.
‘Minerva, if you kept quiet, you’d at least give the illusion that there’s more in your head than just air!’ Mother snapped.
Minnie flounced out at that – and good riddance. I turned to smile at Mother but her expression wasn’t much better than Minnie’s.
‘This is exactly why I’ve always warned you to stay away from that boy – and his whole family,’ Mother told me. ‘Now our names are going to be dragged into court and through the mud and the newspapers are going to be ecstatic. Your father isn’t going to like this one little bit.’
‘It’s hardly my fault,’ I tried to defend myself.
‘Then whose fault is it?’ Mother snapped. ‘Sephy, it’s time you learnt that if you lie down with dogs, you’re bound to get fleas.’
And she left the room, leaving me to stare after her.
sixty-eight. Callum
‘Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?’
I looked down at the Good Book under my hand. It was cool, almost cold beneath my fingers. The truth . . . Which version of the truth would this Cross court find acceptable?
‘I do,’ I replied. Although I spoke quietly, my voice rang out throughout the courtroom. They’d obviously turned my microphone up to maximum. They didn’t want to miss a word. And I didn’t want to say a word, afraid that one stray syllable would be the death of my dad. I looked around. The judge sat behind a raised platform. The witness box where I stood was next to the judge’s platform from where we could both look out over the rest of the court. The prosecution lawyer, a hard-faced man called Shaun Pingule QC, sat glaring at me. Kelani Adams looked straight ahead, barely blinking. She looked like she was in a world of her own. Mind you, this was her world. It sure wasn’t mine.