8

The Evidence

In the days after that conversation, I kept telling myself I’d made the right decision. It’d be insane to commit a criminal act in order to prove my innocence, wouldn’t it? Of course it would.

Derek left a few messages on my answerphone. Was I sure? Perhaps I should think about it some more. He left me his number. I meant to erase the calls, but somehow I never got round to it.

It’s very hard to be certain about what might have been. I don’t like hindsight, it’s such a know-all. But I’m quietly confident that nothing more would have happened as regards Derek’s offer, if it had not been for my next stupid, imbecilic mistake.

I went on Twitter.

God knows what made me do it. I can only put it down to morbid curiosity. I had been thinking about it for ages but now, with the trial about to resume, I got this overpowering urge to find out what people were saying about me.

I search my name and brace myself.

I know it might be bad, but I am not prepared for what comes next. There are hundreds, hundreds of tweets, nearly all of them dripping with vitriol about me. It’s terrifying to realise how despised I have become. I scroll and scroll in the hope that I’ll find someone who doesn’t think I am scum, but it’s a lost cause.

Every now and then I happen on one that is condemning the trial as a circus – and a few misogynists are getting stuck into Jade – but overwhelmingly, it is pure hatred directed at me. Many of them want me sent to prison for ten years, plus. That phrase – ‘dead man walking’ – appears on a regular basis.

Like an idiot, I read them all, transfixed by the horror of the procession. Eventually, shaken to the core and weak-limbed, I switch off my phone and lie out on the sofa. All the panic that I thought I had mastered comes flooding back and I am utterly and indescribably alone.

I stand no chance.

I feel like I am crouched in front of a firing squad.

After a few minutes, with my heart still pounding in my chest, I rise a little groggily to my feet, fetch a pen and paper and head for the answerphone.

We meet in a very quiet corner of a local park. I kid myself that I am still undecided.

We conduct a little exercise. I play the part of that assassin of a barrister and cross-question Derek relentlessly, manoeuvring him, berating him, ambushing him. But he holds up very well. His version of my version never falters. He seems in control; which, with hindsight, he was.

“We mustn’t meet again, Kevin. If we were seen together, then…”

“No, ‘course, absolutely.” “I’ll go to the police, offer to make a statement etcetera, they’ll put me in touch with your legal team.”

“Why now?”

“What?”

“Why now? Why have you left it so late? To help me?”

“Well, I had the idea a while back, but I thought I’d wait and see how things panned out…see if the case against you collapsed. No point committing a criminal offence unless it’s necessary, that’s what I always say.”

Always? What’s the word “always” doing in that sentence? “Have you done this before?”

He smiles. “Not this, no, not as such.”

‘Not as such’? What does that—”

“I’ll be off then.”

He shapes to leave, but I have one big question left.

“What makes you so certain I’m innocent? You don’t even know me.”

“Yes, I do. I can read people.” He can read people. I wish I could read him.

The next day the police contact my solicitor, who calls me in for a meeting. As I’m shown into Graham’s office the first sight that greets me is Derek sitting straight-backed in a worn, dark blue Sunday-best M&S suit. Across the desk sits a very excited Graham and to the side, perched on a sofa, absorbed in the text of Derek’s statement to the police is Nina Patel.

Graham rises quickly to his feet.

“Kevin! Some good news at last. This gentleman is called Derek Tapscott. And he’s come forward to vindicate your version of events. He was in the car park, he saw everything!”

I pretend to be stunned. Don’t do too much, Kevin. Less is more. Derek stands and greets me as if we have never met and I feel sure that we must look like a pair of total fakes. But my solicitor clearly hasn’t registered that anything is amiss, he is beaming at me, while Nina Patel is still poring over the details of Derek’s statement.

“The tide has turned, Kevin” chuckles Graham. “The cavalry is here, have a seat, make yourself comfy, tea?”

I nod, still doing “stunned”.

Nina Patel looks up from the documents with a reassuring smile.

“Well this is very timely,” she says. “Our barrister is going to be very pleased.”

I ask where my barrister is. Nina Patel explains that he’s in court, but that she will brief him. But, all the time that she is talking to me, she is looking at Derek, weighing him up. She’s too bright for us, this isn’t going to work.

“You do understand what will happen, don’t you, Derek,” she begins, “You’ll be put in the witness box and their barrister will set about trying to destroy your credibility. It’ll probably get quite rough. Have you ever been to court?”

“Only once,” he responds breezily, “over an unfair traffic fine.”

“Right, well this will be a lot more…invasive. He’s bound to ask you lots of unsettling questions, he’ll want to explore your background. Just for our info, what is your background?”

For the next twenty-five minutes, Derek fills us in on his background. Nina Patel smiles at him and says, “Well we probably won’t want as much background as that. But it’s useful to have such a full picture, so thank you.”

She then does some role-playing, asking the kind of aggressive questions that Derek can expect in court, but he seems unfazed. His answers are clear and calm and, unlike me, he only answers the question, not the insinuation.

After about twenty minutes of this, she congratulates Derek and thanks him for his time. We all stand and shake hands and I concentrate hard on not arousing suspicion. But, to me, my acting feels dismal.

Once Derek has left the room, my solicitor breaks into a little jig. “A surprise witness! I’ve always wanted one of those. Like in a movie.” But his tone dampens when he sees Nina Patel looking pensive. “What? Oh come on, Nina, he’s a game-changer, isn’t he? You’ve got to be pleased about that, surely.”

“I am pleased.”

“Well then tell your face.”

She screws up her nose and shakes her head slightly. Oh God, this isn’t going to work.

“I don’t know,” she mutters, “he worries me.”

Graham spreads his arms wide in frustration. “Why?”

“There’s…he’s…he’s not quite…he’s not…of this world.”

“Oh for Christ’s—”

“I can’t put my finger on it. I just worry about him in the witness box. What do you make of him, Kevin?”

I take a moment to appear calm.

“Erm…he seems reasonably ordinary to me.”

“Ordinary,” agrees Graham. “Exactly. Very ordinary. In fact, pretty bloody boring, which is perfect.”

Nina Patel tilts back her head and stares at the ceiling for a few moments. Graham looks at me and shrugs. We sit and wait in the silence. The suspense is torture, as the tick of their office clock counts down the seconds before Nina Patel sees through this sham. She’s spotted something. Of course she has. What was I thinking of?

Suddenly, she returns to us. “Oh, I dunno, I’m probably over-thinking.”

Graham laughs, relieved. “We don’t look gift-horses in the mouth, Nina. Not when…” He tails off. Nina flashes him a look.

“Not when what?” I ask.

He shuffles in his seat. “Erm…well, y’know…it’s not been going as well as we might have hoped…it’s what I told you about earlier…the jury…there’s a climate…it’s unfortunate.”

“I know…Jimmy Savile.”

“Yeh, it’s…”

“You’re saying they don’t believe me?”

“That’s my fear…yes.”

He turns to address Nina Patel. “I think your doubts are a bit of a luxury in this situation. We have to use Derek. Or else…” His voice tails off again. She gets to her feet with a new urgency.

“You’re right. I’m just being a scaredy-cat. He’s a game-changer.” Then, with sudden resolve, she says: “We’ll unleash Derek.”

“Unleash the Derek,” echoes Graham.

And they laugh. So I laugh too.

Four days later, I’m back in court watching Derek take the stand. The prosecution barrister attacks hard from the off, but Derek is a consistent performer. He comes across as steady, reliable; his monochrome appearance and neutral voice give him an air of objectivity, a whiff of detached authority that slowly frustrates his interrogator.

“So, Mr Tapscott, you are totally confident that you saw the incident unfold in exactly the…the ve-ry detailed way that you have described?”

“Yes, I’m confident.”

Their barrister chuckles. I don’t like that. “You’re a very observant chap, aren’t you? Not like most of us who wander around…head in the clouds. If I’m ever attacked, I hope you’re there to witness it.”

“Um…she wasn’t attacked.” Derek corrects politely. “She hit him.”

Seymour raises his eyebrows. He’s impressed. Their barrister is picking at a small piece of fluff on his gown.

“This case has regrettably attracted much tabloid ‘excitement’It’s been headline news for a couple of months now, and yet you only came forward as a witness three days ago, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“How do you account for that delay?”

“I don’t have a television.”

“Go on.”

“So I didn’t know what ‘Lenny’ or, um…”

What a skilful pause.

“Melanie?” prompts the barrister.

“Yes, I didn’t know what they looked like…because I’d never seen their programme, so I didn’t connect them with the incident I’d witnessed in the car park. Well, not until I saw their photos in the paper last week.”

“But their photos have been in the papers for months, Mr Tapscott.”

“I take the Telegraph…and not every day.”

Their man is starting to look worn down.

“You watch no TV…and you take the Telegraph.”

“Yes, sorry, I’m a bit of an oddity, aren’t I?”

“Not at all, Mr Tapscott, you’d make a very fine judge,” says m’lud, with a twinkle.

Laughter. The judge’s joke is met with a warm ripple of laughter, genuine laughter, not the polite laughter that had greeted his previous jokes. The atmosphere is starting to change. The jury are making eye-contact with me.

Derek continues to give a pitch-perfect performance. Great actors are defined by the choices they make. He seems to know, instinctively, when to pause and when to quicken as he effortlessly replicates sincerity. In fact, it is a form of sincerity, because all truly gifted liars begin by believing their own lies.

The prosecuting counsel is looking beaten now. But then he starts fumbling with his notes, shuffling them around. And I feel sweat trickling down inside my collar.

“Sorry, m’lud…” More paper shuffling. Something is coming. “Bear with me a moment…ah, yes…one more question, Mr Tapscott.”

Now he is fiddling with the back of his wig. “Have you ever spoken with the accused?”

Derek looks thrown. Is that acting?

“What I mean, Mr Tapscott, is, prior to this trial, have you ever met Mr Carver?…Do you know him? Have you ever spoken to him?”

“No.” Derek replies, totally relaxed.

The barrister looks at him for a few moments, but to me it feels like an age. Does he know? Is there an attack coming? “No further questions, m’lud.”

He sits down. You feel him admit defeat. It’s tangible. He knows Derek’s version is the most credible that the court has heard. Seymour takes a long, satisfied intake of breath. One hour later, the jury retire to consider their verdict. For twenty minutes.

“First reactions, Kevin?” Pop, pop!

“Kevin! Kevin! Over here!” Pop! Whirr!

“Kevin, how do you feel?” Pop! Pop! Pop!

“Kevin, this way!” Pop!

“Kevin!” “Kevin!” “Kevin!”

Two paparazzi square up to each other. As Graham tries to steer me through the crowd, several microphones are thrust under my nose, a TV cameraman is knocked off his stepladder. I find myself laughing at the mayhem.

“How do you feel, Kevin?”

“Give us a quote, Kevin?”

I raise my hand, like Charlton Heston playing Moses. “My main feeling, obviously, is one of relief. This has been a gruelling ordeal. But justice has been done in the end. As I always believed it would. Now I just want to get on with my life. It’s time to move on.”

Funny how the clichés tumble out when the emotions get too big and formless. In the big scenes, life’s very badly written.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

“What are your plans, Kevin?”

“My immediate plans are to celebrate with the friends who’ve supported me through this whole, grim…soap opera.”

“What about the show, Kevin?” Pop! Pop! “Are you going to leave?”

“Hey! Careful!”

“Who are you pushing, you prick?”

“My client has no more comments to make right now, gentlemen,” Graham shouts above the swearing, as we bounce through the shoulders and elbows.

I didn’t thank Derek.

I thought thanking a witness could have looked inappropriate somehow. But I smiled at him. As he hovered on the courtroom steps. And then, as we made our escape, a few of the press approached him and I could just about hear him, fielding their barked questions.

“Please, please, this is not my day, this is Kevin Carver’s day. I’m just glad that I could help an innocent man go free, that’s all.”

In the evening, we go to a restaurant and get pissed. Me, Mac, Mac’s new wife and my old wife. A discreet corner table, away from prying eyes. After a few looseners, I claim centre stage.

“And my defence team said ‘Try not to look arrogant’. Yeh, can you believe that? They said that my face, at rest, looked arrogant, so I said: ‘What can I do about that, wear a fucking balaclava?’”

Through the laughter, Sandra is trying to say something. “They’ve got a point though. There is an arrogance…and a sort of innocence.”

“Arrogance and innocence?”

“The two can go together. But mostly it’s arrogance.”

“But…that’s probably just the set of my features, isn’t it? The way my face is arranged, I can’t help that.”

“No, it’s more than that. Something about the way you carry yourself, the way you look at people. You don’t know you’re doing it.”

“OK, Sandra. Balaclava it is.”

“For Christ’s sake,” bellows Mac, shaking the last drops from a bottle of wine, “can we not talk about something other than Kevin’s facial features, which are, if truth be told, those of a girlie-man.”

“Girlie-man?”

“Aye, you use moisturiser, don’t deny it, pal.”

“I suffer from dry skin.”

“It’s pouffiness incarnate!”

“Piss off! When are you pissing off, by the way?”

“Tomorrow. Touring the Midlands with a new show. An improvised piece about the potato famine.”

“Quick, get Cameron Mackintosh on the phone!”

Mac gets me in an over-affectionate headlock and because I’m trapped in his armpit, it takes me a while to realise that Derek is standing a few feet away, smiling.

“Oh…hi, Derek.”

“Hi.” His smile widens.

“Oh, sorry, um, Derek, this is Mac, Sandra, Julie.”

There is an awkward round of hi’s. “Are you eating here, then?”

“Oh no…no, no.” He holds up a self-effacing hand. “No, I just happened to be passing, on my way home, spotted you and um…well, just thought I’d pop in and say hi.”

“Right, listen…thank you so much for today, I…I was going to write to you.”

“Oh, not necessary.”

“No, it is. I just…well, I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

“Yes, you do,” Mac shouts, “Wormwood Scrubs!”

Above Mac’s raucous laughter, I thank Derek again.

“No thanks needed, honestly. All I did was tell the truth.”

“Well…I’m eternally grateful.”

This is so awkward. The conversation is going nowhere. Derek hovers for a few moments more.

“Well…erm…bye then.”

“Bye.”

I reach across and shake his hand. There is a staggered chorus of goodbyes from the others as Derek exits, in nervous English instalments. Once he has left, Sandra punches me on the arm.

“Ow!”

“Why didn’t you ask him to join us? He was obviously waiting for you to ask.”

“No, he wasn’t. He was on his way home, he said.”

“Oh for—”

“…just passing through, he said.”

“It’s just common courtesy.”

“Besides, it wouldn’t have looked very good, would it? After a ‘not guilty’ verdict, for me to be seen knocking back the vino with the key witness.”

“Aye, fair point, girlie-man.”

“Wouldn’t look good.”

Sandra shrugs. “You’re talking like someone who’s guilty.”

My voice rises in volume and pitch. “It just wouldn’t look very good. What if there were photographers? There weren’t photographers, were there?”

“Didn’t see any,” says Julie, the words echoing in her glass as she drinks.

“Let’s hope the bloody jury don’t suddenly turn up, that would look bad.”

I can feel my cheeks reddening, but people would assume that’s the drink, that’s what they would assume, it’s the drink doing that.

“It just felt like he was waiting for an invitation,” Sandra says quietly. “Didn’t you sense that?”

“I don’t know what he was thinking,” I snap, “I don’t know the man.”

Sandra probably suspected something after that evening. I’ve never quite had the guts to ask her. As we say goodnight, she whispers: “Take care, and don’t do anything stupid.”

It would be a lie if I said that the prospect of blackmail had not crossed my mind. But Derek didn’t seem the blackmailing type – whatever that might be. The only blackmailers I had ever met were producers.

His appearance in the restaurant had unnerved me. It was a bit of a coincidence. And how could he have spotted us? We were miles away from a window. My elation at the verdict was already clouded by questions. I felt cheated out of my moment. When I got home, I dug out one more bottle of wine and drank myself to sleep.

The morning papers made enjoyable reading. The Daily Mail was unequivocal: “Clearly, the terrible ordeal that Kevin Carver has experienced is the direct result of a feeding frenzy among the more irresponsible sections of our press.”

A female columnist in the Sun spoke for the sisters: “Jade Pope is a lying cow, as many women had always suspected.”

And the Star found a waiter she’d once screwed in Basingstoke: “Jade was a very cold lover, and a very mean tipper.”

In every paper, kind things were now being said about me. I had been cruelly wronged, my reputation was instantly returned to me. Of course, there would always be the whisperers, but I could do nothing about those. That damage had been incurred from the moment Jade had accused me.

I felt calmer, but strangely flat. Perhaps I had imagined this day too often.

Come Monday morning, I find myself back on familiar territory. The crew greet me with slaps on the back, hugs, and the girls start flirting again. Various actors tell me how they have stuck up for me at dinner parties. Nigel gives me a matey wink as he shouts down his mouthpiece: “Well, how long has he been in the toilet?…Twenty minutes? Well, go and check up on him, we don’t want him self-harming again, that put us nine scenes behind schedule. Just stick your head over the partition thing, OK?”

He is briefly bent double by a coughing fit, then he spreads his arms to embrace me.

“Kevin! Is this a social visit?”

“I’ve been summoned for a meeting.”

“They’ve got plans for Lenny,” says Simone, “that’s what we’ve heard.”

“And plans for Melanie,” adds Pam, with a giggle.

“Yeh, shark attack,” says Nigel. “In Australia. Great white shark eats her, the kid and half the boat. We won’t see any of that, of course, the whole story’s read out by Denzil the priest in a letter from her Nan.”

“Right…bit ignominious for Jade.”

“The cow deserves it,” says Pam.

“In spades.” Simone repeats it for emphasis. “In – spades.”

A small voice crackles down Nigel’s earpiece. Nigel listens, his brow furrowing to the point where his eyes disappear. “What do you mean, he’s praying?” He exhales long and hard and stares at the ceiling.

“Gavin?” I ask.

“Yeh, he turned Muslim last week. See that arrow painted on the wall there? That’s pointing to Mecca. He put that there, although strictly speaking, that’s pointing north-east, towards Seven Sisters but we haven’t got the heart to tell him.”

Nigel starts laughing, till the cough takes hold.

“You need to get that seen to.”

“I’m fine,” he splutters.

“Nice to have you back, Kevin.”

I turn. It’s Louise. Though there is something different about her. Simone mouths the word “botox” behind her back.

“We’re ready for you in the meeting room.”

I had no idea how I felt about returning to the show. Part of me wanted to just walk away. But then I had felt that way for years. I was forever fantasising about making a grand exit while denouncing the programme as shit-based baby food – Mac’s description.

But I am interested to hear what the producers have to say, if only out of mischief. Louise opens proceedings by saying how pleased everyone is about my vindication and praising my mental strength. She tries to smile, but her face won’t let her.

“We’ve had some editorial brainstorm sessions,” she announces, “vis-à-vis Lenny, and we’ve come up with some exciting new ideas.”

“Really? I very much doubt that, Louise.”

Oh yes, this is going to be fun. Louise takes a deep breath. The other producers wait expectantly.

“We are sorry about what Jade put you through. It was unacceptable. Her contract has been terminated. Melanie is going to be—”

“Shark food, yes I heard.”

“No, no, that’s just the decoy story we’re putting out to snow-blind the press. No, she’s going to be killed by terrorists.”

“Terrorists?”

One of the young assistant producers pitches in. Martin? Marcus? Matthew? “Suicide bomber,” he says. “Topical and edgy.”

A wave of approval crosses the room; edgy, we like edgy. Louise jabs a pencil towards me. “We’re keeping that under wraps, of course, in case those bastards from Emmerdale try and jump in with a beheading or something. We won’t see the actual suicide bombing, obviously.”

“Right.”

“No, it all gets read out in a letter from her Nan. But we’ve got some great ideas for Lenny.”

Martin/Marcus/Matthew dives in again: “We envisage Lenny becoming even more central. Central, and more layered.”

“More layered?”

“Yuh, yuh…we think Lenny should be less of a git.” He says the word “git” as if it were in italics. “And start behaving with more nobility.”

“Why?” I ask, flat and fast. Martin/Marcus/Matthew looks flustered.

“Kelly did some audience research.”

Kelly? Which one’s Kelly? Oh right, the one with the folder. She looks eleven.

“In the light of the trial outcome,” she begins nervously, “it seems there’s now a widespread audience perception of you as a victim…who bore his ordeal with nobility.”

“A ‘widespread audience perception’?”

“Yes,” asserts Kelly.

“You mean a focus group.”

“Yes.”

“Of how many?”

“Twenty.”

I laugh heartily, can’t help myself.

“They are an accurate cross-section,” croaks Kelly.

Hang on, I remember her, she was a runner.

“You’re going to have to get used to it, Kevin,” drawls Louise. “In a totally unexpected turn of events, people now like you.”

Where are they going with this?

“So we need to reflect this new reality. We want to make Lenny more nuanced…” Nuanced? On this show? “We need to give him more varied scenes. No more ‘shut it, you slag’ stuff. No more socks full of billiard balls. We want viewers to get a chance to see what a good actor you are…”

This is bullshit of the highest order.

“…and for you it could be the springboard to bigger things.”

Well, I knew she was trying to manipulate me, of course I did, but I thought it was worth considering at least. My agent agreed. And Mac had a view.

“Tell them to shove it up their arse with a barbed-wire broomstick.”

“A barbed-wire broomstick? That’s a development.”

“They cashed in on your predicament big-time, now they want to cash in on your vindication. They’re scum, just walk.”

“It might lead to better things.”

Mac lets rip with a quick burst of unintelligible Glaswegian before telling me that I am away with the fairies.

“It might, y’know…if I get better storylines.”

“Listen, pal, the moment ratings start to dip, they’ll have you back strangling coppers and biffing wee girlies.”

“Well, maybe so, but…”

“What are you scared of?”

Good question. One that Sandra asks me when I phone her with my dilemma.

“Are you scared of obscurity? Is that it? People forgetting you, no longer recognising you?”

“No, I think it’d be very nice not to be recognised.”

“Nearly convincing, but I’d try for another take, if I was you.”

She laughs that laugh and for a moment I’m younger and stronger.

“…Are you ‘plus one’ at the moment?” I ask.

“Mind your own business. Are you plus one?”

“No.”

“Oh…right…heigh-ho.”

“Yeah…heigh-ho.”

There are no inhibitions quite like the inhibitions between two people who know each other too well, are there? Socking great razor-wired fences of the unspoken.

She was right about my fear, of course she was. I liked being recognised, especially now that I had been recast as the hero.

At a garage, I am shouted at by a white kid who wants to be black: “You’re the man! Hear what I’m sayin’? You’re the man!” He flicks his fingers at me.

“Thanks.”

“That bitch will burn in Hell, man.”

“Well, I don’t—”

“No, she will, man, she’s gonna burn, after what she tried to do to you, she deserves a good slap. You give her a slap, man, a slap. Like you did before.”

“Well, no, actually that’s Lenny who—”

“They should put her in prison, sick kiddie or no sick kiddie.”

“N…no, she…she doesn’t have a child, not in real life, see she’s—”

He speeds away on his bike, calling over his shoulder: “You’re the man!”

“…Cheers.”

Not everyone who expressed their support was like him. Some of them had a brain. Mostly, people gave me a wan smile, and maybe a nod, as they passed me in the street. It felt a bit like being a vicar.

But, with every smile I saw, I couldn’t help wondering if a few weeks earlier that same person would have called me a cunt. The whole experience – Jade’s accusation, the trial, the press campaign – had sluiced the last drops of trust out of me. I was wary now, all the time, ears permanently pricked.

It took me a while to make up my mind but, in the end, I decided to return to the show. Why? Probably because I didn’t have the guts to say no. An unmapped alternative was too daunting. Where would I start? What if I disappeared?

But the decision brought me no real satisfaction and, as a sop to my self-esteem, I told them that I would only accept a three month contract to be going on with, to see if Louise’s promises were kept. I also told them that, before I would resume filming, I required six weeks paid holiday. Louise said she understood perfectly, although I could see a small muscle twitching behind her jaw.

I rented a cottage on the Isle of Skye. For the first weeks I did virtually nothing but sleep. Even when I wasn’t sleeping, I felt leaden and bone-tired, like you do after a bereavement. But then, gradually, I began to embrace the change. It was liberating just to wake up each morning, at whatever time I pleased, and know that my day wasn’t spoken for, wasn’t already calibrated in deadlines – lines of death – that had been decided by outside forces.

That felt good.

And yet. And yet. Somehow, nothing felt as good as I had anticipated. Even though my waking hours were illuminated by deep blue skies and blinding surf-pounded beaches, I could not shake off a sense of anti-climax. What was wrong with me? This place was perfect.

To try and lift my spirits, I threw myself at activities. I went on long wind-battling hikes. I tried fly-fishing, kayaking; I went out in boats and saw sea-eagles and dolphins. I black-and-blued my shoulders on rocks while white-water rafting. I even jumped off the side of a mountain and hang-glided in curving, lazy spirals down into a field of scattering sheep. I overloaded my senses as much as I could, but still nothing.

From time to time, I ventured into the nearest village. Some stared, a few asked for selfies, but by and large, I was left alone. They could probably see the wariness in me.

Increasingly, my favourite pastime was to sit by the stream which ran through the bottom of the cottage’s garden and simply stare into the perpetuating shapes of the water, letting my brain empty. I could do that for hours, till it felt like there was nothing left in my mind at all; not even the smallest shard of memory.

Then, one golden evening, when the sun is refusing to go down, I find myself sitting by a salmon stream, feeling calm and unimportant, when I suddenly hear my name: “Kevin? Is that you?”

I turn to see a man wearing a kagoul, even though there’s not a cloud to be seen. For a moment, I can’t recognise him – he’s silhouetted – but as he walks towards me I feel my stomach turn light and head towards my throat.

“Kevin? I don’t believe it! What are you doing here? Well I’ll be jiggered.”

My God, no. I try to paint a smile: “Derek…hi.”

“How the devil are you, Kevin?”

“I’m fine, yeh…and yourself?”

“Oh, mustn’t grumble, y’know. Not when there are people dying from starvation.”

A crow flies past, cackling. I’m struggling to think straight.

“Are you up here on holiday then, Derek?”

“Yeh, staying at Dunvegan, I come here every year. Are you on your own?”

“Um…yeh.”

“Me too. We both like our own company the best, eh?”

He picks up a stone and walks to the water’s edge.

“This is a lovely spot, isn’t it?”

“Stunning,” I reply.

“Fancy bumping into each other up here. What a coincidence, eh?”

“It’s not a coincidence, you lying bastard, so don’t insult my intelligence,” I say, but only inside my head. The truth is, I am horribly rattled. As I watch Derek skim his stone across the water, my brain spools through countless possibilities. Hang on, he’s saying something, what’s he saying?

“Stalking’s great fun.”

Is this some kind of confession? He sees my knotted expression.

“Stalking,” he repeats. “The deer. Only with cameras, mind. You should try it. I did it the other day. There’s a place just along this road, they take you out on the hills – ‘the Wildlife Safari…something’. Saw some stags fighting. Magnificent sight.”

“Right, I’ll, erm – I’ll look into that…thanks.”

Derek is smiling at me and I am smiling back at him. Why doesn’t he say something? In the woods behind us a pigeon takes off with a clumsy crack of its wings. He is still smiling at me. I hear myself speak.

“Well, we should go out for a meal, you and I.”

“Good idea. I’m free tonight.”

I had panicked. It was the silence that spooked me. But, on reflection, I was glad I had panicked, because I needed to spend some time with him to straighten things out. It would have to be handled sensitively. It was important not to upset him.

To create the right mood, I take him to a very exclusive restaurant – one that doesn’t demean itself by having its name visible on the outside, menus chalked on small squares of slate, that kind of thing. Derek is very taken with it, and soon becomes expansive.

“The thing is, and this is going to sound funny, but I’ve always felt a kinship with you, y’know, whenever I’ve seen you playing Lenny, I’ve always thought to myself: ‘I bet if we met, he and I could be mates’.”

I watch Derek lay into his prawn cocktail.

“…You told the court you didn’t have a TV.”

“Well,” he chuckles, “I told the court a lot of things.” He wipes mayonnaise from his chin. “Are you going back into the show?”

“Um…yeh…for a while anyway.”

His face brightens. “Oh great. We can meet up for a regular beverage down in London then, ’cos I live not far from the studios.”

“…Right.”

“We can go out together on the pull.”

“…Right. Look, Derek—”

“We’ll make quite a team.”

“Yuh, look, Derek—”

“Actually I’m thinking of going back into acting.”

“Really, look, Der—”

“’Cos I trained as an actor. At drama school. In Ipswich. Did two months till…well, the tutors complained I was taking up too much of their time. But I think they couldn’t handle my quest for perfection, y’know. Anyway, the past is another country – the thing is, I was wondering if maybe you could give me a little bit of coaching, y’know, maybe have a few sessions, and then maybe a meal afterwards.”

It is now that the full horror of my situation finally strikes home. I have been targeted by an attention-seeking missile. He has locked on to me, hard, and I need to take evasive action. I interrupt him as he starts to tell me about how he was once nearly cast as Coriolanus.

“Look, Derek, I have to be honest with you…what you’re asking for…the coaching thing…well, it isn’t…” I search for the softest adjective, “…realistic.”

“…Realistic?”

“Yes.”

“…Isn’t ‘realistic’ in what sense?”

“In the sense of…being connected to reality. I…I’m not a drama coach and…well, I’m not sure it’s…viable –” Viable? Not a great choice. “– for us to be…mates.”

Derek blinks. His bland, regular features give nothing away. “Why not?”

I make a conscious effort to make my voice as kind and gentle as possible.

“Because…we’re not mates, are we?”

“We can be if we want to. We can be whatever we want to be.”

“No, no, we can only be what we are. We are two very different people…with very different lives…and different personalities.”

He goes to say something but I head him off. “Al-so – and this is a very big also – it would be bad news for us if we were seen around together a lot, y’know, after the trial…if we seemed…connected, especially if I was seen to be helping you, people might start asking questions.”

I clasp his hand for emphasis. This has to be a big finish.

“Now, I will always, always, be extremely grateful for your very kind…intervention…you got me justice and I will never forget that…and I will always appreciate it…but I don’t think it should go any further than that.”

He takes his hand away – and stares into the table.

“I’m sorry, Derek. I’m just being honest.”

He nods. But he looks shaken and I misjudge the moment.

“Are you OK for money?”

Slowly, he looks up. “I don’t need your money. It was never about money.”

“No, fine, sorry, I didn’t mean – I just, well, I dunno I was – look, I was just trying to express my gratitude. Sorry, I didn’t mean to…y’know, imply…”

He reaches for the inside pocket of his corduroy jacket.

“Well…if you really feel the need,” he begins, with a hint of a tremor in his voice, “you can make a donation to this charity.”

A card is offered, I take it.

“They run hospices…and they’ve lost some grants.”

“Right, OK. Will do.”

His chair scrapes back and Derek is on his feet, smiling limply. “Well, I’d better go. There’s nothing more to say really, is there? I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you.”

“No, it’s fine, you haven’t, of course you haven’t. Please, stay and finish the meal.”

“No…best not.”

He offers his hand. “Well…goodbye then, Kevin.”

I shake his hand, warmly, perhaps too warmly? Too big, doesn’t fit the moment.

“Goodbye, Derek. And, again, many thanks.”

“Think nothing of it,” he says. And then he walks out of the restaurant.

At the time, I convinced myself that I had handled the situation quite well, on balance. It was a very tricky and delicate conversation and, yes, he was a little hurt, but he seemed to understand. I couldn’t see any other way I could have managed it, without stringing him along or raising false expectations.

I returned from Skye partially refreshed, and as the weeks rolled by, Derek gradually faded from my thoughts. I went back to the studio and started to lose myself in the reassuring rituals of work. As promised, there was a change. Bigger scenes, less shouting, more telling people I was there for them.

Mac split up with his wife. Inevitable really, once she got to know him.

Autumn came and went. Winter stripped the trees bare. Snow arrived with no warning. Initially, the TV channels greeted it with photos that viewers had taken of cheery snowmen. But then people started dying on icy roads and so the bulletins led with newsreaders shouting things like “Britain’s Winter Wonderland Turns Lethal.” Almost every snow-dusted stranger seemed to say, “So much for global warming, eh?” as if they had coined that thought themselves.

The show’s figures remained stable. Around mid-January they dipped a little, so Lenny killed two low-lifes. Four cast members left the show. One died, one was written out and two had to leave because they got drunk at an awards ceremony and told a revolting joke about a necrophiliac trying to have sex with the late Queen Mother.

Louise couldn’t finesse that one.

My life dribbled on pretty much as it had before all the madness of the trial. I was neither happy nor unhappy. The only oddity was that I caught myself increasingly thinking about Sandra. She rang less nowadays. She had found a man. His name was Pete. Decent bloke. A photographer. Lies in the bushes all night to get a shot of a badger.

Then, one rainy evening in April, she rings. “Kevin, you’ve—”

“Hey! I was just thinking about you, and not in a sordid way, how’s things?”

“Switch on the television,” she says rapidly.

“Eh?”

“ITV. Switch it on, now, I’ll ring you back.”

So I turn on ITV and there is Derek, sitting in a moody pool of light and being interviewed by one of those compassionate presenters whose head is permanently tilted to one side. She is putting a question to him in a low, soothing voice: “And it was at this stage that Kevin Carver suggested to you that you commit perjury on his behalf?”

Derek nods sorrowfully. “Yes.”

“And did you feel comfortable with that?”

“No.”

“So why did you go along with it?”

“I felt sorry for him, I suppose. I personally believed his version of events – that he’d been wrongly accused – and he seemed to be in a lot of pain…I wanted to ease his pain.”

There is a stretched span of several moments before I start to take in what is happening. It is – cliché coming – like a bad dream. That is the only way to describe the experience of watching this man spew his lurid perversion of the truth into millions of people’s living rooms.

“Have you stopped to ask yourself why you felt this need to try and ease his pain?” she asks; she’s a nurse at his bedside.

“Oh, many times, yes.” He is instinctively pitching his voice at the same note as hers. “And that’s not easy to answer, but I think it dates back to my having an alcoholic and abusive father…which meant that I grew up with an exaggerated sense of responsibility for other people’s feelings, a kind of guilt that means I’m always trying to make people happy.”

“You’re a people-pleaser.”

“I suppose so, yes.”

His eyes are welling up now. God, this is terrible acting. Surely everyone will see through this pantomime? They’ve got to, haven’t they? The public aren’t that stupid. They can see when something is grotesque. Suddenly the room starts to recede from me and I dash to the toilet to throw up. I hurry back to find Derek is telling the world how much he liked me.

“And did Kevin Carver like you?”

“Oh yes.”

“But he used you.”

Derek bows his head, like a saint about to be martyred. “Yes…yes he did.”

I am watching my whole life unravel. Everything I have is – however much that was – was being destroyed, in high-definition slow motion, by Derek and this woman.

“And did he offer you money to commit this perjury?”

“Yes, yes he did.”

Oh God, no.

“But I didn’t want any money, so I asked him to make a donation to my favourite charity. It supports hospices.”

Oh Jesus Christ. I wrote a cheque.

“We should perhaps point out that you’re not being paid for this interview.”

“That’s right.”

“Knowing what you know now, Derek, do you think Kevin Carver did or did not…assault Jade Pope?”

Derek puffs his cheeks. “I don’t know…I mean…if their relationship was in trouble…well, I’m not sure that Kevin finds rejection easy to cope with. But, y’know, it’s really not for me to speculate.”

“You just did!” I scream at the television. My body starts to heave with wracking, gulping sobs and, even though no one can see me, I feel humiliated.

“Finally, Derek –” she leans forward and spreads her hands “– the question that a lot of our viewers will be asking, namely, why now? Why have you waited to come forward and admit your crime…because it is a very serious offence you’ve committed.”

On the screen, with misting eyes, Derek is slowly choosing his words: “Yes…yes it is a serious offence. And I’m not proud of the mistake I made. Not at all. So I’ve chosen to come forward because basically, I couldn’t go on living a lie. I take full responsibility.”

Everybody takes full responsibility now, have you noticed? It’s funny that. We must be getting more honest.

For a moment, a fast-fading moment, I cling to the hope that they won’t believe him; all the millions of people with their suppers on their laps. Then I know that they will. Why wouldn’t they believe him? He is creating a moment of mass intimacy with them; they love that.

It’s over for me, that’s inescapable. I’ve been placed in the national pantheon of liars. Somewhere between Jonathan Aitken and Jeffrey Archer. In the eyes of millions, I am now arrogant, corrupt, violent, and ridiculous.

I feel stupid and shamed; which is why I don’t answer when Sandra rings back.