22

Constance approached her own front door on tiptoe, turning the key in the lock in super slow motion to avoid the mandatory click when the levers finally released their hold. She had even dawdled as she descended the steps to the Underground platform, missing an earlier train, delaying her by an additional six minutes, so as to increase the chances of Mike being asleep.

But he was propped up in bed with a can of beer next to him on the bedside table.

‘You’re up late,’ she called to him through the open door, peeling off her jacket and dropping it by the door.

‘You too.’ He didn’t move and Constance decided to attempt a joke.

‘At least you have a beer,’ she said.

Mike’s eyes flitted to his right. He picked up the can, drank from it and returned it to the table where it nestled in a pool of liquid. Constance undressed quickly, splashed her face in the bathroom, cleaned her teeth and hurried to bed.

‘How was your day?’ she tried cheerily, the image of Judith rubbing disinfectant over her hands and forearms as they left the hospital indelibly imprinted on her mind.

Mike drank some more beer as Constance burrowed her way into his armpit.

‘What’s wrong?’ She sat up and stroked his shoulder.

‘I was worried,’ he said. ‘You didn’t say you’d be late.’

‘No. I got delayed and I forgot the time. You could have called me.’

‘I did. Twice.’

‘Oh. Sorry. I didn’t notice. I was so busy.’

‘Then I called your office. They said you’d been at St Marks Hospital but that was hours ago.’

Constance shifted her weight away from him.

‘I was. I went there with Judith earlier today, on a case.’

‘The Syrian cleaner.’ Mike spat out Ahmad’s title with a curled lip.

‘Yes.’ Constance was on her guard now. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I saw it in the paper. You’re not defending him are you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You can’t tell me?’

‘Everyone has the right to legal representation.’ Constance stuck out her chin.

‘That’s just words to make you feel like it’s all worthwhile.’

‘Important words.’

‘Really? Even if he’s a terrorist.’

‘Ahmad’s not a terrorist.’

‘You’re already on first name terms? Take a look at tonight’s Standard then. I left it for you, on the table.’

Constance scrambled out of bed, located the Evening Standard and turned its pages furiously. She found the article and read through it hurriedly, following the text with her finger. Then she remembered Mike and returned to the bedroom with the paper clasped tightly in her hand.

‘Did you see what it says?’ he challenged her. ‘You’re defending a killer, a person who kills indiscriminately – this time an old lady, next time maybe a school full of children.’

‘I need to call Judith.’

‘Go ahead. Call Judith. Tell her the Syrian cleaner’s a terrorist. I bet she’ll drop him like a stone. She won’t want her career ruined by association.’

‘There’s nothing in the article of any substance. It just says that “an unnamed source” said his brother was an ISIL commander and that he and his brother were close. It’s almost certainly not true.’

Mike took a deep breath and pulled off the covers. He walked around the bed, went to Constance and put his hands gently on her shoulders.

‘You are such a good person,’ he said, ‘and you always try to do what’s right. And I love you for it. But some of the people you defend, they don’t deserve you or your time or your efforts. You must see that. You need to be a bit less charitable and a bit more hard-nosed.’

Constance pushed him away and hunted for her mobile in her bag.

‘Now you’re being selfish,’ she said.

‘Really? I’m being selfish in not wanting you to associate with this low life? You’ve got sucked in, Con, but you can’t see it.’ Now he was waving his arms around. ‘And, OK, maybe I am being selfish, because you’re never here and the whole point of us being together is so that we can be together, at least some of the time. And if I thought you were doing something really worthwhile then I might understand more.’

‘And your job is so worthy.’

‘I’m an actor. That’s what I do. I entertain people, for fun. I’m not…Martin Luther King, OK?’

Constance’s eyes narrowed.

‘Sorry.’ Mike realised his mistake. ‘I didn’t mean…I just meant I’m not someone on a personal crusade all the time. And maybe you shouldn’t be, either.’

‘Wow!’ Constance spoke quietly, finding her phone but laying it down on the bedside table. ‘Well, I appreciate you getting all of this off your chest. How long have you been feeling like this?’

‘Oh come on. You’ve known I was pissed for a while now. You missed my first night in Macbeth when that fight kicked off in Newham.’

Now Mike crushed the can to a pulp before throwing it across the room to land with a clang in the bin in the far corner.

‘I’m not going to change what I do.’ Constance spoke softly.

‘Other stuff I can deal with. But this Syrian terrorist is one step too far. You must be able to see that?’

‘I’ll assess the case in the normal way, but I won’t drop Ahmad just because a newspaper, which may not have done its homework, doesn’t like him. That wouldn’t be right.’

‘Even if he’s a terrorist?’

Constance turned her head away and bit her lip.

‘OK. I get the message. Here’s what I think,’ Mike said blandly, grabbing a blanket out of the top of the wardrobe and flinging it from the doorway across the living room on to the sofa. ‘You’re right that I can’t tell you what to do. And I don’t want it to be like that.’ He picked up his pillow and tucked it under his arm.

Constance sat down on the bed. Was the fight over? A message beeped on her phone and she struggled not to acknowledge it. Mike gathered the crumpled copy of the Standard and scanned the article again. Then he folded it up and dropped it into the bin, hovering by the door with his back to her for a few seconds. When he turned around his expression was sad.

‘This isn’t working for me any more,’ he said. ‘You’re hardly ever here, and when you are, you’re totally preoccupied with work. We don’t have any fun together. I’ll move in with my brother for a few weeks from tomorrow. We can make arrangements to see each other like before. See how things go.’

Constance hadn’t expected this from Mike, not this depth of feeling or the willingness to act on it. A muscle in his left cheek along the jawline pulsed once and was still. She imagined him practising his lines and his facial expressions over and over before the mirror, like he did before an audition, while she was running around the hospital, holding her breath to stave off the smell of death.

‘I see. You’ve told Nick before me.’

Mike shrugged.

‘I asked if his spare room was free, that’s all. I’ll pack in the morning. We’ll see how things go. Maybe it will be better if we have to make a date. Maybe we’ll make more effort with each other.’

‘Maybe,’ Constance replied inside her head, but she doubted it very much.