Martin Brandwell left the public gallery. He went quickly down the stairs, through security, and out of the Old Bailey, heading east along Ludgate Hill towards St Paul’s Cathedral. Nipping down a side street he pushed open the door of a small café. Justin was waiting, sitting at a table in a far corner.
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ said Martin, sitting down, already lying.
A waiter brought coffee and then withdrew. Justin was handling a glass salt cellar, turning it round and round, watching the white crystals fall. There were grains of rice, too.
‘They look like maggots,’ he said, giving the cellar another shake.
‘I said there’s nothing to worry about.’
Justin looked up. His eyes were red, his skin white as plaster. Martin’s heart almost stopped: his boy was falling apart once more. If inner filth could bleed, Justin’s blood would be spreading like a dark pool, reaching for the door and the outside world. Martin placed his hands around his son’s, bringing them together around the salt pot. He kept them there as if to keep a wound closed.
‘He’s cross-examined Maisie and Dominic,’ said Martin. ‘He knows nothing, I promise you. Littlemore has remained silent … no one is going to know. This will be over soon. Hold yourself together … please, my boy.’
Justin had been like this before the breakdown. He’d started twitching around the mouth, laughing suddenly, crying quickly, laughing some more and then he’d fallen on his knees, his chest heaving in silence. An hour or so later he’d been all smiles, absolutely carefree … just like a kid about to go on holiday … excited and silly … and that night he’d taken an overdose. Heroin. To this day Maisie thought it had been sleeping tablets. The guilt and shame had finally burst out, like an abscess at the centre of his conscience. Martin had hoped for healing but now he realised how foolish he’d been: how do you heal a sickness for which there’s no cure?
‘Your mother will never find out, Justin,’ breathed Martin, as if he’d climbed to Speakers’ Corner. ‘She’s going to live out her years without knowing … if that is what you want.’
‘There’s no other way.’
‘Are you really so sure?’
Justin barked, neck bent, face lifted: ‘Yes.’
Martin raised his hands and cradled his son’s head. But Justin wouldn’t look at him. He tried to pull away, closing his eyes, but Martin wouldn’t release him.
‘Are you clean?’ asked Martin, quietly.
‘Yes.’
‘Truthfully?’
‘Yes, honestly.’ Justin was crying; he leaned back, and Martin had to let go. The world seem to slip from his fingers. ‘I’m just so tired, Dad … I can’t get away. I can’t escape … I can’t shake off who I am … what I’ve become. What I’ve done.’ Tears of exhaustion ran down his cheek. ‘I can’t get clean in the way that matters most …’
‘Let me talk to your mother. Let’s get everything out into the open.’
Justin was hopeless. ‘It wouldn’t make any difference. I remain the same. So what’s the point?’
‘Because you wouldn’t remain the same. Even you can change.’ Martin was desperate. He’d been using shining phrases for seven years now. A small table had never felt so large. He couldn’t even reach the other side. ‘There’s hope for everyone, no matter what they’ve done. A fresh start is always possible.’
‘Who told you that? The Chief?’
‘No, you did. You founded the Bowline. You, too, can get help, but you have to speak.’
‘Speaking doesn’t always work, Dad. It can’t work for me, you know that …’ Justin’s voice trailed off. He dried his face with a sleeve and nodded at the waiter for another coffee. They were quiet, Justin twirling the salt cellar, Martin handling the pepper.
‘You promised to support me,’ said Justin.
‘I have done. And I always will. But the harm is ongoing … I didn’t imagine what might happen to Harry. That secrets breed secrets.’
Justin’s lip and cheek quivered with a sort of electric jolt. ‘Mum isn’t to know … and that’s final, okay?’
Martin nodded obediently. The cost of the secret was his subordination. It kept Justin clean, even as it dirtied his father. The waiter came and went. Justin reached for the sugar. His face was still now.
‘You should have kept away from Littlemore,’ said Martin, quietly.
‘I tried. But he wouldn’t leave me be; he knew what he was after. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t know what he wanted.’
Martin put the pepper pot down.
‘Littlemore will be convicted.’
Justin tasted his coffee. He didn’t seem to have heard.
‘And then we help Harry face the future,’ said Martin, forced to move on.
Justin’s eyes were glazed.
‘This can be your way of—’
Martin stopped because Justin had raised a finger of warning. He’d always done that when his dad threatened to go off limits. Over the years, Martin had come to sense where the boundaries lay in Justin’s mind. If he strayed, Justin would give the signal. A sort of tension came between them, like the hum of an electric fence. Hearing it now, Martin retreated.
‘I’d better get back to court.’ He hesitated, wanting to heave Justin out of the pit he’d dug for himself. But it was too deep, too dark. He was somewhere out of sight, at the bottom. ‘I’m with you, son,’ he managed.
‘No, Dad,’ replied Justin. His cheek quivered and he laughed. ‘I once thought you could share this with me, but you can’t. I’m on my own.’
As Martin left the café, he stifled a spasm of grief. The weight of guilt for his collusion was nothing compared with the unbearable sight of Justin damaged and damaging, the evil running deep and wide, eating away the relationships that ought to bring him fulfilment and happiness. His own son was like a disease. Martin almost stumbled into the gutter. For the first time in his life, he wished his wife was dead.
On righting himself, he looked across the road. A man was walking away but there was no doubt. It was Fraser … but the fear roused at seeing him was quickly followed by a deeper, more primitive reaction. Martin was scalded by jealousy and guilt. This was the man who’d won Harry’s confidence; this was the man he trusted more than anyone, including his grandfather. Could any indictment be worse?