FanStory.com - Convicted by Jacob1395

FanStory.com
"Convicted"

Chapter 1
Convicted - Chapter One

By Jacob1395

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.

I shouldn’t be here. My hands tremble on the steering wheel as my car trundles around me, filling up the silence. Headlights bounce into existence behind me, and a car roars past, making me jump. My knee jerks against the bottle of Hugo Boss perfume I always keep in my cup holder, next to a packet of chewing gum. I take in a steady breath. I’m supposed to be fetching milk from the little local store. Instead, I’ve driven here. It’s just me sitting in my car, staring at the imposing wrought iron gates ahead of me. I flick a strand of my blonde hair out of my eye, and spot the two gargoyles sitting on the posts. I chuckle to myself. He always did have a thing for gothic architecture, but gargoyles, really? Well, I’m sure he does fancy himself as some sort of medieval lord of the manor, even more so since he made his millions.

There’s a light on in the downstairs window. My chest tightens. The blue light from the television screen flashes, picking out her sitting on the sofa, glass of wine in hand, her auburn hair draping on her shoulders. She probably still hasn’t wiped away her make-up, even though they’ve settled in now for the evening. She’s already seen me, of course. She spotted me two minutes ago when I got here. She’d glanced towards the living room window, with its pretty little flowers engraved in the glass. She’d opened her mouth, and then her eyes fixed on me, glaring. Yes, I’d thought, look this way you cow. She’ll have called to him to tell him I’m here. Perhaps they expected me tonight, tonight of all nights. They’ve called the police on me before, accused me of stalking, but perhaps tonight they might feel sorry for me.

I sit back in my warm seat. The big wooden front door of the house springs open, revealing the golden hallway beyond. I catch a glimpse of a white staircase. Even though I can only see his silhouette this far back, I can tell it’s him. It’s his burly shape, the way he walks, always marching, with purpose, like he’s hurrying to catch a plane, that gives him away. I could see him a mile off.

The gates clang open, making me flinch; he strides through. I flick my gaze away and stare at the road ahead, and at the shapes of the other large houses on this road, standing dark and proud against the moonlight. The type of house I’ll never be able to afford. I grind my teeth.

There’s a soft knock on my window which makes me jump. I clench my fists tight on the steering wheel. I don’t look towards him, I blink my eyes rapidly.

‘Stacey, could you open the car door please?’ he says. There’s concern etched in his voice.

I turn my face towards him. My ex-husband, Michael. We’ve been divorced eight years now, although it still feels like yesterday. My jaw tightens. I fix my gaze on his grass green eyes; the same eyes that made me go weak to my knees all those years ago, when I first fell in love with him. There are deep lines in his forehead now and his once bushy brown hair is thinning. Does she like it like that? Back when they first got together he still had a full head of hair. I press the child lock button and there’s a click. Michael opens the door and cool fresh air rushes in, tingling my cheeks. He sits in the passenger seat, pulls the door shut, and places his hands on his thighs, his Bulgari cologne permeating the atmosphere. He never wore that when he was with me, we couldn’t afford it.

‘Quiet evening in?’ I ask him, glancing back towards the house, running my tongue around my dry mouth.

His wife is standing in front of the window now, arms folded across her chest.

‘Well, we . . . we have a 7am flight tomorrow morning,’ he says, coughing.

‘Oh, yes, I know all about your trip to the Bahamas,’ I say through gritted teeth.

He sighs. ‘Stacey, please.’

‘No, what gives you the right to talk to me like that?’ I snap, spinning round to face him, my spittle landing on his cheek. ‘How could you even think of going away at a time like this when it’s the final day of our son’s trial tomorrow?’ An image of my son, my boy, sitting in a cell, slips into my mind.

‘Because I don’t want to be around tomorrow when the shit hits the fan,’ he says, wiping his eyes. ‘They’re going to find him guilty, Stacey.’

I shake my head, tears brimming behind my eyes. ‘He’s innocent, Michael. How the hell can you even say that? He needs us here . . . he needs our support.’

‘I can’t do this, Stacey,’ Michael says, tears escaping his eyes. ‘I can’t.’ I stiffen. I’ve never heard so much emotion in his voice before. Even when his parents died he never cried this much in front of me. ‘As bad as this situation is we need to somehow find a way to move on. You need to as well. Please just think about it, Stacey.’

Move on. I let out a shaky breath. I need to be here for our son. I need to be here for Joshua.

‘This is so wrong,’ I say, shaking my head, tears sliding down my cheeks.

There’s a brief pause before Michael speaks. ‘There’s nothing we can do, Stacey.’ He sighs. ‘Look, go home, please. Perhaps you should book a holiday yourself, get away from it all.’

It’s alright for you. You can swan off on holiday whenever you like, you’ve got the money to spend. I wipe my eyes.

He opens the door and gets out of the car, flings the door shut, and marches back towards the house, head down; his feet stomping into the gravel pathway. I listen to the distant sound of leaves crackling across the road caught in a breeze. His front door slams shut. What will she say about me when he gets back inside? Will she try and persuade him to call the police again? I roll my shoulders back and twist my car key in the ignition. I picture Michael on the plane tomorrow, in first class no doubt, sipping champagne, while I’ll be in court, praying Joshua doesn’t spot me sitting in the public gallery, watching him, waiting for the verdict. Michael may have given up on our son, but there’s no way in hell I will.

Author Notes Characters:

Stacey - Protagonist
Joshua - Stacey's son
Rebecca - Stacey's daughter
Michael - Stacey's ex-husband
Lydia - jury member
Ruth - journalist
Detective Inspector Dominic Hitchens - police officer

Chapter 2
Convicted - Chapter Two

By Jacob1395

Pale morning sunlight filters through the kitchen window, casting fruit shadows across my kitchen table. I raise a cup of tea to my lips and take a sip, focusing on the trees at the end of my garden, their branches swaying in the breeze. It’s just gone quarter past six. Michael will be at the airport by now, no doubt sitting in the lounge, tucking into a breakfast prepared by some top chef. I bang my cup of tea down on the saucer and rub my eyes. It’s not fair. I sink back in my seat. My body feels heavy, sluggish and I haven’t been drinking. I get up from the seat and pad across the kitchen to the fridge. I open it, allowing the cool air to chill my face. There’s a green box of eggs ahead of me. I need something, even though I’ve got no appetite. I’ve got to eat to get through the day.

I grab the box and take it over to the stove, fetching a frying pan from the cupboard underneath the sink and placing it on the stove, and a cup to whisk the eggs in.

‘Morning.’ I spin around clutching the box of eggs tight, but it’s only my daughter, Rebecca, entering the kitchen, in her grey dressing gown. She holds her hand to her forehead, and brushes back her red hair. ‘Did you not sleep last night?’

I shake my head. ‘Nope, of course not, I sat down here all night. Do you want some scrambled eggs?’

‘Sure,’ Rebecca says, sitting at the table, holding her hand over her mouth as she yawns. ‘Where did you go last night, Mum?’

I turn around to face the stove again, place the box, and cup, down on the worktop, and crack four eggs into the cup and beat them hard with a fork. ‘I went to get milk, you know I did.’

I switch on the gas, and flick a knob of butter into the pan. It starts to sizzle.

‘Mum, you were out for an hour. It doesn’t take an hour to get milk from the local shop. Where were you?’

‘I went for a drive, OK, I just needed to clear my head, you know, because of today.’

I pour the beaten eggs into the pan and whisk, the spatula tinkles against the side of the pan as I beat hard, the heat from the stove warms my face.

Rebecca sighs. ‘You went to Dad’s again, didn’t you?’

I watch the egg yolk form into clumps. I’ve always preferred my eggs a little on the runny side. I switch the gas off and ladle two plates with them. I’ve had these plates since I first got together with Michael, nearly thirty three years ago now.

‘No, of course not,’ I say, my cheeks burning as I sit opposite Rebecca at the table, passing her plate round to her.

She gets up from her seat and proceeds to grab two pairs of knives and forks from the drawer underneath the stove.

‘Dad messaged me this morning,’ she says, sitting back down, passing a knife and fork over to me. She picks up the salt and scrunches a generous amount onto her eggs. She can never have eggs without salt. ‘He told me you were outside his house last night. He’s worried about you, Mum, we all are.’

I plunge my fork into my scrambled eggs and place it in my mouth. I relish in the silky taste. ‘I was angry, Rebecca, angry that he’s going off to the Bahamas today, when Joshua is on trial for something he didn’t do.’

Rebecca shakes her head. ‘Mum, Dad’s got his own life. You’ve been separated from him now for fifteen years. He had this holiday booked weeks ago.’

I laugh. ‘Don’t try and cover for him, Rebecca. He booked it to get out of the country while all this is going on. In fact, his exact words were I don’t want to be here when the shit hits the pan.’

My chest rises and falls, I throw my fork back onto the plate and sit back.

‘You don’t have to go to the trial today, Mum,’ Rebecca says, keeping her voice soft.

I wipe my eyes. ‘I’ve got to be there for him, Rebecca, he certainly hasn’t got his dad to support him; he’s only got me.’

‘But Joshua doesn’t want you there,’ Rebecca says, leaning her elbows on the table. ‘What if you’re spotted by a journalist? D’you want your picture splashed across the front pages for days on end? I know what they’ll call you.’

‘What,’ I say, shifting forward in my seat. ‘Mum of a killer, is that what they’ll call me?’

Rebecca wipes her face. ‘I can’t stop you from going, but please, just consider it, for my sake. We’re all trying our best to carry on living at the moment. I need you here.’

‘Locked up so you can keep an eye on me,’ I mumble. There are tears in Rebecca’s eyes. Damn, I’ve overstepped the mark. ‘I’m sorry.’

Rebecca finishes her scrambled eggs and picks up her plate. ‘I know you say you went to Dad’s last night because you were angry about him going away, but it wasn’t just that, was it? You had help Mum years ago, when things got a bit too much for you, after they called the police on you that time. Perhaps it’s time to get help again.’

I see the police car pulling up in front of me years ago, I feel my shoulders tensing. They’d actually called the police on me.

‘I won’t go back there,’ I say, taking in a deep breath. ‘I promise, Rebecca.’

Rebecca half-smiles. She doesn’t believe me. Perhaps she’s thinking I’ll go back there while they’re on holiday, try and make a mess of the place. It’s been fifteen years, and yet I still behave in the same way I did when I first found out he was getting married, when I first found out they were having a baby. I press my heel into the floor and grit my teeth.

I finish off my scrambled eggs and dump my plate in the sink. I’ll see to it later. It’ll take an hour and a half or so to get to the court from here. I take in a deep breath. What’s going through Joshua’s mind right now? He’ll be petrified. My heart aches. The thought of him sitting alone in a cell makes me want to vomit. I rub my forehead. It’s time to get ready.

Chapter 3
Convicted - Chapter Three

By Jacob1395

Houses blitz pass. I cross my knees and try to focus on the words of the book I’m reading. The train judders around me. Before this past year, I could read a book quite easily on a train ride. Today, the words dance on the page in front of me, not making sense. Someone behind me is playing music with no headphones making it hard to concentrate. I snap it shut and take in a steady breath. It’s seven thirty. Rebecca didn’t offer to give me a lift to the station, even though it would’ve only taken her ten minutes. It’s because she didn’t want me to go in the first place. I heave a sigh. There’s a young blonde woman sitting opposite me, checking her appearance in her travel mirror, holding it up to her eyes, then her lips. She pouts, smacks it shut and places it in her pocket. She must be chewing gum because every now and again I get a whiff of something minty. Her blue eyes catch me staring and I flick my gaze to the window. It’s so crazy how every young woman I see now reminds me of Alex, the girl Joshua is on trial for killing, his girlfriend. I swallow. From the moment Joshua first introduced her to us, eighteen months ago now, I loved her. I could see how happy she made him, he was always smiling. He didn’t kill her. Tears prick my eyes. No, don’t cry, I can’t cry now. Whatever happened to that poor girl, my son wasn’t responsible. I clench my fists.

The train announces the next stop will be Liverpool Street and I breathe a sigh of relief. Everyone around me moves about in their seats, packing away their belongings, the woman sitting opposite grumbles something to herself. I place my book in my bag. The train slows and we pass the graffiti covered grey walls to my left as we pull into the station, the wheels screeching on the tracks. Keep calm. They’ll find him not guilty. They’ve got to. The train comes to a gentle stop. I get up and head for the door, my heart bouncing in my chest. There’s a buzzing sound and the doors whisk open. I jump out, hurrying up the platform, squeezing in between people, who are clearly in no hurry to get to work, and towards the ticket barriers, keeping my head down. In another life, thirty odd years ago, I used to come to this station every day for work. I worked at the NatWest bank a ten minute walk away. My skin bristles. I envy how young and free I was then, no decisions about my life made. But I know I would make the mistakes all over again to have my children. I shake the thought out of my head, swipe my debit card on the ticket barrier and dive through into the hustle and bustle of the main station. On autopilot I drift towards the underground platforms, the direction everyone else is headed. There’s a man walking beside me with his phone clamped to his ear, he’s arguing with someone, but I can’t workout what the argument's about. Something to do with his job I imagine. It’ll be another five minute sweaty train ride to St. Paul’s, the closest station to the Old Bailey. I pass through the ticket barriers, keeping my head down.

The train arrives within thirty seconds of me making it to the packed, sweltering platform. I hold my hand to my forehead. Everyone crams in around me, not caring about the passengers who need to get off first. Everyone’s desperate to get on and get to their destination. Once on board, I cling onto the sweaty yellow handrail, the stench of someone’s after shave wafting into my nostrils as the train hammers towards St. Paul’s. I glance at my watch, 7:45. a.m. By eight o’clock I’ll be inside the court. Joshua will be standing there, facing the judge, and the jury who’ll decide his fate.

At St. Paul’s I dart out into bright sunshine, holding my hand above my eyes. No one pays me any attention. In my past life, I would’ve gazed at all the high rise buildings around me, marvelling at them, pointing out anything historical. Now I race down the streets, not wanting to look. I don’t want anyone to notice me. I want to get to my destination, that’s it.

The shadow of the statue of Our Lady Justice rises on the ground in front of me. I grind my teeth. Justice. What justice is there when Joshua’s on trial for something he didn’t do? There’s already a camera crew setting up outside the court. I recognise several of the journalists, drinking from plastic coffee cups, laughing amongst themselves. They’ve been here since day one. Swallowing hard, I race up the steps and breeze through the doors and in through the entrance, my heels clicking on the marble floor. How many other trials are going on today? I bet none of them get the same level of attention my son is getting?

I pass through security, tension thrumming in my chest, and hand over my bag. I eye a couple of barristers in their wigs ahead of me, chatting. They’re both clutching onto heavy looking files. My son’s barrister, Damien Knowles, a man in his thirties with brown, swept back hair and five o’clock shadow on his chin, will be with him, prepping him for what’s expected to be the final day ahead. Michael actually paid for the solicitor, it’s the one good thing he’s done in the past year.

Once I’ve passed through security I head in the direction of court room three, taking in deep breaths.

There are already people sitting in the public gallery, talking quietly amongst themselves. There’s an air of anticipation about, I feel it. It’s electric. I freeze. Alex’s mother and her sister sitting at the front. They gave a lengthy interview to The Sun newspaper last year about their daughter. Her mother, Rose is in her sixties like me, although she’s a couple of years older. She has a pristine bob of silver hair, and always dresses for the occasion, Alex’s family certainly aren't short of money, Alex and her sister, Jenny both went to private school. There was one newspaper article that suggested Alex liked bad boys, which is why she was attracted to Joshua. Anger churns in my stomach. This is the first day they’ve been here. They’ve kept away up until now. They’re here for the complete opposite reason I am. Keeping my head down I sit as far away from them as I can at the back. I can’t let them see me. I clutch my bag tight on my lap.

A hushed silence falls on the now packed out court room. My son enters the room, dressed in a dark jacket, white shirt. I lean forward in my seat, my heart beating fast. He’s keeping his facial expression neutral, his hazel eyes fixed straight ahead, where the judge will sit.

There’s a loud bang and my heart starts running even faster. Everyone rises to their feet, I do the same, breathing in deep breaths. This is it. The judge, a thin woman with big glasses balanced on her nose, sits in the central red chair.

The usher shouts, “Would all persons having business in the Central Criminal Court this day draw near and give your attention. God save the King.”

Author Notes Characters:

Stacey - Protagonist
Joshua - Stacey's son
Alex - murder victim (Joshua's girlfriend)
Rebecca - Stacey's daughter
Michael - Stacey's ex-husband
Lydia - jury member
Ruth - journalist
Rose - Alex's mother
Detective Inspector Dominic Hitchens - police officer

Chapter 4
Convicted - Chapter Four

By Jacob1395

My back is aching. It’s approaching three p.m. It’s been another day of evidence, from the defence and prosecution. I’d listened to the detective in charge of the investigation, a bit of a fancy man, in my mind, Detective Inspector Dominic Hitchens, talk, about the crime scene, and how Joshua behaved when he was first interviewed. He might as well have just said, he was a shifty bugger, knew right from the moment I clapped my eyes on him it was him. Once every so often, my eyes had flickered over towards the jury, and studied their deadpan faces as they listened to the evidence being presented. I’d searched for any signs they didn’t believe a word that was being fed to them, but found none.

The court room around me is silent. Someone coughs nearby, I tense. The jury are filing back into the court one by one. Some of them are dressed like they're about to attend a funeral, black jacket, black trousers. I hold my breath. They haven’t been long, an hour. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. My heart races. I fix my eyes on the dark haired woman standing with the jury at the far end of the box. Even from here I can see the freckles on her cheeks. She's caught the sun recently, perhaps she's been away. There’s something in her face, something I can’t quite work out. I swallow.

‘Would the foreman please stand,’ the usher says, her voice echoing around the room. A red haired woman stands, clasping her hands together. She's so thin this woman. I can tell she's had plastic surgey, her lips are far too big for one. Every pair of eyes in the room swivels round to her. My son’s gaze remains fixed on the judge ahead of him. He glances down at the floor and then back up at the judge, a middle-aged woman with blue eyes and deep lines in her forehead. The courtroom holds its breath. ‘Madam Foreman, on this indictment have the jury reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’

The woman nods, and coughs. ‘Yes, we have.’

‘On count one,’ the usher continues. ‘Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?’

I harden my stare on the woman, say a silent prayer, please, please, please, see through the lies, listen to your conscience. My heart beats hard.

‘Guilty.’ There’s no hesitation in her voice. My mouth drops open. Alex’s mother lets out a soft whimper and her daughter hugs her tight, rubbing her back. I want the ground to open up. The public gallery is alive with murmurs. This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening. Tears well in my eyes.

Everything the judge says next doesn’t make sense to me. I want to get out, without anyone seeing me. I eye the back of Alex’s mother’s head. She’ll be thinking the exact opposite I am. She’ll feel vindicated. But those feelings won’t bring her daughter back.

My son manages to keep his composure together standing in the dock. He's being so brave. I'd be screaming, I'd be yelling at the judge, telling the jury they're wrong. Inside he’ll be crumbling. His whole world's been snatched from under his feet. He’s led away by two guards. He doesn’t once look up to the public gallery. He keeps his head down, focused. I wipe my eyes. This shouldn’t be happening. Alex’s sister whispers something to her mother and she turns round and faces me, her eyes widening. No. She wants to say something to me. It's there in her cold stare. If it wasn't for where we were, I'm sure she'd shout something expletive at me.

I leave the courtroom fast. There’s no way I want Alex’s family collaring me. I dive out of the Old Bailey and back into the bright sunshine. The news Joshua’s been found guilty will be filtering through now to news stations. People around me will be getting news alerts on their phones.

Outside, DI Domnic Hitchens is giving a press conference to the waiting journalists. He’s got such a smug smile on his face. I want to tear his eyes out.

‘I am pleased to say that the jury reached the right decision today,’ he says. ‘And that justice for Alex Rivers and her family has been served. We will be giving no further updates at this time.’ He runs his hand through his hair, turns, and saunters back towards the court.

There’s a chorus of clicks and shouts from the reporters. Thank God they haven’t spotted me. I race across the road, hot tears building behind my eyes. I can’t let anyone see me crying here. They’ll work out who I am.

I head straight for St. Paul’s, dodging out of the way of an Uber Eats driver on his bike. I pass through into the station, drinking in gulps of hot, grimy air. Perhaps Rebecca was right, perhaps I should’ve saved myself from the heartache of coming today.

I lumber through to the platform, holding my hand to my mouth and take in big deep breaths. There’s a small crowd of people waiting, looking down at their phones, air pods plugged in. At least I should be home before rush hour. Joshua’s face fills my mind. He’ll be trying to work out what happens next. There must’ve been some glimmer of hope inside him that he wouldn’t be found guilty. What the hell can I do now? Not even Michael and Rebecca want to listen to me. The tears fall.

The train rockets into the station and I stand aside to let people off first. They brush past me. I dive onto the train and sit in the available seat ahead of me. Thank God I don’t have to stand this time. The doors whisk shut and the train lurches forward. I loll my head against the yellow pole to my right and close my eyes. I need to do something. I can’t let this be the end. I open my eyes. There’s a woman standing ahead of me, scrolling on her phone. She has dark glossy hair. My mouth drops open. No she can’t be. I blink rapidly. The speakers announce the next stop and the train slows. She’s . . . she’s the woman I saw standing with the other members of the jury. Her phone buzzes in her hand and she answers the call. I sit back in my seat, and glance further down the carriage. I don’t want her to think I’m watching her.

‘It was a bit of a slog,’ she says. She must be speaking to her partner, or someone else close to her. I resist the urge to study her face. ‘In the end I had to agree.’ I can’t help it. I flick my gaze back to her. She had to agree. What the hell does she mean? ‘I know, I know, well, I’m on my way back home now so I’ll see you this evening. Love you.’

She ends the call, placing her phone in her pocket. My heart beats hard. What the hell was she talking about when she said, she had to agree? I bite my lip as the train hurtles back to Liverpool Street. I can’t believe she hasn’t noticed me sitting here.

The train comes to a halt at the station, and I stand up. I’m practically standing behind her. I can smell her perfume, something lemony. The train doors open and I follow her out. She breezes through the station, a little emptier now than it was this morning. I follow her, keeping my focus fixed on the back of her head. What the hell am I doing? I glance at the timetable above me, a pigeon crosses the screens and lands on the floor above. My train is in ten minutes. I need to be on it, otherwise I’ll be waiting another half an hour for the next one. The woman’s walking towards a different platform to me. I swallow. I’m going to lose her. My heart presses hard against my chest. She’s getting further and further away. A couple of police officers walk beside her, chatting. I bite my lip and follow her.

Chapter 5
Convicted - Chapter Five

By Jacob1395

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.

I’m sitting in a seat a few feet away from the woman. She’s holding her phone out in her hands scrolling, most likely, through Facebook or Instagram. Despite it not being rush hour quite yet, the train is still rammed. School kids, in the same black uniform with red stripes are dotted around, phones in hands, talking raucously to each other. A young boy with dark hair sitting across from me, he must be around thirteen or fourteen, reaches out to the boy sitting the other side of the train to him, holding out his phone. I flinch. They’re not likely to be interested in what’s happened to my son. Relief sweeps through me when the sound of some YouTube or TikTok video starts playing. My chest rises and falls.

The train announces the next stop is Romford and the woman looks up, pocketing her phone. This is it, at least she isn’t too far away from where I live, only twenty minutes or so in the car. I used to come to Romford quite a bit. I’ll be able to get an Uber back. She gets up, the train is slowing down. Rows of houses, and The Brewery shopping centre roll past; I used to take Joshua and Rebecca there to the cinema when they were children. Tears well in my eyes. Joshua would get so excited each summer, whenever there was a new Harry Potter film out. They always normally came out at around the time of his birthday in July.

A few kids get up and mooch to the door. Someone shouts something and someone else laughs. I get up, heart running hard, and focus my gaze on the woman. She’s holding on to the back of a seat now, staring at the doors, waiting for the train to stop. There are people waiting on the platform, shifting closer to the edge. What if someone’s come to the station to pick the woman up and she gets in the car with them? What will I do next?

The doors ping open and everyone clambers out. I follow the kids, keeping my eyes fixed on the woman’s dark hair. She’s marching down the tunnel now, towards the ticket barriers and the exit. Please don’t get in a car or taxi. Please.

I brush past a man in a suit legging his way up the tunnel, hoping to catch the train. There’s a bleeping sound now, signalling the doors of the train are closing. I continue onwards and hurry down a flight of stairs, running my hand down the blue hand rail. The woman’s swiping her card on the ticket barrier now. I race after her, breezing through the barrier, out of the station and onto the main street outside. Shit, I’ve lost her. I flick my gaze around, swivelling past The Goose pub ahead of me, a regular haunt from my youth. A red double decker bus rolls past and the stench of weed hits me. I spot her. She’s crossed the road. She’s in front of the pub. A couple of men are standing outside smoking, holding onto pints of beer. I take a deep breath and sprint across the road. I can’t lose her. Not after I’ve come this far.

I keep my distance, I don’t want to give the woman the sense I’m following her. She crosses the road ahead of her, checking something on her phone. I tut. I always say to Rebecca never to get her phone out in the street, especially when she’s in a busy place, there are too many incidents of people having their phones whipped away from them these days. Someone hurries out of a convenience store in front of me, carrying a newspaper. They mouth an apology when I have to stop to let them pass.

The woman turns left down a street with terraced houses along each side of the road, bay windows jutting out. I quicken my pace. Cars are rushing past me. Every single person I see is going about their daily lives, the sort of life I used to lead. I stop in the street. The woman’s walked up to the front door of a house a few yards in front of me. She fishes in her pocket, draws out a key and inserts it into the lock. Every nerve inside me is telling me to go back to the station. Go home. Forget about her. The woman shuts the door. You’re being stupid. I push on, take a deep breath and march towards the house. I stare at the green front door. My lips are dry. This is it. I raise my fist and knock hard. She’ll be wondering who the hell it is, especially as she’s only just got back. There’s movement inside, then the door wrenches open.

‘Hello,’ the woman says, her hazel eyes fixing on me. ‘Can I help you?’

Chapter 6
Convicted - Chapter Six

By Jacob1395

The woman’s jasmine scented perfume hits me in the face. There’s a hallway behind her with photographs hanging from the walls and a kitchen beyond with afternoon sunlight pouring in through the windows. A kettle’s roaring. I focus my gaze back on her. What the hell am I going to say? My body trembles.

‘I . . . I.’ I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry I think I’ve got the wrong house.’

I take a step back towards the road but she steps forward frowning. ‘Wait, don’t I know you?’

Damn, she must’ve seen me in the court. ‘No, no, I don’t think so, I’m sorry to trouble you.’

‘No, wait,’ she says, holding out her hand. There’s kindness in her voice. The race of my heart calms. ‘You’re . . . you’re Stacey aren’t you?’

She knows who I am. My chest is tight. ‘I’m sorry I shouldn’t have come.’

‘No, please don’t go,’ she says, biting her lip. A car roars past behind me. ‘Do you want to come inside for a cup of tea?’

Tears well in my eyes. I should go. I nod and she steps back into her house. I follow her into her warm hallway and she shuts the door; the noise of the street falls away to a soft murmur. I glance up the staircase and up to the hallway upstairs, somewhere there’s a clock ticking. There’s a family portrait at the top of the stairs on the wall. My eyes flicker over her partner, a good looking dark haired man in a brown suit. They have a daughter. A little girl's sitting in front of them grinning back at me, her brown hair tied back.

‘Thank you,’ I say, wiping my eyes.

She smiles. ‘How do you like your tea?’

‘Oh, I . . . I much prefer coffee if that’s OK with you?’

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Black or white?’

‘White, please, no sugar. Thank you.’

I follow her down the hallway and into the cool gleaming white kitchen. She gets two mugs from a cupboard to my right, and plonks them down on the kitchen worktop, next to a black kettle. I sit at the kitchen table.

‘Did you . . . did you follow me all the way from the court?’ she asks, looking over her shoulder. She heaps a spoonful of coffee into a cream mug. There's no fear in her voice, it's more, curious.

Oh God. ‘I . . . I’m sorry I didn’t mean to,’ I say wiping my eyes.

The kettle clicks and she pours boiling water into the two waiting mugs. ‘Do you know I saw you sitting in the public gallery the first day of the trial. You looked so scared, my heart ached for you. I knew it wasn’t your fault you were in this situation, and yet people were saying such horrible things about you and your family.’

I shift forwards. ‘Well, I think you’re the only person in the country who thinks like that.’

She finishes stirring my coffee and hands my cup to me. I take a sip and close my eyes, God that’s good.

‘I don’t think that’s true,’ she says, finishing off making her tea. She picks up her mug and sits at the table opposite me.

I let out a slight laugh. ‘The whole country now believes I’m a mother of a killer.’

She takes a sip of her tea. ‘Oh, I just realised, I haven’t even told you my name. It’s Lydia.’

Lydia. I roll her name over in my head. ‘Lydia, I . . . look the reason I came here was, I’m sure you . . . like me, think my son’s innocent.’

Silence stretches out between us, her eyes flicker around the room, and she clasps her hands together. ‘Stacey, I’m sorry, but, my fellow jury members, I’m pretty certain, were convinced from day one Joshua was guilty. So much had already been written about him in the press. It was impossible to give him a fair trial, in my opinion. I . . . I never thought the police had enough strong evidence to convict him.’

My eyes widen. ‘So you think my son’s innocent.’

She chews her lip. ‘I just think there are still a lot of unanswered questions,’ she says.

My knees tremble. ‘But then . . . why did you find him guilty?’

Lydia's eyes glide around the room. She's trying to think of what to say. ‘Stacey, please, I . . . when I was summoned for jury service I never thought in a million years this was the case I was going to get. I was horrified when I learned that it was Joshua’s trial I would be sitting on the jury for. My . . . my mother’s really sick at the moment, I need to be here for her, I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t be spending weeks on end locked up in a court room day after day, when I should be spending time with her.’ She looks out of the window and breathes steadily.

Repulsion crawls inside me. ‘You agreed with everyone else because you wanted the trial to be over.’

Lydia turns to face me, tears in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, I feel horrible. But . . . if I had said that I don’t agree, the trial would’ve gone on for weeks on end.’

My heart stops. I don’t know what to say. She sent my son down, knowing he was innocent. I want to be sick. ‘Do you have any idea what you’ve done?’

Tears streak down her cheeks. ‘Stacey, please, let me make it up to you.’

I shake my head. ‘How the hell can you make it up to me? You sent my son down, when you could’ve saved him if you’d listened to your conscience. You’re no better than the police who made him into a scapegoat in the first place.’ Spittle flies out of my mouth.

‘Stacey . . . I, look, I have a friend, she’s a junior reporter, but she has some skills in investigative work. Let’s find the evidence your son’s innocent and get him freed.’ She’s staring at me with pleading eyes.

I bang my cup on the table and stand up. ‘I should go.’

Lydia wipes her eyes. ‘Please just take my number, Stacey.’

She stands up, turns around, and grabs a notebook sitting on the worktop behind her. She scribbles her number down and hands it to me. I snatch it from her and stuff it into my pocket. She has no idea what she’s done, and it was all because she could only think of herself.

‘I’m sorry to have troubled you, enjoy the rest of your afternoon,’ I say bitterly.

I march towards the front door, open it, and slam it shut behind me. I breathe in the cool air tears stinging my eyes. She could’ve saved Joshua. She could’ve helped me.

I open my phone and order an Uber.

Chapter 7
Convicted - Chapter Seven

By Jacob1395

Rebecca’s car isn’t here. It’s coming up to five p.m. She’ll be home soon. I step out of the car and onto my driveway, easing the car door shut until it clicks into place. The Uber driver does a three point turn in the road and heads in the direction we came. I take in a deep breath and march up my drive, fishing in my pockets for my keys. Everything’s come crashing down since I left this morning. This morning I still had hope. I unlock my front door and step into the warm hallway, at least Rebecca’s left the heating on. I push the front door shut and sink back against it, closing my eyes. It’s like the world outside has fallen away.

I throw my keys onto the hallway table, pad down the corridor and into the living room. Rebecca must’ve heard the news by now about Joshua, I’m surprised she wanted to go into work today, everyone would’ve been talking about the trial. People would’ve been giving her sideways glances, and murmuring to themselves.

I shift over to the sofa and sit down, sinking into the soft cushions. What the hell am I going to do now? I pick up the remote off the armrest and flick the television on. Some day time television show, Escape to the Country I’m sure it is, fills the screen. A couple in their thirties are touring a brand spanking new home in the Cotswolds, but it’s looking like the bloke is having reservations about the garden space. I flick onto the TV Guide, and hover over the twenty four hour news channel, my heart racing. They’ll be discussing the trial, I’m sure. Tears well in my eyes. I need to know what they’re saying, so I can prepare myself. I flick the programme on.

A dark-haired reporter is standing outside the Old Bailey, wind flicking through her hair. People walk past her, going on with their daily lives. Less than two hours ago I was standing where she is now. I lean forward.

‘It took the jury less than an hour to reach their decision today. A thirty-year-old man, Joshua Knight, was found guilty of the murder of Alex Hall, who was found dead at her home by her mother, on the 7th September last year, and sentenced to twenty five years in prison.’ Twenty five years. I bite down hard onto my lip until I taste the metallic tang of blood. He’ll be in his fifties by the time he’s released. ‘Detective Inspector Dominic Hitchens, who led the enquiry into Alex’s murder, said he is pleased at today’s result, and is glad that justice has prevailed.’

I grip the remote. That man again. There’s a crunch and I flick my gaze towards the window. Rebecca’s pulling onto the driveway. I flick off the television. She can’t see me watching this, she’ll demand I turn it off. She gets out of the car. She’s wearing her glasses, she only tends to wear them when she drives. She flings the car door shut, places her keys in her bag and makes her way to the front door. I hold my breath. The key slides into the lock and the door opens.

‘Mum,’ she calls out.

‘In here,’ I say, wiping my eyes.

She drifts into the living room, her eyes falling on the now silent television. They flicker over to me. ‘How long have you been home?’

‘Oh, not long,’ I reply. ‘I got home about ten minutes ago.’

She nods. ‘How’re you feeling?’

I run my tongue across my lip. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll be fine.’ I don’t want to get into an argument with her now.

Rebecca sighs and removes her denim jacket. ‘D’you want me to sort out dinner, I think there are some sausages in the fridge if you’d like them?’

She doesn’t want to talk about Joshua. I nod. ‘Sure, thank you.’

She disappears back into the hallway and I hear her moving about in the kitchen, opening cupboards.

I think back to my conversation with Lydia earlier. Would it have made much of a difference if she had said she wasn’t sure if Joshua was guilty? I hold my hand to my forehead. She was only one person. Perhaps it would’ve made a difference if two, or three of them, shared the same views.

I get up and leave the living room, padding into the hallway and into the kitchen. Rebecca’s already whacked the oven on and is peeling potatoes. There are tears in her eyes.

‘Oh, Rebecca,’ I say, hurrying over to her.

She wipes her eyes with her sleeve and continues to focus on the potatoes. ‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I just can’t believe it, Mum.’

I bite my lip. She can’t believe it, but she won’t listen to me when I tell her Joshua’s innocent. I rub her shoulders. ‘Have you spoken to your Dad?’

She sighs and plops the peeled potatoes into the pan filled with cold water. ‘Yeah, he . . . he texted me an hour ago to say he’d arrived. He would’ve got the news by now, but he hasn’t said anything about it to me. How did . . . how did Joshua seem in court?’

‘He . . . he was strong, he remained composed, he didn’t shout or resist.’

Rebecca picks up the pan and takes it over to the stove, placing it down; she flicks on the kettle. ‘Well, at least it’s all over now, we can start moving on with our lives and settle into this new normal.’

Moving on with our lives. I stiffen. How the hell can she say that. ‘Well, I’m just going to go upstairs and have a quick shower,’ I say.

I head back out into the hallway and up the stairs, curling my hands together. How can she even think of moving on with our lives? I open my bedroom door and step inside, shutting it behind me. There’s a bleep on my phone and I fish it out of my pocket, but it’s a news alert informing me of Joshua’s sentence. I throw my phone on my bed. This isn’t fair.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the crumpled up piece of paper Lydia wrote her number on earlier. She said she knew someone who could help prove Joshua’s innocence. I sit on the end of my bed. But she let me down. She agreed with everyone else just because she wanted the court case to be over. She had no thought or consideration for Joshua then.

This woman, who Lydia knows, could help me. She could help free Joshua. Tears form in my eyes. Who else is going to be prepared to help me, Rebecca won't even entertain the idea. I reach for my phone, unlock it and punch in Lydia’s number.

Chapter 8
Convicted - Chapter 8

By Jacob1395

The call continues to try to connect. She’s not going to answer. She’s going to see my number on her phone and assume it’s a cold call. I always ignore numbers I don’t recognise and assume, whoever it is, will leave me a message if it’s important. The dialling tone stops and I take in a breath.

‘Hello,’ it’s Lydia’s voice speaking. There’s some cartoon show playing in the distance, I can hear a character’s high pitched voice. Her daughter must be home.

‘Lydia,’ I say, my voice coming out croaky. I cough. I have no idea what I’m going to say to her. I run my hand across the soft duvet. ‘Sorry, um . . . it’s Stacey, we met earlier, you gave me your phone number.’

‘Stacey, gosh, I . . . I wasn’t expecting you to call.’ There’s surprise and anxiety flittering in her voice.

‘I . . . I’m sorry for the way I behaved earlier,’ I say, running my tongue over my lips.

‘Oh, Stacey, don’t worry, you’ve been through hell and back, I’m the one who should be apologising to you.’ There’s a click of a door shutting into place and the noise of the cartoon character dies.

I wipe my eyes, but the tears continue to flow. ‘I watched the news when I got back, they were saying Joshua’s been given twenty-five years. He’ll be in his fifties before he’s released. I won’t stand for this.’

‘I know, Stacey, I know.’

I try to think of where Lydia is in her house. Has she gone to her bedroom? Is she sitting in the kitchen so no one else can hear her call?

I sit on the end of my bed and glance out of the window at the setting sun casting it’s orange rays across the sky. The roar of the extractor fan reaches me from downstairs. Joshua would always wake me up of a weekend with the extractor fan, when he was home. It would normally be because he always fancied making himself a bacon sandwich. ‘I can’t just sit here and do nothing,’ I tell her. ‘You said earlier that you know someone who might be able to help.’

There’s a slight pause. ‘Well, I think she might be willing to. She’s been looking for her big break and a story like this could . . . I’m sorry, I know this is your life, but, it might also be a risk for her as well, if she decides she wants to help us. She’s always wanted a career in journalism, ever since we were at school together. If we don’t find anything to help prove Joshua’s innocence, it could give her a bad name. I just want to prepare you that she might not want to help. But, if she says no, then we’ll look elsewhere, I promise you, Stacey.’

I let out a shaky breath. ‘You’ll help.’

‘Let me give her a call this evening and I’ll get back to you tomorrow,’ she says. ‘I’m sure she’ll give me a yes or no answer when I ask her, she won’t leave me hanging.’

I wipe tears from my eyes. ‘Thank you, I really appreciate it.’

‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow, Stacey. If Joshua is innocent, I promise you we’ll find the evidence and people won’t ignore us.’

I end the call, squeezing my eyes shut. Her friend’s going to say no. What if she says yes though, and then she decides to spin it in a way to make Joshua look even more guilty than he looks already? That’s what these journalists do, isn’t it? They twist things to suit them and the angle they want. I have no idea who her friend is, Lydia hasn’t told me, so I can’t even look her up to see what stories she’s covered. Perhaps I shouldn’t have contacted Lydia. I should’ve tried to find someone to help on my own. But I haven’t got the money to pay for a private investigator, unless I remortgage the house. There’s no way Michael will lend me the money, he’s made his feelings perfectly clear.

Sighing I open Instagram on my phone and type in the name of Michael’s new wife. New wife, why do I keep calling her that, she's been with him for ages? I haven’t done this in a while. When they first got together I used to snoop on her Instagram account all the time, checking out what she was wearing, what restaurants she and Michael were dining in. She keeps her account public; she’s one of these people who likes to brag and all of her friends comment with the usual, ‘looking stunning, babe,’ ‘living the life.’ It’s my bloody life she stole. I thump the duvet. Opening her account, I gaze at the 1,500 followers she’s got. All of these people can’t be her real friends. Do none of these people have lives?

I stare at the last picture she’s uploaded. She only posted it half an hour ago. She’s posing for the camera, the sun glinting on her sunglasses, palm trees drooping in the background. Michael, trying to pretend he’s twenty years younger than he is, is posing next to her, showing off his gold Rolex. I squeeze my phone. How can he do this? How can he let her post things like this? If it was me going on these luxurious holidays there’s no way I’d be posting pictures for everyone to see, I’d send them only to close friends and family.

I shut my phone down and get up from the bed. I shouldn’t have looked, perhaps I should remove Instagram from my phone permanently, but the temptation to redownload it will always be there. I wipe my forehead and leave the room, padding out into the hallway and down the stairs. I’ll see if Rebecca wants any help. At least helping with the cooking will keep my mind distracted.

Chapter 9
Convicted - Chapter Nine

By Jacob1395

‘What are you going to do today?’ Rebecca asks, picking up her keys from the hallway table and pocketing them. The front doors open a smidge, letting in a whisper of cool, morning air.

I hold my cup of coffee to my nose and breathe in it’s comforting scent. ‘Oh, I . . . I think I’m just going to hang around here,’ I reply, taking a sip of my drink. Rebecca has no idea I’ll be sitting around waiting for Lydia to get back in touch with me. I thought she would’ve been in touch by now, she said she was going to call her friend last night. I laid awake in bed last night, unable to get to sleep thinking about it. God, this waiting is driving me insane. I want to get things moving. I want us to be working towards getting Joshua released.

Rebecca puts on her glasses and brushes a strand of her hair out of her eye. ‘Try and get out for a walk, don’t sit around all day, that’s not healthy.’ She reaches for the door handle.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. It’s like she’s taken on the roll of the parent all of a sudden. I used to be the one saying these sorts of things to her when she loped around at home all day during the holidays.

‘I’ll see,’ I reply.

She smiles faintly and slips out of the house, pushing the door shut behind her. The engine of her car rumbles into life outside. I watch her reverse out of the driveway and onto the road from the window in the hallway. She must be holding all of her thoughts and feelings about Joshua inside her, unless there’s someone else, who she prefers to talk to. My jaw tightens. She hasn’t dated anyone for a couple of years. Perhaps she thinks the prospects of her getting a date with anyone now are zero.

My phone buzzes in my pocket making me jump. My coffee sloshes in the cup, and I place it on the hallway table, before fishing out my phone. It’s Lydia. Thank God. I answer it.

‘Lydia,’ I say.

‘Hi Stacey, sorry, I’ve been meaning to give you a call all morning, but I’ve been having to sort my daughter out, one of those days when she’s refusing to go to school.’ Lydia’s voice comes out thick and fast. It sounds like she’s been running. Stacey smiles. Joshua and Rebecca were the same. There were days when they’d refuse to get of bed, pulling the duvet tight over them. One time, Michael threw an ice cold bucket of water over Joshua to get him up. Joshua never tried to sleep in on a school day again. ‘Anyway, I spoke to my friend, Ruth, her name is. She’s said she’ll be happy to have a look, but for the time being, we might have to do this under the radar.’

‘Oh God, thank you, thank you,’ I say, tears wetting my eyes.

‘Ruth did ask if you would like to meet her this afternoon for coffee. She works in London but can meet us near Liverpool Street if that suits you?’

‘Yes, yes, that’s fine,’ I say, picking up my coffee and taking it into the kitchen. ‘Let me know what time and I’ll be there.’

‘I’ll ring her and get back to you in ten minutes.’

The call goes dead. Oh God, this is actually happening. I drain the rest of my coffee and place it in the sink along with Rebecca’s plate she used this morning. I can’t be bothered to wash it up now, it can wait until later. Ruth must want to quiz me about Joshua. Perhaps she wants to speak to me first before she agrees to help. Oh God, what if she doesn’t believe me and then deicides she doesn’t want to work with us?

Ten minutes later my phone rings again. I answer it, holding my breath.

‘Right, she can meet us during her lunch break at half past one this afternoon at Paul’s, it’s a coffee shop in Tower 42 on Old Broad Street, do you know where the McDonald’s is at the station? It’s that exit you’ll need to take,’ Lydia says.

‘Yes, I do, thank you, I’ll . . . I’ll see you this afternoon.’

‘Take care, Stacey.’

She ends the call. The time on my phone says it’s 08:15 a.m. It’ll take me at least an hour an hour and a half to get from here to Liverpool Street, so I don’t have to leave until around midday. But what the hell am I going to do until then? I have to make Ruth believe me. I won’t go back to square one.

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