Convicted - Chapter One

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.