You put down your cup and saucer and turn to Mrs Myshkin: ‘I’m not sure I can.’
Both the little women are staring at you.
‘As I told you last week,’ you begin. ‘I don’t have any experience with appeals.’
Both little women staring at you, the fat man sweating on the small settee.
‘Not this kind of appeal. You see, what should happen, should have happened in Michael’s case, is that his original solicitor and his counsel, they should have lodged an appeal after his trial. Within fourteen days.’
The little women staring, the fat man roasting.
‘But they didn’t, did they?’ you ask.
Mrs Myshkin and Mrs Novashelska put down their cups on the table.
You wipe your face with your handkerchief.
Mrs Novashelska says: ‘They couldn’t very well appeal, could they? Not when they’d all told him to plead guilty.’
You wipe your face with your handkerchief again and ask: ‘But he did confess, didn’t he?’
Two little women in a little front room with its little photographs and pictures of men gone, men gone missing -
Men not here -
Only you:
Fat, wet with sweat, and covered in chocolate and biscuit crumbs.
The two little women, their four eyes behind their metal frames, cold and accusing -
Silent.
‘It’s difficult to appeal against a confession and a guilty plea,’ you say, softly.
‘Mr Piggott,’ says Mrs Myshkin. ‘He didn’t do it.’
‘Look,’ you say. ‘I’m very sorry and I would really like to help but I just don’t think I’m the man for the job and I would hate to waste your time or money. You need to find someone better qualified and a lot more experienced than I am in these matters.’
Their four eyes behind their metal frames, cold and accusing -
Silent, betrayed.
‘Look,’ you say again. ‘Can I just outline what it would involve, why you really need to get someone else?’
Silent.
‘Firstly you need to apply for leave to appeal. This is usually before what we call the single judge who has to be persuaded by the material prepared that we can demonstrate that there are grounds to appeal against conviction or sentence. That involves the presentation, even in very skeletal form, of legal reasons or new evidence that clearly demonstrate a reasonable degree of uncertainty as to the safety of the conviction. This is unlikely in the case of a confession, a deal with the prosecution, and the consent of the trial judge, plus the Crown and the judge and the jury’s then acceptance of a guilty plea to lesser charges. But for the sake of argument, let’s say such grounds for appeal against conviction can be found, if then these grounds are accepted by the single judge, and that is a very big if, leave to appeal would be granted and then the real business begins. You would need to be represented by counsel and also need to apply for legal aid for the solicitor and counsel to prepare for a full appeal. Should that aid be granted then a date would be set and eventually the case would come before the Court of Appeal. This consists of three judges who would go through the material; the evidence, arguments, what-have-you, and decide whether or not the conviction was safe, after which a ruling would be handed down detailing their decision and the reasoning behind it. In other words, it takes forever and one mistake and you’re back to square bloody one. So you really need to find someone who knows what they’re doing, what they’re talking about.’
Four eyes, warm and welcoming -
Hands clapping.
‘Mr Piggott,’ beams Mrs Novashelska. ‘You seem to know exactly what you’re talking about.’
‘No, no, no,’ you say, shaking your head. ‘It really isn’t as simple as it sounds, plus I’ve never actually drawn up an application for leave to appeal and, to be frank, I don’t see what grounds there would be anyway, other than Michael’s changed his mind.’
Mrs Myshkin says again: ‘He didn’t do it.’
‘So you keep saying,’ you sigh. ‘But that doesn’t alter the fact that he did confess and he did plead guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility, as opposed to murder, and this was accepted by the prosecution and by the judge who did instruct the jury to do likewise which all in all, appeal-wise, is something of an own goal because you’re basically appealing against yourself.’
‘He had bad advice,’ says Mrs Novashelska.
‘So he doesn’t need any more,’ you say and stand up.
The two little women in the little front room with its little photographs and pictures of men gone, men gone missing -
Men not here -
Only you:
A fat man on fire and on his feet -
Melting -
A pool of piss on a patterned carpet.
You say: ‘I’m sorry.’
Their four eyes behind their metal frames -
Silent.
You push your way along between the settee and the table, edging towards the door, your shirt wringing, sticking to your stomach and back.
‘Mr Piggott,’ says Mrs Myshkin again. ‘He did not do it.’
Men not here.
You stop just to say again: ‘And I’m sorry, but I wouldn’t be of any use.’
The two little women in the little front room with its little photographs and pictures of men gone, men gone missing -
Not here -
The two little women watching another man go.
In the doorway, you turn to say goodbye but Mrs Myshkin is on her feet:
‘Mr Piggott,’ she says. ‘I knew your father.’
You stand in the doorway with your back to her now, your mouth dry and your clothes wet.
‘He was a good man,’ she says. ‘I can remember him with you and your brother, playing football on that field over there.’
Men not here.
‘It’s not enough,’ you tell her. ‘Not enough.’
‘No,’ she says, a hand upon your arm (upon your heart). ‘It’s too much.’
You walk out into the hall.
There is an evening paper sticking through the letterbox. You pull it out and open it up.
There’s that photograph of Hazel Atkins, that word:
MISSING -
You turn back to hand the paper to Mrs Myshkin.
‘It’s happening again,’ whispers her sister behind her.
‘Never stops,’ says Mrs Myshkin. ‘Not round here.’
Not here -
‘You know that,’ she says, her hand squeezing your hand (your heart) -
Here.
Chapter 6
Phone is ringing and ringing and ringing -
Come on, come on, come on -
Hopping from foot to foot in a Bradford Bus Station phonebox -
Please, please, please -
And Clare picks up and BJ know she knows -
Knows her sister is dead, slurring: ‘What now?’
‘It’s BJ.’
‘BJ love,’ she’s sobbing. ‘Gracie’s dead.’
‘I know,’ BJ say. ‘I was there.’
‘Bastards,’ she’s howling. ‘Bastards!’
‘Clare, listen to me,’ BJ whisper. ‘You’ve got to get a cab and come and meet me.’
‘Fucking filth are sending a car over, aren’t they?’ she’s crying. ‘Got to go and fucking identify -’
‘You got to run -’
‘I’m too fucking tired -’
‘Clare, listen to me -’
‘Paula and now Gracie -’
‘And it’ll be you next,’ BJ shout. ‘Come on.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Bradford Bus Station,’ BJ say. ‘Cafй opens in an hour.’
‘But they’re coming -’
‘Well, fucking run -’
‘…’
‘Hello? Hello?’
Line dead, BJ hang up and dial again but it’s engaged, again but it’s engaged.