“Richie, there’s a stone. In the woods. A big stone, and most of it is covered in orange lichen and moss. You know that stone, don’t you?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Around the stone we could see that all the ferns and the bluebells had been bashed down as if two people had been lying down there together.”
I sob out loud. There’s a pain deep inside me.
“Is that where it happened, Richie? Is that where you did it?”
“Yes.”
He takes a deep breath, as if his work is done. He nods gently. “How did you do it, Richie?”
I look up at him. “Normal way.”
“What’s the normal way, Richie?”
He’s gazing deep into my eyes. I can’t think why he wants to know that. “Just … normal …” I say.
“You’re going to have to tell me what’s normal.”
I look at my lawyer. She’s gazing down at me, her arms folded tight around her. Her brow is furrowed. “How many ways are there?” I ask her.
She says, “He’s talking about
sex
, for goodness’ sake!”
DC Dave blinks and looks disappointed in me, like I’ve just let him down. “So you had sex there?”
“Yes.”
“And after you had sex, that’s when you did it?”
“What?” I turn to look at my lawyer. “Did what?”
I look back at DC Dave, and he is so focused on me he has the expression of a man trying to pick a lock with a hairpin.
“Richie, there’s the stone in the bluebell wood. And on thatstone we found a ring.” He holds up something shiny for me to see. It’s the ring I’d given Tara.
“Where did you get that?”
“It was on the stone. It had been placed there. Did you put it there after you’d done it?”
I’m like a drunk suddenly feeling sober after a gallon of coffee. “Wait,” I says, “wait. When I says to you I did it I mean that’s where we first had sex. Nothing else. By that stone. A year ago. I haven’t been there recently!” With a sense of panic I turn to my lawyer. “Tell him that’s what I meant!”
“Enough!” says my lawyer. “That’s enough. Charge the lad or let him go. You can see he’s under duress.”
Dave raises his eyebrows. “You were so close, Richie. So close.”
“Can he go?” says my lawyer.
Dave indicates that the way to the door is clear. Julia Langley gathers her pen and notes from the desk and stands up. “Come along, Richie.” I follow her. Dave doesn’t even look at me. He just looks at the wall as if he’s very tired. Very tired and very sad.
Outside in the corridor the fat fuck stands leering at me. The corridor is narrow, so we have to squeeze by his bulky figure. “See you
vewy
soon,
Wichie
,” he says in that high-pitched warble. “See you
vewy
soon.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Fairy tales are about money, marriage and men. They are maps and manuals that are passed down from mothers and grandmothers to help them to survive
.
M ARINA W ARNER
T hat was the happiest time of my life. I sat on that pretty white horse, feeling his presence behind me, the breath of him on my neck, and I felt a trickle inside me, like everything that had happened to me in the past was dissolving. I hadn’t the slightest idea where he was taking me. I couldn’t care less. I trusted him. I knew that if I was wrong, and that if he might harm me in any way, then I was no judge of character. I believe that I saw all the way through him to his every intention toward me, and I was content with what I saw.
We soon turned out of the bluebell woods and across a narrow road onto a bridle path giving way into a field. The field was lined with trees gone wild, drunk with the mayflower. There was a glistening stream where the horse stopped to drink, and after that the horse moved on at a slow pace for what seemed like hours before we even spoke a single word to each other. Yet the sun barely moved in the sky. I felt dreamy, lazy, sleepy, and yet safe on the back of the horse, with his strong, suntanned arm around me to balance me and my knees on the panniers.
“What’s in these
“Yes. Yes.”
“Around the stone we could see that all the ferns and the bluebells had been bashed down as if two people had been lying down there together.”
I sob out loud. There’s a pain deep inside me.
“Is that where it happened, Richie? Is that where you did it?”
“Yes.”
He takes a deep breath, as if his work is done. He nods gently. “How did you do it, Richie?”
I look up at him. “Normal way.”
“What’s the normal way, Richie?”
He’s gazing deep into my eyes. I can’t think why he wants to know that. “Just … normal …” I say.
“You’re going to have to tell me what’s normal.”
I look at my lawyer. She’s gazing down at me, her arms folded tight around her. Her brow is furrowed. “How many ways are there?” I ask her.
She says, “He’s talking about
sex
, for goodness’ sake!”
DC Dave blinks and looks disappointed in me, like I’ve just let him down. “So you had sex there?”
“Yes.”
“And after you had sex, that’s when you did it?”
“What?” I turn to look at my lawyer. “Did what?”
I look back at DC Dave, and he is so focused on me he has the expression of a man trying to pick a lock with a hairpin.
“Richie, there’s the stone in the bluebell wood. And on thatstone we found a ring.” He holds up something shiny for me to see. It’s the ring I’d given Tara.
“Where did you get that?”
“It was on the stone. It had been placed there. Did you put it there after you’d done it?”
I’m like a drunk suddenly feeling sober after a gallon of coffee. “Wait,” I says, “wait. When I says to you I did it I mean that’s where we first had sex. Nothing else. By that stone. A year ago. I haven’t been there recently!” With a sense of panic I turn to my lawyer. “Tell him that’s what I meant!”
“Enough!” says my lawyer. “That’s enough. Charge the lad or let him go. You can see he’s under duress.”
Dave raises his eyebrows. “You were so close, Richie. So close.”
“Can he go?” says my lawyer.
Dave indicates that the way to the door is clear. Julia Langley gathers her pen and notes from the desk and stands up. “Come along, Richie.” I follow her. Dave doesn’t even look at me. He just looks at the wall as if he’s very tired. Very tired and very sad.
Outside in the corridor the fat fuck stands leering at me. The corridor is narrow, so we have to squeeze by his bulky figure. “See you
vewy
soon,
Wichie
,” he says in that high-pitched warble. “See you
vewy
soon.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Fairy tales are about money, marriage and men. They are maps and manuals that are passed down from mothers and grandmothers to help them to survive
.
M ARINA W ARNER
T hat was the happiest time of my life. I sat on that pretty white horse, feeling his presence behind me, the breath of him on my neck, and I felt a trickle inside me, like everything that had happened to me in the past was dissolving. I hadn’t the slightest idea where he was taking me. I couldn’t care less. I trusted him. I knew that if I was wrong, and that if he might harm me in any way, then I was no judge of character. I believe that I saw all the way through him to his every intention toward me, and I was content with what I saw.
We soon turned out of the bluebell woods and across a narrow road onto a bridle path giving way into a field. The field was lined with trees gone wild, drunk with the mayflower. There was a glistening stream where the horse stopped to drink, and after that the horse moved on at a slow pace for what seemed like hours before we even spoke a single word to each other. Yet the sun barely moved in the sky. I felt dreamy, lazy, sleepy, and yet safe on the back of the horse, with his strong, suntanned arm around me to balance me and my knees on the panniers.
“What’s in these
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