I close my eyes, hot tears behind my eyelids.
“Rose Wilks, did you start a fire in Luke Hatcher’s bedroom?” Sergeant West says the words slowly, giving each one weight. Mr Hogg shifts beside me.
I summon all my strength and lean forward, whispering into the speaker as if my words are only for its benefit. I speak low, my mouth touching the plastic. “No.” And then I can’t stop myself, because I’m tired and Luke is dead and I can’t bear any of it. “No, no, no, no, no.”
It’s Monday. I spent last night in a police cell and this morning the magistrates refused bail, so I’ve been remanded into custody. I’m led into a white van and a guard shackles me into a tiny booth. A few years ago protesters blocked the Felixstowe docks, worried about how animals destined for slaughter were transported. No-one protests about prisoners though.
I feel sick. I never travel well, and I’m facing the side, my back to the window. I can only see out if I twist my neck. Someone’s in the next booth, but I can only see the top of a head, brown hair, thick and wavy. No-one’s told me where we’re going.
It’s a long journey and the sickness doesn’t ease. There’s no drink, no toilet break. I’m exhausted, I haven’t slept for two nights. I want Luke, I ache for him.
After an hour the van slows and gates are opened for us to drive through. When we stop I hear women’s voices, some with an Essex accent. The prisoner next to me is removed, the door is slammed shut and we are on our way again.
The guard in the back of the van sleeps and I listen to the sound of his snoring, the sound of the engine. I watch the service stations and motorway cafes flash by. I’m so tired that I doze off, waking to find the van has stopped and the guard is opening the door.
A voice shouts, “Just the one?” and then a burly female officer pulls me from the back of the van. She has a clipboard, like a holiday rep, but she isn’t smiling. “Wilks?”
“Yes.”
She ticks her sheet and unshackles me. My wrists are sore and I rub them, breathing in the rancid smell of rotting waste.
“Welcome to Holloway,” she says.
I’m marched passed hospital-style green screens where a woman dressed only in her underwear is having her hair inspected by an officer. I see her place a watch and jewellery into a plastic tray. I can’t give up my key. It’s the only thing I have left, now Luke is gone. The only thing that links him to me.
“Please? I need to use the loo.”
“Through there. But leave the door open.”
The officer is moving around the corridor, chatting to someone. Quickly, I remove the key from my neck and undo my jeans, squatting on the toilet seat.
I can’t give up. Luke wouldn’t want me to. The officer stops talking, turns and walks my way. I slide the key inside my vagina, wincing as it catches. I hitch up my jeans and the officer is stood in front of me.
“Hurry up, Wilks. Some of us have work to do.”
I follow the officer back to where the hospital screens are.
“Take off your clothes and put them on the chair. Jewellery in the tray.”
I lift off my top, unbuckle my jeans and step out of them, feeling the cold air on my skin. I remove my earrings and watch.
“Undies as well,” she says. “Come on, I haven’t got all day.”
I unhook my bra and slide it off. My breasts are large with milk, the veins blue and prominent. I can feel her looking at them. I bend over and slide off my knickers, folding them in half. I haven’t had a change of underwear for two days, or a shower. I feel dirty.
She grabs my knickers and opens them up, running a finger along the seam. She picks up my bra and feels the cups, then inspects my other clothes. She puts on gloves and sharply tugs at my hair, looking and pulling. I’m taller than her, so I have to bend over until my back aches.
“I haven’t got nits.”
“Not nits I’m looking for.”
“Open.” Her gloved finger circles my mouth, making me gag.
“Do you feel suicidal?”
“No.”
She looks me up and down, I clench my legs together, hoping the ordeal is over. Please don’t search inside me. She glances at the clock on the wall.
“Okay, get dressed. It’s bang-up time.”
I follow her through gates and corridors. A cell door is opened and I see two narrow metal beds, a sink to one side. To the right is a silver toilet, only partly screened. There’s another woman in the cell, lying on a bed, drawing with wax crayons. She has a wide smile and a dozy, sleepy look. The officer throws a threadbare towel and a sheet on the unused bed. “I’ll get you some nosh. You’ll have to make do with whatever’s left.” She bangs the door behind her and locks me in.
I stand in the small cell, my hands shaking. The other woman stares at me, wide-eyed. She has mousy hair and grey eyes. On her lap is a drawing of a stick person and a house.
“Hello,” she says, “would you like a sweet?” She opens her palm, revealing a squashed tube of Rolos.
“No thanks.”
I sit on my bed, my fingers scratching the rough wool of the blanket.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
“You’ll get used to it,” she says, sucking chocolate off her fingers. “I’ve been in and out of prison since I was fifteen. They all know me here. They put me with the new ones so I can help them – sometimes they can’t cope at first.” She parrots the question I’ve been asked before. “You’re not suicidal, are you?”
“No.”
“You’ll be alright,” she says, with confidence. “Some of the new ones shake like kittens.”
I hold my hands behind my back, glad she hasn’t noticed that I am.
“What’s your name?”
“Rose.”
“That’s a pretty name. I’m Jane.” She smiles trustingly, “but friends call me Janie.”
“I need to use the loo,” I say.
“You don’t need my permission.” She points at the silver loo behind the half-screen.
“Would you mind not looking?”
She stares at me like I’m mad, then shrugs and rolls onto her side, so her back’s to me. Behind the screen I slide my hand down my trousers, into my knickers. After a few moments I sigh, releasing the uncomfortable pressure I’ve been carrying for over an hour.
I pull the key into the light, rubbing it on the fabric of my jeans. My precious key. The only thing I have left.
I have waited nine months for the trial. The time a baby takes, though all that grows inside me is fear. Ipswich Crown Court isn’t what I expected, not like the courtrooms I’ve seen in films. It’s smaller, and darker, people whispering so you never know what’s going on.
I’ve been brought up from the court cells to the dock. Makes me think of boats in a harbour although I’m not sure if the barrier is to keep me safe, or to keep the people in the courtroom safe from me. My handcuffs are removed but either side of me sits a guard; a man and a woman, in identical grey and white uniforms. They’re too close, and I can smell the vinegary tang of the man’s body odour. Even if I could jump the railing and run, I’d never get past the mass of reporters outside. Seeing them was a shock. It makes no sense that they’re interested in me. Just an ordinary woman caught up in a sad story about a boy who died.
I can hear voices in the public gallery, so I twist round and look up but what I see scares me. All those men and women leaning over, trying to get a good look, writing things about me in their notebooks.
At the front of the courtroom, behind a long desk, is a massive wooden chair with a gold crest above it and some Latin inscription. It’s like a throne. Lower down, behind a smaller desk, sits a woman. Small and perfect, she has a glossy bob and a neat black suit and she’s flicking through a thick file. She must be reading about me, the lies people have told about me over the last nine months while I’ve been on remand.
I’m relieved when I see someone I know coming towards me. My barrister, Mr Thomas, is fat and rosy; he’s wearing a black cloak over a pinstripe suite. He comes to the front of the dock, at least a foot below me, and I can see he’s beginning to lose his hair.
“Right, show’s on the road. The judge will be through any minute. Remember to stand when he comes in, and bow your head.” He looks me over. “I like the suit, but undo a couple of buttons at the neck. Your hair would be better in a ponytail, make you look younger. And put some makeup on tomorrow. Not too much, you don’t want to look like you’re too confident, but it doesn’t hurt to look pretty.”
I rub my lips, knowing I’ll never be pretty. I’ve not worn lipstick, or any other makeup, the whole time I’ve been on remand. My hair hasn’t been cut either and it hangs like a dark veil.
“I’ll have to ask Jason to bring me some makeup,” I say, looking around for him.
“He’s outside in the corridor. Like all the witnesses, he can’t come into the court until after his testimony, which won’t be for several days.” He’s told me the trial will last for two weeks.
A loud buzz makes everyone freeze and the room falls silent. Mr Thomas hastily takes his place on the front table and pulls on a wig. My guards stand, pulling me to my feet, just as the wooden door behind the throne opens.
It’s the judge. He’s terrifying in his red gown and white wig. He’s got a long face with narrow slits for eyes. He reminds me of a wizard. The court is his home, and he takes his time, looking around and positioning his papers before taking his seat so everyone else can sit too.
“Madam Clerk?” he says, his voice loud and firm. “Have the jury been sworn in?”
The smart woman with the shiny bob swivels round. “Yes, Your Honour.”
I look over at the cluster of men and women for the first time and study them closely: those twelve people will decide my future. They look so ordinary, like people you’d see in a supermarket. One or two wear jackets, one man has a tie, but most just look like they’re off to town. A woman on the front row is wearing a pretty floral dress, like this is an occasion for her. She’s nervous, looking around and touching her dangly earrings.
Believe me
, I silently beg.
The clerk swivels to face me. “Rise please, and state your name.”
“Rosemary Ann Wilks.” I hope no-one can hear the tremor in my voice.
“Rosemary Wilks, you are charged with the murder of Luke Hatcher. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty,” I say, as firmly as I’m able.
She scribbles something on the file. “In relation to the alternative charge of manslaughter, how do you plead?”
I look at Mr Thomas, who nods. “Not guilty.”
“May the defendant be seated?”
The judge looks bored. “Sit. Prosecution may begin.”
Almost immediately a dwarfish man in a black gown and a white wig jumps up. He walks over to the jury and studies each face then opens his arms wide and shouts, “Sometimes, things are not as they seem. And sometimes our closest friends can be the enemy. Take a moment to look at Rosemary Wilks. An average-looking woman, mid twenties. Someone you might invite to your home for a cup of tea?”
He pauses, turns to me. They all stare like I’m a circus freak.
“That was what Emma Hatcher thought, when she let Rosemary Wilks into her home, never guessing what evil intentions lurked behind that ordinary face.”
He moves slowly to the centre of the room, an actor taking centre stage.
“This woman systematically stalked Emma Hatcher, prowling her home in the night as Emma slept, destroying personal possessions, and worst of all, pretending to others that Emma’s son, Luke, was her son. She even went so far as to breastfeed him.”
The woman in pink draws a sharp breath.
“And when Emma discovered this, and told the defendant that she could no longer see her or her son, what did she do? She went into their home at night, and started a fire. Luke Hatcher died of smoke inhalation, his tiny body charred by fire. This woman, this average woman who could be anybody’s friend, anybody’s mother, murdered Luke Hatcher. And over the course of this trial, ladies and gentlemen, I shall prove it.”
As he takes his seat it scrapes the wooden floor, making me shudder.
Mr Thomas lets the murmuring quieten before speaking. His voice is even and without theatrics.
“I too would ask you to look at Rose Wilks. I too would ask you to consider that she looks average. The kind of woman you would invite home, the kind of woman who could be your friend. And I will show you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury that Rose Wilks looks like this because that is exactly what she is. An average woman, who is not to blame for the tragic death of Luke Hatcher – a boy whom Rose loved. It is unjust that this woman has been charged with murder and remanded in prison for nine months. Let us stop the injustice now, ladies and gentlemen. Let me persuade you that Rose Wilks is as she appears. She is innocent.”
On the second day of the trial Emma takes the stand. I haven’t seen her since the day Luke died, and I would have walked past her in the street without recognising her. Grief has eaten into her, taken her angel-face and made it sharp. She was a small woman anyway, a petite ballerina compared to me, but now she’s like a starved child. She sits in the witness box like a shadow. The clerk has to ask her to speak up twice, and the usher fetches tissues and water.
I want her to look at me, want to meet her eyes. Once we were best friends and we both loved Luke. Now we are both grieving. Seeing her across the room, her head bowed, her thin body, my heart aches. Even her hair, which she was so proud of, looks lank and uncared for.
Oh Emma, please look at me.
She’s asked, delicately and then more directly, about my ‘unnatural relationship’ with Luke. She talks in monotone, mumbling one-word answers, and the prosecution barrister looks peeved. He gives up and the questioning is handed over to Mr Thomas, “Mrs Hatcher, when you left your son with Rose Wilks, did you trust her with him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have any reason to believe that she might want to harm your son?”
“No.”
“Did you ever see her behave in any way that caused you concern?”
“When Nurse Hall told me that…”
“Did you
see
anything, Mrs Hatcher?”