The Fall by Claire McGowan Page A

Coke. ‘What you doing up? It’s what – eight? Christ, are you sick still? I only got in at four.’
    He said, ‘We’re going to court.’
    ‘Court?’ She pushed down her hair; that bloody woman had diddled her on the chemical straightener, lasted two months her arse .
    ‘That’s what I said. Come on, shift it.’ He tugged the duvet off her and she gathered up her gangly limbs.
    ‘Fuck! It’s cold. Is the heating not on?’
    ‘Meter’s run out.’ He was leaving the room. That meant he hadn’t put the money in, spent it all on booze for some club owner. And why were they going to court? Must be one of his loser mates in trouble again. For fuck’s sake.
    When Keisha had come home before light earlier that morning, Chris was bedded down on the sofa with his coat over him. The microwave was back, she’d noticed. Trying not to wake him she’d brushed her teeth and got into bed in the almost-dark, and next thing she knew he was shaking her awake.
    She rubbed her face, trying to wake up. ‘Why are you going to court? Fucking hell, I got, like, three hours’ sleep.’ She looked at the clock on the newly returned microwave. ‘Is that right? Jesus, why’d you wake me up so early?’
    ‘’Cos you’re coming with me. So get dressed.’
    ‘But . . .’ She tried to catch his eye but he looked away and made a sort of jerking movement.
    ‘Stop asking questions. You’re just coming, OK?’
    ‘Why?’
    He turned, met her with a hard stare. ‘’Cos I don’t trust you here on your own.’
    Keisha’s mouth fell open. What could you even say to that? She just stood there, saying nothing.
    Chris pulled his jacket off the chair. ‘Get a move on. I’m leaving.’
    Keisha didn’t look at the papers or go online, and if she watched TV it was only E4 or MTV. They didn’t show the news in the old folks’ home in case it upset them. So it wasn’t until they went to court that morning that she even knew Anthony Johnson was dead.
Charlotte
    Charlotte had dressed carefully for the hearing. Somehow she was expecting it to be like courtroom dramas she’d seen on TV, with a judge and jury and a last-minute bit of evidence to change the whole thing.
    The rain had let up overnight, leaving the sky washed-out, the colour of nothing. She’d carefully checked the route to the court, terrified of being late, and taken the Northern Line to Euston, changing on to the Victoria to get there.
    She sat in the third row of the public gallery, boxed in by windowless walls and veneer benches. She was the only person there who wasn’t a reporter, by the looks of it. It had come at the perfect time for them, a banker lashing out at a black man. Most were middle-aged women, slightly harried. One even had M&S shopping bags under the bench. Then, just as it was about to start, a group of people came in late and noisy – all black. ‘ Where’s the bastard? ’ she heard someone hiss. She didn’t look round.
    Charlotte looked straight ahead, twisting the band of her engagement ring. She wouldn’t meet their eyes. It would all be over soon. The court doors opened and then everything was moving. There were three judges, not one – magistrates, was what Mr Crusty, as she called the duty solicitor, had tried to explain. There was Mr Crusty and some prosecution lawyer, a young woman with glasses and a sharp nose. Then there was Dan, dragged out by officers, pale and blinking, unshaven. She suddenly couldn’t look at him and stared hard at her feet. Around her, the reporters were scribbling so fast she thought their notebooks might catch fire.
    It all seemed to be over so quickly.
    First the clerk read out something to Dan, and he mumbled back, ‘Yes.’ She couldn’t hear what was going on, the CPS woman spoke so quietly. ‘Your worships, we are here to consider bail in the matter of Regina versus Daniel Stockbridge. Mr Stockbridge was arrested on Saturday morning for the murder of Anthony Johnson, owner of the Kingston Town