WHAT?!
‘That you invited yourself back to his hotel room and set about trying to get him into bed.’
‘No, no, that’s not how it was.’
‘He told me that when he very quickly came to his senses, you weren’t happy. You tried to get him to change his mind, to make him take you to his bed.’
‘No, it wasn’t like that.’
‘He said, when he suggested being honest with human resources so everything was out in the open, you basically threatened to tell them that he had sexually harassed you because you didn’t want anyone to know that you’d done this sort of thing before.’
‘No! I didn’t. I wouldn’t. That’s not what happened. That’s not what happened at all.’
‘He added that when he asked you to leave, you told him that you didn’t want to. You basically tried to stay by saying you couldn’t leave because you were desperate for him to make love to you.’
‘No! No! No! None of that is true. None of that happened.’
‘So you didn’t kiss him outside the lift at the Marriot Hotel in June 2018?’
‘Yes, but I—’
‘And you didn’t go back to his hotel room, room 612?’
‘Yes, I did, but—’
‘And you didn’t ask him not to tell human resources about the two of you in case you got a reputation as a girl who cried sexual harassment?’
‘I didn’t mean it like—’
‘And you didn’t say that you were having a hard time going when he asked you to leave his room?’
‘It wasn’t like that. None of it was like that. It was— We were—’
Nerissa Bawku slams her hand down on the table in front of me so hard it immediately stops me mid-self-defence. My horrified, widened eyes become fixated on her nails, manicured with clear vanish. All neat and perfectly shaped.
‘They are going to eat you alive,’ Nerissa declares quietly, viciously, with the knowledge of one who has literally seen it all before. ‘That was just a fraction of what you’re going to face. I didn’t even break a sweat. You need to wake the hell up! You are not a posh white boy whose parents dine with the judges and who’ll have his coke-fuelled assault dismissed as a youthful indiscretion and will avoid prison because he can’t emotionally deal with it.
‘You are a black girl who went to state school. Talk to any of the working-class white girls who went to state school who are sitting in prison right now if anyone cared whether they could emotionally handle prison because they stole a tin of beans so they could feed themselves. Talk to any of the black boys who were arrested because they wore their hoods up while being in a crime-heavy area whether the judge cared that there was scant evidence against them. You are a black girl who is here because of attempted murder. You have none of the privilege that will get you a fair hearing from the outset. Add to that the fact your mother is notorious, and you haven’t a cat in hell’s chance of this not going to trial.
‘They will find the evidence they need to get you to trial, you can be certain about that. They will dredge up every little thing about you that will point to you being slyly manipulative, highly sexed and aggressive. They will do everything they can to pin this on you, evidence or not. They are going to make an example of you.’
I knew I was in trouble, I knew things were dire but I don’t think I ever allowed myself to think of it in these terms. She’s right, they are going to eat me alive. They are going to chew me up, macerate me into the tiniest of pieces, and then they will spit me out.
‘If you want an even halfway-decent defence you will have to start helping yourself. Tell Darryl the truth. Tell him everything so he can help you.’
But it’s not that simple because I promised. I promised I wouldn’t tell.
And I have to keep this promise.
Even if it means I end up going to prison.
Now
‘Daaaad,’ I began.
‘No,’ he stated without even looking at me or anything. Dad loved sitting out there having a beer when the football wasn’t on and the nights were clear. He didn’t even mind it being cold, he just liked being outside.
‘But—’
‘No.’
‘The—’
‘No.’
‘I just—’
‘No.’
With a sour look on my face and a bitter taste in my mouth, I harrumphed, my arms folded. ‘I shouldn’t have led with the “Daaad”,’ I murmured so quietly I barely heard myself.
‘You’re right there,’ Dad replied to my statement he wasn’t meant to hear.
‘I just want to ask your advice on something. I promise you won’t have to do anything doctory.’
My dad, the doctor, squeezed his forefinger and thumb over the bridge of his nose and winced a little as he lowered his hand and took a swig from his bottle. ‘You do realise that “doctory” can also cover things like something that is happening to a vulnerable person? Or something that is about someone who is in danger of being physically harmed? In those cases, if you tell me something, I will have to report it as a safeguarding issue.’
I hesitated. I did know that, but I was kind of hoping he’d forget about it for the length of time I was going to talk to him.
Slowly, he swivelled in his seat to look at me. ‘Do you realise that, Verity?’
I nodded.
‘Well, then, now you know why I said no.’
‘But, Dad—’
He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Dad,’ I said quietly and seriously, ‘can I just talk to you like you’re someone I would talk to?’
‘If that’s what you want, why aren’t you talking to your mother about it?’
I shrugged.
‘Shrug is not an answer,’ Dad said. Mum used to say that to me all the time when I was a kid. She’d say that then tickle me. I missed that Mum. The one I didn’t know anything about. Who was just the most honest, straightforward, neurotic person on Earth. I could love her without question back then. She had so many faults and she got so many things wrong, but it didn’t matter. She was just my mum and that was who she was. Now all I could see were the lies, the things she did; they coated her like a layer of thick slime that I was surprised no one else could see.
‘What’s going on with you and your mother?’
I shrugged again.
My father’s face contorted slightly as he seemed to be thinking something through while he put his beer bottle to his lips and chugged down a couple of mouthfuls. He wanted to say something, but instead drank his beer. His silence allowed me to say: ‘What would you do, Dad, if you found out someone was in a bad situation?’
‘What sort of bad situation?’ His voice was tired and taut, a solid ball of resignation that I was dragging him into a conversation that could become a safeguarding issue which could cause problems for him.
‘I mean, what if you know your friend is in a bad relationship, where stuff happens and you can see the effect it’s having on them and you know they should leave but they don’t. Or won’t. Or can’t. What would you do?’
‘Is this person a child, an elderly person or vulnerable in some other way?’ he asked.