Brewin - Small Blessings: Through the Unlikeliest of Friendships Comes a Second Chance

Contents

THE NIGHT SKY IS SPILT INK as she steps off the train. She stands for a moment and stares up at it. The stations deserted, and for once in her life theres a sense of space. It stretches out, a rubbery band, all around her.

Shes hardly ever alone. Living in the flats is like living in an ant nest, people scurrying around all day and night. And theres always fighting. The couple in the flat next door are the worst. One night last week the wife screamed so bad Rosie called the cops, something she usually avoided. But the screaming brought back memories, and she didnt want the woman on her conscience.

The husbands a pig anyway, covered in roughly drawn tatts and body hair. Hes been inside for sure; therere prison tatts up his arm. He leers at Rosie whenever he gets the chance and frightens Petey. She doesnt like ratting but the dickhead had it coming.

The airs cold and a bell further down the tracks warns of another train.

She follows an overgrown path away from the station onto the street. A couple of the streetlights are on the blink, making the road darker than it should be. It doesnt bother her though. The nights nice to be wrapped in.

The little cottages along the street are dark too. The whole area was working class once but then the yuppies moved in and renovated all the houses, extending them up and out at weird angles so its hard to imagine what they look like inside.

The flats come into sight as she rounds the corner. Peteys backpack rubs her shoulder and she can hear herself breathing. Its strange, listening to the air pumping in and out of her chest. She pulls the hoodie over her hair and shoves her hands in her pockets. A cat leaps out from behind a wheelie bin and scares the shit out of her.

Jesus.

She sidesteps then walks faster towards the flats at the end of the road.

Suddenly there are footsteps behind her, cagey and quiet. She stops and spins on her heels but no one is there. She glares into the darkness then turns and walks on, focusing on small landmarks ahead, the give-way sign at the intersection and the red sports car parked up the kerb, to lead her home.

More footsteps.

She begins to jog despite herself, the pack bouncing off her shoulder. Slow at first, then faster because she cant help thinking of the phone call this morning and the parole date she knew was coming. The air whistles past her head, stinging her ears, making her wince. Panic prickles her skin. She should look, but she hasnt got the guts. She stumbles and Peteys backpack slips to the ground. She clambers up and runs again. She should stop, take a breath, be brave, go back and pick it up. But a steel curl of memory tells her to bolt. Now shes got too much to lose.

She doesnt stop until she gets to the fence bordering the flats. For the first time in a long time shes glad to see the towers looming above. The shitty brown faade with rows of dirty windows and the patchy yard below mean safety, just like the first time she saw them. Suddenly shes furious.

She turns slowly, remembering shed promised herself hed never frighten her again. The headlights of an approaching car illuminate the street. Theres nothing. Every fibre in her body says he should be standing there, stony-faced and mean, but hes not.

What do you want? she screams into the dimness, fists clenched at the shadows. But shes alone.

The drumming in her chest slows back to a steady beat. Maybe shes going mad. Somewhere above her the soft form of Petey is waiting.

ISOBEL STARES AT THE PHOTOGRAPH of the man and tries to feel something other than minor distaste. The blank eyes and rough skin dont make her recoil, even though she knows what hes been accused of. Instead she spots her thumbnails at the edges and thinks vaguely that its time to book another manicure.

She shifts in her chair and stares at the wall of glass beyond her desk. If she stood in front of it, as she does sometimes, she would see the city stretched in all directions below, lines of traffic inching along its streets. But she doesnt, and all she can see is a block of murky morning sky.

She puts the photograph down and listens to her colleagues arriving for the day, the artificial call of computers being switched on and snippets of conversation. Bernard asks Penny, the receptionist, how her weekend was, before Madeline, the paralegal, butts in about the photocopier. Their banter is irritating. Isobels been in since daybreak.

It needs a new cartridge, Madeline continues.

Good luck with that, Bernard laughs.

He should really stop sauntering in with the admin staff each day if he wants to be taken seriously. Easy charm only goes so far; theres more to this job than being personable.

She pushes a slip of hair behind her ear and tries to ignore the fact he reminds her a little of her mother, guileless with something sharper beneath the surface. It makes the chatter more irritating.

Some people work to live, Bel. Its not always the other way, Marcus said to her as they got ready for bed one night.

He was able to reduce things in a way that both irked and consoled her, creating a small tug of war in her chest.

She arranges the file notes on her desk and contemplates closing the door as Malcolm does his morning rounds. He is operatic in asking about Madelines Saturday night. She replies, too loudly as usual, that it was awesome. It wont be long before she realises that doing the rounds is Malcolms way of keeping a tab on things and shed best tone it down.

Knowing this is gratifying. After almost a decade at Wesley and Hoop, Isobels finely attuned to the place. She knows, for instance, that despite Malcolms bravado, the other partner, Andrew, has the last say. She knows too that Penny runs off reams of colouring-in pictures for her daughter after work, that Bill the cleaner uses the staff espresso machine before his shift each morning and that Bernard has a diary of their colleagues birthdays on his computer. He showed her once, leaning in close to point hers out.

She wonders at times what her colleagues know about her, apart from the facts. The old guard will remember how quickly she was promoted to senior lawyer. And anyone could tell you she sweats buckets for the place. Some nights her head barely touches the pillow.

Luckily, Marcus understands. Its one reason their marriage works. They want the same things, and mainly got them too. The house, a stones throw from the city, with a second one on the coast. The hard work pays off. Its lonely at times, of course, but long hours at the firm mostly keep her doubts at bay.

The winter sun breaks through the clouds for a moment, streaming across the ash grey carpet, past the filing cabinet to the sickly pot plant in the far corner of the room, where it casts a leafy shadow on the wall.

She watches it, picks the photograph up again and lets the office drop away. The air sharpens and she begins to notice small details that might support her case. Beneath the mans roughly shorn hair is an old scar, an injury inflicted in childhood perhaps, a small vulnerability or sign of abuse that might garner sympathy.

She doesnt doubt hes committed the crime, but its her job to defend him, even if he is an evil bastard. Over the years shes learnt to push everything else aside. Shes defended men in expensive suits accused of assaulting their girlfriends, violent hooligans and youths who thought they were invincible until they finally knocked a family of five off the M1.

This client is the genuine article though, a real piece of work. He should sicken her but men like him keep her in business. Plus, it gives her a secret thrill to be so close to danger, satisfying a part of her that money and comfort certainly cant.