I went back to bed and stared at the ceiling some more. Heather and the guy in the next flat snored in syncopation; every now and then a car went past the gates of the complex, sending gray-white searchlights arcing across my walls. After a while I remembered my migraine tablets and took two of them, on the grounds that they always knock me out-I tried not to consider the possibility that this might be a side effect of the migraines themselves. I finally fell asleep around seven, just in time for my alarm.
When I beeped my horn outside Cassie's, she ran down wearing her one respectable outfit-a chic little Chanel trouser suit, black with rose-pink lining, and her grandmother's pearl earrings-and bounced into the car with what I considered an unnecessary amount of energy, although she was probably just in a hurry to get out of the drizzle. "Hi, you," she said. She was wearing makeup; it made her look older and sophisticated, unfamiliar. "No sleep?"
"Not much. Do you have your notes?"
"Yeah. You can have a look at them while I'm in-who's up first, actually, me or you?"
"I can't remember. Will you drive? I need to go over this."
"I'm not insured on this thing," she said, eyeing the Land Rover with disdain.
"So don't hit anyone." I clambered woozily out of the car and went round to the other side, rain splattering off my head, while Cassie shrugged and slid into the driver's seat. She has nice handwriting-faintly foreign-looking somehow, but firm and clear-and I am very used to it, but I was so tired and hungover that her notes didn't even look like words. All I could see was random, indecipherable squiggles arranging and rearranging themselves on the page as I watched, like some kind of bizarre Rorschach test. In the end I fell asleep, my head juddering gently off the cool windowpane.
I was, of course, first on the stand. I really don't have the heart to go into the dozen ways in which I made a fool of myself: stammering, mixing up names, screwing up timelines and having to go back and painstakingly correct myself from the beginning. The prosecutor, MacSharry, looked confused at first (we'd known each other awhile, and normally I am pretty good on the stand), then alarmed and finally furious, under the urbane veneer. He had this huge blown-up photo of Philomena Kavanagh's body-it's a standard trick, try to horrify the jury into needing to punish someone, and I was vaguely surprised that the judge had allowed it in-and I was supposed to point out each injury and match it to what the suspects had said in their confessions (apparently they had, in fact, confessed). But for some reason it was the final straw. It vaporized what little composure I had left: every time I looked up I saw her, heavy and battered, skirt rucked up around her waist, mouth open in a powerless howl of reproach at me for letting her down.
The courtroom was like a sauna, steam from drying coats fogging the windows; my scalp prickled with heat and I could feel droplets of sweat sliding down my ribs. By the time the defense attorney finished cross-examining me he had a look of incredulous, almost indecent glee, like a teenager who's managed to get into a girl's knickers when the most he hoped for was a kiss. Even the jury-shifting, shooting one another covert sideways looks-seemed embarrassed for me.
I came off the stand shaking all over. My legs felt like jelly; for a second I thought I was going to have to grab at a railing to stay upright. You're allowed to watch the trial after you've finished giving evidence, and Cassie would be surprised not to see me there, but I couldn't do it. She didn't need moral support: she would do just fine, and childish as it sounds this made me feel even worse. I knew the Devlin case was bothering her, and Sam, too, but both of them were managing to keep on top of things without even seeming to put much effort into it. I was the only one who was twitching and gibbering and spooking at shadows like a bit part in
It was still raining. I found an uncompromisingly dingy little pub down a side-street-three guys at a corner table pegged me as a cop with one glance and shifted seamlessly to a new topic of conversation-ordered a hot whiskey and sat down. The barman thumped my drink in front of me and went back to the racing pages without volunteering my change. I took a long swallow, burning the roof of my mouth, leaned my head back and closed my eyes.
