From the roots down

         She sank down into the worn cushions of her sofa, allowing them to absorb her exhaustion. Ordinarily, it took no more than a few seconds for the tension to seep from her muscles, the scowl from her prone features. Not today. She clutched her mug to her chest, as if the heat of the untouched tea might somehow compensate.
         It didn’t, of course, and she sighed, pressing her eyes shut. Medicine, they said, was the truly damning profession. The one that left you damaged, resentful, cursing the day you first made your university application. It was law which was for the self-seeking, those who wanted an easy ride or were stuck for any other options. Maybe that hadn’t been the case with Miriam, maybe she’d been genuinely interested. The stereotype stuck in her head, nonetheless.          
         Neither changed the fact that she never should have gotten near the case. Still so new to the firm, and they’d looked down on her, she knew they had. When the call came in, the assumption that everyone had made was that it would be easy. Perhaps that should have been the way of it, would have been, if not for certain complications.
         GBH. It wasn’t good and she wasn’t heartless, but such cases came along, and they weren’t quite murder. Perfect game for the new girl. Just enough rope to test her potential, but not quite so much that it ruin the reputation of the firm. The case shouldn’t make it into the press, right? That sort of thing probably happened all the time.
         So by and large, it hadn’t been earth-shattering. Miriam remembered hearing somewhere that every lawyer would get one case, one that stayed with them, push them to the limits of their endurance. She wondered if two or so years in was too soon for that to hit. She’d been spoiled and she wasn’t even out of the babygro yet.
         Dishwater blonde hair tumbled chaotically down her shoulders, distracting her, and she scowled, tying the curls back into a loose knot. The steam from her sugarless tea rose upwards, stinging her nose and fingers both. Still, though, she didn’t drink. No matter how therapeutic. In the background, the slight humming of the electric fire.
         She didn’t feel at ease. That was the crux of the matter. Something had shifted, irrevocably.
         Not abandoning the drink, Miriam reached out and seized her notepad, flipping to the start. She’d began fresh, as usual. No residue information from previous cases. Clean pad, clear mind.
         Doesn’t appear to be a threat. Seems doubtful that he might have acted in cold blood.
         Before she’d seen the evidence. She’d believed it so vehemently, so used was she to being a good judge of character. To getting people right. Even when the evidence had started to trickle in, she’d been dismissive- coincidental at best, or not the sort of behaviour to be associated with the likes of him. He’d had such a nice smile, after all. A little like her professor’s at university, when they’d been forced to meet outside of hours. Neither of us want to be here. But circumstances have conspired to make it necessary, and what can you do? We might as well make the most of it.
         She’d have smiled back, she supposed, perhaps a little more aloof in her manner. It was a job, after all. If circumstances had conspired, she’d played a major role in shaping them. And if he was as innocent as his expression suggested, he’d be out of her life within weeks. Nothing she hadn’t seen before. It was just a case of humouring the system for a while, until it caught up.
         Such arrogance.
         ‘Hi there,’ he’d said, voice different from his smile somehow, a little more impersonal. It had spoken of edges that she wouldn’t necessarily have guessed at naturally, but even then she’d taken minimal notice. It was probably just a by-product of being sat in an interview room, occupying the same seat as countless lawbreakers before him. Not really connected to the person he was as a whole, when placed in his regular surroundings. Just struggling with his brief brush against the system. It wasn’t as if he could actually penetrate it.
         Miriam almost laughed at the train of thought. Quite. It would have been very wrong, to assume something like that.
         And that same arrogance. She hadn’t known the facts, his past, the sheer complexities of the case that she’d taken on with a slight frown and levelled shake of her head. Attacking a homeless man? Were they for real? Already, phrases like unreliable witness, surely nothing more serious than assault?
         But no real knowledge. None of the foresight she’d prided herself on. Just a beginner’s certainty that it would all fall into place. She’d been involved in a respectable enough cross-section of cases. After two years working along the plain tracks of the law and four years studying them, what more could she possibly expect to see?
         What indeed.
         ‘Hello, Mr. Brown. Lets get started.’






One month after
         
Initial  police interview

         ‘Mr. Brown. I’ll remind you, you’re entitled to legal representation.’
         He smiled at her, in a detached manner. It was as if he wasn’t really paying attention. That startled her, before any other reaction had a chance to settle in. Even twenty minutes into the interview, she was still attempting to adjust to him.
         Twenty years in the profession. Never had somebody been entirely indifferent, before.
         ‘No. Thank you.’ The second half of the statement, almost an afterthought. DCI Elson frowned.
         ‘You are aware of the severity of the accusations against you? We have a witness, a credible witness.’ She paused, eying him speculatively.
         ‘And forensic evidence? Do you have anything other than hearsay?’
         His gaze didn’t falter, though it wasn’t settled fully on any point in the room. Not her, but he wasn‘t evasive as such, either. Enthralling.
         ‘We’ve taken images of the bruises sustained by the victim. If forensics can match them to the cast of your fist, there’ll certainly be a strong case against you. So yes, in answer to your question. We are very close to forensic proof.’
         ‘That isn’t, in itself, a case. You don’t presently have anything of substance.’
         His gaze shifted, imperceptibly, but in the next second he was looking at her directly. The full intensity of those dulled orbs bearing down on her. She struggled to maintain eye contact.
         ‘That may be so. But I assure you, we’re working on it.’
         Her subordinate, sat besides her, squirmed. She looked across at him with vague irritation, wondering if he intended to step in and pull his weight any time soon. The uncomfortable set of his features indicated that no, that wouldn’t be the case.
         Then his jaw fell slack.
         ‘We have the pictures, Mr. Brown, of Mr. Carring’s injuries. Are you interested in seeing them?’
         Mr. Brown’s eyes flickered, but he didn’t respond. Davis produced the images anyway.
         ‘Here.’
         The hand of their detainee twitched, though he refrained from reaching out and taking the photos. He scanned them, instead, not remaining on any specific point. Nonetheless, Elson couldn’t help but suspect that he absorbed the pictures in their entirety.
         ‘They’re bad. He survived, though?’
         ‘Yes. With respect, Mr. Brown, that is hardly the point.’
         Elson shot her colleague a look. He was allowing his tone to be coloured by personal feeling, and as much as she could empathise with his reasons there was still a need to maintain professionalism. Mr. Brown was quite right in pointing out that they didn’t yet have any conclusive evidence. He could still be innocent.
         Even if she didn’t believe it in the slightest.
         ‘I’ll ask you again.’ Her tone was slightly chastising, and she hoped that Davis took the hint.
         ‘Where were you on the night in question, when Mr. Carring sustained these injuries? Truthfully?’
         ‘In my flat. My sister was visiting.’
         Elson sucked in a breath. She hated that those she’d arrested still had the power to affect her like this, but it never ceased to be irritating. She knew that his alibi was nonsense, with a certainty honed by twenty years of similar responses. But if his sister agreed that she’d been there…
         ‘That’s the thing, Mr. Brown. We’ve since spoken to your sister, and she hesitated before agreeing. That hesitation makes me wonder… You’re close to your sister? She’d want to help you?’
         He watched her for a moment, eyes ghosting over her. Light, insubstantial. They cut into her, regardless.
         ‘But she still agreed.’
         Elson pursed her lips.
         ‘Well, yes. Again, though, Mr. Brown, it’s difficult for us to ascertain whether or not the alibi’s reliable.’
         Forcibly, she stopped herself from continuing. If there was a solicitor in the room, now was the point at which they’d be curbing her. She had very little right to continue with this line of questioning, so she took a deep breath, and collected herself.
         ‘We have a witness who places you at the scene of the crime, moments after the attack took place. This witness provided your name, specifically. Why exactly would someone want to do that, if you weren’t actually there?’
         Mr. Brown shook his head, apparently untouched by the new information.
         ‘And Mr. Carring? Was he able to provide my name? A physical description, even?’
         Despite herself, Elson scowled.
         ‘No. He wasn’t.’
         She could feel the argument slipping away from her. It was infuriating, given how strong she’d felt their case was. It was almost inconceivable that he might be able to elude self-incrimination for such a long period of time.
         Mr. Brown only nodded, as if he’d been waiting for that. As if she’d confirmed something. Frustration tightened the muscles in her chest.
         ‘Interview suspended at eighteen thirteen. Mr. Brown, I recommend once again that you seek legal assistance.’
         

         

Three Months before

PC  Henry William
         ‘He’s a damn inconvenience,’ the man insisted down the phone, annoyance dashing his words. ‘He’s been there for weeks now, and frankly, I’m fed up of it. He needs to be removed.’
         ‘Sir, please calm down.’ It wasn’t as if William hadn’t dealt with aggravated members of the public before, and by comparison this particular man seemed little more than a kitten with its claws filed down. Nonetheless, he needed to work out whether or not there was a genuine complaint that he needed to respond to. If it was just a general irritation… well, homeless people were hardly rare in London.
         Silence ensued, temporarily, in which only the other man’s harsh breathing could be heard down the line. After a moment, even that ceased. William wondered if it signalled the end of his anger, if it had been nothing more than a quick and irrational burst of emotion following a trying week. Thursdays, it had to be said, were often one of his busiest days.
         ‘Now, tell me the problem.’
         Still, though, the other man didn’t immediately break his silence. William thought that he could maybe hear a beating in the background, somehow crazed in its unfaltering regularity.
         Then it fell into nothing.
         ‘The man, on the street. He’s the reason why I’m calling.’
         Less discernible anger, this time. And yet, William could somehow sense that he wasn’t going to be granted the early relief he’d been hoping for.
         ‘And how long did you say he’s been there for?’
         ‘Weeks now. It’s progressed far beyond ridiculous.’
         William repressed a sigh, growing resigned. These jobs were always a nightmare- how to answer, when asked by the perpetrator ‘where’  they were supposed to move along to? Another street? Only to be moved on by yet another officer. It was a ceaseless cycle, and there were only so many shelters he could refer people to.
         ‘Okay, sir. I’ll be by as soon as I can.’

         The area of town wasn’t one he tended to visit frequently; it was a little too upmarket. Not charging millions, of course, but by comparison, could certainly have been worse. He drove through the white-washed streets, that little bit cleaner than usual, almost with the impression of having the afternoon off. There was an incredibly relaxed feel to the place.
         Predominantly residential, too, which was pretty rare for this close to the city centre. After driving past a restaurant a hundred yards or so ago, and a meticulously kept corner-shop a little after that, he’d noticed no other small businesses, and only a handful of people. Those who did pass him by had a healthier version of the rat-race sheen- everyone was going somewhere, doing something, but these people looked as though they were glad to be doing it. That was always fresh.
         Reaching the right house, William brought the car to a stop and stepped outside. He scanned the street for a moment, searching for the offending soul. There was no-one who was noticeably worse-dressed than those surrounding him, no-one harbouring the usual black bags or storage cases. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. Still, it was unusual.
         As he approached the front door, his reflection glinted at him from its glass panels. He winced, observing the disorder of his copper locks, the slightly drawn quality of the skin around his eyes. His uniform, recently crisp, looked as though it had seen a few city-long chases. It had been a long week. Hopefully, their man would have left already of his own accord. 
         William pressed the relevant button and waited to be buzzed through. Mr. Brown didn’t ask for confirmation of who he was, suggesting that he knew already or didn’t care in either instance. Almost subconsciously, William’s gaze drifted to the windows, wondering if his arrival had already been noted.
         Not that it mattered. He continued into the building, and followed the stairs to the right floor.
         The door opened within seconds of his knocking on it, and William was met with the sight of a young man with tussled dirty-blonde curls and active eyes. William started, somehow having suspected someone older. As it was, he couldn’t have any years on William himself.
         ‘Mr. Brown? It’s PC William. Can I come in?’
         The young man nodded, beckoning him into the flat. A slight smile played at his lips.
         ‘Would you like something to drink? Tea, or something?’
         William considered, then shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t in the habit of it, but why not? By the sounds of Mr. Brown’s phone call, the homeless man wasn’t likely to be going anywhere. If he was it would only save William a job.
         ‘Actually, yes, if that’s alright. Tea would be nice. No sugar.’
         Mr. Brown nodded once again, proceeding to the kitchen.
         ‘Please, sit down anywhere. Sorry about the mess.’
         The second statement felt wooden, somehow, like a matter of procedure, and William found his gaze wondering, searching for the so-called mess.
         It was wholly non- existent. By normal standards, anyway. He supposed that the fact the two papers on his coffee table weren’t stacked might be considered chaotic by some.
         His lip twitched. Deciding on the kitchen table, he moved in that direction. 
         Jack soon emerged from the kitchen, holding only one cup. He placed it smoothly down in front of William, though made no move to collect his own. Cautiously, William sipped from the mug. The tea had been made perfectly. Mr. Brown had followed his instructions exactly right.
         ‘So,’ William proffered, once he was suitably hydrated. ‘Your call. I scanned the street, upon arrival, and I couldn’t seem to see the man in question…’
         The statement was deliberately open-ended, designed to lead Mr. Brown towards disclosing details. Of course, it was a technique better suited to tight-lipped interviewees. As of yet, his host had shown no hesitation when it came to communicating what he knew.
         Now proved no exception. After scrutinising William for a second, as if trying to ascertain his point, Jack shook his head, the first of his previous frustration returning to the gesture.
         ‘I assure you, he’s there. Plainly so.’
         William nodded his head, quick to placate the man. He had no desire to draw him into an argument. Quite the opposite, in fact. He was rather enjoying the half hour of quiet.          
         ‘I’m sure he is. Has he been involved in any other disturbances, or…?’ Not that it mattered either way, of course. He’d still have to be moved on. William just supposed that he ought to check.
         Jack’s left cheek seemed to tense, as if he was somehow clenching one side of his jaw. The pressure stayed confined to that one point, however, before dying down completely.
         ‘Not that I’m aware of. His presence alone, though, surely constitutes a disturbance.’ Despite his choice of words, it wasn’t a question. William resisted the urge to cringe.
         ‘Well, quite. When you’re ready, then…’ He gestured towards the door.
         ‘Shall we?’
         Jack nodded, tautly, and rose from his chair. He didn’t wait for William to follow, simply assuming that he would.
          His gait was remarkably brisk as they made their way down the stairs, though it wasn’t quite enthusiasm which seemed to drive him. Rather, an artificial imitation, his real motives managing to pass as standard through sheer coincidence. In spite of himself, William acknowledged the urge to shudder.
         Once on the street, William imagined that the other man would indicate the whereabouts of the homeless person immediately. That didn’t happen. Instead, he started down the pavement, gaze sharp and cheeks drawn as he focused on some indeterminable point, a raging hunter primed to deliver his own form of justice. And yet, William found himself unable to pinpoint one particular signal that he was abnormally angered, other than an indistinct intuition. Clearly, having worked in law enforcement for a number of years now, he realised that was far from sufficient when it came to predicting a person’s future actions. Prejudices could be picked up within moments of meeting a person, entirely subconscious and yet as influential as any attempt at reason.
         Fifty yards down the pavement and they were still walking. William considered asking Jack if they’d passed his previous location, if he was sure the person in question hadn’t moved on voluntarily. Just as the words finally made it to his lips, Jack’s own curled into a vague scowl, and he began to slow. William once again scanned the street, assuming they’d arrived.
         ‘There. There he is.’
         William looked. Initially, he struggled to locate the source of Jack’s vexation, his mind focused on searching for the traditional signs of homelessness. When he widened his brackets of thought, he realised that he’d been incorrect to do so. The man in question was a couple of meters away, propped against the fence. His clothes were reasonably well-kept, given the amount of time he had supposedly been on the street for. His ashen grey eyes were heavy, but not despairingly so. William found himself frowning.
         ‘Sir? Is everything alright here?’
         Jack bristled besides him, but didn’t otherwise react. His gaze remained fixed on the other man.
         The ashen eyes turned up to meet his, in the manner of a startled pet caught in headlights. He was silent for a moment, as if wanting to make sure that the question was intended for him.
         When no-one else moved to answer, he finally took the initiative. Or something like that.
         ‘I… I’m sorry, have I done something wrong? I’m just…’
         William repressed a sigh, immediately losing the trail of the incident. Chances were the man wasn’t even homeless, he was just skulking or something. He probably had tea waiting for him on the table.
         ‘What’s your name?’
         After a brief pause, he extended the information.
         ‘Robert. Carring.’          
         ‘We’re received a claim that you’ve been sleeping on the streets, Mr. Carring. Can you tell me, where are you staying at the moment?’
         He stared at William, before his gaze flicked across to Jack. He seemed puzzled by his presence.
         ‘I… it’s not like that. My wife and I, she’s… it’s just temporary.’
         William sighed, not bothering to repress it this time.
         ‘Sir, are you currently without a permanent residence or not?’
         His cheeks having drained of colour, Carring eventually nodded his head. His body was slightly tremulous, his eyes tearful.
         ‘Well, yes.’
         ‘Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to move you along. There is a number of homeless shelters I can refer you to, if necessary. Otherwise, I recommend you consider making an appeal to your wife…’
         The man once again nodded his head. His gloved hands trembled faintly, though he didn’t seem to realise.
         ‘Okay. I’m sorry.’ He looked absolutely crestfallen. William looked briefly across at Jack. If anything, the set of his features had grown harsher since the last time he’d checked. A fine layer of contempt seemed to coat his expression.
         Feeling inexplicably stunned, he broke his attention away from the other man. Carring was already hastening along the footpath. A surface-level homelessness, entirely removed from the gloomy reality. William imagined that he’d be back with his wife by nightfall.

***

         Anthony Murray, Carring’s barrister, was striding through the courtroom as though he owned the place. A bystander would have been forgiven for assuming he was already guaranteed success.
         ‘Only, that wasn’t the last you heard from the defendant, was it, Mr. William?’
         PC Henry William shook his head, feeling a slight stab of reluctance. Mr. Brown was sat in the dock opposite him, looking settled enough. Though he felt too uncomfortable to maintain eye contact, he could sense the other man’s gaze on him. There was no sense that he felt trepidation, however, rather an abstracted intrigue. William swallowed.
         ‘No. I received another call, the next day. From Mr. Brown. He wished to inform me that the homeless man… that Mr. Carring… had returned. He wanted the issue… dealt with.’
         ‘And what happened, when you informed the defendant that there was little you could do? If it was little more than a domestic with his wife, causing no particular public disturbance…’ He trailed off, prompting William to pick up the story.
         ‘Well, he became angry. He seemed to believe that I’d taken Mr. Carring’s side, as if it was that simple. I tried explaining to him that there was no evidence to suggest Mr. Carring was actually homeless, especially as he was the only person who’d filed a complaint. No-one else even seemed to have noticed him…’
         ‘Objection, your Honour.’
         Mr. Brown’s own barrister rose at that point, his robes cutting aggressively through the air.
         ‘There is absolutely no evidence to substantiate that. It’s complete hearsay.’
         After a moment the judge concurred, and scowling slightly, Murray bowed his head.
         ‘Apologies. Mr. William, based on your professional opinion…’ Brown’s barrister bristled somewhat, but didn’t rise… ‘would you say that the level of anger displayed by the defendant was disproportionate to the situation? Given the fact that Mr. Carring was in no way creating a disturbance, and couldn’t actually be known to be homeless?’
         William paused. On this occasion, he did meet Jack’s eyes. The other man was composed, as before, with the only trace of an emotional reaction resting in the tilt of his jaw. Of course, it was ambiguous enough that it could just as easily have been amusement as something more appropriate to the situation. In every other way, he appeared perfectly disinterested. For as long as William himself was able to maintain it, their eyes easily remained locked.
         Then William broke away.
         ‘I understand that Mr. Brown was only interested in maintaining the tone of the street. But yes. Given the exact set of circumstances, I suppose his reaction might have been somewhat disproportionate.’
         Murray nodded, his lips tilting into a smile.
         ‘No further questions, your Honour.’






Casper Edwards

Seventeen years before

         It was freezing cold, more so than usual for the beginning of November, which was never warm at the best of times. Casper frowned, hugging him coat tighter to him, as though hoping to infuse himself with the very thing he was missing in the first place. The hat his mother had placed on his head that morning was long gone, lost a good few hours ago to a gust of wind, or an inopportune puddle… he couldn’t quite remember. He hadn’t planned on wearing it anyway.
         Around him lay the quiet suburban street, discarded by the city and the sorts of people who might have had the energy to fix it. Indeed, their school was barely inhabited, with the few students who did deign to attend either destined to continue the village’s silent languishing, keep it from falling entirely to the ground and yet stifle any actual growth. Casper shuddered, the cold seeming to bite further into him than usual.
         Besides him walked Jack, the grace of an angel and the faintness of an apparition. The two were friends, on the superficial level which their village allowed- neither were particularly likely to remain there, once age had emancipated them. Even at eleven, Casper could appreciate that. They walked together, nonetheless, because he was the only other person in his year who boasted something of a spark, the sense that the little village wouldn’t be it for him. He wouldn’t be forever defined by it.
         ‘The teacher was in a bad mood today. I don’t know why. It wasn’t like you were the only one who hadn’t done your homework… I mean, I hardly did. Just a couple of the shorter questions…’
         Jack looked up from the pavement, his eyes clearing of thought. After a moment he awarded Casper with a smile, faint though it was.
         ‘She hates me. It’s because I’m more intelligent than she is. Which is hardly justified, because she doesn’t exactly make it difficult…’
         A laugh escaped from Casper’s throat, despite the cold and the fatigue from an aimless day at school. Jack’s smile seemed to gain a little substance.
         ‘That’s true. I bet she totally failed at school, or worse, went there… that would explain it…’
         They walked a few metres further up the road, before Casper became aware of an obstruction up before them. The outline was still blurred, so he couldn’t be sure of its identity, but it looked kind of like an animal… He frowned. If it was lying like that, it must be hurt.
         Judging by the newly focused quality of Jack’s gaze, Casper guessed that he’d seen it too. They continued towards it.
         Casper had been right to assume it was an animal; it was actually a mongrel dog, lying pitifully on its side. The two boys stared down at it, Casper silently considering how to proceed. His parents had told him never to touch strange animals, in case they were infected or something…
         The dog whined, and as his attention returned to it fully he began to search for signs of an injury. There was nothing. The problem must have been inside of him.
         He turned to Jack, trying to measure his own reaction. Sensing his gaze, the other boy met his eye.
         ‘There’s no blood.’
         Casper nodded, waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, he prepared to offer his own input.
         ‘He must be sick. We should get someone, or try and move him… I don’t know. It’s not like we can just leave him here.’
         Jack raised an eyebrow at him, as if he didn’t see how Casper’s premise had led to the conclusion. An indistinct scepticism dusted his expression. And underneath that, something that was surprisingly close to indifference.
         ‘He’s probably just resting. Come on, it doesn’t matter. Let someone else deal with the stupid thing.’
         Casper opened his mouth as if to argue with the judgement, but found that he had nothing to say. Jack’s logic defied it. Resting? It was clearly something more than that. Still, he didn’t feel as though he’d been provided with any room for argument, any grounds on which to disagree with him. The other boy wasn’t stupid. Why would he say something if he thought it was entirely irrational?
         So he shrugged, and reluctantly followed Jack as he continued down the path. At the last minute he shot a final look over his shoulder. Of course, the dog hadn’t stirred, hadn’t woken from his supposed slumber. He frowned, and resolved to come back for it later with his parents.
         That decided, he completed the walk to his house, bidding farewell to Jack as he continue to the end of the street.





Amelia Brown

Fourteen Years Before

         She traipsed through the trees that their garden backed onto, struggling not to trip. Normally she was fine at it, having known the woods since early childhood. Even at ten, she was well-experienced at minding her footwork, avoiding protruding vegetation.
         Today, though, she was in a rush, more so than in the past. Her brother had stormed out of the house over two hours ago, after a particularly brutal exchange with their father, and normally he would have returned already. As it was he was going to miss dinner, and that would only proceed to make things worse.
         In her haste, she’d forgotten to grab a cardigan. Now, she found herself shivering in the late afternoon air, cursing her stupidity. If she got ill and had to miss school, that meant staying at home. The idea hardly appealed to her.
         No matter. She continued through the wood, footsteps growing gradually faster, far more than was sensible. Her cheeks stung, and she realised they were burning with the tracks of tears.
         Of course he was alright. She was being stupid. Jack was durable, enduring. He would just have wanted some air.
         After another few minutes or so, she became aware of a silhouetted form, leaning against a tree. She looked down to the ground, searching for his tracks. Trying to gauge how angry he’d been when he’d walked through.           There weren’t any.
         She approached him, producing a measured amount of noise so as not to startle him. He didn’t turn around, not until she reached him, and carefully touched his arm. Then, he allowed his gaze to settle on her.
         For the most part, he seemed calm. She wondered how to proceed.
         ‘Jack. It’s nearly time to eat.’
         No sentiment. That was generally the best method, when trying to reason with him. He’d respond to facts far better than he would her tired attempts to ascertain how he was feeling. She could only assume that it was because the answer was obvious. How else?
         ‘Are you okay?’
         The question slipped out nonetheless, and she scowled at her lack of restraint. Jack scrutinised her, seemingly apathetic.
         ‘Did he happen to hurt you?’
         Her mouth fell open, and she felt tears pressing at her eyes for the second time since she’d left the house. She didn’t allow them to fall.
         ‘No…’ He never did, which they both knew. But she wasn’t going to point it out, wasn’t going to risk riling him further.
         He nodded, before pushing himself off the tree and starting back up the path. She followed him, rushing to keep up.
         ‘Seriously though, Jack, are you okay? I mean, normally you’re back by now, you don’t normally spend so much time out here… It’s cold, and you haven’t even got a coat.’
         ‘Neither do you.’
         His dirty-blonde hair had been thoroughly tussled, his cheeks drained of blood by the cold. She frowned.
         ‘Well, yeah, I’ve only been out here for a little bit.’ She refrained from pointing out that she’d been worried, knowing that he wouldn’t respond well. If anything, it might even make him angry.
         ‘Does it hurt?’
         Jack shocked her then by smiling, thinly, his eyes seeming to glint in the partial light. Amelia bit her lip, feeling suddenly subdued.
         ‘Not much. Not as much as he…’
         He trailed off, and the smile shifted, slightly, as he scrutinised her.
         ‘It doesn’t matter. Wear a coat, in the future, when you come outside. You don’t want to catch a cold.’
         She nodded, feeling faintly stunned. Jack maintained his smirk for a moment or so longer, before increasing his speed and continuing towards the house. Shuddering, presumably as a result of the cold, Amelia put aside her misgivings and hurried after him.
         





Anthony Mason

One and a half months after


         He was a little disorientated on entering the interview room, the traffic having been awful and his deadline painfully tight. Anthony hated being late, not least to such official appointments.
         There was nothing to be done about it, however. He opened the door, allowing the officer a slight (and hopefully pointed) smile. After a moment, the officer tensed a little, and emitted a subtle sigh. He then walked from the room.
         ‘Hello, there,’ Anthony greeted Mr. Brown, making an attempt to soften his eyes somewhat. He brushed his vagrant hair from his eyes, and shuffled his papers.
         ‘I’m Anthony Mason. I’m here to conduct a psychiatric examination.’
         Mr. Brown nodded, vacantly. After a moment, he lifted leaden eyes from the table.
         ‘Anthony. Will you call me Jack? They all call me by my surname here. It’s… weird.’
         He allowed his lips to curve into a smile, and bobbed his head, generously.
         ‘Of course. So, if you’ll excuse the cliché, how have you been recently?’
         The deadened eyes continued to watch him, though they didn’t particularly probe, nor pry. It was as though somebody had wrapped them in an opaque insulator. Nothing escaped, but it was difficult to tell if there was anything there in the first place.
         ‘Oh, just fantastic. They believe they have a witness… who saw me attacking the homeless person. According to my solicitor, it could be pretty damning to the case.’
         Anthony waited to see if he’d elaborate. Sensing the weight of his gaze, Jack complied.
         ‘She wants me to change my plea.’
         Of course, Anthony was more than aware that there was a case for arguing mental illness. While he was an independent, he wouldn’t have been hired in the first place had there not been sufficient evidence to justify the extra expense. In fact, it had been the police officers to initially interview Jack who had raised the alarm.
         ‘So. Do you admit to committing the crime?’
         Jack’s lip twitched. He appeared to consider the question for a moment. Ultimately, though, it didn’t lead him towards vocalising an answer.
         ‘Hypothetically, then. If you were responsible? Did the presence of that homeless person bother you?’
         ‘It bothered everyone.’
         His tone, a little harsher than usual. His eyes had flared marginally, and he froze, remaining that way for a moment. He immediately fell back into impassiveness.
         ‘It bothered… everyone.’
         ‘Of course.’ Anthony again softened his features, not wanting to give the impression that he was presenting a challenge. That wasn’t the aim of the interview.
         ‘What I’m asking, then, is why did it bother you? What specifically was it about his presence that made you angry?’
         Again, Jack seemed reluctant to commit to an answer, or even consider providing one. He allowed Anthony to stew for a while before he finally offered up a response. The earlier aggravation had faded from his face, but been replaced by a tension that seriously hinted at suppression.
         ‘There’s… there’s a system, that We’re supposed to follow. That I’m supposed to follow. He…’
         Silence, then, and a little of the tension in his face expired. Anthony wasn’t really sure that he bought it. The transition was a little too swift.
         ‘Well, evidently he didn’t. I called that damn police officer, and he didn’t do anything worth mentioning. There shouldn’t be exceptions. If I’m expected to conform, why on earth…’
         ‘You objected to his decision to break the law?’
         Jack’s eyes sparkled,  almost conspiratorially. Instantly, Anthony found himself captivated. His hand clutched the pen, itching, but experience had taught him not to engage it yet. Certainly not when progress was finally on the verge of being made. It would only act as a deterrent, a reminder that his words were being searched for hidden significance.
         ‘The man was a joke. Do you know what he gave as the reason for his homelessness, when the officer attempted to question him? Marital problems. Essentially, his wife had kicked him out. It was thoroughly pathetic.’ 
         Anthony waited. Jack smiled at him. It revealed nothing.
         ‘Pathetic enough that you decided to attack him?’
         ‘I haven’t admitted to any such thing.’
         ‘Even so, Mr. Brown. Jack. If this consult is to be accurate, you need to be entirely honest with me.’
         Silence. Heavy, heady, painful. Again, Anthony waited. For longer than was necessarily comfortable.
         ‘What are you going to say, when they question you in court? That I’m a lunatic? That I belong in an asylum? Because I’m telling you, my actions, my supposed actions, they only reflect what everybody else was planning. There’s a standard we’re supposed to subscribe to, all of us…’ the narrowing of his eyes, and there it was, finally, that fine layer of contempt.
         ‘He was no exception. The arrogant fool just assumed he was.’
         Anthony nodded.
         ‘Thank you, Jack. I feel as though this has been very beneficial.’
         ‘You haven’t written anything.’
         ‘I will, later.’
         Jack nodded, vague intrigue coming to lace his eyes.
         ‘I’d be fascinated to hear your insight.’
         ‘Perhaps I’ll see you again soon, Jack. Until then, look after yourself. He rose from his chair, looking in the direction of the one-way wall he knew they were being watched through. A few seconds later, the same officer from earlier entered the room.
         ‘All done?’
         ‘Yes, thank you.’

         ***

         ‘Your earlier brush with the law, Jack. Would you like to tell me about that?’
         Silence. Then:
         ‘I was released without charge. That’s surely all you need to know.’
         A brief nod, on Anthony’s part. He considered the direction he wished to take the conversation in.
         ‘Your childhood was strained, was it not? You lost your mother at an early age, and you and your father…’
         The breaking off of the line of question was deliberate, and seemed to work. After a moment of probing him with those steely, perceptive eyes, Jack willingly took it up himself.          
         ‘The man was a lunatic.’
         ‘How so, Jack?’
         Silence.
         ‘…He just was.’

***
         ‘Tell me about your mother’s death, Jack?’
         ‘Well, her heart stopped beating.’ His lip quirked upwards, entirely inappropriately. It wasn’t so much humour that seemed to drive it, though, not in any conventional sense.
         ‘And how old were you, at the time?’
         He paused, gaze flicking noncommittally to a far corner of the room
         ‘About two, I suppose.’
         ‘How did it happen?’          
         The conversation ceased for longer than was natural, disrupting the flow to such an extent that Anthony wondered if he’d ruined the mood irrevocably. But Jack’s expression still hadn’t shifted, hadn’t taken on any noticeable emotion, and when he finally did speak, the words were weighed with no particular torment.
         ‘She killed herself. According to my father, it was because she couldn’t handle what she’d created.’
         Once again, his lip quirked. This time, Anthony made no judgements on the gesture.
         ‘He was original like that.’

***


         ‘And what were the conclusions of your assessment, Mr. Mason? How did you find the defendant?’
         Anthony paused for a moment, not wanting to hurry his words. Not wanting to leave room for misinterpretation.
         ‘My preliminary assessment found him to display strong signs of psychopathy. During our later meetings, when I applied the Hare Psychopathy checklist, Mr. Brown scored remarkably highly.’
         He squeezed his hands together, desperate to convey himself in the best manner. For his entire professional life, he had been working towards this, this conclusion. He was firmly a member of this particular school of thought.
         ‘Taking into account the entirety of my findings, and with reference to the results of the brain scans given to the court, I would suggest that there is no doubt Mr. Brown suffers from psychopathy with a genetic component. However, it seems as though the trauma he has experienced since childhood has been sufficient to bring the psychopathy out of dormancy. This in mind, I would suggest there are grounds for believing that with enough assistance, Mr. Brown might be rehabilitated, the damage done by his environment reversed, as it were. I’m of the opinion that mental health care, rather than time spent in jail, would be most likely to achieve this.’
         He took a deep breath, steadying himself.
         ‘Thank you.’






Twenty One Years Before

         He slipped quietly in through the back door, no more tangible than a shadow. The hours whiled away in the woods had left him with a detached sense of reality, as he strained to reconcile the rich and vibrant green of the trees with the dreary, faded grey of the kitchen.
         A looming figure appeared in the doorway, though there had been nothing to prompt it. No creaking door boards, no passage through a door in need of oiling. He’d barely dared to breath aloud. But he was late, and he supposed that the man’s senses had been trained on the search for nothing in particular; they hadn’t needed anything of substance.
         ‘Dinner was half an hour ago. Do you believe that you’re exempt from the rules, boy? That you’re somehow better than the rest of us?’          
         He didn’t respond, merely lifted his head to meet his father’s eyes. The older man scowled, stepping from the shadows. It was almost startling how much taller the light made him look.
         ‘Come here.’
         He did, and a vice-like hand seized his arm. After that point, the pain came thick and fast. The would-be bruises grew accustomed with their appointed skin. Still, Jack didn’t break eye contact. He looked directly at his father, as close to a challenge as he could get without actively asking for more pain.
         When he was finished, Jack finally conjured an explanation. It was devoid of real interest, or meaning, for that matter.
         ‘I didn’t mean to be late. I got lost.’
         ‘Get out of here. I don’t want to look at you.’
         After a moment of terse inactivity, Jack languidly complied.




During
         
         
         He approached the homeless man from behind, secure in the knowledge that he couldn’t see his face. The dark of his chosen hour more than obscured it. And anyway, the man was such a lost cause he’d probably neglect to pay attention anyway.
         He seized him by the shoulder, looking him straight in the eye as he asked-
         ‘Why haven’t you done as you were asked? Why haven’t you left yet?’
         The man started, a despairing shudder running through his body. Jack scowled.
         ‘Pull yourself together. You need to move. You’re…’
         ‘What?’ The man sounded terrified, but resolute.
         ‘I need to what? My wife’s already gone, there’s nothing else, surely? There’s nothing else on top of that?’
         ‘Then go back to the damn woman.’ He tightened his grip. ‘You’ll have to grovel, obviously, and hope she’s masochistic enough to accept such a snivelling excuse of a partner back under her roof. But if she could stomach you in the first place…’
         The man sobbed, then, a wretched, wracking sound that only acting to intensify Jack’s scowl.
         ‘Move, damn you. Move away now.’
         The man only shook his head, seemingly beyond reason. It was as though the interaction had ceased to hold meaning for him.
         Jack slapped him across the face. When his deadened eyes did nothing more than spark with a brief frenzy, he tightened his hand, and returned it to the man’s face in the form of a fist. Still, no satisfactory reaction.
         And so he continued to push, to probe him, waiting for him to react. To give in. To crumble. Eventually, the man had the audacity to start laughing, and Jack paused, just for a moment.
         ‘She’s dead. Where d’you want me to entreat to her from? The graveyard?’ And again, choked, manic laughing. Jack’s lip curled in disgust, and he continued to channel it into the weakened specimen before him until he curled in a similar manner. Into himself, onto the ground.
         And eventually, silence.
         When Jack returned up the road, he could no longer see the homeless man. It would have to do for the time being.
         For a fleeting moment, as he opened the main door to his building, he was struck with the sensation of doubt. It almost disabled him.
         Then he remembered. Even if the man did survive, he wasn’t a reliable source of information. The man lived on the streets.
         He was fine. And with that thought in mind, he continued up to bed.

***

“The court finds the defendant to be insane.”

“A minimum of ten years incarceration in a mental health institution.”

Jack smiled.