The Girl You Left Behind

under your bed, in your locker – they’d
     wait till you was going out, and then they’d just take it. It got so’s you
     didn’t want to go out, just for fear of losing your stuff. Imagine
     that.’
    ‘Imagine what?’
    ‘What you lose. Just trying to hang on
     to a few bits.’
    Liv looks at Fran’s craggy, weathered
     face, suddenly suffused with pleasure as she considers the life she is no longer missing
     out on.
    ‘It’s a kind of madness,’
     Fran says.
    Liv stares along the grey river, and her
     eyes fill unexpectedly with tears.

34
    Henry is waiting for her by the rear
     entrance. There are television cameras, as well as the protesters at the front of the
     High Court for the last day. He had warned her there would be. She emerges from the
     taxi, and when he sees what she is carrying, his smile turns into a grimace. ‘Is
     that what I … You didn’t have to do that! If it goes against us
     we’d have made them send a security van. Jesus Christ, Liv! You can’t just
     carry a multi-million-pound work of art around like a loaf of bread.’
    Liv’s hands are tight around it.
     ‘Is Paul here?’
    ‘Paul?’ He’s hurrying her
     towards the courts, like a doctor ferrying a sick child into a hospital.
    ‘McCafferty.’
    ‘McCafferty? Not a clue.’ He
     glances again at the bundle. ‘Bloody hell, Liv. You could have warned
     me.’
    She follows him through Security and into
     the corridor. He calls the guard over and motions to the painting. The guard looks
     startled, nods, and says something into his radio. Extra security is apparently on its
     way. Only when they actually enter the courtroom does Henry begin to relax. He sits,
     lets out a long breath, rubs at his face with both palms. Then he turns to Liv.
     ‘You know, it’s not over yet,’ he says, smiling ruefully at the
     painting. ‘Hardly a vote of confidence.’
    She says nothing. She scans the courtroom,
     which isfast filling around them. Above her in the public gallery
     the faces peer down at her, speculative and impassive, as if she herself is on trial.
     She tries not to meet anyone’s eye. She spies Marianne in tangerine, her plastic
     earrings a matching shade, and the old woman gives a little wave and an encouraging
     thumbs-up; a friendly face in a sea of blank stares. She sees Janey Dickinson settle
     into a seat further along the bench, exchanging a few words with Flaherty. The room
     fills with the sound of shuffling feet, polite conversation, scraping chairs and dropped
     bags. The reporters chat companionably to each other, swigging at polystyrene cups of
     coffee and sharing notes. Someone hands someone else a spare pen. She’s trying to
     quell a rising sense of panic. It’s nine forty. Her eyes stray towards the doors
     again and again, watching for Paul.
Have faith
, she thinks
. He will
     come.
    She tells herself the same thing at nine
     fifty, and nine fifty-two. And then at nine fifty-eight. Just before ten o’clock,
     the judge enters. The courtroom rises. Liv feels a sudden panic.
He’s not
     coming. After all this, he’s not coming. Oh, God, I can’t do this if
     he’s not here.
She forces herself to breathe deeply and closes her eyes,
     trying to calm herself.
    Henry is paging through his files.
     ‘You okay?’
    Her mouth appears to have filled with
     powder. ‘Henry,’ she whispers, ‘can I say something?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Can I say something? To the court?
     It’s important.’
    ‘Now? The judge is about to announce
     his verdict.’
    ‘This is important.’
    ‘What do you want to say?’
    ‘Just ask him. Please.’
    His face shows incredulity, but something in
     her expression convinces him. He leans forward, muttering to Angela Silver. She glances
     behind her at Liv, frowning, and after a short exchange, she stands and asks for
     permission to approach the bench. Christopher Jenks is invited to join them.
    As barristers and judge consult quietly, Liv
     feels her palms beginning to sweat. Her skin prickles. She glances around her at the
     packed courtroom. The air of quiet antagonism is almost palpable. Her hands tighten on
     the painting.
Imagine you are Sophie
, she tells herself.
She would have
     done it.
    Finally the judge speaks.
    ‘Apparently Mrs Olivia Halston would
     like to address the court.’ He glances at her from over the top of his spectacles.
     ‘Go ahead, Mrs Halston.’
    She stands, and makes her way to the front
     of the court, still clutching the