The World Out There - 17. Seventeen

Liam sat himself down again on the window’s wide wooden sill, but this time with his back to glass panes. Next to him, placed there in a little and neat row, were his only other possessions that weren’t his handful of clothes: seven books and an old radio. Donna had bought him the radio - an uncharacteristic moment of kindness. She had handed him the small black plastic radio when she had brought him here from Nurton Cross, simply mumbling, “This is for you.” The radio had been a wonderful gift and she had never known that: it meant he didn’t have to sit there in a silent room. He enjoyed listening to the radio, and from the moment he’d been left alone there, he’d had it on. It broke the awful silence that meant he was on his own. But today, he didn’t dare turn it on. He couldn’t risk hearing the day’s news.

The seven books were the ones left from the collection he had built up in his room at Nurton Cross. Three of the books, he hadn’t read yet, and the other four were his favourite books that he promised himself that he would re-read. The rest of his books he’d given to Mark for safe keeping. He’d loved those books: inside of them were the most wonderful stories, stories he could get lost in and stories that could take him far away from where he was. Those books were also physical possessions given to him. They meant, in their own small way, that he was cared about enough to be given presents of books. That meant so much.

To his shame, he hadn’t opened any of those books since he had moved here. He was so alone in this place, far more isolated than he had ever been at Nurton Cross, and that isolation had stripped him of any desire to read. It was so unfair that he now had hours and hours to himself where he could read, and he no longer had the desire to do so. God, he missed Ed. Like a physical pain in his side, he missed Ed.

Tucked in between two books was Mark’s business card: Mark had given it to him the last time he saw Mark. As he’d given Liam the card, Mark had said, “Call me as soon as you can.” Every day he had meant to do so, but each time it never got beyond the thought. The only telephone number on it was for Mark’s office, and that stopped him each time. If he rang it, he’d have to speak to Mark’s receptionist, or secretary, or whoever, and he’d have to explain himself, and what would he say? What reason would he give for wanting to speak to speak to Mark? What if that person didn’t let him speak to Mark? He couldn’t cope with that idea. Each time those doubts had stopped him. The shame was almost crippling him, but he didn’t have the courage to reach out and contact Mark, and Mark had been so good to him.

He leant back against the room’s window. The cold glass quickly penetrated his shirt and prickled against his skin. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but a good one - he deserved to feel uncomfortable.

He had been staring closely at the judge as the man spoke. His eyes watching the man over the edge of The Dock.

“And what is your verdict on the charge of murder?” The Judge asked the jury forewoman.

“Guilty,” she replied.

The courtroom exploded into noise, of a wall of it rushing across the room and towards him. Liam closed his eyes against it. It was just noise, but he did hear cheers within it.

“Silence!” the judge’s voice boomed out. “Silence, or I will have the public gallery cleared!”

The noise suddenly died down like an unrulily class being shouted at by a teacher.

“The defendant will stand,” the judge commanded.

“Get up, idiot,” one of the guards hissed at him before Liam had had a chance to react. He pushed himself off that chair, standing upright and looking over the edge of the Dock. Again, he stared back at the judge, though he knew he was so small there.

“Liam Johnny Andrews, you have been found guilty of the heinous charge of wilful murder.” Liam stared down at his feet. The nausea rushed up his throat in one quick and fast movement, making sweat break out across his forehead and fogging his mind all at once. All he could think about now was that nausea and not vomiting, just holding in all that nastiness. It wasn’t a shock to hear he was guilty - he had killed Rhys Clarke - but to hear that woman tell the court made it all so real, made everyone know. Then he’d wanted to vomit, and now that was all he could think about. ‘Keep it in, keep it in!’ He closed his mouth against it all.

As the nausea finally fell back down is his throat, being absorbed by his stomach, his mind cleared and he heard the judge speaking, the last of the man’s words, “… to be held at herself Majesty’s pleasure until you are at least eighteen years of age.”

What did that mean? Did the Queen have a say when he was released? Where were they going to take him?

“Take the defendant down now,” the judge commanded.

One of the guards took hold of his arm and muttered, “Come on kid.”

He was almost dragged down that narrow staircase, out of the courtroom, and dragged along the corridor in the basement until they reached one of the white tiled cells there. The guards locked him inside, the door closing loudly on him.

Sat on the cell’s bench, he didn’t know what to think anymore. He was going to prison and that was all. He couldn’t survive prison. He hadn’t really survived school, and prison would be far worse. That nauseating sickness still filled his stomach. Was it fear? He was afraid of prison, but that fear won’t stop it - he was going there. It was a stupid thought, but he wanted his mother, even if she was angry at him, even if she hit him. At least he’d have someone there who knew him.

When he heard the cell’s door being opened, the key turning awkwardly in its metal lock, he found himself pushing his body to the far end of the bench, as far away from the door as possible. They were coming to take him to prison, and he didn’t want to go.

As the door was pulled open, he looked up and saw Mark Hiller stood in the doorway. What was the man doing here? Liam remained silent as Mark Hiller entered the room, with the door closed and locked quickly behind him.

Quietly Mark Hiller sat down on the bench, next to him.

“How are you doing?” Mark Hiller asked him.

Liam wanted to just say “Okay”, but instead when he opened his mouth loud and sudden sobs rushed out of it as he broke down into uncontrollable tears which poured out of him. Just as quickly, Mark Hiller’s arm slipped around him and pulled him into an embrace. He pushed his face into Mark Hiller’s shoulder and sobbed and sobbed. His face pressed into Mark Hiller’s jacket and his shame hid away, the smell of Dry-Cleaning fluids strong in his nose. He couldn’t hide his tears: they were running uncontrollably away from him now, but he couldn’t face looking at anyone as he did so. Tears were so weak.

When his sobs and tears finally dried up, replaced with by a few hurried gasps for breath, he lifted his head away from Mark Hiller’s shoulder, though he couldn’t make eye contact with the man. He’d cried so stupidly in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“Don’t worry,” Mark Hiller quietly replied.

“What… what’s going to happen to me now?” he asked Mark Hiller, still staring down at his hands, resting in his lap now.

“Didn’t you hear what the judge said?”

“I didn’t really. I sort of felt sick when they said I’m guilty,” he quietly admitted. “I heard him say I would be held at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Does that mean I have to apply to the Queen to be released?”

“No, it’s just a turn of phrase. It means that the judge didn’t set a length of time to your sentence. You’ll be released when the doctors and the parole broad decide you’re ready and safe to be released.”

“Doctors?” Liam asked. He hadn’t heard the judge say anything about doctors.

“You’re going to be sent to a Special Hospital,” Mark Hiller replied.

“But I’m not ill,” he said.

“It’s not that sort of hospital. It’s a mental health hospital and they will help you with what has happened.”

“But won’t it be full of prison guards?”

“No. It’s run by doctors and nurses.”

“So not as bad as a prison?”

“Yes, a lot better,” Mark Hiller said, “though you won’t be able to leave it and there’s a lot of locked doors in there.”

“But it’s better than prison?”

“Much better.”

He looked up at Mark Hiller, who was smiling gently at him. It was a strange feeling - not relief, not anti-climax, but something like being set free. What he had been fearing had been suddenly and quietly been taken away with no fuss. It was like arriving at school and finding Rhys Clarke was off sick - that moment of freedom - for the day at least. No, he shouldn’t think like that. He shouldn’t think about that boy.

He opened his mouth, trying to think of how to thank Mark Hiller, but not knowing which words to use.

At that moment there was a loud knocking at the cell’s door before it was swung open, and Mrs Stewart-Graham walked in, still wearing her black gown and white horse-hair wig. The cell door was closed sharply behind her. She stood in the centre of the cell, again her presence dominating the room.

“God we were stitched up! That bloody judge had it in for us from the start. I knew we’d have trouble when I heard Two Bottles McCoy would be the judge, but I never imagined he’d tie our hands like this!”

“It wasn’t your fault, Bernie,” Mark Hiller told her.

“Yes, it bloody was! I should have done something!” She took three quick and sharp steps along the narrow length of the cell before stopping and turning suddenly on her heels. “We’ve got so many grounds for appeal, and I’ll have Two Bottles McCoy when we do. He stopped me running a legitimate defence. I had witnesses that proved Clarke bullied Liam, like Nicola Webb and others. I had Robbie Ellis ready to be my expert witness.”

“Robbie who?” Mark Hiller asked.

“He’s a psychologist who specialises in the effects of bullying. He has a ton of evidence to call upon. But I couldn’t call him because that old fossil refused to even let me mention it. I could have screamed when he ruled that.”

“He was always a reactionary old fart,” Mark Hiller said. “This time he went too far.”

“And we will get him on appeal. I’ll need a few days, but I’ll start drawing up the papers tonight,” Mrs Stewart-Graham said, though her words were directed at Mark Hiller.

Liam blinked and just listened to what they were saying. He barely understood one word in three or four. Did lawyers always talk like this? He knew what an appeal was, but wasn’t that when they found new evidence, when the person was really innocent? There couldn’t be any new evidence here, he was guilty and that was it.

“But Liam’s underage,” Mark Hiller said.

“So we’ll get his mother’s permission,” she quickly replied.

“You haven’t met Liam’s mother,” Mark Hillier told her.

Liam blinked in surprise now. Hadn’t his mother got herself involved in every area of his trial? Won’t she see herself as the most important person here? She was his mother.

“No, you told me she won’t make a good witness,” Mrs Stewart-Graham said.

“That’s not the truth, really,” Mark Hiller replied, a sudden awkward note coming into his voice. “Liam’s mother has sold her story to two tabloid newspapers, so far. She told me that they weren’t going to publish until after Liam’s trial, which was good, but that her payment would be doubled if Liam was found guilty, and she was very keen that would happen. We would have been suborning perjury if we called her as a witness.”

“Oh bollocks,” Mrs Stewart-Graham said, her body sagging, her shoulders slumping, as if she was suddenly partly deflating. She took a slow step towards the bench and equally slowly sat down on the far end of it. She turned her clear blue eyes towards him, and Liam saw her face was pulled down by a very sad expression now. “I am so sorry,” she told him. “I failed you. You shouldn’t be going to prison or a Special Hospital or anywhere like that. You should be going home and getting help. I failed to get you that.”

“But I killed Rhys Clarke,” Liam told her. It was the truth.

She reached over and gently placed her hand on his forearm.

“It’s far more complicated than that. Clarke bullied you and made your life a nightmare. I read all those police statements, all those people who saw you stab him. You produced that knife to frighten him off and he goaded you into stabbing him. He almost threw himself onto that knife.”

“But I stabbed him. I killed him,” Liam repeated himself. He had done it and he was guilty.

“And it’s nowhere near as simple as that,” she replied. “That’s why I pulled in every favour I had with the CPS to get them to recommend to the judge that you be sent to a Special Hospital. I saw how the jury looked at you as I ran the only defence that old bastard would let me run. They had already convicted you, but I couldn’t let you go to a Young Offenders Institution. They would eat you alive there. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“Thank you,” he quietly replied. He barely understood half of what she’d said but it sounded so sincere. It sounded like she had really worked hard for him.

“The CPS readily agreed with me anyway. They’d read Dr Harvey’s report on you, which made you sound more than half crazy. The old parasite did something good for once, even when she was doing something outrageously bad,” Mrs Stewart-Graham quietly added.

Then a realisation flashed into his mind - a very unpleasant one - but one he needed to ask. “I won’t see you two again,” he quietly said to both of them.

“You won’t be getting rid of me that quickly,” Mark Hiller said. “You’re going to a Special Hospital, and you’ll need a solicitor while you’re there, and who better than me?”

“But I can’t pay you,” Liam replied.

“Don’t worry about that,” Mrs Stewart-Graham said, that spark back in her voice. “Mark’s the Queen of Legal Aid.”

“Bernie, I prefer to say, ‘I’m the Master Manipulator of it’. I got you paid,” Mark Hiller replied.

“Mark darling, neither of us did this trial for the money,” she said.

“No, we didn’t,” Mark Hiller said, his hand gently squeezing Liam’s shoulder.