There were general growls of annoyance all around. Cormac blinked. If he had only one call . . . could he call someone he’d never met to come bail him out? That really was an almost worse introduction to someone than meeting her for the first time when she was collapsed sobbing on a dirty bathroom floor. Oh God.

“Seriously, I’m not involved!” said Cormac in desperation.

“This is why we had to pull you off someone in the fray,” said the constable. “Okay. Got it.”

Cormac winced. This could be bad.

And who the hell was he going to call?

Chapter 68

Once order had been more or less restored, Lissa crept back to the witness room. Roisin was waiting for her, arms folded.

“Well, you’re here now,” she sniffed.

“Sorry,” said Lissa.

“I’m sympathetic,” said Roisin, sounding anything but. “But you’re lucky it got delayed. We can’t do this without you. You’re the only witness who wasn’t involved!”

“I know,” said Lissa, breathing deeply. “But I think . . . I think I’m all right.”

“Good,” said Roisin, as a number flashed up on the wall.

“Okay, that’s us. Let’s go.”

THE COURTROOM—A windowless room with stained cheap carpet and pinboard walls, that smelled of stale coffee and dusty lighting—was not remotely impressive. The judge sat looking half asleep, not a flicker of interest on her face as Lissa entered.

The big group of Kai’s friends had all gone, likewise the family of Marcus, the defendant, who stood defiant in a cheap suit and a razor-sharp haircut, swaggering in the dock facing the judge’s podium. A stern-looking lawyer was sitting behind him, scribbling; a hodgepodge lineup of people sitting expectantly to the side, she realized, of course would be the jury.

“Alyssa Westcott called to the stand,” said a bored-sounding woman on the side.

Lissa took a deep breath. She wished that she’d asked her mum to be here—or even, she thought suddenly, Cormac. He would have come. Still, she would see him after this. All she had to do was to get through with this and . . . she checked her mobile phone. She hadn’t heard from him, but that’s okay. She’d WhatsApp him when they were out and then—well, she’d probably better redo her makeup and, Christ, her hair. But then . . .

“Phone off!” hissed a court clerk, and Lissa immediately passed it on to Roisin.

But she still held on to the idea as she walked slowly up the stained carpet toward the chair with the microphone, where she swore an oath, her hand a little shaky on the faded Bible they offered her. Just think of what happens next, she told herself. Just think about what happens next.

“Can you tell us what happened on the nineteenth of March of this year?” said Roisin.