The underground is heaving and yet Logan easily finds a seat and appreciates the soft pressure against the small of his back, the stability when the tube train rattles at speed. Here we are, he thinks, a quarter of a mile underground, efficiently slicing beneath the traffic of the capital with minimal effort when, not six generations ago, all most of us had to get about on were our feet. Half the passengers are standing. And yet, he notices, there are smiles. A man animated in conversation with a friend, full of joy in his telling. A young man reading, not his phone, but a book: a huge hardback with a black and yellow cover, which he must hold with both hands, and cannot look away from even though he must plant his feet for balance, because something in the words is amusing him so greatly. A woman smiling for no other reason than she has seen Logan’s smile, and they are in this full carriage together. And though it is a Wednesday at half past five, and though they are pressed together like livestock, and though they are told that strangers may kill them, this singular carriage is full of delight and amusement, as though they are friends on their way to a party.
When he surfaces, the street lights are sparklers: emitting their light as glittering particles. It’s something that happens when he’s connected. It will be good to remain connected tomorrow, he thinks, as he enters the lobby of the Temple Court Hotel.
Court
Their court is number six, in the new building. So Justice is off to one side, and no steps to stand on and be photographed. But still, the Old Bailey weighs heavy, its presence momentous. The bewigged and begowned float about like a separate species. The car park sign is in gothic font.
April looks like someone’s daughter. Tiny white hands on the rail; intense green eyes. She could be at college in a fascinating lecture; she is listening intently. She is learning. He can’t imagine a murderer looking more innocent. She floats him half a smile and he wishes she hadn’t. What if a juror noticed? People who’ve killed other people’s children must never be seen to smile. He returns it all the same. She is his client, yes. She murdered a busload of students, certainly. But she and he know – as no one else in the room likely knows – that they are two parts of the same grand animal, as individual polyps are to coral; as grains of sand are to a beach. They are only playing at separation.
From his vantage point in the witness box, he scans the public gallery for April’s mother. She is easy to find. She is wearing a headscarf, like his mother used to wear, to cover the hair loss of chemotherapy.