‘So you don’t want to win?’

‘We’re beyond winners and losers, aren’t we?’ he says, looking at me directly. He’s shaved his neck but not his beard. The result is an eerie, stuck-on look, like he’s painted on a polo-neck jumper.

‘I guess so,’ I say, still looking at him. And he’s right. Whatever the outcome, Will’s still dead, my family still obliterated. We won’t recover. We can’t.

We head into the courthouse and sit together in the foyer. I’m halfway through a vending-machine cup of tea which tastes like plastic. A steamy, clammy warmth, definitely hardly any tea in there. Jason touches my shoulder just once, and that’s when I see them.

My eyes track them as they enter Courtroom One before me. Mum, Dad. Joe. God, Joe. He’s much bigger now, his chest a barrel. Lydia isn’t with him, of course. His hair has greyed out at the temples like somebody has spray-painted them. His forehead has three distinct lines across it, great grooves of stress. I remember how hard he tried to keep everything together. Too hard, probably. We all tried so hard to stay moulded that we crushed us, our family.

Mum and Dad are older. I blink, unable to believe it’s really them. There’s a hump forming at the top of Dad’s back. I look at them dispassionately.

I am unable to stop myself acknowledging them. I’m not sure exactly what I do. A combination of raising up my chin, waving, an attempt to pin down their gaze. Only Mum looks at me, just once, a quick, sharp look, the way somebody might glance at the sun accidentally before turning away in pain. Something sad and small pops inside me. It’s all so unnecessary.

They move across the courtroom, my family, in one cohesive mass, like a ship that can’t veer off course, even if it wants to.

I turn to Jason. His mouth is turned down in understanding, and he bows his head to me, almost in a gesture of respect. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says softly. Another little touch to my shoulder, almost a punch.

‘Me too,’ I say. ‘I mean – it was bound to happen, wasn’t it?’

‘The law is not kind on families,’ he says simply, as we watch them go.

They enter and let the courtroom doors swing behind them and I think of Jason’s cigarette lighter, flaring and being put out over and over again.

‘Ready?’ he says lightly. His status as a lawyer is comforting to me. He does this every day. It isn’t frightening to him. There is nothing at stake, only money and financial targets and promotions. Not life. Not death. Not family or love or honesty or truth, not really. Not to the lawyers.

‘Ready.’

‘Ms Plant to Courtroom One,’ an announcement says over the tannoy. Jason and I head in the same door as my family, their DNA no doubt imprinted on the door handle that I have just touched. ‘Should I go now?’ I say, pointing to the centre of the courtroom. ‘To the box?’ It’s practically spotlighted. The place where thousands of defendants have had their say before me, taken oaths before me, ruined their lives before me.