Elias ignored him. ‘How do you think it’s going to be after this, Mr Priest? When the judge throws you out of court? Did you ever stop to think about the children we look after? All that charity money wasted on legal fees that could have gone to helping kids who need our help. How many of them do you think have died because of you and that poxy online operation you’re representing?’

‘None.’

Elias made to say something but stumbled into a fit of coughing. When he’d finished, his face was red. One eye was a little bloodshot. ‘You have a lawyer’s conscience, I see.’

‘No,’ said Priest, calmly. ‘I just have a better understanding of moral causation than you.’

‘Hm. And what do you know about moral causation?’

‘Your side brought the claim, Mr Elias.’ Priest was relaxed – in fact professional rules prevented him from talking to Alexia, since she was a party to the proceedings, but Dominique wasn’t, so the conversation wasn’t illicit. There is no property in a witness. ‘Remember: you picked the fight.’

‘Didn’t have much choice, did we? Your client published that filth.’

There was more; Dominque was about to say something else but he stopped. Something had caught his eye, further up the road on the other side of the High Court entrance. He winced, squinted as if he saw someone he vaguely recognised. Then slunk back against the wall. Priest followed his eyeline but it was impossible to tell from the group of people mingling outside who had distracted him.

Assessing that the exchange was at an end, Priest doffed an imaginary cap. ‘Good luck in court, Mr Elias.’ He turned and led Georgie away, sensing Elias watching them all the way. When they reached the Tube entrance, he noticed Georgie was still holding on to his arm.

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The little girl sits in front of the wall, staring at the cracked bricks; her hands resting on her lap. There is a window above her, too high to reach unless she climbs on a tower of boxes and, even then, she can only just peek through the opaque glass and see the top of the church spire. The basement is behind her, she is so close to the wall. The floor is made of stone but there is some carpet spread across the far side: the unwanted ends, a mishmash of colours. It is dusk, neither the sun nor the moon has dominance in the sliver of grey sky she can see through the window.

A woman paces behind her, muttering. She is angry, rightly so. The girl had managed to nick the corner of her mouth with her nails, drawn a little blood. The girl hadn’t meant to hurt the woman. She had just wanted to feel the woman’s skin, see if it stretched like hers, was warm like hers.