‘Yes, but he didn’t do it,’ replied Claire, trying to backtrack but it was too late – the damage was done. ‘The trial will prove that.’

‘Trial!’ At this, Linda stood, her heels struggling against shock and the force of gravity as she inched away from the table. ‘I’m sorry, Claire, I have to go,’ said Linda. She fled leaving the café so quickly, the scones remained on the table, forgotten. It was only then that Claire realised the coffee shop was empty apart from the young barista who was discreetly scrolling on his phone but had no doubt heard everything. And just like that, Claire knew that her friend’s reaction was nothing compared to what she would have to endure from the rest of Castlefield. Years ago, she’d been the subject of speculation, but this time she would be on the wrong side.

It was early afternoon the following day and Claire quietly slipped back into the public gallery. Court was already in session and she was late because a traffic accident had delayed her. She was anxious – this was Jacobs, the witness Livingstone was most nervous about. Silently cursing because she could only get a seat at the back, she sat down and put her bag beside her. The familiar wooden bench was uncomfortable, and she adjusted her position trying to get a better view.

As she moved, she could feel the waistband of her trousers gape at the back, the cut of her belt into bare skin. Miller was standing, examining the witness, and it took Claire a few minutes to recognise him.

He was talking about the night of the party, how he’d taken some photos on his phone.

How everyone was having a good time.

How Joshua was having a good time.

How Joshua was drunk and high.

How he’d seen Joshua come downstairs laughing and tucking his shirt in.

And after he’d finished, the witness looked directly at her and Claire had locked eyes with the man she knew was going to destroy her.

49

They stared at each other and in that glance, a thousand memories poured over her like hot lava. Her skin burned with it. Paul Jones. But the witness on the stand was Jacobs.

Oh God.

She half stood, clinging on to the chair in front of her, her body poised for action. She could see the back of Livingstone, his attention placed firmly on the witness. Why was he calling himself Jacobs? She wanted to shout at Paul to stop talking but the words wouldn’t come, and she sat back down, impotent, oblivious to the irritated tutting behind her. She swivelled in her seat towards the exit, her limbs acting upon thousands of years of instinct to flee, but her mind was tethered to the court, trapped like one of the captive monkeys she’d seen on holiday.