Alongside me, I hear a commotion. I turn to see the judge entering. My heart sinks as I regard him. A man in his early seventies, small beady eyes, a mouth curled naturally into a sneer. The last person I would expect to show mercy to me. As I watch him glide to his seat, the black robes billowing in his wake, I think of Iris, resplendent in her blue velvet cape.

And then I’m back there, walking up the gravelled driveway, hearing the buzz of traffic from the high street grow fainter, feeling weightless, as though the real world has ceased to exist and all that matters is the story I’m entering.

I recall the tall, stone griffins standing guard either side of the solid oak door, their bared teeth chipped, their wings eroded by the weather. I recall the date engraved in the centre of the door arch and the feeling of exhilaration that fizzed up my spine as I whispered the numbers into the stagnant summer air.

1647.

The year of wonder.

I recall the sensation of falling under that spell again.

I recall Geoffrey’s face as he opened the door, the beaming smile belying the sad eyes. And I realize that my decision to go to that house led me directly to this courtroom.

As the judge begins to speak I steady myself and return to the present. All I have to do is tell my story, calmly and concisely, and hope that they believe it.

25. Then

August 2018

‘Vanessa, this is ridiculous.’

I had got up extra early, hoping to sneak out of the house before Connor woke, but now he is here, standing at the top of the stairs while I put on my coat.

‘You can’t go into work today,’ he says, running down the stairs in just his boxer shorts. ‘Not after what happened last week. You collapsed in the street, for God’s sake.’

‘I’m feeling much better this morning,’ I say, putting my phone and keys into my bag. ‘Last week was just a blip. I got overheated.’

‘Look, even Anne is expressing concern at your behaviour,’ he says, sitting down on the middle step. ‘We’re all worried.’

‘Anne wasn’t expressing concern at my behaviour,’ I say, feeling irritated now. ‘She was concerned at my being physically unwell.’

‘Like I said, we’re all concerned,’ says Connor gravely. ‘Your behaviour these last few months has been erratic to say the least. I was already worried about your drinking, and you promised me you’d stop, then the abortion.’

‘I told you, Connor, there was no other choice.’

I can’t do this again.

I yank open the door, gulping in the fresh air. As I step out I hear him running down the final few stairs.

‘How dare you?’ he hisses, grabbing my arms and twisting me round to face him. ‘What about my choice? What about our baby’s choice?’