Chapters (81)
- Cover
- About the Author
- Dedication
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Forty-three
- Forty-four
- Forty-five
- Forty-six
- Forty-seven
- Forty-eight
- Forty-nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-one
- Fifty-two
- Fifty-three
- Fifty-four
- Fifty-five
- Fifty-six
- Fifty-seven
- Fifty-eight
- Fifty-nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-one
- Sixty-two
- Sixty-three
- Sixty-four
- Sixty-five
- Sixty-six
- Sixty-seven
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Read More
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Follow Merilyn online
- Dedication
‘Maybe we’ll become famous and they’ll make films about us – the next Cagney and Lacey!’
Nell’s laugh turned into a cough and when she’d finished, she found Carla’s face full of concern.
‘You had me worried back there for a minute, you know,’ she said.
‘For what, coughing?’ But Nell knew that wasn’t what she’d meant. ‘Look, if it hadn’t been for you, we wouldn’t have even known there was a firearm. You had my back and I won’t forget it.’ Nell stubbed the cigarette out without finishing it. ‘You’re a good cop, Brown.’
‘I’m not a cop, Jackson.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I do,’ Carla said, and Nell watched as she blew smoke up into the crisp night air.
Epilogue
The judge is summing up. I am sitting in the wooden box they have assigned me and I’m waiting for the jury to assign me another. My husband is in the gallery, leaning forward. He clutches his hands between his legs as his eyes flick between the jury and me. The bandage is still on his head and whilst he has explained to me why he has it – why he may not be able to visit me for a while – I still struggle to understand anything other than that Mary hurt him, but why she did I still don’t know.
‘Mary Balcombe has been accused of a crime of the worst sort, murder,’ the judge is saying, and it takes me a moment to remember they mean me. I have given up explaining their mistake and instead have resolved to suffer their foolishness until I am able to prove otherwise.
It takes four hours for the jury to decide my fate and the look on my barrister’s face tells me this is not a good thing. Hushed conversations follow, between my husband and her, before I am escorted back to the courtroom between two blank-faced prison officers, both of whom smell of sweat.
I am reminded to stand as I wait for the jury to inform me of their judgment on me. I think of Joanne. She was never as I imagined, far too delicate to have come from such hate, and as I picture her I feel a deep sense of pain; she had hardly begun her life – for what age is thirty-five? – and I was never able to love her like a child should be loved. If the jury want remorse, they’ve got it, because I could not regret more my inability to mother her. But how can a child who hasn’t been mothered learn to do so herself? It sounds like an excuse, I decide, but a fire rages in me to tell me I’m wrong – it’s not an excuse if it’s the truth.
The foreman of the jury stands. The judge asks him if I am guilty of killing Joanne Fowler.
Aoife’s child.