Page 125 of The Girl You Left Behind
“Yes.” She takes a sip. “Yes, it is.” She waits for Fran to add her own take on Liv’s crime, to list the reasons why she should never have attempted to keep the painting, but it doesn’t come. Instead she sniffs, looks out at the river.
“That’s why I don’t like having too much stuff. When I was in the shelter, people was always nicking it. Didn’t matter where you left it—under your bed, in your locker—they’d wait till you was going out, and then they’d just take it. It got so’s you didn’t want to go out, just for fear of losing your stuff. Imagine that.”
“Imagine what?”
“What you lose. Just trying to hang on to a few bits.”
Liv looks at Fran’s craggy, weathered face, suddenly suffused with pleasure as she considers the life she is no longer missing out on.
Liv stares along the gray river, and her eyes fill unexpectedly with tears.
34
Henry is waiting for her by the rear entrance. There are television cameras, as well as the protesters at the front of the High Court for the last day. He had warned her there would be. She emerges from the taxi, and when he sees what she is carrying, his smile turns into a grimace. “Is that what I... You didn’t have to do that! If it goes against us, we’d have made them send a security van. Jesus Christ, Liv! You can’t just carry a multimillion-pound work of art around like a loaf of bread.”
Liv’s hands are tight around it. “Is Paul here?”
“Paul?” He’s hurrying her toward the courts, like a doctor ferrying a sick child into a hospital.
“McCafferty.”
“McCafferty? Not a clue.” He glances again at the bundle. “Bloody hell, Liv. You could have warned me.”
She follows him through security and into the corridor. He calls the guard over and motions to the painting. The guard looks startled, nods, and says something into his radio. Extra security is apparently on its way. Only when they actually enter the courtroom does Henry begin to relax. He sits, lets out a long breath, rubs at his face with both palms. Then he turns to Liv. “You know, it’s not over yet,” he says, smiling ruefully at the painting. “Hardly a vote of confidence.”
She says nothing. She scans the courtroom, which is fast filling around them. Above her in the public gallery the faces peer down at her, speculative and impassive, as if she herself is on trial. She tries not to meet anyone’s eye. She spies Marianne in tangerine, her plastic earrings a matching shade, and the old woman gives a little wave and an awkward thumbs-up, a friendly face in a sea of blank stares. She sees Janey Dickinson settle into a seat farther along the bench, exchanging a few words with Flaherty. The room fills with the sound of shuffling feet, polite conversation, scraping chairs, and dropped bags. She’s trying to quell a rising sense of panic. It’s 9:40. Her eyes stray toward the doors again and again, watching for Paul.Have faith, she thinks. He will come.
She tells herself the same thing at 9:50, and 9:52. And then at 9:58. Just before ten o’clock, the judge enters. The courtroom rises. Liv feels a sudden panic.He’s not coming. After all this, he’s not coming. Oh, God, I can’t do this if he’s not here.She forces herself to breathe deeply and closes her eyes, trying to calm herself.
Henry is paging through his files. “You okay?”
Her mouth appears to have filled with powder. “Henry,” she whispers, “can I say something?”
“What?”
“Can I say something? To the court? It’s important.”
“Now? The judge is about to announce his verdict.”
“This is important.”
“What do you want to say?”
“Just ask him. Please.”
His face shows incredulity, but something in her expression convinces him. He leans forward, muttering to Angela Silver. She glances behind her at Liv, frowning, and after a short exchange, she stands and asks for permission to approach the bench. Christopher Jenks is invited to join them.
As barristers and judge consult quietly, Liv feels her palms beginning to sweat. Her skin prickles. She glances around her at the packed courtroom. The air of quiet antagonism is almost palpable. Her hands tighten on the painting.Imagine you are Sophie, she tells herself.She would have done it.
Finally the judge speaks.
“Apparently Mrs. Olivia Halston would like to address the court.” He glances at her from over the top of his spectacles. “Go ahead, Mrs. Halston.”
She stands and makes her way to the front of the court, still clutching the painting. She hears each footstep echo on the wooden floor, is acutely aware of all the eyes upon her. Henry, perhaps still fearful about the painting, stands a few feet from her.
She takes a deep breath. “I would like to say a few words aboutThe Girl You Left Behind.” She pauses for a second, registering the surprise on the faces around her, and continues, her voice thin, wavering slightly in the silence. It seems to belong to someone else.
“Sophie Lefèvre was a brave, honorable woman. I think—I hope this has become clear through what’s been heard in court.” She is vaguely aware of Janey Dickinson’s face, of her scratching something in her notebook, the muttered boredom of the barristers. She closes her fingers around the frame and forces herself to keep going.
