‘No, I’m good,’ I say, pushing back hangers and pretending to read the labels. They’re watching me.
After a while, I unhook a simple black dress with a nipped-in waist and short sleeves.
‘That’s a ten. You’ll need an eight,’ says Riviera.
I put it back. She chooses another.
‘This one is more a cocktail dress. Mid-thigh length. Satin with pleats. Sleeveless. Very sexy. You could try it on.’
Before I can answer, she drapes it over her arm and leads me to the changing rooms. For a moment, I think she’s going to follow me inside and watch me undress, but she points me to a booth. I latch the door. I’m alone. I sit on the bench and unlace my boots to pull off my jeans, which seems to take an age. I can picture the two women talking about me. Sniggering. Stripped down to my bra and knickers, I avoid looking at myself in the mirror. I don’t like seeing myself naked, or in underwear. I don’t like my pale blotchy skin and the cigarette burns on my back.
Unzipping the dress, I lift it over my head. The fabric slides over my shoulders and down my sides. I reach behind me to pull up the zipper before brushing my hands down my hips and turning to the mirror.
For a moment, I don’t recognise the girl who is staring back at me. I blink. She blinks. Her feet are turned inwards. So are mine. I brush a strand of hair from my right eye. So does she.
An image flashes into my mind – a dress laid out on a bed – a man stroking my cheek, telling me to try it on. I can feel his fingertips crawling on my skin, his breath on my neck. My chest tightens. It’s like bands of iron are being wrapped around my torso and riveted into place.
I seize the hem of the dress and pull it over my head, forgetting to undo the clasp or the zipper. It’s caught. My arms are trapped inside. I’m blindly struggling to pull my head from the neckline. I smell my breath. I feel his hands touching me.
‘How are you getting on?’ asks Riviera.
I grunt a reply.
‘Are you all right?’
I’m fighting with the dress, clawing at the fabric. Bouncing off the walls of the changing room. The lock rattles.
‘Can I come in?’
I don’t answer her. I can’t. I’m locked in hand-to-hand combat with the dress, ripping at the collar, screaming in frustration.
Someone has a key. The door swings open. I can’t see the women, but I hear them trying to calm me down. Someone has grabbed my shoulders. Someone else is trying to unzip the dress. I am no longer fighting them. My skin has gone clammy. My limbs are loose.
Suddenly, I’m free and I slump down onto the bench, holding my knees.
‘I broke a fucking nail,’ says the emaciated manager, sucking her finger.
‘Maybe she’s on drugs,’ says Riviera. ‘Should we call an ambulance?’
‘We should call the police. Look at this dress. It’s ruined.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I couldn’t get it off.’
‘Well, you’ll have to pay for the damage.’
‘How much is it?’
‘Ninety pounds.’
‘I don’t have that much.’
‘Well, why were you trying it on?’
‘She suggested it.’ I point to Riviera.
If they call the police, they’ll contact Cyrus and I’ll have to explain it to him – and he’ll treat me like a child and never look at me like I want him to look at me.
‘I have fifty pounds,’ I say. ‘I can pay off the rest in instalments.’
‘You’ll have to fix the zip,’ says the manager.
‘That’s OK,’ I say, but I know that I’ll never wear the dress. She gives me one of those buy-now-pay-later forms, but I put down a fake name and address and tell her that I don’t have a card. I promise to come back tomorrow with my bank account details, but that’s never going to happen.
She takes the fifty and folds the dress in tissue paper, before placing it in a polished paper bag that is more valuable than the contents.
‘Enjoy your purchase,’ she says.
‘Have a nice day,’ adds Riviera.
I walk out of the boutique and through the Victoria Centre, planning to toss the bag into the nearest rubbish bin. Feeling guilty, I consider the Hope Church charity shop, but I doubt if any poor people are looking for size-eight cocktail dresses with a broken zip.
Thirty minutes later, I step off the number 36 bus at Wollaton Vale roundabout. The shopping bag is in the footwell between the rear seats, waiting for a better owner than me. Someone who can look pretty on the outside without feeling ugly on the inside.
17
Cyrus
The Crown Prosecution Service in Nottingham has offices in King Edward Court, which is twenty minutes’ walk from the Crown and District Court precincts. I see barristers heading that way, carrying their horsehair wigs, and wearing open-fronted black gowns that make them look like extras in a Harry Potter film.
I’m waiting for Clara Siganda – a girl whom I knew at secondary school, although we barely spoke for the first four years. She was one of the few people who didn’t treat me differently after the murders. One day in biology, students were supposed to choose a partner, and everybody avoided picking me. It became a running joke, until Clara tapped me on the shoulder and asked to be my pair.
‘Are you trying to be funny?’ I asked, angrily.
‘No. They’re a bunch of arseholes. Are we doing this, or not?’
Clara went on to study law at a different university to me, but we’ve stayed in touch. She calls my name from the top of the stairs and click-clacks down the polished marble before kissing both my cheeks. She still looks impossibly young to be a trainee barrister, with bee-stung bottom lip and hair braided close to her scalp.
‘I have to be in court in forty minutes,’ she says, pulling me into a nearby meeting room. For the first few minutes we talk about mutual friends and enemies and people we remember from school. Who’s come out. Who’s moved overseas. Who’s married and had babies. Clara asks if I’m seeing anyone. I wonder if she’s making small talk, or interested, but she’s out of my league.
Gossip exhausted, she folds her hands in her lap. ‘How can I help?’
‘I’m looking for information about an historic sexual assault.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Seven years.’
‘Was it appealed?’
‘No.’
She taps her front teeth with her finger as she thinks. ‘You might not find anything. People often assume that court records are kept forever, but that’s not the case unless the trial is historically significant or was the subject of an appeal. Other than that, there’s no need to hold on to the evidence or transcripts. I can check.’
She pulls a keyboard closer and logs in. ‘What was the name of the defendant?’
‘Mitchell Coates.’
The page refreshes.
‘Convicted of sexual assault and actual bodily harm.’
‘That’s him.’
We’re looking at the original charge sheet, which gives his full name, place of birth, occupation and age, as well as the date of his arrest. Clara types in the case number, pulling up more records.
‘It was a jury trial. The defendant pleaded not guilty. I can’t see any transcripts, but here is the original statement from the victim.’