Judge Rees sighs in irritation, waving her hand up and down, wanting him to sit down. She glances at her watch. Then she points to me.
‘I’m going to hear from PC McCarthy.’
Goodall begins to protest.
‘My previous warning stands,’ says the judge. ‘I will have you removed.’
I begin to speak, but she points to the witness box. ‘You’ll swear an oath like everybody else. The truth and the whole truth.’ There is a tiredness in her tone, which makes it sound like a pointless exercise because she’s heard too many lies masquerading as the truth.
I walk to the front of the courtroom, suddenly aware of how I’m dressed in faded jeans and a blouse with a middle button hanging by a loose thread. Normally, I’m wearing my uniform when I give evidence in court. My mother would be mortified. She’s the sort of woman whose worst nightmare is being cut from the wreckage of a car and taken to hospital wearing tattered knickers.
I take the oath and give my name and address.
‘How do you know Mrs Goodall?’ asks the judge.
‘I helped her escape from her house when her husband locked her inside.’
Dardenne objects: ‘Calls for speculation.’
‘We’re not in front of a jury,’ says Rees, who is twirling a pen across her knuckles. ‘Carry on, Constable McCarthy.’
I tell her about the phone call from Alison and how I picked up Nathan from school.
‘Why did she call you? Are you friends?’
‘Acquaintances.’
‘Do you also know Detective Sergeant Goodall?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know him?’
‘I arrested him when he beat up his mistress.’
Dardenne has been whispering furiously to Goodall. He stands suddenly and interrupts her next question.
‘Your Honour, we request an adjournment. I wasn’t aware this witness would be called and I need to take instructions from my client.’
‘How long do you need?’
‘Two weeks.’
‘I was thinking more like fifteen minutes.’
‘I need longer.’
‘Are you suggesting I postpone granting an injunction for two weeks?’
‘Bear with me,’ says Dardenne, returning to his seat and whispering to Goodall. After a few minutes, he gets to his feet again.
‘My client maintains that he has done nothing wrong and is determined to fight for full custody of his children. He agrees to abide by any court ruling made today, but is asking that the children be placed in the care of the relevant authorities for their own protection.’
‘No!’ yells Alison. ‘Not my children!’
Judge Rees’s twirling pen drops from her knuckles and rattles to the floor. She demands silence, staring us down.
‘I am not Judge Judy and this is not some reality TV show where people get to grandstand.’
She turns to me.
‘Have you heard a tape?’
‘Yes, your honour. The little boy made a 999 call to the police. He said his daddy was holding his baby sister over the stairs.’
Dardenne interrupts again. ‘My client is willing to abide by any DAP notice until a full hearing is arranged.’
Judge Rees looks at him with a sceptical air before addressing Goodall.
‘You will not be able to approach, follow, or communicate with your wife, or her friends, or her family for the next twenty-eight days.’
‘What about my kids?’ he asks.
‘They will stay with their mother and you are denied access without supervision.’
He starts to complain, but Judge Rees talks over him.
‘Any breach of this order will be punishable by up to two months’ imprisonment, or a substantial fine. I will relist this matter for a month from today. In that time, get your ducks in a row, people, and have your evidence ready.
‘And Mrs Goodall …’ She looks at Alison. ‘Do yourself a favour and get a lawyer.’
45
Alison spends fifteen minutes in the bathroom, sitting fully clothed in a cubicle, with her fists sunk into the sagging pockets of her jacket.
‘Those things he said about me … I would never hit a child. I’m not a terrible mother.’ She tears off a length of toilet paper and blows her nose. ‘I take Prozac. And he encouraged me to see a psychiatrist. How could he say those things?’
‘He doesn’t like to lose,’ I reply, leaning against the sink opposite and talking to her through the open door. ‘You have to fight back.’
‘How?’
‘Make a statement.’
‘They won’t charge him.’
‘You need to put something on the record, or he’ll keep doing this.’
The outer door opens and Alison’s eyes shoot to mine. A woman enters the bathroom. She smiles nervously, self-conscious about urinating with an audience. Changing her mind, she washes her hands and leaves.
Alison is rocking back and forth in a rhythmic motion. It’s a coping mechanism, a primal reaction from a brain seeking comfort, which is why we rock new-borns and babies and sick children. I wonder if Alison has always been this vulnerable, or if Goodall has chipped away at her self-esteem. Coercive controllers will often look for women who are already damaged, like a predator singling out the weakest in the herd. They will gaslight and demean, isolate and undermine, stripping away any vestiges of self or worth.
‘We should go,’ I say.
‘Has he gone?’
‘I’ll check.’
I walk outside and study the faces in the hallway, then search the forecourt, but I can’t see any sign of Darren Goodall. Returning to the bathroom, I tell her that it’s safe.
‘I didn’t see Jenny,’ I say.
‘She’ll have gone home.’
‘Without you?’
‘We’re not on the same page at the moment.’ Alison flushes the tissues away.
I offer to drive her home. My car is parked two streets away. As we get nearer, I notice a crowd of people have gathered on the footpath. I have to push between shoulders, holding on to Alison’s hand. My lovely red Fiat is barely recognisable. The paintwork is blistered and blackened by acid or some other caustic substance that has been splashed over the bonnet and roof.
‘Did anyone see what happened?’ I ask.
Nobody answers.
Alison is next to me. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispers.
‘We don’t know it was him.’
The words sound hollow.
‘Are you going to call someone?’ she asks.
‘Yes. But first I’ll take you home.’
I carefully open the doors, trying not to get acid on my hands or clothes. Then I peer beneath the chassis and examine the wheel-nuts, making sure that nothing else has been tampered with or vandalised. Satisfied, I start the engine and pull into traffic, checking the mirrors to make sure nobody is following us.
Alison has her knees drawn up and is peering nervously through the windscreen and passenger window.
‘How did you meet Darren?’ I ask.
‘You’re going to think it’s creepy.’
‘Try me.’
‘He came to my school to give us a talk about staying safe online, you know, not sending naked photographs or befriending strangers.’
‘How old were you?’