‘I was. A former solicitor. Now, with a disciplinary record. Not to mention prison. There aren’t many firms that would take someone on with a conviction like mine,’ she says.
There’s another pause. The conversation has become awkward, all elbows and knees.
‘We can give you a job,’ he says.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘We have stacks of work that we need to have done. Case preparation, sorting out bundles, writing up statements. Going through the unused material that the prosecution invariably dump on us at the last moment. Everything.’
‘I can’t work on people’s cases. I’ve got a serious criminal conviction. I’m on licence for the next three years. Not to mention the fact that I’ve never done any criminal work other than what we covered at law school and my own case.’
‘None of that matters. Not if you work under my supervision. I mean, obviously you wouldn’t be able to appear in court or anything like that, but I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t work for us in the office.’
‘You must be desperate,’ Anna says. It’s a tempting offer, she can’t deny it. The letter she received from the Law Society striking her off as a solicitor was one of the worst moments of the last few years for her, although it was a punishment she knew she more than deserved.
‘To be perfectly honest, we are desperate. You may not have realised how bad things have got, but the system is in meltdown with all the cuts to Legal Aid. I mean, we won’t be able to afford to pay you much, but we need someone starting yesterday, even.’
‘Prisoner slave labour, eh?’ Anna says, but she’s smiling, at least for a moment, indulging the fantasy of it before reality hits again. ‘I’m meant to be in London, though. That’s the terms of the licence. Maybe working in a café or something. I don’t know exactly.’
‘If we turn up there and tell them you’ve got a proper job already lined up and somewhere to stay, too, they’ll be overjoyed. I can assure you of that.’
‘I don’t have anywhere to stay, though,’ Anna says, before realising that his face is pregnant with meaning. ‘No. Absolutely not. I can’t do that. I can’t stay here.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s obvious. You don’t know me. I’ve been in prison for three years. All the reasons.’
He holds his hand up. ‘I know what you did,’ he said. ‘I know it’s bad, but it’s not dishonesty. I’ve spent several hours with you yesterday and today. I’m a pretty good judge of character. I think we can risk it.’
Anna sighs. He’s not making this easy for her. ‘You’re my solicitor. Not my friend. You’re getting over-involved.’ The irony of this hits her. ‘Keep your own side of the road clean.’
Tom grimaces. ‘Touché,’ he says. ‘Fair point. I’ve got a good feeling about you, though.’
She’s getting nowhere with him. Besides, the thought that there might be a future for her in which she could use some of her experience, some of her skillset, is too tempting. It’s a fantasy, but a hard one to refuse.
‘I’m going to find myself somewhere to live, though,’ she says. ‘You can’t argue me out of that.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he says. ‘Look, we’ll give this address for now, OK? Then we’ll find something else. There’s a charity helping women prisoners – I’ll put you in touch with them when we get back from London. Maybe they can help you find somewhere.’
‘Thank you,’ Anna says. ‘You’re too kind.’
He flushes pink, his hair flopping down over his eyes. Anna feels a sudden urge to reach out and smooth the lock back. She grips her hands behind her back.
‘We should get on,’ Tom says, not acknowledging her thanks, his tone now brisk.
She’s lost all energy for the fight.
Bus, train, tube. Finally, it’s happening: a bus to Oxford station, a train to Paddington, a tube to Camden. They navigate using Tom’s phone, which he’s used to pay for her ticket, too. She’s still got the money stuffed in her bra, moulded to her like a talisman. Thoughts slide into her mind – the secret phone, being hit by that car the night before. She’s still carrying the bruises. When a bus honks its horn at her as they cross the road to the Probation Service, she nearly jumps out of her skin.
They step back on to the pavement, and it’s only then that Anna sees how shaken Tom looks, too. He’s clutching on to her arm so tightly she can feel his fingers jabbing hard into it. It’s affected him, too, finding her knocked out like that the night before. She’s already put him through too much.
They find the office easily enough, and Anna announces herself at the front desk. The appointment isn’t until 4pm and they’re ten minutes early, an efficiency for which she’s grateful as she watches another woman rush in, dishevelled and upset, to be told that she’s likely to face sanctions for being half an hour late.
As she looks around the waiting room, it hits Anna just how lucky she is. Straight out of a three-year stretch and she’s come up smelling of roses, job and accommodation sorted, a nice young man catching her arm and saving her from possible death under the wheels of a bus.
Not that it’s real. She doesn’t deserve this, any of it. There’s blood on her hands, on her conscience, dripping into every part of her that was once clean, that was once real. She imagines her sister standing in front of her, head bowed, watching, waiting . . .
‘Anna Flyn?’ Her spiral is interrupted. It’s time.
