She sighed with disappointment as she watched the pair in front of her. They used to be larger in numbers when the group was first formed. They’d found each other in an online chatroom in the darker corners of the internet where each echoed the same mantra of ‘This is not justice’ after they trawled through the latest criminal court news. Online meetings and the trolling of leftist, liberal supporters with their unrealistic notions of how the world should be, turned into meeting in person in shady pubs and now, finally, here, in a garden office in deepest South-East London. The numbers dwindled from eight, to five, to four, to now three once the chatter changed from ‘This is what should be done’ to ‘This is what we’re going to do.’
‘You’re bang out of order, Josh,’ said Don. ‘Why are you questioning things now when you knew that this was the plan?’
‘I didn’t know that killing her was part of the plan!’ Josh’s voice was rising and falling like disturbed waves in the ocean. ‘Just punish her. Scare her.’
Don laughed. ‘Oh, she was scared all right.’
‘She’s dead,’ Josh said. His eyes cast to the window as the lights in the house, at the opposite end of the garden, switched on.
‘And what exactly is the problem?’ Don asked. ‘What exactly is wrong with doing what those who call themselves the holders of justice have failed to do?’
‘Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with that. I mean that’s why we’re here. That’s why we’re doing what we’re doing. Making them accountable for their actions. But—’
‘But what, Josh?’
Josh looked away.
‘There’s no buts,’ Josh said unconvincingly. ‘I’m not saying that we shouldn’t have punished her. We—’
Don moved quickly for a man of his size. Swift on his feet with a dangerous right hook was how they’d spoken about him at the boxing club when he was a kid, before life got in the way, before everything changed. He kicked Josh hard in the chest. The metal folding chair collapsed and skidded across the floor. Josh yelped as he fell hard on the floor and banged his head against the edge of the metal filing cabinet.
‘I’m sorry. I should have been there,’ said Josh. He pressed his hand against the back of his scalp. The flickering images from the TV screen briefly spotlighted the blood on his fingers.
The woman said nothing as Don grabbed Josh by the collar of his polo shirt and dragged him into the middle of the room.
Don straddled Josh, placing his full weight on his chest. ‘This is just a warning. You don’t want me to start making promises.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ spluttered Josh. ‘I shouldn’t have questioned you. You were right. She deserved it. She deserved it all.’
18
5 February 2019
Douglas Mantell, walked out of Manchester Crown Court with the arrogance of a man who had got away with it all. Almost three years ago to the day he’d been dragged out of his bed at 6 a.m., thrown into a police van and taken to Weatherfield police station. The detectives, especially the woman who he wouldn’t have touched with a bargepole, looked at him as though he was a piece of shit under their shoes. He didn’t ask for a solicitor. Why would he? Only people with something to hide asked for a solicitor. They said that he’d abused his daughter from the age of five. He paused for a moment. He wasn’t sure how she would have remembered that afternoon, but he denied it all, repeatedly and tearfully during a three-hour police interview. Four weeks later they’d charged him with eight counts of historical sex offences against his daughter and three counts of possession of indecent images.
Douglas was convinced he was going to be found guilty. He’d thought about faking a heart attack halfway through the trial. Against his barrister’s advice, he gave evidence and so did his wife, against her own daughter no less. His barrister had warned him, saying:
‘In my experience, Mr Mantell, a short deliberation period usually means a guilty verdict and, as I’ve advised you, a guiltyverdict means prison. You’re looking at eight to ten years. You should pack a bag with the essentials.’
The jury took three days to think about the counts against him. They sent notes to the judge. The first couple of notes were about the evidence they had seen and heard but the third note was about numbers. They were not all in agreement. His barrister advised him that the judge would give a majority direction and explain to the jury that he could accept a decision where at least ten of them agreed on the verdict. Douglas asked what would happen if only nine of the jury agreed that he was guilty. The barrister had taken a deep breath and looked away as though the possibility disgusted her.
‘If only nine of the jury agree that you’re guilty or not guilty, that’s a hung jury and we will have to do it all again. A retrial.’
The jury had taken three days, seven hours and eighteen minutes to reach a verdict. One person wanted to convict him. Eleven couldn’t be sure.
Douglas walked unsteadily out of the pub and raised his face towards the night sky as he fished in the pocket of his thinning coat for his cigarettes. He was drunk but he was a happy drunk. A free drunk. The temperature had dropped, the pavement glistened with frost and there was a stillness that promised the arrival of snow. Ashton canal was just around the corner and Douglas knew that as long as he followed the canal, he could find his way home. He pulled up the collar of his coat, inserted the buttons into the wrong holes and began to walk.
‘Shit,’ Douglas said, slipping on the icy tarmac as he walked toward the steps that descended towards the canal. He frantically grabbed the frosted metal of the railings and took a moment to straighten up. The cold air had sobered him up a little bit. He took hold of the railing and descended, pausing briefly when he saw that no light was emanating from the next two lampposts ahead of him and that his path was shrouded in darkness.
‘Stupid council,’ Douglas muttered, slipping again. He moved onto the small grassy patch that was close to the water’s edge.
‘You got to be careful, mate. The last thing you want is to end up in that water.’
Douglas turned towards the direction of the voice that was not Mancunian. The person walking towards him was dressed for the weather with a fitted navy parka, navy beanie on his head and leather gloves. The man lowered his head and pulled up his grey, striped scarf around his lower jaw.
‘I most definitely do not want that,’ Douglas sang as the man walked quickly past him, disappearing into the darkness.
‘Should have gone to my local,’ Douglas grumbled. He looked around, unsure if he was heading in the right direction and the light flurry of snow that began to fall didn’t help. He pulled up his sleeve and squinted at his watch but there wasn’t enough light to illuminate the cheap dial. His head felt a bit clearer and he followed the man’s advice and stepped away from the water’s edge, continuing to walk along the icy path.
