12.17am.
If I fell asleep right now, then I’d get four hours and 43 minutes of sleep. It’s not quite the seven and a half hours I needed to feel like I could deal with the world. Not even the six that I would at least need to function. And tomorrow- no, today - I need to function.
I won’t sleep right away, though. If it takes me say…10 minutes to get really sleepy, if I manage to finally empty out my mind from everything that’s been swirling around in there? If I manage to really, truely empty out my mind completely, then I’ll get 4 hours and 33 minutes of sleep.
That’s not going to happen, though. So I need to be more realistic.
If – and this is a big if – if I manage to run my mind wild, let it roam free until it’s absolutely exhausted each and every possible bad situation that might happen one after the other in rapid fire movement? Then maybe I’d be able to calm down and get some shut-eye at about 1ish.
But I’ve been trying to empty out my mind that for the last two hours now. It’s not really worked out, has it?
I stared up at the pebble-dash ceiling above my bed, the street lights casting an orange-y glow over the off white paint. I tried to root around my head, to drudge up what the magic formula was last time, on one of the countless other restless nights. Have a shower? Check. Have a cup of tea? Check. Get a hot water bottle and place it at the foot of the bed? Check. Think about all the good `things that have happened and try desperately to drown out all the worries and questions and scenes that keep popping up, like a virus riddled laptop? No.
No.
When I start to remember what had happened, I try to go through the list of what the advocate, Ms Quinn said.
Take a pause. Drink some water. Take as much time as you like. Everyone is there to listen to your story and you’re in control.
Speak clearly.
Look at me when I’m asking the questions and look at the judge when it’s Mr Kilgarthy questioning you.
Everything’s going to be fine if you just say what you told me. Everything will be fine if you just tell the -
I try to chant it in my mind, over and over. If I close my eyes tight enough, I can even hear the advocate’s voice, like it’s over a tannoy, being blasted the sounds of the watery cough. I try to picture a pen in Ms Quinn’s hand, how fluidly it moved over the paper. It didn’t even look like she was writing. It was more like she was making wide, looping movements across the sheet, right to left, right to left. She didn’t miss a single word, though. She read everything back to me to make sure.
At 6.15pm You were heading home from the shops. You went to the local Co-op to pick up some margarine and oat milk. It’s about a 10 minute walk from your flat if you walk through the park. You didn’t notice anything on your way there.
I was going to have beans on toast for dinner.
It was on your way back, though, that you received a call from Mr Daniel Peter. You were close friends with Mr Peters. You had worked with him for years.
5 years to be exact. Daniel. We didn’t really talk all that much at first, with our desks being a bit further away from each other. It wasn’t until my lunch hour got changed to match his that we started to hang out. I ate my egg and cress sandwich quietly whilst he held audience with the group, making jokes about a client’s name. I hated egg and cress, but it was that or cheese salad.
“I shit you not! Fanny Waters! I mean, her full first name is Stephanie, but she told me – she actually asked me to call her Fanny! Can’t quite be asking her to confirm that when she’s in the stand. Sheriff Riley would have a heart-attack.”
The room was a cacophony of titters and giggles, with each person now adding their own jokes to the mix. ‘Ben Dover’. ‘Tess Tickle’.
“Your name’s sort of funny, if you think about it.”
The room quietened down slightly. You could hear the whirring of minds as they tried to dissect where I found humour in it.
Danny was the first to break the silence, “What’d’ya mean?”
“Daniel Peter. It’s two first names, really.”
Silence. It was dragging out, becoming slightly uncomfortable before, like a gentle breeze wiping away a piercing heat, Danny issued a huff, “Huh. Never thought about that before... there’s plenty of folk with two first names, though. Brendan Fraser.”
“Jack Nicholas,” I added.
“Darren Chris!” Martha added, a grin on her face as she entered the game. This went on for some time, with names getting add and rules being created. A surname couldn’t have an ’s’ at the end unless the first name naturally ended with a ’s’, so Amy Adams was ruled out.
The rest of lunch went down like this until people started to peel away and return to their desks. As I started to pack away my apple core back into my little lunch box, Danny got up, stretched his back and groaned, “Well, you know what they say, right?”
As the only other person in the room, I glanced up from my box, clicking the lid shut as I shook my head, “What’s that?”
Danny tucked in his white plastic chair back under its table, a small smile on his face as he headed for the door, “Never trust a man with two first names.”
Since his promotion, however, you found that he did not have as much free time.
Since my first ‘office night out’ where we shared a taxi back home, we’ve always got on well. Sitting in the back of that cab, passed the comfortable point of being tipsy with the warmth of kebabs on our laps, Danny asked if I fancied heading up to his to eat. I refused at first, knowing that I would have to face a half hour walk home in a drunken state at night.
“Oh, come on! I’ll walk you back if you want. I’ll walk you all the way to your door. I’ve got beers. What’s better than-than a kebab and beer? I’ll even-I’ll even share my chips. You didn’t get any. I know you want some chips.”
That was enough to sway me.
I think that was my favourite part of the evening, actually. Us sitting on his couch, trying to be quiet so we didn’t piss off his roommate whilst we stuffed kebab and chips down our gullets and watched a movie. We both tried to work out the best hangover cure for tomorrow, arguing about whether food was a good idea and if so, was it a cooked breakfast or was it a McDonald's that hit the spot.
I ended up staying over that night, getting tucked up on his couch. It turns out, a freshly brewed cup of tea and slice of toast was the perfect hangover cure, closely followed by picking at the leftover Donner meat and curry sauce laden chips after a quick blast in the microwave.
After that, we hung out all the time. People tried to spread rumours, that we were together, that we were more than friends, but...but that was never the case. Never. Then rumours were spread that we actually couldn’t stand each other and that our friendship was just for show. That wasn’t right either. Even when we were considering applying for that promotion, we both encouraged each other. We checked over each other’s application forms. We were chuffed for each other, no matter who won.
But him getting that promotion made things a little harder. It made him more distant. He didn’t come to sit with us at lunch any more. There were no more secret chats around the printer, moaning about whatever our managers had told us to do, or whatever shitty incentive they had to try and get us to bring in more money. A doughnut? Really? Sure, we weren’t paid a lot, but our meager disposable income could stretch to buying us a doughnut from Greg's. Arseholes. He couldn’t join in on these jokes anymore. Not now that he was one of them.
He called you, asked if you were busy at the moment and suggested that you attend his home to have dinner with him. He advised that his roommate, Mr William, was not at home. You accepted this offer.
I missed him. Of course I went over.
You arrived at Mr Peter’s home. You estimate your arrival to be around 6.35, as Mr Peters lives in the opposite direction to your apartment, closer to the Co-op you had walked away from. You placed your butter and cheese in his fridge. You advise that he had made a pasta bake.
And it was a good one too. He always was a good cook. He even left off the cheese for me.
You ate this with him, with a glass of wine. Both you and Mr Peter were in good spirits. The TV was on at the time. You consider that Coronation Street was on in the background, however, neither of you were watching the show. Instead, you caught up on what was going on in each other’s lives.
Finding out about what he was doing. He said that his roommate was being a little more weird than usual, turning up at all hours. He said he thought James had graduated from smoking the occasional joint to doing something stronger recently. He seemed worried. He just wanted to live somewhere quiet. He loved this flat, loved the neighbours and everyone around the area. That was Danny all over, he was that type of person, the person who anyone could talk to. You’d walk away feeling like his friend after only having met him five minutes ago.
You confirm that you and Mr Peter were strictly friends and that there was no sexual relationship between you both. You state, however, that you and Mr Peter did share a kiss at an office Christmas party 3 years ago.
God, we were so drunk that night. It was part of some drinking game, though. Neither of us wanted to back down, so we did it. We kissed. With tongue.
Beyond the usual levels of embarrassment, this was not taken any further.
It was awful. It was like kissing a brother.
You confirm that neither you nor Mr Peter had a partner at the time.
Even if we did, they probably would have laughed their arses off.
You advise that at around 8.30pm, you heard Mr James William return. You advise that he did not come to say hello. This wasn’t particularly out of character for Mr William, however.
I must’ve been over at Danny’s over a hundred times. I don’t think I ever got more than a few grunts out of James. He always looked at me strangely, if he ever looked at me at all. There was just...something about him that never sat right with me.
And then you and Mr Peter carried on your evening. Mr Peter brought out cheese and crackers. You remember that this was plated up on a cheese board, which you had both indulged from. By this point, you both were standing in the kitchen, chatting. You estimate that you drank a bottle and a half of red wine between the two of you-
Standard.
-by the time you got up to go to the bathroom. You consider that you were in the bathroom for two minutes before you heard Mr Peter and Mr William talking. By the time you had washed your hands, you heard that voices were raised.
Shouting. James was screaming at him.
When you emerged from the bathroom, you heard Mr Peter say ‘I’ve never been in your room, James. Why would I go in there?’
It was a pigsty. Why would he go in there?
Mr William, with his voice still raised, screamed, ‘Where’s my money? You thievin’ fuckin’ bastard – where’s my money?’
It was so strange to hear Ms Quinn say this so matter-of-factually, her voice almost dull and drone like.
I couldn’t hear Danny talking at this point. I could only hear a watery gasp for air and the sound of something banging against the cupboards.
When you entered the kitchen, you saw Mr William with his hands wrapped around Mr Peter’s throat.
Danny was struggling so hard to breathe.
Mr William was attempting to bang Mr Peter’s head against the kitchen counter.
He did. He managed to get Danny down at some point, managed to smack his head against the counter.
You were scared and you told Mr William to stop, or you would call the police.
My phone was in my left hand, a threat to James. He turned towards me after glancing over his shoulder. James was a big guy. One hand was enough to hold it’s vice like grip around Danny’s purpling face.
“You won’t fuckin’ dare.”
And then you describe Mr William grunting and falling to the ground.
It all happened so fast.
Mr William shouted, “Fuck, fuck, I’ve been stabbed.”
Everything was just such a blur.
And it took you a moment to realise that Mr Peter had the cheese knife in his hand and had stabbed Mr William.
Yeah. A moment.
You tried to make sure that Mr Peter was okay first before you called an ambulance.
Yes.
However, by the time the ambulance and the police had arrived, Mr William had already perspired.
Yes.
You consider that Mr Peter acted in self-defense, something that Mr Peter agrees with.
Danny told me it was better this way.
I closed my eyes tight, trying to get rid of the sound of James choking on his own blood.
Kathy- Ms Lawrence – you did all you could. You didn’t know first aid. You tried to stem the blood flow as best you could.
Only after I removed the knife first. I don’t think you’re supposed to do that, though.
I believe Mr Peter did act in self-defence. There was nothing that could have been done. If Danny didn’t...take the actions he did, then he would not be alive today.
That’s what Danny said. If I didn’t stab James then he’d be dead. He said that he’d take the wrap. It means he can say it was self-defence. If we told the truth-
All you have to do is tell the truth.
-then I’d end up in prison. So we’ll tell a new truth instead.
If I go to sleep now, then I’ll have to get up in an hour and a half for my first day of cross-examination.
I just hope they never find out that I’m lactose-intolerant.