Noughts and Crosses by Malorie Blackman (historical books to read TXT) 📕

I was impressed with that, for a start. Only one of the other solicitors we’d tried had been a nought. The rest had been Crosses. I knew there were no nought barristers but I hadn’t expected to come across a nought solicitor whose father had been a solicitor before him. ‘Where’s Mr or Ms Rigby then?’ I asked, still not sure whether or not I liked this guy.

‘Dead. This way please.’ Mr Stanhope turned and led the way out of the waiting room.

Mum gave me one of her warning looks as we followed him. We walked behind him, our footsteps not so much clicking as crunching on the cracked lino. Goodness only knew what it was covered with. A thin coating of honey-flavoured cereal from the sticky feel of it. We stopped outside a door which looked like a reinforced toilet cubicle door. Mr Stanhope flung open the door and – wow!

Polished wooden floor, creamy-white walls, mahogany furniture, leather sofa, every thing in the room spelt class with a capital C! I stared at Mr Stanhope, amazed.

‘I thought you’d like my office!’ Mr Stanhope said dryly. ‘Tell me, d’you think this room makes me a better solicitor or a worse one?’

I got the point. ‘Why is your waiting room so grotty then?’

‘Let’s just say that Crosses are shall we say, reassured by its appearance,’ said Mr Stanhope. ‘It doesn’t pay to appear too successful. Please take a seat, both of you.’

I waited until Mum sat down first before doing the same.

‘How can I help you, Mrs . .?’

‘Mrs McGregor,’ Mum supplied. ‘It’s about my husband, Ryan. He’s being held by the police.’

‘Has he been formally arrested?’

‘Yes.’ Mum lowered her head, before forcing herself to look Mr Stanhope straight in the eye. ‘He’s been charged with murder and political terrorism.’

‘The Dundale bombing,’ Mr Stanhope sat back in his chair.

‘That’s right,’ Mum replied. ‘But he didn’t do it. I know he didn’t do it.’

‘He told you that, did he?’

‘The police won’t let me talk to him. I need a lawyer, someone who can get in to see him on my behalf.’

‘I see.’

‘I don’t have much money.’

‘I see.’

‘I saw in the telephone directory that you do legal aid work?’

If Mr Stanhope leaned any further back his whole body would sink right through the chair. Did he think bad luck was contagious then?

‘Can you help us?’ Mum asked, a tinge of impatience in her voice.

Mr Stanhope stood up and went to look out of his crystal-clear window. Venetian blinds were positioned to let in optimum light while still keeping the room private. I wondered what he could see. I wished I knew what he was thinking.

‘Legal aid wouldn’t begin to cover the costs in a case like this,’ Mr Stanhope began. ‘I can’t work for free, Mrs McGregor . . .’

‘I’m not asking you to,’ Mum replied rapidly. ‘I’ll pay you whatever it takes. I just want my husband’s name cleared.’

Mr Stanhope gave Mum a long hard look before answering. ‘I’ll go and see your husband first. Then I’ll make a decision.’

Mum nodded and stood up.

‘But from this moment on, you talk to no-one but me. Understood?’

Mum nodded again.

I stood up and asked, ‘Mr Stanhope, are you any good?’

‘Pardon?’

‘As a lawyer, are you any good?’

‘Callum!’ Mum admonished.

‘No, Mrs McGregor, it’s a fair question.’ Mr Stanhope turned to me. ‘I’ve won far more cases than I’ve lost. OK?’

‘OK.’ I nodded.

We left the office.

Mum and I sat in the police-station waiting room for ages and ages. No-one offered us a coffee. A couple of times we got a ‘Can I help you?’ from officers entering the station, but that was all. Mr Stanhope had disappeared to talk to Dad and ‘review the police case’. They didn’t have a case, so what was taking so long? I wanted to see Dad. I wondered where Jude was. I wanted to go home and wake up and find that the last year hadn’t happened. I wanted too much.

Mum stared ahead, twisting her thumbs around each other whilst we waited. I was beginning to wonder if Mr Stanhope had just given up and gone home and we’d been forgotten, when he finally made an appearance. And from the look on his face, I could tell right away that it wasn’t good news.

‘What’s the matter? Is he all right?’ Mum leapt to her feet. ‘What have they done to him?’

‘Could both of you come with me please?’ Mr Stanhope said grimly.

After exchanging a worried look, Mum and I followed the lawyer without a word. A police officer held open one of the heavy double-doors which led to the cells.

‘Thank you.’ Mr Stanhope acknowledged the gesture, as did my mum.

I didn’t. The officer walked behind us. When we got to the last cell on the left, we all stood to one side as the officer opened the door. The moment the door was open, Mum flew into the room. I hadn’t blinked before Dad and Mum were hugging each other as if they were glued together.

‘Ryan, what’s going on?’ Mum whispered. ‘Are you OK? You’re not hurt . .?’

Dad turned to beckon to me. Slowly, I walked over to him, knowing that he was going to hug me too. I wasn’t wrong either. I wanted to be hugged by him. I didn’t want to let him go because I was so scared. He hadn’t done anything. Why was he still being held?

‘Mr McGregor, would you like to tell your family what you told me?’ Mr Stanhope asked.

‘Never mind that,’ Dad dismissed. ‘Where’s Jude? Have they let him go? Is he safe?’

‘Jude? The police never had him. He wasn’t in the house.’ Mum frowned. ‘I have no idea where he is.’

Dad stared, then he looked so furiously angry that I found myself taking a step backwards.

‘Those bastards! They said they had him. They said Jude was as good as hanged . . .’ Dad swallowed hard and turned away from Mum and me. Now he looked like the whole world