The Fake Date Read online

  She took in a deep breath. ‘Seven months, that’s all it’s been.’ She knew she had to give it time, but really wished she could turn back the clock, even if that were only so that she could remember what had happened.

  Ella knelt down on the grass verge and then sat with her feet pointing into the hedgerow. Everything was coming into bloom. The trees had turned a deeper shade of green, and the birds were busy flying back and forth to their nests. A small robin bounced around beneath the hedge; it landed on an old prickly blackberry creeper and pecked at the foliage around it. Ella sat and waited patiently, knowing that the longer she sat there, the braver the robin might become and, eventually, if she waited long enough she’d get to snap the perfect moment that she wanted to capture. Her mind cast back to other photographs, to the ones she’d used in the papers, and the pride she’d felt, whether they were scenic, news or portrait. She rolled onto her stomach, and positioned herself away from the random prickles, whilst holding her trusty Nikon as steady as she could.

  Even though the day was promising to warm up, it hadn’t been warm enough for her to leave her coat at home and for a few moments she felt grateful for the extra layer that pressed itself between her body and the cold ground. A sudden memory of that night passed through her; the ground had been hard, cold and brutal. There had been no padding beneath her and she remembered how she’d wished for a coat or for grass, for some form of comfort to cushion her broken body. She closed her eyes and tried to think back to that night, to what had happened. She clearly remembered the colour of the car, but had no idea why. She remembered the hoody, and she remembered watching the car as it had driven away and tried to concentrate her memory on the driver, but couldn’t.

  ‘Why, why, why can’t I see him?’ she screamed. A tear dropped down her face and she stared down at the grass. ‘You have to think. You have to remember who hurt you,’ she chastised herself, knowing that she had to put the jigsaw back together. She had to find the parts that were missing, the broken pieces that had eliminated themselves from her memory. ‘Rick Greaves, it just had to be him,’ she said as she pushed herself into a sitting position and looked up at the sky. Ella took in a deep breath. ‘Who else would I have happily climbed into a car with, especially in the middle of nowhere?’ Ella looked through the camera’s viewfinder to see that the robin had gone. She sighed and replaced the lens cap before pulling the rucksack from her back and throwing it unceremoniously onto the grass.

  Pulling a carton of juice from the bag, Ella sipped at the contents and for a few moments took in the beauty of her surroundings. She’d always loved the countryside and even though she’d been alone on the moors that night, somehow being surrounded by the heather and hedgerows had given her comfort. Until of course the beetle had crawled over her fingers. She hadn’t been scared of the beetle, but she hadn’t liked the fact that her body had failed her and she hadn’t been able to flick it away. The thought made her look around where she sat and without thinking she jumped up from her seat on the grass, grabbed at the bag and the camera and once again began walking along the lane.

  ‘Hello,’ she shouted as Patricia’s eldest son, Peter, came into view. He was out walking their puppy Labrador and looked as though the walk was more of a punishment than fun. But then again, she hadn’t met many ten-year-olds who wanted to do anything but watch television or play computer games.

  ‘Hello, Ella. My mam, she had her baby,’ he announced. ‘Another boy, called him George, that makes six of us now.’

  Ella tried not to laugh. ‘Oh dear. I mean, that’s lovely. Is your mum going for the football team, or is this one the last?’ she asked as she threw her rucksack onto her back.

  ‘Who bloody well knows, she’s always having another one, isn’t she?’ He stroked the dog’s head. ‘And now it’s my job to walk him. You know, till my mam’s back up and about.’

  Ella bit her lip. She couldn’t believe that a boy so young could swear so easily and she tried not to laugh by busying herself and making a fuss of the dog. He was jet-black with charcoal eyes and looked up at her with the hope of a treat. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, boy. I don’t have anything for you.’ She looked up at where Peter stood. ‘What do you call him?’ she asked as she stood up and flicked the lens cap off her camera. ‘Can I take his picture?’

  The boy shrugged his shoulders. ‘Whatever, and he’s a she, she’s called Cookie. Mum was insistent that she had to have another girl in the house.’ He moved to one side. ‘You can walk her if you like, it’d save me from bloody well doing it.’ He dropped the lead and sat his ten-year-old self on the grass while Ella played with Cookie, got her to lie on the grass and took her pictures. She loved dogs, always had and since that night on the moors when the puppy had saved her life, she’d thought how nice it would be to have one. It’d be a good companion, good protection and someone to love, someone who wouldn’t let her down.

  ‘When I’ve developed the photos, I’ll drop one off for you,’ she said as once again the lens cap went back on.

  Peter stood up. ‘Okay,’ he said as he began pulling on Cookie’s lead. ‘But who the hell develops stuff these days?’

  Ella smiled. ‘Well, people like me. I develop stuff; in fact, I tend to develop and print quite a lot.’ Her camera was digital. Even though she could see all the pictures on a screen, she still liked to physically see them. She thought of how many she normally took and printed in a year. Of how she’d use them to lead a story and how the whole wording of the story had been based on how the picture had turned out.

  Peter and the dog headed back home and Ella turned and looked down the lane. Bobby’s tractor came into view and she immediately ducked behind the hedge, her feet dropping into the ditch as she peered between the branches. She watched the tractor move from one end of the field to the other as she hid in the dirt in the hope that his tractor would disappear to somewhere over the horizon. The last thing she needed today was for Bobby to come over and talk to her. She certainly didn’t want him to call her ‘Miss Ella’ again, it was creepy. She began biting down on her lip as she wondered what to do next.

  ‘When in doubt.’ Ella picked up her camera, poked it between the branches of the hedgerow and began taking pictures of Bobby. If what Sarah said was true, she needed pictures, something to study, something that would help with her story, until her memory returned. But Bobby’s tractor suddenly stopped in the middle of the field and she could see him, sitting there, staring towards where she hid. Ella held her breath.

  What if he’d seen her? What if Sarah had been right? What if he was a little bit infatuated? After all, he’d kept her garden for months and she still didn’t know if he’d been being nice, or as Sarah had said, ‘a bit weird’. What if … what if …

  The sound of a car broke the silence and it began to slow down, making Ella duck further into the ditch as she tried to peer over her shoulder.

  ‘For God’s sake, Ella. What the hell are you doing crawling around in a ditch?’

  ‘I … err … Sarah, what … thank God you’re here.’ She jumped up from her hiding position, but continued to crouch until she managed to climb into Sarah’s car, where she slumped as low as she could into the passenger seat, still hiding from Bobby.

  Chapter Seven

  Ella sat in the corridor of the law courts as, one after the other, people of all shapes and sizes walked past. Most looked quite normal and she wondered which camp each person fell into: visitor, criminal or barrister? With the majority of people, it was quite obvious which they appeared to be, but in some cases they looked neither criminal nor barrister and Ella wondered if these people were the friends or families of those here on trial or, like her, a victim simply fighting for justice.

  There was an overwhelming smell of different perfumes, aftershaves and body odour that all blended into one, making her feel light-headed and nauseous. The overstimulation of her nasal passages made her head boom in rhythm with her heart, giving her the feeling that an overpowering migraine might
soon develop. She reached into her handbag, took out the painkillers and popped two in her mouth, along with a sip of water from the Styrofoam cup that she held precariously in her hands.

  She tried to stare at the floor in the hope that no one would recognise her, start a conversation or ask her questions. After all, she was the woman everyone had called a miracle, just because she’d survived, and she’d already come to resent the description. She was the one person every reporter had wanted to interview. They’d followed her, chased her and camped outside the hospital for days. One reporter from a newspaper in York had gone as far as posing as a florist. He’d turned up at the hospital with a bouquet of flowers in his arms, asking if he could give them directly to her. No doubt he’d thought he’d get a scoop, a photograph of her with her arm and leg in plaster, a pained, miserable look on her face. But the nurses had been on the ball – she was after all the victim of an unexplained attack – and security had been high.

  ‘Okay, Ella. Things are about to start. I’m going to take you in and quickly show you around, just so you don’t get nervous once you’re in there.’ Prosecuting barrister, John Burgess, spun around, his long black cloak flowing behind him and he marched off towards the courtroom door, beckoning to her to follow. ‘Come, come, we have to be quick. There isn’t much time,’ he said as he turned to look at her.

  Ella had known John forever. He’d been one of her dad’s closest friends since they’d both been boys. But the white wig that balanced on his head changed the look of his face. It made him look much sterner, older and more distinguished than his years and, for the first time in her life, she thought he looked like a stranger.

  Ella inched up behind him. She tugged her black pencil skirt down and brushed her hand over the shoulders of her jacket to move a stray hair that had fallen. As a reporter that covered the community, she wasn’t used to attending courts or wearing suits. Nor was she used to the high heels and perfectly styled hair. It all felt very unnatural to her and now she wished that she’d gone against her barrister’s brief and worn something just a little more comfortable, especially the shoes.

  She peered nervously around the courtroom as John pointed to the seat where the judge would sit. It was a little higher than everyone else in the courtroom, ensuring that everyone in there would have to look up to where he sat.

  ‘The seat to his right is where his clerk sits, and the desk directly in front of him is where the court officials will be.’ He pointed to the table. ‘And there, to the side of the room, sits the jury.’ He indicated to two long benches that reminded her of the pews in a church. ‘You got that?’

  Ella nodded. ‘And there?’

  ‘That’s where the ushers sit, and behind them is the press box.’

  The two areas were directly in front of where she’d be. The thought of the press being so close made her shudder and she glanced towards the back of the room. ‘And what about there?’

  ‘That’s the public gallery,’ John Burgess added. ’That’s where your parents will be. You’ll easily be able to see them should you need their reassurance.’

  Ella took in a deep breath and quickly wished she hadn’t, as her lungs were assaulted with the smell of beeswax and brass cleaning polish. She thought of her door knocker back at home. Of how it smelled when her mother had polished it. She even thought of how she’d always disliked the smell. But today it seemed worse and added to her already nauseous state.

  ‘You’ll be standing here,’ her barrister, John, explained as his hand tapped the brass that surrounded a cube-shaped area.

  ‘Will I even be able to see the judge, if he’ll be right over there?’ she asked, tipping her head to one side as she looked up and tried to work out how far to the right of the judge she’d be sitting. ‘What if he speaks to me and I don’t hear him?’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll hear him.’ John laughed and then walked further into the room. ‘I’ll be here. Keep your eyes on me; I’ll ask you questions first. Just as we practised. Keep eye contact with me, I’ll try and help you. But you know I’m restricted. I can’t lead you.’

  Ella tried to work out how quickly she could get out of the room, should she decide that she needed to bolt. The door was right at the back and she’d have to get past a lot of people. But then again, the fact that she could if she wanted to pleased her. And as everyone had already said, it wasn’t as though it was her that was on trial, was it?

  ‘All courtrooms are different,’ he began explaining, but Ella’s eyes focused on the area right at the side of the room, next to another door. ‘Behind that door is the staircase that leads to the cells.’

  ‘That’s where he’ll be, isn’t it?’ She felt her legs go weak, her mouth dry and she began to twist her hot, sweaty hands together; without looking at John for his response, she knew that she was right. Rick Greaves would come through that door. He’d stand right there. Right before her.

  Ella tried to focus through the fog that now took over her mind. She once again sat in the courts’ corridor. Her feet felt like lead, her hands were once again hot and clammy and her throat grew dryer by the second. She sipped at her water and waited for her turn to go into court. She suddenly felt as though she were breathing through mud. The hundreds of people who’d walked around earlier had gone and the corridor was now practically empty. For the first time since that night on the moors she felt totally alone. She picked her phone up and thought about calling Sarah, but John had insisted she switch it off and she stared at the unusually darkened screen before placing it back in her bag.

  ‘Ella Hope. Court calls Ella Hope.’ The shrill voice of the court usher shouted out and Ella felt her heart miss a beat. Standing up, she took a last sip of the water before throwing the Styrofoam cup in the trash. She then turned and inched towards the court doors.

  ‘Keep calm,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Keep calm, what’s the worst that could happen?’

  The heavy oak door was opened for her and she stepped inside. Everyone went silent. Everyone except for one person who seemed to inhale sharply, making Ella spin around on the spot, her eyes desperate to see where Rick Greaves sat.

  Nothing had ever prepared her to stand up in court. Or for what it would be like to face Rick Greaves. Giving evidence against him would be brutal and she physically began to shake on the spot. As she took the Bible in her right hand and looked up to where the judge sat, every one of her internal organs vibrated, twisted and squeezed together.

  The man who stood before her smiled kindly. ‘Repeat after me.’

  Ella tried to nod, but the nod came across as a violent shake of her head and she gripped onto the Bible as tightly as she could for fear of dropping it in front of everyone.

  ‘I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give …’ He looked at her as the trembling words automatically fell from her mouth.

  ‘… shall be the truth, the whole truth and …’ Ella closed her eyes. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  The usher glanced across at the judge. ‘… nothing but the truth, so help me God,’ he repeated the words and smiled as Ella stuttered through the words. ‘Are you ready?’ He pushed a glass of water towards her. ‘This is for you, should you need it.’

  Ella glanced around the room. Her eyes became fixed on where Rick Greaves sat, glaring in her direction. She swallowed hard and forced herself to look back at the usher. ‘Yes, I’m ready,’ she whispered back, as he turned to the judge and nodded.

  The room once again went silent as the prosecution barrister, John, stood up. He looked serious and for a moment stayed silent, but then one by one he asked the questions that they had practised. He smiled each time she gave the right answer and nodded reassuringly as the last of his questions was asked. ‘Well done,’ he mouthed, before taking his seat and looking to his right to where the defence barrister sat.

  Ella took a deep breath as the man stood up. He wore a black cloak, an ivory wig and a stern glare. His poker face didn’t move as he lifted a heavy black le
ver arch file onto the table and dropped it with a bang. He looked directly into her eyes with no emotion, then looked down at the file before him and began to read. He then pushed a pair of glasses up his nose before looking back at her, his face solid and without feeling, as though he’d been injected with Botox.

  ‘Miss Hope,’ he bellowed. ‘It is MISS, isn’t it?’

  Ella took in a deep breath. She was determined that he wouldn’t intimidate her. ‘It is,’ she replied in the same flat and unemotional tone. She needed to stay calm. She made the mistake of taking a moment to glance across to the public gallery, where both her mother and father sat. Her father’s lips formed a thin line, his eyebrows were pulled together and for a man who’d never raised his voice in temper, he had a look of vengeance. He glared at Rick Greaves, before glancing back in her direction. He then forced a smile and gingerly and discreetly held a hand up to wave in her direction. She noticed that her father’s hand then gripped tightly onto her mother’s and Ella knew that today would be especially hard for them both. Since that night, her mother seemed to have taken everyone’s worries upon herself and Ella was pleased that her father was with her. He always seemed to be the strong member of the family, the one who always looked after everyone else and it suddenly made Ella wonder who looked after him. Who did her father turn to when he needed a hug, to cry, or just to vent his anger?

  ‘So, Miss Hope. I wonder if you could remind me? How did you meet my client, Mr Greaves?’

  ‘I was a member of his gym,’ Ella replied. ‘I used to attend two or three times a week.’ She looked beyond the defence barrister and across to where the press sat. She’d hated the tricks that reporters used and she wondered what they were thinking. At least twenty reporters sat crowded into rows, all with their heads down and pencils and pads on their knees. All were at the ready to write down any juicy parts of the story, all of which they’d manipulate later. She tried to concentrate on who they were, but all the heads were bowed and the images of people all blended into the next.