What about justice?

 

A loud clattering boomed from the television’s speakers. The camera crashed to the ground and the angle tilted sideways, revealing a man hunched over the fallen reporter. “Help me!” shouted the Italian amid sounds of running footsteps. The Police didn’t move, the Officers more concerned with the commotion off-camera. “Please, she’s preg-” The feed cut and the news studio flashed onto the screen.

The two anchors sat in silence for a moment. “So, so, let’s… let’s recap, on Vincent Knight’s points, main points,” stuttered the female presenter. She opened her mouth to speak again when she noticed her senior male counterpart stand up and walk off. She stared blankly at the empty chair next to her.

“Is this really happening?” asked Christie.

“I have no idea,” said Blane, looking around at the Stirling University staff. The MacRoberts Arts Centre Cafe was usually alive with boisterous Scots, but right now everyone stood perfectly still, their eyes glued to the screen. Their transfixion was abruptly broken by sound of multiple mobile phones each chirping their own song. The disharmony of the clashing tunes perfectly fit the unsettling mood.

A chorus of “Hello?” rang out and people began pacing or heading towards the exit. Blane rubbed his wrinkled face and shook his head as people collected their belongings and ran to the door, or worse still, abandoned their coats and bags in a bid to exit that moment quicker.

The admin team surrounded Blane, looking as though they expected him to have the answers. He was their Manager, not a deity, despite what he preached to his family. “What shall we do?” asked Duff.

Blane thought of only two possibilities, stay and work or go home and dwell. He struggled to see what rushing off would achieve, other than leaving a larger workload tomorrow, but they seemed too shaken to get anything done. “It’s up to you. Get off if you want.” They didn’t need a second invitation and quickly bid goodbye or left without saying a word. “I’ll see you in the morning,” Blane said to his departing team.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket to check if he’d left it on silent. No, it was on, he just hadn’t received any calls. He considered calling the girls, but they were probably already speaking with Lorna in one of their three-way group chats that he was excluded from. He’d catch up with them later. Fortunately his precious Granddaughter was too young to have any awareness of what was going on; he just hoped his soft Son-in-Law didn’t panic and worry her. Slipping the phone away, he stepped towards the television, where a graphic listed key excerpts from the Prime Minister’s conference. ‘Legalised crime’ was number one. “They don’t need to advertise the fact,” he muttered.

“Move it!” someone shouted by the congested glass doors, where people pushed and shoved each other in desperation to leave.

“Calm down!” bellowed Blane. “There’s no rush.” He expected them to listen to him as the Administrator of the facility, and they duly obliged, ending their bickering to file out in a more orderly fashion. “Unbelievable…” he said to himself.

He turned to walk back to the office when he noticed a young man stood behind the bar, pouring a pint. He looked like a student and definitely didn’t belong there. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Without even a cursory acknowledgment, the kid downed his drink.

Blane’s body tensed and his temperature soared. His fiery red hair and stubble had faded, but the fire in his belly burnt bright, having reignited over the last few months. He smacked his hand on the worktop and shouted, “Get out, right now!”

The student threw down his pint glass onto the ground and glared at Blane. The smashing glass caught the attention of those fleeing and quiet returned to the area.

Despite his inferiority in height and build, Blane refused to be intimidated and stepped forward, his eyes wide open. “Last chance or you’ll get it.”

“I need a drink,” said the student.

“It’s not self-service.”

“Where’s the barman then?”

He’d apparently run off with everyone else. “We’re closing.”

“What about the show?”

“It’s cancelled.”

“Will I get a refund?”

This day was getting more surreal by the second. “Have you seen the news?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll understand the need to reschedule.”

“For when?”

“I don't know.” He had to get this crackpot out of here. “You’ll receive a text.” 

“Do you have my number?”

Blane ground his teeth. “Did you buy from us?”

“Yes.”

“Then we have your number. Now leave.”

The guy jumped over the counter and stood face to face Blane. Sweat dripped down the kid’s face and his bottom lip quivered. He began to raise his right hand, prompting Blane to clench his fist. Instead of attacking though, the student reached out his hand in a gesture of friendship. Blane grasped it and they shook hands. “Thank you,” said the kid.

“You’re welcome,” said Blane, forcing a smile.

The student suddenly let go and darted to the door, prompting the onlookers to turn and again seek exit.

Blane watched the student carefully until he vacated the building. Shaking his head, he pulled up one of the pink plastic chairs and sat down. His eyes strayed back to the television. The female presenter chatted to ‘Sir Timothy Hart - Barrister,’ whose static photo was on the side of the screen.

“It was all or nothing,” said the knighted legal expert. “The laws had become so controlling, Britain had effectively become a Police State. However, running in parallel to this, in the polar opposite direction, was an increasingly liberal judiciary. The situation was unsustainable.”

“Are you suggesting the Ketan Malhotra ruling was a deliberate attempt to make the Government listen?”

“Was it a conspiracy? No, I don’t think so. No one could have predicted that the precedent would be manipulated in quite the way it was. When you have someone even challenging a law because they claim it’s their free will to drink and drive, let alone winning, you’ve got a problem.”

“So where do you place the blame for this action?”

“This is a deeply complex set of circumstances. It’s not easy to simply point the finger and say, ‘it’s their fault.’ The judiciary were tied up in knots, of their own doing of course, and they found themselves bound to deliver increasingly outlandish verdicts. No amount of drastic tort reform would have helped, it was too late. The Judges had accidentally tied a noose for the Government, which has been tightening around their neck ever since. And today, the trapdoor opened.”

“Which I presume puts you out of a job?”

“I guess it does!” he laughed.

What some people would do for a little fame. The country was entering unchartered territory and his career lay in tatters, but this guy still found time to schmooze on live TV.

“Sir Timothy Hart, thank you for your time on this challenging day.”

“No problem, it’s been a pleasure.”

‘A pleasure!’ Seriously? thought Blane, glaring at the smarmy Barrister’s photo.

Sir Timothy Hart disappeared and the camera tightened up on the presenter, presumably to hide the empty seat to her side.

“The country is left with questions. Why has this happened? Who is responsible? When was the decision made? But, one question stands out above all others: what will happen now? Will your children go to school tomorrow? Will you go to work?” If you want paying you will. “Where does this leave the millions employed in the public sector? How long will it be before fresh laws are enacted? Evidently there will be no new criminal proceedings in the meantime, but what will happen to those already in motion?”

Blane heard nothing more. A single thought monopolised his brain: the Drummonds. What were the implications for the case due to be heard next week?

He jumped up and rushed to the now clear main doors. Once outside he faltered in his forward motion. People scattered in all directions, fleeing as if their lives depended upon it. Realisation hit him and he finally grasped the prickly truth. The illusion of control had been slipping recently and this dispelled the myth altogether. He was powerless to protect those he loved.

Blane sprinted to the car park, overtaking those with less purpose. He felt like he was walking on air, such was his disassociated state. He could almost see his body dashing below as he glided above.

He arrived at his silver Lexus IS 200 and fumbled with the keys. Once unlocked, he yanked open the door and jumped in. He threw his mobile phone onto the passenger seat, started the engine and began reversing out of the space. Glancing in the rear-view mirror he saw someone running immediately behind, forcing him to perform an emergency stop. “Idiot,” Blane muttered at the man. He may not have been driving with due care and attention, but they weren’t walking with due care and attention either. He put his arm around the back of the passenger seat and swivelled his body to get a good look out of the back while he again reversed.

He proceeded cautiously out of the car park, weaving around people preoccupied with their phones and cars pulling all kinds of unorthodox maneuvers to get moving that bit quicker. After navigating the chaos, he turned onto University Road Way and put his foot down. For all of ten seconds. He came to a standstill behind a whole procession of cars. That’s what happens when you have a campus of over 10,000 staff and students all trying to leave at the exact same moment. The sound of beeping horns reverberated as nerves frayed. Blane copied those around and hooted repeatedly, despite the utter futility.

Blane picked up his phone and speed-dialed Lorna. It rang for less than a second. “Blane?”

“How you dong?”

“The news is saying-”

“I know, I know. Have you spoken to the girls?”

“Yes.”

Of course she had. She hadn’t bothered calling him though. “And… How are they?”

“They’re scared.”

“Where are they?”

“At home.”

“Did you tell them to stay there?”

“No. Do you think I should have?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call them back.”

“I’ll call Ally, I need to speak with her.”

“What about?”

“To check she’s okay,” lied Blane. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Are you coming home?”

“Yes.”

“Please hurry,” she said, her voice breaking.

“Yes, okay. Bye.”

He hung up and immediately dialed Ally.

“Daddy?” she answered.

“Hi, sweetheart. Are you okay?”

“No,” she said, weeping.

“It’s terrible, I know. But don’t worry. The change is temporary and they’re going make things better in the long-run.” He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t believe that for a second and hated misleading Ally.

“You really think-”

“Look, I need the number for the Solicitor handling Bonnie’s case.”

“Why?”

“I just want to ask him something.”

The line went silent for a moment. “You don’t think-”

“No, no, I am sure this won’t have any bearing. It will be fine. I just want to clarify the position.”

“Okay…”

“So, do you have the number?”

“Yes, hang on.”

Blane continued to lift his foot up and down off the clutch as he crawled forward. That damn roundabout at the end of the road.

“Ready?” asked Ally.

Blane put the phone on speaker and primed his thumb. “Yes.”

He tapped in the numbers she read. “Thanks. Now listen, everything will be alright. But for now, you stay indoors, do you hear me? You do not leave the house.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

“You look after that little angel for me.”

“I will. Don’t worry, she’s fine, playing with her dolls.”

His eyes began to well up thinking of that perfect girl and the recent trauma that would scar her life. “Bless her. I’ll call you later.”

“Let me know what the Solicitor says.”

“I will, bye bye.”

“Bye. I love you.”

“I love you, baby.”

He disconnected the call and dialed the number she had given him. After 10 rings, it went onto answer-machine. “Damn it!” He hit redial, again and again, as he slowly edged forward down the road. Eventually, when he’d lost all hope, a dispirited woman’s voice said, “Hello?”

“Hello, oh hello, I didn’t think anyone was there.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m Blane McIntosh, Bonnie Kincaid’s Grandfather.”

“Oh Jesus, I’m sorry.”

Blane beat fresh tears away with anger. “Today’s news… will it effect the case?”

“I… I… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“How can you not know? Call someone.”

“Who? Who do I call? Look, I’m sorry, but I guess it’s over.”

“YOU GUESS IT’S OVER?” exploded Blane. “WHAT ABOUT JUSTICE?”

The phone went dead.

Blane beat the steering wheel. He felt like he was going to combust, so opened the windows to cool down. The gentle breeze was refreshing, but insufficient to temper his rage. He stared down the long road of stationary cars. He wasn’t prepared to wait in this queue any longer and looked around to consider his options. There was nothing coming the other way, everyone leaving the site not entering it. What a waste of tarmac. Blane leaned out of the window to confirm there was definitely nothing oncoming and then pulled out. Increasingly confident, he accelerated and sped down the gentle hill as if on a dual-carriageway. Blane glanced to his left and saw the confused faces of those he was overtaking, and then noticed in his rear-view mirror that others were following his lead.

All of a sudden a car just a few yards in-front made the same maneuver and drove into his path. There wasn’t time to break, so Blane swung the steering wheel to the right and sent the car skidding onto the grassy verge. He hurtled past the careless driver, waving his fist at them. With trees approaching, Blane drove back onto the road, but found more cars pulling into his way. The tyres screeched as he swerved back to the right again, around the entrance kiosk and up the hill. He slammed on the breaks, but sent the car into a skid. He wrestled with the wheel, attempting to keep the four tyres on the ground, until the back-end swung around and the car came to an abrupt stop.

Startled that he hadn’t killed himself, Blane got out of the car and staggered away. He reached the nearest tree and slumped down onto the grass, leaning his back against the trunk. His heart pounded and his trembling hands wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked back at the burnt rubber he’d imprinted on the road and the cut-up grass that charted his winding path. He’d nearly caused an accident, but had averted it with a piece of driving excellence. The cars continued hurtling past on the wrong side of the road at such speed that it was like watching a busy motorway. He’d caused that too. It seemed that he wasn’t without control after-all; his life was firmly in his own hands.