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inside. The glasses weren’t there.
    She walked back to the guard. ‘Which floor is the Magistrate’s Court?’
    He gestured towards the sign. ‘Three.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ she said again, for the hundredth time that morning.
    The lift doors opened into another world, a corridor bustling with people. Taking a firmer grip on her bag, Marian pushed through to a small reception desk.
    â€˜What name?’ asked the woman brightly through a mouthful of perfect white teeth.
    â€˜Anditon,’ Marian mumbled.
    â€˜Sorry. What was that?’
    â€˜Anditon,’ Marian said, jaws clenched.
    â€˜Oh yes, here we are,’ said the woman, in what seemed to Marian like a shout. ‘Anditon, Charles Thomas. Court thirty-seven at ten. Right down the end there.’ She smiled, but Marian could only see teeth.
    People gathered in small tense groups in the waiting area. Marian stood on her own. Five to ten. The doors were still closed.
    A man in a suit coat and mismatched trousers came down the corridor. He was grey, eyes sunken, hair grizzled. Even his skin was grey. A knot of people opened out towards him. Marian felt the sudden focussing of attention, a sucking in of breath. One woman stretched her hand out towards the boy next to her. Her son?
    â€˜That’s him,’ the boy said distinctly, face contorted. He walked over and barred the newcomer’s way.
    Marian saw it in slow motion, a tableau. A gob of spit formed on the boy’s lips and looped through the air.
    A sppptt sound, Marian thought. Spit.
    The boy and man faced each other. ‘That’s for my brother, you fucking bastard.’
    The man was silent, slime running down his cheek.
    The tableau shattered. The door of Court Thirty-seven opened and two policemen came out. The woman bustled her son away before the police reached him.
    â€˜Are you Mrs Anditon?’ A man in a suit appeared in front of Marian. He held out his hand. ‘Simon Ingerson. I’m representing Charles this morning.’
    â€˜Those people …’ she swayed slightly.
    â€˜Are you all right?’
    â€˜He spat at that man.’
    â€˜Yes?’ Simon Ingerson glanced around briefly. ‘Sexual assault case I believe. Must be out on bail. Sorry it upset you. Come inside.’
    One foot in front of the other. She remembered being seven and learning to ride a bike on the gravel track behind the house, her father running alongside with his hand on the back of the seat. Wobble, wobble. You can do it!
    The room was packed with people. Turning back in a panic Marian cannoned into the lawyer. ‘Who are they? Are they all here for Charlie?’
    â€˜I shouldn’t think so. No. Long list this morning. Not sure where Charles comes. What say you sit here at the back? He’ll come through that door over there into the dock.’
    Marian stopped in her tracks. ‘No.’ Seeing his veiled impatience she tried again. ‘I want to see him. Be close.’
    The lawyer frowned. ‘You won’t be able to touch him or anything like that.’
    He thought she was going to make a scene.
    â€˜I won’t say anything. Just watch.’
    â€˜Right. Listen, I’ll catch you afterwards. There are things I need to talk to you about.’
    Marian edged her way past two people sitting in silence. The woman was older than Marian, her expression grim. The man was softer, shoulders rounded. He looked miserable, his face pale and his eyes puffy.
    What were they here for?
    The man in the mismatched suit had come in behind Marian and sat down next to them. The old man turned towards him, but the woman went on staring ahead.
    Of course. They were his parents, the paedophile. Marian’s chest tightened with pity and fear. She turned away hastily and found a seat.
    The dock was empty, a raised area separated from the public part of the courtroom by glass, but from the official benches only by a low partition. It was a