the jargon.
‘Very probably,’ declared Desmond with a growl of a laugh.
‘That stuff about me making up symptoms?’
‘We’d certainly cover that, yes.’
‘And the depression thing?’
‘We’ll see . . .’ murmured Desmond, with a quick smile, clearly not intending to go down that particular route. ‘But the prognosis is certainly worth revisiting. We must press home the fact that your chances of recovery are extremely poor.’
‘Yeah,’ said Tom, looking blithely into the darkness of his own future.
‘But overall, a satisfactory morning!’ Desmond raised his glass in salute before swinging it smoothly to his lips. It was rare for Desmond to show anything as unguarded as optimism and Sanjay greeted this departure with a lift of his eyebrows and a quick amused glance at Hugh, while Isabel, blowing her nose, looked rapidly from one to the other with round, red-rimmed eyes. Tom, oblivious to these exchanges, was staring intently at Desmond, quietly noting and storing. When his gaze finally swung towards the table, he saw the unclaimed wine and picked it up.
Catching Hugh’s eye, he said, ‘I’m allowed some lunch and evening.’
‘Great.’ Hugh smiled to show that he’d intended no criticism, while wondering just what form this permission could have taken when Tom’s GP had told him he had a serious drink problem. ‘Your doctor must be pleased with you then.’
Before Tom could reply, Desmond swung his attention away from Sanjay and said brightly, ‘Now, Tom, what do we need to discuss by way of a confab?’
Tom reached for the folder he had ready on the table beside him. ‘Yeah . . . It’s Price’s stuff. I think I’ve found a couple of things we missed.’ Then, out of respect for Desmond, he modified this to, ‘. . . could’ve missed’. He drew out a copy of Price’s statement and handed it to Desmond.
The food arrived and Desmond, peering at the boldlyannotated and underlined statement over his steak and chips, led Tom through each query with a deft blend of argument, explanation and reassurance. Nothing had been missed, Desmond managed to convey; it was a matter of going for the points most likely to succeed and avoiding the weaker points that might not look so good on re-examination by the other side. Tom listened with fierce concentration, barely eating but gulping his wine, reaching for his glass even after it was empty, interjecting now and again to repeat his arguments about Price.
‘But that’s a lie,’ he said at one point. ‘I can prove it.’
‘Proof can be an elusive thing, Tom. It doesn’t always turn out to be quite as straightforward as one hopes.’
‘But the fact that he’s always had it in for me – that must count.’
Desmond said, ‘Yes, indeed. And we’ll certainly bring that into play.’
‘But if I could just tell the judge how it was,’ said Tom in a relentless tone. ‘If I could just tell him why Price is saying this stuff.’
Desmond took a mouthful of chips and chewed thoughtfully. ‘I’m not ruling it out, Tom. But I don’t think it’s actually going to be necessary. And I’ll tell you why – because our best bet, our primary objective if you like, is to make Price look unreliable, to encourage him to trip himself up, to show himself in a bad light. If we can achieve that, get him to reveal himself in his true colours, then the details of your falling out needn’t concern us. Price’s evidence will be discredited anyway. You see what I’m getting at?’
Tom said uncertainly, ‘Yeah . . .’
‘The fact that you fell out over a girl – well, everyone knows that story, don’t they? No need to spell it out in detail. Not even for the judge.’ Desmond glanced at Hugh, briefly sharing the joke. ‘Best to keep it simple.’ He made an expressive sweep of his fork, a signing off.
Tom began to nod slowly. ‘If you think so, Desmond.’
‘I do, Tom.’
Not looking entirely convinced, Tom turned distractedly to his food and
‘Very probably,’ declared Desmond with a growl of a laugh.
‘That stuff about me making up symptoms?’
‘We’d certainly cover that, yes.’
‘And the depression thing?’
‘We’ll see . . .’ murmured Desmond, with a quick smile, clearly not intending to go down that particular route. ‘But the prognosis is certainly worth revisiting. We must press home the fact that your chances of recovery are extremely poor.’
‘Yeah,’ said Tom, looking blithely into the darkness of his own future.
‘But overall, a satisfactory morning!’ Desmond raised his glass in salute before swinging it smoothly to his lips. It was rare for Desmond to show anything as unguarded as optimism and Sanjay greeted this departure with a lift of his eyebrows and a quick amused glance at Hugh, while Isabel, blowing her nose, looked rapidly from one to the other with round, red-rimmed eyes. Tom, oblivious to these exchanges, was staring intently at Desmond, quietly noting and storing. When his gaze finally swung towards the table, he saw the unclaimed wine and picked it up.
Catching Hugh’s eye, he said, ‘I’m allowed some lunch and evening.’
‘Great.’ Hugh smiled to show that he’d intended no criticism, while wondering just what form this permission could have taken when Tom’s GP had told him he had a serious drink problem. ‘Your doctor must be pleased with you then.’
Before Tom could reply, Desmond swung his attention away from Sanjay and said brightly, ‘Now, Tom, what do we need to discuss by way of a confab?’
Tom reached for the folder he had ready on the table beside him. ‘Yeah . . . It’s Price’s stuff. I think I’ve found a couple of things we missed.’ Then, out of respect for Desmond, he modified this to, ‘. . . could’ve missed’. He drew out a copy of Price’s statement and handed it to Desmond.
The food arrived and Desmond, peering at the boldlyannotated and underlined statement over his steak and chips, led Tom through each query with a deft blend of argument, explanation and reassurance. Nothing had been missed, Desmond managed to convey; it was a matter of going for the points most likely to succeed and avoiding the weaker points that might not look so good on re-examination by the other side. Tom listened with fierce concentration, barely eating but gulping his wine, reaching for his glass even after it was empty, interjecting now and again to repeat his arguments about Price.
‘But that’s a lie,’ he said at one point. ‘I can prove it.’
‘Proof can be an elusive thing, Tom. It doesn’t always turn out to be quite as straightforward as one hopes.’
‘But the fact that he’s always had it in for me – that must count.’
Desmond said, ‘Yes, indeed. And we’ll certainly bring that into play.’
‘But if I could just tell the judge how it was,’ said Tom in a relentless tone. ‘If I could just tell him why Price is saying this stuff.’
Desmond took a mouthful of chips and chewed thoughtfully. ‘I’m not ruling it out, Tom. But I don’t think it’s actually going to be necessary. And I’ll tell you why – because our best bet, our primary objective if you like, is to make Price look unreliable, to encourage him to trip himself up, to show himself in a bad light. If we can achieve that, get him to reveal himself in his true colours, then the details of your falling out needn’t concern us. Price’s evidence will be discredited anyway. You see what I’m getting at?’
Tom said uncertainly, ‘Yeah . . .’
‘The fact that you fell out over a girl – well, everyone knows that story, don’t they? No need to spell it out in detail. Not even for the judge.’ Desmond glanced at Hugh, briefly sharing the joke. ‘Best to keep it simple.’ He made an expressive sweep of his fork, a signing off.
Tom began to nod slowly. ‘If you think so, Desmond.’
‘I do, Tom.’
Not looking entirely convinced, Tom turned distractedly to his food and
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