Bristol Crown Court looks almost whitewashed in a burst of sunshine grinning through a gap in the clouds. Resting my forehead against the window of the police van, I watch clusters of shivering workers smoke cigarettes in doorways.
The van has to stop at a police checkpoint. Barricades have blocked off either end of the street, guarded by officers in riot gear standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder. Protesters, carrying placards and banners, have been funnelled on to the footpath and kept well away from the entrance to the courthouse.
Glancing ahead, I can see another group at the far end of the street forming a makeshift honour guard for a larger prison van. Some of the crowd are carrying political posters and placards with slogans about ‘taking back our country’. They’re a strange mixture of shaven-headed youths with tattoos, middle-aged men in zip-up jackets and pensioners still wearing war medals. Among them is a woman with a baby in a sling and a grandmother carrying a picnic basket and vacuum flask.
My eyes pick out a familiar face in the crowd. It takes me a moment to place it. Lance Hegarty is in the front row, taunting refugee advocates and pro-immigration protesters. The crowd surges forward, trying to follow the prison van. The police link arms and force them back.
A woman yells, ‘We love you, Novak!’
Someone else shouts, ‘It’s a stitch-up! A state fucking conspiracy!’
TV crews and reporters record the moment, filming from the safety of no man’s land, between the groups of protesters.
Large wooden doors swing open and the prison van pulls down a narrow concrete ramp. The prisoners disembark and walk single file into the bowels of the building.
I’m driven down the same ramp and forced to wait as the doors close behind us. A police officer takes me inside to a holding cell. Other prisoners have lawyers to talk to. I can’t see Eddie Barrett anywhere.
‘O’Loughlin,’ yells a guard. ‘You’re second up.’
Twenty minutes later I’m being led down corridors and upstairs before emerging directly into the courtroom. The dock is set off to one side and separated by glass partitions. Opposite is an empty jury box. Half a dozen lawyers in black robes and horsehair wigs are standing at the bar table like crows hovering around road kill. Eddie Barrett is not among them.
A hush falls over the courtroom as the judge arrives, climbing three steps to the bench. The bailiff calls the courtroom to order. Judge Spencer is in attendance, looking down from his enormous leather chair like a headmaster who has summoned miscreants to his study. His round face is blotched with blood vessels that break across his nose and cheeks in a claret-coloured blush.
‘If it pleases Your Honour, my name is Mellor, I appear for the Crown. We have an application for bail and two matters for mention. If we can dispense with them first you can proceed with the trial.’
The judge turns to the clerk. ‘Has the jury been informed?’
‘Yes, Your Honour.’
At that moment Eddie Barrett pushes through a heavy door and swaggers to the bar table.
‘Barrett for the accused, Your Honour.’
‘Have you had an opportunity to talk to your client, Mr Barrett?’
‘I have, Your Honour.’
Eddie’s hair is still wet from the shower and one untucked shirt-tail flaps up and down as he pulls out a chair.
‘We’re happy to waive the reading of the charge, Your Honour, and won’t be entering a plea at this time, but we do wish to discuss the issue of bail.’
Nobody has addressed me or even acknowledged my presence.
Mr Mellor speaks.
‘The prosecution doesn’t object to bail, Your Honour, but we will be seeking a substantial surety and other guarantees. This was a savage, unprovoked assault, which has left a young school teacher with severe facial injuries. The victim is still in hospital and may require plastic surgery.’
Eddie is on his feet. ‘My client was defending himself and his property after an intruder entered his house illegally.’
‘The victim was unarmed.’
‘He was trespassing.’
‘The injuries are horrific.’
‘I haven’t seen a medical report.’
Judge Spencer interrupts. ‘You’ll get your chance to speak, Mr Barrett.’
Eddie holds up his hands in surrender, his short blunt fingers pointing to the ceiling.
‘Carry on, Mr Mellor.’
‘Thank you, Your Honour. The prosecution will also be seeking a protection order. The defendant has threatened and harassed Gordon Ellis and his wife. We ask the court to order that Mr O’Loughlin not approach either of them at their home or their places of work . . .’
Unshaven and exhausted, I can barely keep up with the arguments and feel no emotion other than abject humiliation. Eddie Barrett is waxing lyrical, describing me as a fine, upstanding member of the community, a university professor, married with two daughters . . . an unblemished record . . . close ties to the community . . . a history of public service . . . blah, blah, blah.
No mention of the separation.
‘This is a case of a home invasion. The defendant found an intruder hiding in his house. It was dark. He was frightened. He acted to protect himself and his property.’
Eddie pulls out a handkerchief and waves it like a white flag. It’s a nice touch.
‘This is an outrage. A travesty. To incarcerate a man whose privacy has been violated. A man who has selflessly served the community . . .’
Judge Spencer raises his hand. ‘All right, Mr Barrett, you’ve made your point. Save the speeches for the trial.’
At that moment I sense I’m being watched and glance over my shoulder. The public gallery is deserted but there is a blind spot to the right of the main doors, an area of shadow big enough to hide a person.
Someone pushes through the door, throwing light into the dark corner. Julianne is watching me. Her hair is brushed back from her face, the fringe falling diagonally across her forehead. She’s wearing a dark trouser suit she bought when she worked in London.
I raise my hand, but she turns away and pulls open the door.
Judge Spencer has finished. Eddie Barrett signals me to the edge of the dock.
‘Can you raise twenty thousand?’
‘That’s a lot.’
‘It could have been worse.’
‘Call Ruiz. He’ll know what to do.’
This time I’m placed in a different holding cell. Three men sit on separate wooden benches against the walls. All of them are wearing suits, but only one of them leans forward to stop the jacket from creasing.
I recognise them from photographs. The nearest is Gary Dobson. Next to him is Tony Scott and sitting slightly apart from them is Novak Brennan. I know what I’ve read about them. Scott is six foot tall, shaven headed, a veteran football hooligan who has served time for assault and robbery. Dobson is shorter, stockier and ten years younger with convictions for car theft, drug possession and assaulting a police officer. Both men drank at the same pub and were activists for the BNP.
Brennan was a party candidate at the recent council elections. He narrowly missed winning a seat on Bristol City Council because the Labour Party withdrew its candidate and urged its supporters to vote for the Liberal Democrat, ensuring the BNP couldn’t win the contest.
Brennan looks younger in the flesh, with barely a line on his face. His trademark thick dark hair is brushed back from his forehead and he has laughter lines around his eyes. Unlike his fellow accused, his suit doesn’t look like a straitjacket.
Scott and Dobson acknowledge my arrival by making eye contact. Brennan is picking at his manicured nails, elbows on his knees. I take the bench opposite. The walls have been recently painted. Without the graffiti I have less to read and more time to think.
I find myself staring at Brennan. His eyes lift and meet mine, locking on to a place inside my head. I glance away, staring at the floor.
I’m holding my breath. When I realise, I exhale too quickly.
‘How’s the trial going?’ I ask.
The three of them are staring at me now.
‘I just got bail,’ I explain. ‘I’m waiting for someone to post it.’
‘Big fucking deal,’ says Scott, shaking his head.
Brennan continues to stare at me as if he’s trying to examine my conscience.
‘Congratulations,’ says Dobson, who seems happier to talk to someone. ‘What didn’t you do?’
He laughs.
Brennan takes a moist paper cloth from a small travel pack in his pocket and begins carefully wiping his fingers one by one, almost polishing his fingernails.
‘You must be getting sick of being in that courtroom,’ I say.
He raises a forefinger, signalling me to stop. ‘Do you know the first lesson you learn in a place like this?’ he asks.
‘No.’
‘You learn to keep your mouth shut just in case the person they put in the cell with you is a snitch who’s going to claim later that he heard you say something you didn’t say.’
His accent is slightly Irish. The North. Belfast maybe.
‘I’m not a snitch.’
‘Oh, so you brought references did you?’
‘No, I mean . . .’
‘Best you not say anything.’
I nod and he goes back to cleaning his hands.
Julianne told me that he didn’t look like a monster. I wanted to tell her that they rarely ever do, bad people. They don’t have a rogue gene or a tattoo on their foreheads and, despite what people seem to think, you can’t ‘see it in their eyes’.
A few minutes later Brennan, Scott and Dobson are led upstairs and their trial resumes. Julianne will be there. Her witness gives evidence today. The survivor.