WITNESS by Rob Molan, bitter lemon

Why am I being forced to do this? It happened over a year ago and my recollections are fading. They’re better left buried.

I arrive at the forbidding stone building and enter its maw through the swing doors, and an attendant comes over.

‘Can I help you, madam?’ he asks impassively.

‘I’ve been summoned to give evidence.’

‘Take the stairs or the lift to the second floor and follow the sign to the witness room.’

A group of dodgy looking characters are standing by the lift so I take the stairs although my knees are not up to it. I’m knackered by the time I arrive at the room and am greeted by nervous looks from the other unfortunates waiting for their grilling.

A young, sweet-faced woman approaches me.

‘I’m one of the volunteers here. Have you any queries about today?’

 ‘Do I need a legal representative?’

‘No. You’re not on trial,’ she reassures me.

Maybe, but it feels like it.

‘Help yourself to tea or coffee.’

I can’t stomach anything and retreat to a corner where I can sit alone.

Those lawyers are going to drag me back to that night, starting with the sound of breaking glass which aroused me.

‘Who’s there?’ I asked softly as I crept down the hallway.

The lounge door was half-open as I peeked inside and saw the silhouette of a man lifting a fine china plate from my cabinet. He spun round, dropped the piece and ran in my direction.  

Out of my way,’ he shouted, roughly pushing me aside. I can still smell his fetid breath but his face remains a blank.

The police were kind when they came and told me his fingerprints were all over the place. But I’ve been too nervous to leave the house since then and have had CCTV installed, and I cancelled my holiday in Devon and lost the deposit.

Other witnesses are called to the courtroom one by one and leave with anxiety etched on their faces. I wish I could give evidence from behind a screen, then I wouldn’t have to see his face.

I’m shaking like a leaf and don’t know whether I can keep it together on the stand. I look inside my handbag for some tissues and panic when I can’t find any. I hate being labelled as a bloody witness. I’m the victim here.

A female attendant comes into the room.

‘Sandra Tait,’ she calls.

‘Here.’

‘You are stood down.’

I can’t believe I’m hearing this.

‘Why?’

‘The accused has changed his plea to guilty.’

I could scream. He was always going to be convicted by the forensic evidence against him. Why did I have to spend the last six months living in dread of coming to court to get him sent down? Despite this last-minute reprieve, I’ll still be crying myself to sleep tonight with the light left on.

about the author

Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing.

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