He shoots me a disapproving look, but just asks if I have my insulin with me.
“Of course.”
“Anything to eat?”
I grimace and shake my head. He picks up a few sandwiches to go anyway, and I suppose that’s a sensible idea. I have no idea what’s going to happen at the court or how long it will take.
We wait for our order in a little knot of office workers and tourists. I get my drink first, and the burst of sweetness and caffeine on my tongue is heavenly.
Feeling braver, I look up at Dieter. We should at least acknowledge what happened between us last night, but I don’t know how to broach the subject. He seems one hundred percent professional this morning. Finally I put my hand on his arm, stand on tiptoe and whisper, “What did you do with my underwear?” I remember the way he stripped them off me in one smooth movement, and feel a swooping sensation.
He bites back a smile, still looking at the barista. A moment later he leans down to me and says, very softly in my ear, “I smelled them while I jerked off. I smelled my fingers, too. You were all over them. They’re still in my bed, and they’re covered in my come.”
I choke a little on my latte and watch as he takes his coffee from the barista with a polite smile that belies the incredibly filthy thing he’s just said. My face is burning as we walk out. All right. Not one hundred percent professional, then.
It takes another thirty minutes to get to the Old Bailey as the traffic is terrible on the Strand. We’re sandwiched between red buses the entire way. I barely notice, though, as I’m still preoccupied with the thought of Dieter with my panties balled up in his fist, coming while he thinks about me.
As he predicted there are a lot of journalists outside the court, but at least they’re cordoned off behind temporary fencing. We park up by St Bart’s Hospital and Dieter holds out his hand. “We can’t take in phones, so give yours to me, and take any water or food out of your bag. Keep your sweets, though, in case your blood sugar drops. We’ll explain to the guard that you’re diabetic.”
I have soft snake candies in my handbag for just
such a contingency. Dieter stashes our phones in the glove box and I administer my insulin, then we walk back down toward the Old Bailey. I gaze up at Lady Justice mounted on top of the dome, bright gold against the gray sky, a scale in one outstretched hand and a sword in the other. Judgment and protection. I feel a sudden urge to get out my pastels and sketch her. Anything but go inside.
There’s a crowd of photographers gathered outside the court entrance as well as television reporters on various corners doing live casts for morning news programs. There are a fair few rubberneckers as well, office workers sipping lattes, curious as to who’s going to turn up. As we near the crowd I want to grab Dieter’s hand and feel its warmth and strength in mine. The only thing that stops me is the legion of photographers ahead and the gossip it will cause if we’re snapped doing anything intimate.
To my surprise we don’t cross the street toward them, but veer off to the left and begin to walk around the back.
“No need to run that gauntlet,” Dieter explains. We turn into a small square behind the courthouse and descend some steps into Warwick Passage. It’s dark and damp. There’s a heavy wooden security door with a sign saying public gallery and we join the short queue there. A man in front of us turns round, sees my pink hair, and his eyes widen. He’s a journalist, I guess, looking at his wrinkled mackintosh and cheap suit. Dieter glares at him until he turns away again.
We wait, and within twenty minutes there’s quite a queue behind us. At five minutes to ten the door opens, Dieter gives the guard my father’s court number, and we go upstairs to security. Behind me, I hear most of the others giving the same court number.
Inside, it is not grand. The building has a distinctly institutional feel to it, with blue linoleum floors and clunky off-white radiators standing in the hallways. Court eleven is all the way at the top of the building. There’s no lift and we climb six flights of stairs. By the time we reach the top I’m panting. Dieter glances at me, his breathing normal. I give him a look. What? It’s your job to be fit, not mine.
The usher tells us that the court’s not quite ready yet, and we wait some more.
“We can’t talk once we go in there,” Dieter says, nodding at the door. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you upset that your mother isn’t here?”
“She’s being treated or something so she can’t come.” I don’t want to talk about her. She and my father haven’t been getting on for some time, but I don’t know why. To deflect the conversation back on him I ask, “Why did you become a bodyguard?”
“I’m not a bodyguard. I’m a personal security officer.”
I give him a withering look, and to my amazement the corner of his mouth quirks.
“All right. I’m a bodyguard.”
“So, why?”
“I’m a people person.”
Yeah, right. I study him closely. Why do people become bodyguards? A power trip? The money? It can’t be fun, trailing after little twerps like me all day long. I wonder how he started out. Bouncer? That doesn’t sit right. Too thuggish. Cop? Maybe. Soldier? I recall the way he’s able to stand for hours on end, betraying nothing of what he’s thinking. That seems to fit. “Were you a soldier before this?”
He nods, and I’m thrilled I figured it out.
“Were you in Afghanistan? Were you blown up?”