The bus passed, but Martha was already several paces down the street as her emotions seeped out. She could hear their cries out for her, she could feel the buzz of her mobile in her coat pocket, but she could only feel the overwhelming guilt heavy in her chest.
Who am I? The question rang through her ears. It was the most honest thing she had ever said in chambers. It was also probably the stupidest thing she'd said in front of her colleagues given Clive had started with it, and she couldn't even answer the damn question. Who the hell am I?
Winning and losing, that's what Micky said. That's all these cases are: games. It didn't matter that she wore her heart as proudly as her wig, or that she buried herself in papers all night, or that she gave a piece of herself to every client she ever had. To Martha Costello, the binary of win/lose does not factor fairness in a game that already presumes the innocent. Though prosecution must simply present the facts, defence was where she sought justice whether it be as simple as guilty/not guilty or navigating the greyer areas in sentencing.
This was not just another blow after a bad day in court. This was monumental. Perhaps it was just around the time in one's life to have a midlife crisis, but Martha couldn't think that far in advance. She couldn't even think how she was getting home. She just kept running.
"No sign?" Clive asked.
"Well," Jake started, but Billy elbowed him in the gut, "none, sir."
Clive sighed heavily. He knew the case hit her hard, but didn't expect it would be so bad that she would half-ass such an important speech. He'd never seen her half-ass anything. It was her entire identity as defence on the line, and she didn't defend. It was already suspicious, but worse, how could he not have noticed she was missing?
"I'm sure she's just exhausted from the case, sir." Billy offered.
Clive nodded, tucked his hands in his coat pocket, and headed back inside the chambers.
"You know where miss lives, Jake?"
He nodded.
"Go. Call me when you see her."
The sound of laughter and clinking glasses filled the room, but Clive only heard the silence echo in his mind. He looked over to the chair he last saw Martha sitting in, but it was occupied by a colleague.
"Congratulations," whispered Harriet in his ear.
He forced a smile and took a small step back, "Thanks."
"Did you see Billy seethe in the corner when the votes went your way?" she laughed, but Clive didn't find this as amusing as she probably expected.
"The man is dying, Harriet. Have you no sympathy?"
She was taken aback, "N-no, I mean. Yes, he's dying but what he did was inexcusable."
"Of course, I'm not defending that. I represented Amy, for Christ's sake." He rubbed his temples, exasperated. "It's been a long day. Thank you for your help with this campaign. I'll see you tomorrow."
"But, Clive, you're the reason we're celebrating. You can't just leave," she followed him out of the room.
He turned once more and before stepping outside the door he said adamantly, "Goodnight, Harriet."
Martha kept her head down and slowed to a walking pace. She allowed herself to spill a few tears to ease the tension on her chest. She never really saw herself becoming head of chambers, and it didn't feel like a total loss to her. Nonetheless, she was facing an identity crisis. Keeping her eyes on the pavement, the rhythm of her clacking shoes seemed to soothe her, but the ache in her heels did not.
She looked over to a pub nearby where one of her favourite Joy Division songs was playing loudly on the speakers. A tear slid down her cheek as if honoring Sean. Another reminder that she had failed, and yet the song drew her into the pub. Mindlessly, she wandered inside with glazed eyes, and eventually found herself seated with a scotch. It numbed her lips as she sipped, but she quietly hoped it would numb her entirely.
The song ended in the bar, but not in Martha's mind. She sipped and cried in the corner of the pub, and didn't realize hours had gone by because when she blinked the chairs were placed upside down on tables around her and it no longer smelled like alcohol, but of disinfectant. The pub was closed. She looked up and Clive stared down at her.
"Let's go." He said simply, then nodded to the man behind the bar. "Thanks for the call. How much for the drink?"
"Aye," the brawny man replied, "she's caused no trouble, and she paid already. Lucky she had your phone number on her screen. I wouldn't have known what to do with her."
Martha stood up and let Clive usher her out and into his car. He drove them back to his flat in silence while she gazed out of the window.
"Everyone was looking for you, Marth."
Silence.
"I'm worried for you."
Still nothing.
Clive parked and stepped towards his flat without looking back at Martha. He was done coddling her, and all Martha could do was follow him in, so she did.
"Thank you, Clive."
"For what?" he asked as he poured himself a drink. He looked at her tear-stained face for a moment, and she looked so exhausted. He pulled out another glass to fill. "It was one case, Marth. You've lost before."
"This was different." Martha said in a small voice.
He placed the glass on the table and sat down on the sofa while she stood there staring and contemplating the drink.
The silence washed over them because what else could he say? He knew how she felt about Sean and it angered him, and deep inside, he didn't want Martha to care so much. But she did, and that's what he loved about her.
She took the drink and sat next to him, then swallowed the drink in one gulp. Wiping her lips, she said, "Congratulations, by the way."
He smiled gently and topped off his own drink. "Thanks." Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, he pulled her into the sofa and felt her relax.
"I'm not coming back to work for you."
Clive sighed. It was an inevitable conversation, but for once, Clive let her words hang in the air as he poured them both another glass, and then another, and then another.
"Clive," she groaned, "I hate you."
He nodded in agreement, "Me too."
She laughed, "You hate me? Or you hate you?"
"Both," he chuckled back and cuddled her tightly against him. "but not really."
"That makes… no… sense." Martha giggled letting the weight of the night ease off her shoulders. She took a deep breath in and as she breathed out, she settled more comfortably into Clive's chest finally feeling safe. He played with her hair expecting to be swatted away, but to his surprise, she let him.
"You make absolutely no sense to me, Martha Costello."
She wobbled as she sat up. "That's because we've finished a bottle."
He put an arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him. "No, Martha."
Before he could say another word, Martha inched her face closer to his so just a breath separated them.
"You are not leaving me," he whispered against her lips. "Understand?"
She closed the gap and kissed him urgently as if they were both on fire and his lips would put them out.
Ring ring…
Martha groaned at the sound. She blinked her eyes open to a sunlit room she didn't quite recognize. Rolling her head to the other side, she saw Clive fast asleep next to her and felt his arm around her waist.
"Clive?" she whispered, her throat so dry she couldn't say much more. "Clive!"
He stirred awake and automatically grabbed his phone to shut off the alarm, but it wasn't an alarm. It was Harriet.
"Hello?"
Martha turned over and pulled a pillow over her head, but then Clive jerked up.
"What?!" He scrambled to find the remote and immediately turned on the TV, then nudged Martha to look at the screen.
"Breaking News: Micky Joy Found Dead."