Phillip Kennedy pleaded not guilty throughout the trial, lowering his head and weeping as the verdict was read out in court.
Judge Sebastien Ward said the killer would be shown no mercy and should expect to serve a long sentence for a heinous crime against an innocent woman.
Kennedy was led from the dock by police officers, turning only once to glance at the victim’s husband who bore a dignified silence throughout the proceedings.
Sentencing will take place later this month.
The Yorkshire News, October 2018
2A YEAR LATER
Alice
I see him before he sees me. I shuffle forward on unsteady legs, my hands trembling as he turns and looks my way. His eyes are blind to my presence, always glancing elsewhere, their unseeing stare shifting over and beyond me. This is always the way, me chasing after him, watching, waiting, hoping that one day, he will finally turn my way and sense that I am here. Weeks and weeks of longing for him to speak and acknowledge me. Anything. I will take any crumbs he decides to throw my way. That’s how anxious I am for his attention. Does that make me sound sad and desperate? Probably. But that’s because I am. I need him to want me, to be with me. It’s just how it is.
The group of bodies moves out of the church, their voices a gravelly murmur. People turning, speaking to one another, talking in hushed tones, heads dipped together respectfully.
Only when we are outside does the noise level return to normal, people’s whispers raised to their usual volume, their voices carrying over the warm air.
‘How’s your Mum? Still not well?’
‘Yes, John’s still working over at the big supermarket. Been there for over ten years now.’
‘Lovely session, don’t you think? Went really well.’
‘My arthritis is getting worse by the week. Don’t know how I managed to make it here today.’
The voices around me are no more than white noise as I scan the crowd for signs of him. He’s disappeared. No hanging around for idle chat; Peter has vanished from the throng, heading away from the crowd before anybody has a chance to engage him in conversation. I admire him, being unwilling to become embroiled in the pointless, boring minutiae of other people’s lives. The rest of us are all too polite to say no, to tell people that we have better things to do with our time than to stand and listen to their endless litany of ailments or be subjected to the mindless repetition of banal news about their lives; news that is insignificant and trivial to us and important only to them. We all have our damaged existences that we strive to conceal. Peter has his and I have mine.
I wonder if he has noticed me watching him from afar? I don’t suppose he has. Why would he? He doesn’t know me. Or at least, I don’t think he does. I’m just another face in the crowd, another member of the group who is mourning the loss of somebody close to them. I know him, though. I definitely know him. We have a lot in common. It’s just that he doesn’t know it yet. For the past year, I’ve been wandering aimlessly through life, rudderless and confused, with nobody and nothing to assist me, to tell me that everything is going to be just fine. Nobody to stop me from collapsing in a heap. Until I realised that Peter attended the grieving sessions in church, that is. It gave me a purpose, knowing I could get close to him. It was a chance, possibly my only chance. Hope flourished within me. I had something to aim for, something tangible I could cling onto. Something that could turn my life around, make it worth living again.
Every week at the group sessions, I watch him: scrutinising his speech, his movements, every little thing about him. I need to know it all, to work him out, assess him. Become his judge and jury. Unlike me, he is able to speak coherently, to relax, converse with others in the group. Be himself.
I am not a gibbering wreck but choose to remain silent, convinced everyone can see my weaknesses and vulnerabilities, convinced they can see deep inside my soul, into the blackness that festers there, the simmering resentment at being left to cope on my own in this scary and often harsh and unforgiving world. Of course, we are all weak and vulnerable. That’s why we’re here. Peter stands out from the others. He’s stronger, capable. It makes me wonder why he’s here at all.
Every week as I watch him, I feel as if I am being drawn closer by an invisible strand. Each time I attend, I find myself trying that bit harder with my appearance, wearing more make-up, curling my hair. Not too much. Nothing too garish. It’s a therapy group, not a pick-up joint. I don’t want to turn up looking as if I am going clubbing. So instead, I wear perfume, brush my hair, do what I can to make myself noticeable and half decent without appearing too brash and brassy. Yet still he turns a blind eye, appearing to show little interest in anybody around him. Especially me.
I’ve never been particularly drawn to religion, finding churches often oppressive and unwelcoming, but knowing Peter would be there every week was enough to lure me through these doors and so here I am, trailing after him like a small child desperate for attention. And here he is, barely acknowledging my existence. I will keep trying however, and soon he will see me through his fog of misery and grief. Soon enough I will penetrate his armour, his invisible shield and then he will know who I am. I’ll make sure of it.
I take a walk through the graveyard behind the church. It’s peaceful here, filled with silence save for the whispering of the breeze through the trees and the distant chirrup of the birdsong. I like this place. It’s sobering, a space for reflection and serious thought. A space where I can be me.
I kneel on the ground, the soil wet beneath my flesh, and turn to the graveside. I empty the vase of stagnant, foul-smelling water, flecks of dirt spreading next to my feet, and refill it at the tap next to the fence, then pluck out the withered flowers and rearrange the ones that still look half decent and haven’t succumbed to age and decay, their stems still straight and not withered and wilting. It is as I am patting down the gravel that I hear his voice above me. It causes me to stop and suck in my breath. My skin prickles as I turn to see him standing next to me, looking down with a wry smile on his face. His eyes are dark and impenetrable, fathoms deep.
‘I see you take good care of these people. This is a well-tended grave.’
I sigh and suppress a smile as I stare up at him, scrambling to rise from my haunches and wiping my hands down the side of my trousers. It’s Peter. He’s here, speaking to me, watching me. Actually acknowledging my presence. At long last. I’ve put a lot of work into this moment and now here he is. Finally.
‘Thank you.’ My voice is a low murmur. I want to look away but am afraid of missing something. This moment has been a long time coming. I want to see everything. Every single movement, every blink and twitch, every breath that exits his body. I need to see it all. I’ve earned this. I can’t afford to make any mistakes, to lose this moment.
‘We’ve met before?’ He is smiling now, his eyes twinkling, his hand outstretched towards me.
I nod, trying to mask my enthusiasm, returning his smile. ‘Yes, we have.’ Surprised at how strong his grasp is, how cool and steady it is, I shake his hand. ‘At the counselling sessions in church.’ He’s taller than I remember, a good six feet, perhaps more.
‘I thought so. I knew you looked familiar.’
I want to tell him that I’ve been watching him for weeks and weeks and how has he not noticed me before now but remain silent, nodding instead and removing my clammy palm from his parchment-dry skin.
‘I’m not sure how much they’re helping, those sessions, but you never know with these things, do you?’ My voice is croaky in comparison to his mellifluous timbre and my is vision blurred. I blink away the film covering my eyes and clear my throat. He must think me an idiot, this man. An idiot who is standing awkwardly, gazing up at him like a forlorn schoolgirl in the presence of her latest crush. I pull back my shoulders and try to inject some authority into my stance, flexing my fingers and jutting out my chin. I’ve waited a long time for this moment. Too long.
‘I suppose you don’t,’ he says, looking away, his shoulders sagging slightly.
I stand, wondering what it is I’ve said. We were close to making a connection and now he has lost his initial impetus, his voice suddenly reedy and reserved. I need to get it back, that connection. I won’t lose it. I can’t. Letting it slip away isn’t an option.
‘I was wondering if you fancy a coffee? I mean,’ he says, his eyes darting about the row of gravestones, ‘only if you’re not too busy. Or we can do it another time…’ His voice trails off, his words swallowed by the fluttering of wings in a nearby tree. Two pigeons flap about on a branch, sending leaves falling to the floor. A grey feather floats through the air before landing at my feet. I bend down and pick it up, staring at it closely.
‘Isn’t that supposed to mean somebody who has passed away is thinking of you or is close by?’ He lowers his eyes, his gazed fixed on the feather clutched between my fingers.
‘An angel, apparently. From what I’ve heard, anyway. It means a guardian angel is watching over you.’ Even as I say it, it sounds frivolous and foolish. I close my fingers over the small, silky object and throw it onto the ground, a small amount of embarrassment taking hold in me, my face flushing hot. ‘An old wives’ tale. Simple, silly nonsense,’ I murmur as the crumpled feather blows away and is carried down the path and out of view by the warm, spring breeze.
‘So,’ I say, catching his eye again, ‘how about that coffee?’
He works as a chief sales engineer for a national company, has a daughter called Lauren and is missing his wife terribly. He tells me this as we sit by the window in a small café on Roland Street and nibble at our complimentary biscuits. But of course, I already know all of these things; it’s just that he doesn’t know that I know.
I remain silent, my lips sealed, giving nothing away. I wonder if he sees the real me? There is no sign that he has noticed. That’s good. It’s exactly how I want it: to be elusive. Alluring. Secretive. I am the consummate liar. The woman he thinks he knows. Not the woman I really am.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, placing his cup down with a thud. ‘I’ve not given you a chance to tell me about yourself. I’ve prattled on and on like a selfish arse.’
