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Poetic Justice<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n by Moya Roddy<\/em><\/p>\n Fuckin\u2019 mad, Stacey thinks, eyeing the crowd milling outside the theatre. Imagine goin\u2019 to hear poetry this hour of the morning. Across the entrance of the building a large banner blazes: Cuirt International Festival of Poetry and Literature<\/em>. Stacy wonders what \u2018Cuirt\u2019 means? Something to do with courting? Isn\u2019t that what her Granny calls snogging? Having a good court, she\u2019d say, except she pronounces it curt<\/em>. Not that Stacey can imagine her granny kissing anyone. Or anyone kissing her granny. Still she must have, otherwise her ma wouldn\u2019t be here. And if her ma wasn\u2019t here she wouldn\u2019t be standing outside a poxy courthouse waiting for her case to be called. Her granny shoulda kept her tongue to herself.\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0<\/p>\n Stacey shakes out a cigarette, lights up. It\u2019s mainly middle-aged women across the road, although there\u2019s a few girls her own age, one of them chatting to a gink with glasses. What kind of poetry do you like? Me hole! Going to a fuckin\u2019 poetry reading and she\u2019s up for stealing a bloody hair straightener. Top of the range though; she\u2019d been hoping to sell it to her sister-in-law whose hair frizzed if you so much as sneezed near her. Would ye look at them, gab, gab, gab. Wonder why nobody on this side is talkin\u2019? Except the barristers and solicitors and they\u2019re only talking shite.<\/p>\n I could be over there, Stacy suddenly thinks, I used to like poetry at school, be good at it. When I went. Fuck! I\u2019ll be feeling sorry for meself in a minute. Where the hell is Dennis- She scans the foyer of the courthouse, just in time to see him speeding towards her like a giant bat, hair and spit flying.<\/p>\n \u2018Stacey, sorry, I got caught up in Court 2. You won\u2019t be called before 12.30. I had a word with the magistrate.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018What am I supposed to do? Hang round this bleedin\u2019 dump for all morning?\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018You could go into town, I suppose.\u2019 He looks at her sharply. \u2018If you do any shopping, remember to pay for it!\u2019<\/p>\n Stacey gives him the finger. Not that she minds Dennis. He\u2019s alright. Mostly.<\/p>\n \u2018Fuck off.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Sorry. Have to go. 12. 30. Here. Don\u2019t be late.\u2019<\/p>\n Stubbing out her fag, Stacey watches him rush back in, gown ballooning, documents slipping.<\/p>\n Asshole, she thinks, tripping down the steps.<\/p>\n The poetry crowd has begun to drift in. Crossing to the other side of the road Stacey stiffens, certain they\u2019re all watching her.<\/p>\n Relax, I\u2019m not going to nick your bag. Not today anyway.<\/em><\/p>\n Stupid cows, she likes the thought of putting the wind up them.<\/p>\n From inside the theatre a buzzer sounds. Stacey stops, lingers at the bottom of the steps, awkward.<\/p>\n \u2018It\u2019ll be starting soon,\u2019 a woman nudges her.<\/p>\n \u2018I\u2019m not goin\u2019.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018It might be good. It\u2019s free anyway.\u2019<\/p>\n Stacey shrugs.<\/p>\n She watches the woman push open the doors, disappear inside. Notices the traffic lights at the junction have turned \u2013 giving her the green light.<\/p>\n Cheaper than a cup of coffee, she decides, attaching herself to the tail end of a raggedy queue, her eyes glued to the ground. Anyway she doesn\u2019t want to risk bumping into Ryan up town. Bastard! Didn\u2019t even turn up this morning although she\u2019d asked him. Told him she was up anyway. Just as well. Great impression he\u2019d make on a judge.<\/p>\n The warmth hits her as soon as she slides into her seat. It\u2019s next to the exit so at least she can do a runner if it\u2019s crap. All around, mouths open and shut like the goldfish in her granny\u2019s flat, only noisy. Her granny is going to kill her when she finds out. Why did she nick it? Impulse. Just saw the thing, next it was in her bag. There\u2019s a crackling sound then a voice booms from a large speaker. Stacey listens to the usual warnings about exits, entrances, not taking photos, turning off mobiles. When the announcement is over there\u2019s a silence, a feeling of expectation. After a few minutes of nothing, a hippy-looking man ambles onto the stage.<\/p>\n \u2018You\u2019re all welcome,\u2019 he announces, \u2018to this year\u2019s annual Cuirt Festival …\u2019<\/p>\n Stacey\u2019s fingers tap her thigh. She feels trapped sitting there. Like in a holding cell. Everyone claps when the man is finished, the sound increasing as a woman scuttles out from the wings. \u2018Thank you. Thank you. I\u2019m delighted to be here,\u2019 she beams. She\u2019s nervous looking, the papers in her hand trembling.<\/p>\n Just like that woman, Stacey thinks. The one she robbed, the one they haven\u2019t caught her for. Shook all over she had, handing her the purse. Stacey hadn\u2019t meant to scream so loudly, it was the way the woman reacted made her.<\/p>\n She squints at the stage. What must it be like walking out there, hearing all that applause. Everyone looking at you, expecting something. She\u2019d die. Like being in the school play, only worse. Not that she\u2019d ever been in one. Never been asked.<\/p>\n The woman fumbles, begins to read.<\/p>\n Stacey\u2019s mouth twists into a sneer. Fuck, she hasn\u2019t even learned the poem. Stacey checks to see if anyone else minds but no one seems arsed. Signs on, she\u2019s never had Sister Agnes for English. Aggy wouldn\u2019t have stood for that. You\u2019d get a real bollicking if you couldn\u2019t say it off. The poem is over in a flash and when only a few people clap Stacey feels sorry for the woman. As soon as the second poem begins Stacey realises she hadn\u2019t heard a word of the first. She couldn\u2019t listen.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n Slumping in the seat, Stacey closes her eyes. The woman\u2019s voice has a kind of soothing rhythm or maybe it\u2019s the words; half-listening she feels her body relax, settle, the rush of blood slow. God, she\u2019s tired. Tired, fucking tired. The voice grows fainter and fainter, vanishes …<\/p>\n Stacey wakes with a start. People are standing, pulling on coats and jackets. Fuck, the time! She pulls out her mobile. Twelve twenty-five, she\u2019s alright. There\u2019s a new crowd standing in front of the theatre and ducking out from behind them Stacy sees Dennis pacing up and down outside the courthouse. Spotting her, his eyebrows shoot up.<\/p>\n \u2018Didn\u2019t know you liked poetry,\u2019 he comments as soon as she reaches him.<\/p>\n \u2018I don\u2019t. Are we going in?\u2019\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018We\u2019ve got another few minutes. Wasn\u2019t the reading any good?\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018I fell asleep.\u2019<\/p>\n He looks at her, the way guards do when they want you to incriminate yourself.<\/p>\n \u2018Alright, I used to like poetry at school. One poem anyway. Can\u2019t remember, something about going into a wood.\u2019 She knows it by heart but she\u2019s no intention of telling him. \u2018Do you mean Yeats? The Song of the Wandering Aengus?\u2019<\/p>\n Stacy shrugs.<\/p>\n \u2018\u201cI went into a hazel wood, because a fire was in my head….\u201d\u2019\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n \u2018Yeah, that\u2019s it, so,\u2019 Stacey interrupts. She doesn\u2019t like the idea of him knowing it. Spoiling it.<\/p>\n \u2018What do you like about it?\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Nothin\u2019, I dunno. It\u2019s how I feel sometimes, s\u2019pose. There a fuckin\u2019 like fire in me head.\u2019<\/p>\n She shouldn\u2019t be telling him. Tells him too much as it is.<\/p>\n \u2018What do you mean?\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Ah fuck. Listen, you gotta get me off. I can\u2019t go down. It\u2019ll kill my mother and me granny. You won\u2019t see me here again. I promise. Cross me heart.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018You said that last time. You know it won\u2019t be easy. There\u2019s your previous.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018I didn\u2019t mean it when I said it last time. I do now. I\u2019ve a boyfriend Ryan, we\u2019re gonna like, get a place together.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Tell me about the poem? The fire in your head.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018What for? It\u2019s like, nothin\u2019, like seeing red …\u2019 Stacy shuts up. It\u2019s embarrassing talking like this.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n \u2018Is that what happens,\u2019 he pursues, \u2018before you take something, you see red?\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Maybe. Dunno. Who cares? You\u2019ll get me off, won\u2019t ye?\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018I\u2019ll try. Behave yourself in there. No temper.\u2019<\/p>\n Stacey listens to the proceedings, trying not to catch the judge\u2019s eye. Fuckin\u2019 woman magistrate, the worst. Feel they have to punish you.<\/p>\n At the end of his plea, Dennis sits down then seems to change his mind.<\/p>\n \u2018Might I request this case be adjourned for Reports?\u2019 he asks, standing up again.<\/p>\n The magistrate sniffs. \u2018I don\u2019t think I see any need for Reports. Young lady, I meet your kind far too often in my court, you\u2019re a disgrace.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Your Honour I think … My client gave me some new information \u2026 which may have some bearing.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018What sort of information?\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018What I\u2018m proposing is a psychiatric report. You see my client told me before she commits a crime, that, as she puts it, her head goes on fire, she sees red….\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018What the fuck….\u2019 Stacey screams, jumping to her feet.<\/p>\n \u2018Young lady, one more word out of you….\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018That was private, dickhead! What are you telling the whole world for!\u2019 Stacey\u2019s heart is thumping, the room spinning.<\/p>\n The magistrate bangs the table. \u2018I warned you.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018I\u2019m not fuckin\u2019 mad, I\u2019d rather go to fuckin\u2019 prison.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018That\u2019s precisely where you are going. I sentence Stacey O\u2019Connor to six month. Leave to appeal withheld.\u2019<\/p>\n \u2018Bastard!\u2019 Stacey shouts at Dennis as they lead her away, \u2018fuckin\u2019 bastard!\u2019<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Poetic Justice by Moya Roddy Fuckin\u2019 mad, Stacey thinks, eyeing the crowd milling outside the theatre. Imagine goin\u2019 to hear poetry this hour of the morning. Across…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":525,"featured_media":13016,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1661],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-13018","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction-2"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13018","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/525"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=13018"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13018\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/13016"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=13018"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=13018"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.gfdesign.co.uk\/culture\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=13018"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}