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he’d exceeded all their expectations. First a degree, then qualifying as a solicitor. After twenty years of hard graft in small firms around south Manchester, he set up his own office. Everything had been going so well, until the recession hit. That was the beginning. When their luck changed.
    His wife, Safa, came up behind and put her arms around his waist. How would he have got through this without her? He loved her so much. He thanked Allah that he could still feel love. He’d known it since the day they met. Made for each other. This was their biggest test. He turned to face her, like a lost child, wide-eyed and frightened. He ran his finger over the gold braiding on her sari, draped over her shoulder. Worn with such pride. A Muslim woman born in Manchester, Hussain’s wife often chose to wear traditionally Hindu garments. She’d always had a mind of her own.
    She hugged Hussain. ‘Come on, Taz, you should be pleased, Ahmed was acquitted. You won.’
    He was unable to shake the melancholy: ‘Nothing seems to matter any more.’
    She understood.
    â€˜I can’t face it today. Dealing with all the psychos.’
    â€˜Do you mean the criminals or the lawyers?’ she asked, trying to raise a smile.
    He forced one. ‘Both.’
    She hugged him again. ‘One day at a time.’

Chapter 22
    Despite his nerves, Anderson’s physical improvement was such that he was able to walk into Manchester Crown Court with some purpose. The security guards fixed on his scar as he negotiated the metal detector. By the time he reached the door to the robing room his heart was pounding. He stopped outside and listened to the familiar clattering of wig tins and the chattering of advocates. A deep breath, then into the lion’s den.
    A sudden cessation of all noise. Everyone stared at Anderson, his scar. They offered nothing, even barristers from his own chambers. Anderson wasn’t welcome.
    How could they have turned on him so quickly? He hadn’t even been charged, let alone convicted. Or was it that they’d never really liked him? Just waiting for an excuse to reveal their true feelings?
    Then a voice from the other end of the room. ‘Anderson!’
    His heart soared, but he couldn’t see who it was. Someone pushing his way to the front, against the wall of silence. ‘How are you? Great to have you back.’ A hand reached out to take Anderson’s.
    No! Not him. Not Tahir Hussain, of all people. Anderson avoided eye contact, then shrunk away. Was it because he didn’t trust the man? No, he knew the reason: years of conditioning, learnt from his father, to shun ‘non-establishment’ figures at the Bar. Instilled in him from an early age. Only at that moment was Anderson aware of it, of his prejudices. He saw the disappointment in Hussain’s eyes. The feeling of rejection. Anderson had turned away from the only person who had been prepared to reach out with the hand of friendship, despite all their history in court.
    He felt sick to the stomach.
    Hussain recovered swiftly and said more quietly, ‘Welcome back,’ before adjusting his wig and exiting the room.
    Anderson’s eyes followed him. He wished he could turn the clock back thirty seconds; he would have hugged Hussain, but it was too late, the moment had passed. Anderson unpacked his wig and gown, noticing a few surreptitious grins. He knew what they were thinking − Anderson ostracised, Hussain his only friend; how the mighty had fallen.
    Hugh Coleman, a newly qualified barrister, put his head around the door. ‘Anyone defending a burg called Simpson?’ he called out, unaware of what had gone before.
    â€˜Yes, I am,’ Anderson replied.
    Coleman’s surprise at the seniority of his opponent triggered muted laughter around the room.
    Anderson took the opportunity to usher Coleman out.
    â€˜We’re first on,’ said Coleman. ‘Got everything you