Chapter 118: The Judgment

There are moments in life that demand a black suit; perhaps the Reaper, who steals away souls, hides within the blackness of funerals.

The sky was drizzling, and the air was thick with the raw, pungent scent of overturned earth. The young child had not yet ventured out of school to witness the brutal reality of the world, so there were few people at the funeral.

Yvette felt as though this were a dream—a dream that would only end when the rain stopped, and this rain had been falling for a week.

Watching Lucas’s pale, serene face lying in the coffin, a sense of unreality enveloped her. She thought, This must be a dream, a dream that feels far too real.

So, like a bystander, she listened to the priest’s prayers and watched the child’s grandmother sobbing uncontrollably. The monotonous comfort of those around her gradually numbed her, and she went through the motions of what a mother should do, acting like a puppet.

It was not until she watched the small coffin being covered by earth, when a drop of rain landed on her cheek, that the icy sensation felt like a premonition of awakening. An unprecedented surge of emotion crashed over her like a tidal wave. She trembled uncontrollably, and then a thought—one so terrifying that the mere idea of it made her shudder—entered her mind: This is all real. Her brain could no longer resist the betrayal of her eyes; that color was lying right there.

Yvette threw down her umbrella and, amidst looks of shock or pity, rushed to the soil burying her son. She reached out, desperate to dig him up, but before her fingers could touch the dirt, countless hands reached out from behind to pull her away.

Is all of this real? Is my child buried there? Yvette struggled, desperate to verify the truth, but those attending the funeral were not the mothers of dead children; they stood under umbrellas, sighing as they led a mother away from the grave.

Pain is a flame that only ceases once everything has been burned to ash. Yvette felt as though she had already died, yet not entirely. After the funeral, hallucinations began to plague her, manifesting in myriad forms.

From the world she first saw when she opened her eyes as an infant to everything she had experienced on the eve of the funeral, memories flickered before her like a slide show, suddenly and cruelly clear, even the things that were not worth remembering.

Yvette closed her eyes. She looked back on her life and found, with sorrow, that there was nothing worth recalling. Her existence was like a plastic flower: it had the shell, but it was hollow inside. She did not resent the man named Warren Griffin; she only loathed herself. She yearned for happiness but was powerless against everything.

In her trance, she felt someone gently take her hand. Yvette did not open her eyes. She knew whose small, warm hand it was.

"Yvette, are you afraid of loneliness?"

"I am."

"Then please, hold my hand."

Yvette opened her eyes. The room was empty, as if no one had ever been there.

"Are you very tired?" a gentle voice whispered in Yvette’s ear, like a spectator who had watched an entire film until the credits rolled before rising to applaud.

"Yes." Yvette did not resist. From the moment she confirmed that Lucas’s funeral was not a dream, she no longer believed in that god who looked down from on high. She no longer held onto hope, nor did she feel fear. It was as if she had lost all basis for judgment, leaving only a hollow soul—a walking corpse drifting aimlessly in the boundless darkness, detached from society.

"Then, I wish you pleasant dreams."

Warren did not attend the funeral. Perhaps it was because he was wandering the slums like a ghost among the addicts, or perhaps because he had forgotten everything about himself. Ever since Atwood Campbell had left that day, he had destroyed all traces of his past and walked naked into the night.

Hallucinogens and alcohol coursed through his veins, rendering his world both kaleidoscopic and pitch black.

"Hey, man, is that you?" Matthew Percy, his eyes glazed, looked at the missing person poster plastered on the wall. He tapped his syringe while eyeing his new friend, who lay on the ground with vacant eyes.

Warren did not speak; he did not even open his eyes.

Matthew said nothing more. He clenched his fist and drove the needle into his vein. The dull world bloomed with color in his eyes once more. He then took a small bag of crystals from his pocket and said to his customer, "New stuff, hasn't been around for even a month. Compared to this, the old junk is just children's toys. One pound a bag. I guarantee you'll fall in love with it once you try it..."

"Hey! What are you doing?" A man who looked like a patrol officer spotted Matthew peddling the drugs.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Matthew dumped all the bags he carried onto the prone Warren and scrambled toward the alleyway.

As if sensing something, Warren opened his eyes. He saw the policeman running toward him.

He did not get up. He lifted his head and, through a hazy gaze, watched the sun as it neared the horizon, about to vanish.

"Sir, was that man your friend?" The solemn-faced officer stared at Warren, who was slumped against the wall.

Warren did not answer. He picked up the bags Matthew had dropped on the ground.

"Boss, this guy is definitely a heavy addict. He was doing drugs right in front of me!" The frustrated officer shouted, glaring at Warren, who was being handcuffed.

"These junkies are all the same. They have no sense once they get their hands on drugs." The older-looking officer poured himself a cup of coffee, took a sip, and prepared to register the arrest. But as he looked at Warren, he seemed to notice something.

He rummaged through a messy drawer and pulled out a stack of missing person posters. The first one was exactly what he was looking for.

"Are you Warren Griffin?"

"No, I am not."

That was the only thing Warren said at the police station.

Warren leaned against the corner of the holding cell. There were all sorts of people there besides him: teenagers who had stolen, alcoholic men, unlicensed prostitutes. They were noisy and chaotic, swearing or crying, like scenes from a play.

But Warren found them neither noisy nor distracting. He heard nothing. He looked up, reflecting on the time he had spent playing the drums. Were those days happy?

Almost without hesitation, he had his answer: No. Interest alone was not enough to sustain him. It was the things that might have been hidden behind the pain that had given him hope. But reality was no fairy tale; even a gift box tied with a ribbon could be empty inside.

Warren closed his eyes. His hollow heart had no room even for regret.

This was Warren’s first time in court. It was not until the judge rapped the gavel and repeated the question that he seemed to break free from some invisible web. He lifted his head and scanned the room as if searching for something. The walls on either side of the courtroom were lined with bookshelves holding many law books, mostly thick volumes of case law. There were rows of seats, but only a handful of people were in attendance.

The first row was reserved for Queen’s Counsel; junior counsel sat in the second row, followed by solicitors and the parties involved. Penniless, Warren could not afford a lawyer; his was court-appointed. Because it was a free service, it was easy to see how young the lawyer was.

The judge, wearing a wig, looked with dissatisfaction at the defendant who showed such contempt for the court, yet he proceeded to read the indictment according to protocol.

Warren remained indifferent to everything, though his gaze eventually settled on the public gallery.

A young man sat quietly, apart from the others. Warren felt he recognized him, but had forgotten his name.

Warren was charged with more than just possession and sale of drugs; he was also charged with assaulting a police officer. An addict could not control himself, and the officer who had arrested Warren had already submitted his medical report.

"Mr. Griffin, do you plead guilty or not guilty?"

In the silent courtroom, only the sound of breathing could be heard. But Warren remained as silent as ever. He kept reflecting on the past: Where on earth had he seen this young man?

British law dictates that a defendant may choose to plead guilty, in which case no jury is summoned, and the verdict is delivered without a hearing or debate. Alternatively, one may plead not guilty and proceed to trial. If the defendant remains silent, enters no plea, or does not answer directly, the jury makes the determination. Defendants may also use other pleas, such as challenging jurisdiction or pleading pardon.

The young lawyer was bewildered. This was his first formal trial since receiving his license. No matter how much passion he possessed, his client remained silent. On the afternoon he first met Warren at the station, he had almost thought Warren was a puppet, an empty shell with a hollow soul, impervious to everything in the outside world.

Logically, Warren should have undergone a psychiatric evaluation, but no one wanted to go through the trouble for a drug addict. Besides, even he himself did not care.

While the young lawyer presented his defense, Warren kept staring at the youth in the gallery.

For some reason, his vision began to blur, like a bucket of stirred paint. The expressionless bailiff and the rambling lawyer melted away like candles, and those melting shadows gradually revealed a clear outline.

He saw his ex-wife cooking dinner in the kitchen, and his son watching television in the living room, showing a match at Stamford Bridge, the home of Chelsea Football Club.

Everything was so familiar. He thought this must have been one of his countless ordinary days.

The phone rang. Yvette, wearing an apron, wiped her hands and answered it.

"A company party? So you aren't coming home for dinner tonight?"

Warren watched Yvette hang up the phone, and he finally understood why he remembered this day.

After returning from that company party, Warren Griffin was no longer Yvette Joyce’s husband or Lucas Griffin’s father.

Warren stood up, interrupting the jury’s deliberations. He raised his head, and his deep voice resonated like a drumbeat in every corner of the courtroom.

"I’m guilty."