Good Me Bad Me Page 16

  ‘Get off,’ she says. ‘Stop it.’

  It used to be me who said that, the tables now turned, the shoe on the other foot. It feels good to be bad. I’m sorry, I can’t help it, but she’s no longer talking about you so maybe being bad sometimes works. I might have done something worse but when she says, maybe you’re more like your mother than you think, the hot lava recedes, turns purple. Cools. Sick. A sickness inside me. I let go of her arm, step back, lean over. My hands on my thighs. Can’t be. Like you. Don’t want to be.

  Neither of us speaks, processing it in our own ways. I turn to face her, she rubs her hand up and down her arm.

  ‘Morgan, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it won’t be happening again.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You can get to fuck, that’s what I mean.’

  I try to hug her but she uses her arms to block me, pushes me back and leaves. I sit on the ground for a while, look up at the winter sky, only one star. I look away and when I look back it’s gone.

  It doesn’t want me to see it.

  I sing while I look for them.

  Eight green bottles, hanging on the wall. No. Not bottles, something else, and not on the wall. I try the song again, your words instead.

  There are eight little somethings hidden in the cellar, I thought there was nine, but the ninth didn’t make it down there. Remember?

  Yes.

  If I could just open the door I could check the little somethings are okay.

  Can’t open. The door.

  ‘Milly, it’s Saskia. The door’s locked, Mike locked it, what are you singing?’

  And if one little something should accidentally fall. Can’t open. The door.

  ‘I’m getting Mike.’

  Can you hear me, little somethings? I’ve come to let you out. But they don’t reply, it’s too late. I’m too late.

  They’ve already fallen.

  Which means they’ll have to stay.

  22

  I’m woken by the sound of Phoebe leaving for the hockey tour to Cornwall, voices in the corridor, a door opening and closing. Monday. I should get up, we’re going away, but my body feels heavy, weighed down by the shame of what I did to Morgan.

  By the volume of your voice.

  When Saskia knocks on my door, asks if she can come in, I say yes and sit up in bed.

  White jeans, skinny, tight. A baby blue and white striped shirt tucked in, the top half of her hair pushed forward in a bump, secured with a brown hair clip with teeth, the rest hanging long over her shoulders.

  ‘I hope I didn’t wake you, we wanted to let you sleep in after.’

  After last night.

  ‘We’re going to leave soon. The drive should only take about an hour and a half, we’ll be there by lunch.’

  She doesn’t say anything else about last night. Mike will have told her not to, explained to expect this in the run-up to the trial.

  ‘Milly.’

  ‘Sorry, I was –’

  ‘A million miles away?’

  Further.

  ‘Something like that, yeah.’

  She fiddles with her necklace, brings it up, presses the points of the letters to her lips. The flesh turns white where it’s pressed, turns pink again. She asks me if I need help packing.

  ‘No thank you, I’ll be down shortly.’

  When she closes the door I reach for my phone to see if Morgan’s replied, but she hasn’t. I battle with anxiety as I wash my face, get dressed and pack an overnight bag. What I did to Morgan was wrong and I don’t want to lose her as a friend, but I’m also worried she might tell people about me. About who I am.

  When I get downstairs, Rosie’s in the hallway next to Mike and Saskia’s holdalls. She wags her tail when she sees me. I put my bag down, rub between her ears.

  ‘I don’t think you’re coming,’ I tell her. ‘You’re staying here with Sevita. Next time maybe.’

  She cocks her head, licks my hand and pads into the kitchen alongside me.

  ‘There’s freshly squeezed orange juice over there, would you like some?’ Saskia offers.

  ‘No thanks, I’m going to make some toast.’

  Mike’s on his mobile facing away from us, leaning into the sink.

  ‘Of course, I’ll bring her Wednesday after we get back, does that work for you? Okay, sure. Thanks, June, see you then.’

  He hangs up, turns round to face us.

  ‘That was June, we’ve arranged for you to go in and watch your video evidence this Wednesday, three o’clock. I’ll take you.’

  I nod, appetite gone.

  The traffic is slow leaving London but a long stretch of motorway follows, the roadsides greener as we get further away from the city. Mike asks me how my sketches are coming along for the art prize. Fine, I tell him. Saskia turns and says she’d love to see them some time. She and Mike exchange a smile and she places her hand on the back of his neck for a moment. It’s the first time I’ve seen her touch him.

  After an hour or so we turn into a long gravel driveway, a fountain in the middle when we reach the end. A member of staff explains to Mike that the car park’s full, what with it being half-term and all.

  ‘Leave the key in the ignition, we’ll move it into an overspill in the field over there. Hang on to this ticket and whenever you need the car show it to reception and they’ll arrange for it to be brought round for you.’

  Mike checks us in and we’re shown to our rooms, a family suite, separate bedrooms with an adjoining door. When we go down for lunch I’m struck by how many children there are. Crawling; running; crying; spilling. Everywhere. But it’s not just children, you’re here too. Your face, on the front of a newspaper, the headline ‘One Week to Go’. A man at a table by the window, he holds you. Reads you. Folds you. Places you in the inside pocket of the coat handed to him by one of the waitresses. He stands up and puts it on. How close your face lies to his heart. But truth be told, you love in a different way from most. Your love isn’t so gentle and kind to be a kiss from your lips to a person’s heart. It isn’t like that at all.

  Mike asks if I’m okay. Yes, I’m fine, I tell him. I don’t want to ruin the trip by letting him know you came too.

  After lunch we spend the afternoon walking in the grounds, stop and have a few conversations with other families. Mike bumps into somebody he works with. The man kisses Saskia and when I’m introduced, he says, ‘So this is Milly.’

  Mike nods and smiles, yes. Yes it is. The man explains that Cassie, his wife, is here too but she’s gone to change the baby.

  ‘And these little scruff pots are also mine.’

  Two small boys, no older than five or six, play chase in and out of his legs. It looks fun, I wouldn’t mind joining in. Simple game. No harm. Later on in the afternoon children’s activities are set up on the front lawn, a bit like a school sports day. Saskia and me sit in the armchairs by the window, watch them. Ring o’ roses, the egg and spoon, even a race for the dads, not for the mums though, if there was and you were here in flesh and blood, you’d have joined in, you’d probably have won. Mike arrives, yawns, suggests we all have an early night. He explained to me during our walk in the afternoon that he locked the door to the cellar last week, didn’t want me to hurt myself. I thanked him, wished I could tell him not being able to check what’s down there hurts me more.

  After dinner we go to our separate rooms. A reply from Morgan, two words only.

  Fuck you.

  The next morning over breakfast we decide to take the car to the Arboretum. The sky is overcast, rain threatens. Mike says not to worry, Phoebe’s wellies and waterproof jacket are in the car, we brought them for you.

  ‘Won’t she mind?’ I ask.

  ‘We won’t tell her if you don’t,’ replies Saskia, with an unusually playful look on her face. All three of us smile.

  We head to our rooms to brush our teeth, arrange to meet in reception ten minutes later. The man we spoke to ye
sterday, John, is there when I arrive, by the front desk, with a woman I presume is Cassie, his wife, and the two boys, along with a baby she holds in her arms. Cassie and Saskia have never met, comment politely on how chilly it is, a perfect day for an open fire.

  ‘I think there’s one in the front lounge,’ Saskia says.

  Cassie suggests we have coffee there before we head out. Once we’re seated Mike and John engage in a conversation about the refurb of their office. John complains that the waiting room lacks privacy, can be seen from the street.

  ‘Yes, not ideal, perhaps we should look at blinds or some kind of screen,’ Mike replies.

  The word: screen. Like the one that’ll be in court next week separating you and me.

  The two older children sit on the floor by the French windows, to the right of the fireplace. A basket of toys which they proceed to tip over, cries of brum-brum as they play with cars, an attempt at a gunshot noise when one of them finds a plastic water pistol. A small slice of winter sun creeps in, breaks through the layer of clouds in the sky, lands perfectly around the boys, the gold of their hair, the blue of their eyes. Little angels. Again, I’m drawn to join in, or cry, so beautiful. In the end I do nothing, stay where I am, not sure either crying or joining in would be welcome, or normal. When I turn back, Mike’s watching me, a strange look on his face, attempts to smile when he sees me noticing. Cassie begins a conversation with Saskia about Wetherbridge.

  ‘Obviously it’s years away,’ she says, looking down at the baby girl in her arms. ‘But it’s always good to hear an insider’s view.’

  Saskia’s transfixed by the baby, shifts her gaze but it ends up back there. Cassie notices, asks if she’d like to hold her.

  ‘No thanks, I’m not very good with babies.’

  ‘What about you, would you like to?’ she asks me.

  ‘Yes please.’

  The words fly out of my mouth, she stands up, transfers the baby into my arms. Flushed skin, her eyes closed, a sweet curtain of lashes so long they almost touch the upper part of her cheeks. There’s nothing in her mouth, no dummy or bottle, but she makes a continual sucking movement with her perfectly peach lips, in and then out. A small flower bud.

  Beautiful, pure things make me feel ugly. Tarnished. I remember asking you when I was three, maybe four, where I came from. I waited for you to sweep me up, rub our noses together in an Eskimo kiss and reply, you came from me, you belong with me, I love you. Just like the mummy of another little girl did when I saw her ask the same question at school, but you didn’t respond, walked out of the kitchen, left me standing there alone.

  Cassie says to Mike, your daughter’s a natural, and just for a moment, a split second, I feel what it’s like to be mistaken for theirs.

  ‘Actually, Milly’s our foster daughter, Phoebe’s on a hockey trip,’ Mike replies.

  ‘I told you that last night, Cassie,’ John adds.

  ‘Sorry, baby brain. That’s great though, I really admire you guys for taking on –’

  Someone like me.

  She doesn’t get to finish her sentence, the baby lets out a loud angry wail. Eyes open, looking at me. Scared. She sensed it. Whatever it is inside of me. Felt me holding her that little bit too tightly. Even tighter when Mike said I wasn’t their daughter. I hand her back to her mother, safe hands. You’d hope so.

  We drive to the Arboretum and when we arrive it’s busy. Couples, families, the occasional person on their own. Exotic shrubs and painstakingly manicured tree-lined avenues, the autumnal colours, burnt oranges and yellows, an intense crimson echo from the red leaves on the trees above. We walk mainly in silence. I think it means we’re comfortable, a nice thought. Happy. Mike comments that there aren’t many kids my age here.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not so cool to holiday with parents any more.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I reply. ‘I’m enjoying that it’s just the three of us.’

  Mike smiles, relaxed. And though he would never admit it out loud, I know he agrees, a sense of relief at not having to be the go-between for Saskia and Phoebe. Nicer all round.

  Later that evening after dinner I buy Morgan a snow globe from the hotel gift shop. Fir trees, two children holding hands, a snowman built next to them. I text her again, tell her I’ve bought her a present. No reply.

  At first I think I’m imagining it, or it’s the TV through the wall, but as I move closer to the adjoining door, place my ear flat against it, I hear them. Arguing. Saskia was drunk at dinner, virtually mute apart from hiccups following dessert which of course she was too full to eat. Mike says something about her getting a grip, especially with the court case next week. I’m trying, she says. Try harder, he replies. Something’s thrown, a glass maybe, it hits the wall. Their voices lower, she begins to cry. I imagine Mike holding her, telling her it’s okay. After a while their voices stop, other noises instead. The moaning from Saskia makes me feel funny. Involved. When the noises stop I take off my clothes, run my fingers up and down the white scar ladders on both sides of my ribs, then climb into the shower.

  Scrub my skin raw.

  23

  Five days to go.

  I walk over to the balcony door, open the curtains, a robin is there on the railing. Its breast, red. Puffed out in the cold. When it sees me, it flies off. Doesn’t feel safe any more. I don’t blame it.

  When we got back from the Cotswolds on Wednesday I went to the court with Mike to review my video evidence. It wasn’t easy to watch. The girl on the screen talking about her mother. That girl was me.

  I wish I could retract my statement, be able to say:

  That didn’t happen.

  But it did.

  While I was there the lawyers took me through a mock cross-examination.

  Did you know Daniel Carrington?

  Yes.

  How did you know him?

  He was one of the children at my mother’s work.

  Were you in the house when she brought him home?

  Yes.

  The lawyers warned me the defence will do anything, and everything, to trip me up, make me look like an unreliable witness. How do you feel about that, Fatty asked. I said I felt fine.

  I lied.

  June showed me the courtroom, the stand I’d be on and where the screen to shield me from you would be. The reality of being close to you again produced a Pavlovian response, excess saliva in my mouth, so much so, I thought I’d be sick. The trial starts on Monday but I’ve been told now that I’ll be presenting on the Thursday and Friday. I had to change the number in the bathroom cabinet – the countdown was never for the trial, but for when I’d get to be with you.

  It’s Bonfire Night tonight. Mike told me if I watched from my balcony I’d see the fireworks display a family a few streets along from us have in their garden every year. It usually starts around seven, he said. Morgan still hasn’t been in touch so I text her again, tell her about it, invite her over. I can sneak you in, I write.

  Mike and I met yesterday to focus on breathing. What to do if I feel panicky on the stand. He asked me if there was anything I was unsure of, anything I wanted to go over again before I faced the defence next week. No, I don’t think so, I told him, what happened is clear in my mind. He asked me to think of a word that made me feel good. It took me a while but in the end I chose freedom. I told him I envied you, out in the open, whereas I live in the dark, hidden from all but a few. Everything taken from me, even my name. He told me to view the darkness as a place to rest; in the future it’ll become light. What if I’m like her, I asked him, what if I inherit it? Monoamine oxidase A. The enzyme for violence. If it’s in her, it’s likely it’s in me, but he told me I’m nothing like you, he knows that for sure. I’m not certain I believe he meant it, or if he believes it himself.

  I didn’t forget about the morning in the kitchen when I saw him hide the notes from me so when he and Saskia were both out on Thursday, I went into his study. It didn’t take long to find them, the bottom-left drawer, unde
r a textbook.

  The heading on the first page: MILLY (ideas for book).

  I only managed to photocopy half of them, the front door opening and closing, Sevita coming in. She smiled when she saw me in the hallway, the originals back where I found them, the copies tucked neatly into the waistband of my jeans. It turns out Mike’s writing a book about me, about how I’m surviving, him at my side. He refers to the dream I told him I’d had. You, trapped in a burning room. When he asked me what happened in the dream I told him the truth. I rescued you. Every single time, I rescued you. Written in red pen below, ‘still shows great loyalty to mum, discuss guilt’.

  Some of his other footnotes detail my self-blame, how a victim of abuse loses the perspective of neutrality – everybody for or against them. An arrow in red, then the phrase ‘GOOD ME vs BAD ME’, underlined and circled.

  I’ve been trying to work out how I feel about Mike writing a book about me. He hasn’t asked my permission, I never signed a form. Am I his project? A meal ticket to fame in his profession. A success story. He thinks. He hopes. If it means I get to stay here longer, I don’t mind. Access to my mind is a currency I’m willing to pay.

  I see Saskia at lunchtime, ask her if she’s missing Phoebe, who’s still away on tour. She smiles, says, of course, I miss both her and Mike when they’re away, it’s nice having you here. Her body language, the way she shifts from one foot to the other, the way she fiddles with her hair, tells me another story. It tells me that when it’s just me and her, she’s uncomfortable still. On edge.

  I spend the rest of the day reading about you. The news websites, you’re top of the bill. A reporter outside the courthouse running through what’ll happen when the trial starts. He reels off your crimes, the number nine used three times. Nine children. Nine bodies. Nine charges of murder.

  By the time I’ve read everything I can find, it’s getting dark outside, not long until the fireworks. I go to the toilet and when I come out of the bathroom I see movement on the balcony. The robin’s not back, but Morgan is.