Good Me Bad Me Read online

  ‘What if I don’t know how to answer?’

  ‘Tell the lawyers you don’t understand, they’ll rephrase, ask it in another way until you do.’

  Mike ends the session by giving me instructions for the morning, tells me to stay in my room until Phoebe leaves for school. He told her yesterday about my minor ‘procedure’, that I’d be off for the rest of the week. I thank him, and I mean it.

  The air in my room feels stuffier than usual, the heating in the house up high. Hard to breathe. A headache lies heavy in the centre of my forehead, makes it hard to see. I focus on laying out the clothes I’m wearing tomorrow. It isn’t until they’re hung over the back of the chair that I realize what I’ve chosen. Clothes to impress you. Trousers, not a skirt, a plain white shirt I’ll tuck in like a boy. You won’t be able to see me but I know you’d approve. I shouldn’t be doing that. Still trying to please you.

  I can’t do tomorrow if I see you tonight, if you come into my room, so I sit up with the lights on, read Peter Pan as the hours crawl by. It’s my favourite book, has been since I was a little girl. The idea of night lights as the eyes of mothers guarding their children. I used to pray for a night light, I believed in a god back then but instead I got you.

  One weekend at the refuge I watched the movie with the children. When Peter says to Wendy: ‘Come with me where you’ll never, never have to worry about grown-up things again,’ I remember thinking, I’d like to go there.

  Please.

  27

  I stay awake all night and when morning comes I open the cabinet door in the bathroom and wipe off the number. One becomes time. It’s time.

  When I’m dressed I stand in front of the full-length mirror, eyes closed. I open them only to look at my outfit, I don’t look as far up as my face. On the outside I look well put together, my shirt and trousers ironed by Sevita, my shoes black, flat, a ballerina-style pump. But on the inside. A jumble sale of organs. Upside down, back to front, too much heart in my chest. Not enough.

  I take the crystal Saskia gave me out of its pouch, hold it in my hand. The opposing sensations of its edges, rough and smooth, soothe me. I’m not sure I believe in it, but I put it in the pocket of my trousers anyway.

  And wait.

  Mike comes twenty or so minutes later, knocks on my door, tells me we’re ready, Phoebe’s gone.

  ‘You should eat something,’ he says.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You need to, it’s going to be a long morning, even just a piece of fruit or a cereal bar.’

  ‘Afterwards, maybe.’

  ‘I’ll grab a few things from the cupboard, you can have them in the car if you change your mind.’

  Saskia’s waiting in the entrance hall and as I approach her she begins to play with the zip on her coat, back and forth. Up and down. A frantic, manic noise. She stops when I stare, attempts a smile. Mike comes out of the kitchen with a plastic bag containing food I won’t be able to eat. We take his Range Rover, tinted windows, I bet when he bought it, had it modified, he never thought they’d be useful in the way they are today. Shielding me from eyes that might pry, might know I’m coming.

  The journey to you is hell, a private one. Nobody talks, everybody stares straight ahead, traffic lights and buses, a rubbish truck in the way. The universe saying, don’t go, stay away. Mike puts on a CD, the radio too risky. A surgery overnight, performed on me. A Chinese fortune fish, red and flippy, placed in the pit of my stomach. Moves to the beat of the music, makes me feel sick for the entire fifty minutes it takes to get there. I don’t want to hear Mike’s words, when he says, ‘We’re here.’

  Saskia looks round, offers me a mint. I turn away, stare out through the tint. We drive in as per June’s instructions. I close my eyes as we pass the front of the building, open them again when we’re deep underground. I know what the crowd looks like, I’ve seen it on the news. Mike never thought to remove my laptop or phone. The women you took from, in hiding, now stand in the daylight united in hatred. They trusted you. A banner held up in the crowd, an eye for an eye. Press and photographers too, not allowed inside, one official reporter only appointed by the court, a privilege. Or burden.

  June waits for us by the lift in the car park, reassures me I won’t see you, you’re being kept in the cells on the other side of the building. The purple scar on my arm throbs as we go up in the lift, a secret hello, your way of telling me you’re near. We go into a room, looks newly painted. Cream. What will they do with our house, Mummy, a lick of paint won’t be enough. Saskia asks where the bathroom is, Mike and I sit down. Four chairs in the room, soft material, a dark shade of green. I perch on the edge of mine, I don’t want to feel anything against me. Behind me. Some kind of surge inside me, moving through me as if on entering the building the voltage has been turned up. Mine.

  June offers me a drink of water, suggests I go to the loo while I can, but I’m not sure I trust my legs to carry me. Breathe, just breathe. A lady I’ve never seen before puts her head round the door.

  ‘Five minutes, we’re just waiting for the judge.’

  I wipe my palms on my trousers, feel the hard lump of Saskia’s crystal against my thigh. I wish I was alone, I could count my scars. Mike tells me I’ll be fine, everything will be okay. I wish I believed him but the fortune fish in my stomach flips over again, predicts otherwise. I try in my mind to go to my safe place inside the hollow of the tree but when I get there, it’s gone. Chopped down, taken as evidence. Saskia arrives back, the woman from earlier too.

  ‘June, the judge is ready.’

  ‘Grand. Okay, Milly, it’s time.’

  Mike stands up, I do too even though I’m not ready. You’d think I would be, I’ve counted the days, but something, you maybe, must have come into the room, tied sandbags round my ankles. DID YOU THINK I WAS GOING TO MAKE IT EASY FOR YOU, ANNIE? I’m not listening to you, I can’t. All I have to do is answer the questions. Answer them. I follow June to the door. Both Saskia and Mike squeeze my upper arms as I pass them, one on either side. I stop, take the crystal from my pocket, show them. Saskia turns away, tearful. Mike speaks.

  ‘We’ll be here when it’s over, Milly.’

  The walk from the family room to the courtroom is short. My right nostril whistles, a bleed on its way. I should ask for tissues, there’s time, but I can’t find my voice. Saving it for court. We stop outside a large wooden door.

  ‘They’ll open it when they’re ready,’ June says.

  I place the crystal in my pocket, she tries to engage me in small talk.

  ‘Your birthday’s in a few weeks, isn’t it?’

  Sweet sixteen. But I don’t want to think about that so I ignore June, close my eyes, open them again when I hear movement from the door. A court usher comes out, nods at us.

  ‘You’ll be grand, Milly, take a big breath. Ready? Let’s go,’ June says.

  The murmuring in court does nothing to disguise our footsteps. Obvious. Exposing. June leads me to a seat turned to the right of a large white screen. The chair faces the judge and jury, no executioner that I can see. Once I’m seated June walks away, sits close to the door we entered through. The whistling in my nose stops, my heartbeat kicks in. Whips up a frenzy, a juddering mess inside my chest. I see the judge, he wears a cream-coloured wig, is sat to my right on a podium, engrossed in conversation with a man in a gown, possibly one of the defence lawyers. The man whispers, the judge listens and nods. Directly in front of me sits the jury, I count seven men and five women. Twelve pairs of eyes on me, the murmuring less now. It’s okay to look, Skinny told me, but don’t smile, you might be accused of trying to influence them. Influence them? I’m only here to answer the lawyers’ questions, nothing else.

  Each jury member has a pad of paper and pen on the wooden shelves in front of them. One of them, the woman in the middle of the back row, scribbles something down, perhaps she’s writing a book about me too, or playing hangman. Whose head on the rope?

  I look to the left, see the pr
osecuting lawyers, bodies turned into each other, conversing. To the left of them, the next bench table along, sits another man in a gown, the chair next to his empty, his eyes fixed on the man talking to the judge. I’d expected to see a stenographer, fast fingers over the keys capturing every word said, but June told me they’d phased them out a few years ago, replaced by an audio-recording system operated by the court reporter.

  The only person left is you.

  I know from the diagrams I was shown of the court layout roughly where you are, further along from the defence, far to the left. I don’t close my eyes, it would look odd, but I do listen, tune in to any noise that might be from you. I listen for you breathing, I know the sound well. The cigarettes you smoke, menthol, a gentle rasp from your throat. But no, I can’t hear you. The persistent shuffling of paper and shifting of people’s feet drown you out. So close to you, I am.

  The man at the podium walks away, takes a seat next to the other defence lawyer. The judge looks down at the papers in front of him, looks over at me, lifts up his hand, says in a loud masterful voice, ‘Court in session.’

  The shuffling and shifting ceases yet I still can’t hear you. Only my breath. Shaky. Too fast.

  ‘Will the witness please stand.’

  My video statement will have been played before I came in. I wonder if I’m what they expect, if I look different in the flesh. A court usher approaches me, swears me in. I choose the affirmation instead of the oath, I don’t believe in a higher power.

  ‘I do solemnly, sincerely and truly declare and affirm that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth –’

  Remember to breathe.

  ‘– and nothing but the truth.’

  HELLO, ANNIE.

  Can’t breathe.

  I try to ignore the hand I feel round my throat and focus on Skinny. When he stands up, faces the jury, I know what to expect. I’ve been tutored and schooled in the questions they’ll ask. Over in a flash, he said, the last time I saw him.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we have all seen the video evidence given by the witness. I would now like to hear from her.’

  He turns to face me.

  ‘In your own words, tell the court what it was like living at home with your mother.’

  An open-ended question. The lawyers explained to me they’ll use questions that require a sentence or, even better, a ‘story’ in response. The more details, the better, Fatty said, no holds barred. So I did as I was told and practised a story to tell to the court. This one is true.

  ‘Living with my mother was terrifying. One minute she’d be normal, doing something like making dinner, the next she’d –’

  I have to take a breath before I say it out loud. It’ll be the first time you’ve heard me talk about you. Shame floods through my body.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Skinny says. ‘In your own time.’

  I try again.

  ‘One minute she’d be normal, the next she’d attack me. Hurt me, very much.’

  The first answer will be the worst, Fatty told me. Once you’ve started, you’ll be fine. I find an object, focus on it. The plaque on the wall above where the jury are sitting. Skinny asks me to describe the first time I saw you hurting a child.

  I tell them I saw you beat him, the first boy you took. I don’t tell the jury what you said when I called you cruel for hitting his little body. You said, it’s not cruel, it’s love. The wrong sort of love, I replied. You punished me afterwards.

  There is no.

  Lash.

  Such thing.

  Lash.

  As the wrong sort of love.

  Lash.

  Spittle, yours, blood, mine, alchemized in the air.

  I don’t tell the jury you said it was love because my lawyers told me not to, that you’d get your wish to be sentenced on the basis of diminished responsibility. Because only a person who was mad, insane, would believe what you did to be love.

  Next Skinny asks me if I wanted to help the children you hurt. I pause, focus on the plaque again, flashbacks like missiles, rampaging through my mind.

  Jayden. Ben. Olivia. Stuart. Kian. Alex. Sarah. Max. Daniel.

  Jayden. Ben. Olivia. Stuart. Kian. Alex. Sarah. Max. Daniel.

  You didn’t like using their names, gave each one a number. Couldn’t wait for number ten you told me on the drive to school the morning after Daniel’s death. But I never forget any of their names. Or me standing at the peephole, my hand on the doorknob, trying to get to them, to stop you. Your laughter loud. The child in there with you, crying even louder.

  ‘Does the witness need a break?’ the judge asks.

  SO SOON, DEAR OH DEAR. I THOUGHT I’D TAUGHT YOU BETTER THAN THAT, ANNIE.

  You did.

  I answer.

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘I’ll repeat the question, did you want to help the children your mother hurt?’

  Twelve sets of eyes staring at me. Waiting.

  ‘Yes, very much.’

  ‘But you couldn’t, could you?’ Skinny continues. ‘Because not only were you a victim yourself but the room used by the accused to abuse and murder the children was locked. Isn’t that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please tell the court who held the key.’

  ‘My mother did.’

  ‘Objection, your honour, we have evidence to suggest the witness also had access to the room.’

  ‘What evidence have you?’ the judge replies.

  One of the defence lawyers stands up, speaks.

  ‘I ask the jury to turn to page five of the report detailing the evidence gathered from the address occupied by both my client and the witness. It lists a number of children’s toys found in this so-called “locked” room. Toys that belong to the witness, a teddy bear with her name sewn into the ear and a doll from a set, the remaining dolls found in the witness’s bedroom. It is our position on the matter that the witness herself placed these toys in the so-called “locked” room.’

  ‘Your honour, might I ask what proof the defence has to support this position,’ Skinny counters. ‘Her mother could have placed these items there without the witness’s knowledge.’

  ‘Would the defence please respond.’

  I hold my breath when the defence lawyer begins to reply. Petrified by what he might say. An assortment of trump cards hidden up the sleeve of his gown.

  ‘I find it highly unfeasible that the prosecution expect the court to believe somebody else, other than the witness, placed these toys in the room. The prosecution are asking the court to believe that my client, thus far only portrayed as evil and uncaring, placed items of comfort for the children in this locked room, out of what, out of kindness? I highly doubt that. I offer the witness as an alternative instead. Motivated by care, she placed the toys there, proving she also had access to the room.’

  I breathe out. He responded as we expected him to, as my lawyers predicted he would. I know what Skinny’s going to ask me next.

  And I know how to answer.

  CLEVER GIRL, ANNIE. HOPE IT LASTS.

  ‘Allow me to humour the defence if I must,’ Skinny continues.

  He turns to face me.

  ‘Were you the person who placed the toys listed in the evidence report into the room? Did you indeed have access to this room?’

  ‘I did place the toys there but only when the room was empty and unlocked, I thought it would help whoever my mother brought home next. And no, when someone was in the room I didn’t have access, there was only one key. She kept it on the same bunch as her car keys, took them to work every day.’

  The defence lawyer who is yet to speak writes something on a piece of paper, underlines it. The other lawyer looks at it, nods. He picks the paper up, leans to his right, my left, until he’s almost out of his seat. His right, my left. You. He waits a second or two, nods while looking in your direction, slides back into his seat, the paper no longer in his hands. Whatever he wrote, he left it with you. Not f
eeling so good any more, I didn’t want to see that, the transaction between him and you, not just before we move on to the next bit. The bit that troubles me the most.

  ‘Did you know a boy called Daniel Carrington?’ Skinny asks.

  ‘Yes, I knew him from the refuge my mother worked at.’

  I look at the jury, I don’t mean to. All twelve are holding their pens, poised. Ready.

  ‘Tell the court about the night your mother brought him home, it was a Wednesday night.’

  I know, I remember.

  ‘She brought him home when I was asleep, she normally did that, brought them back at night so nobody would see. Sometimes she drugged them, so they’d be quiet.’

  ‘So you didn’t see Daniel on this particular evening?’

  ‘I did. She woke me up.’

  ‘Please explain to the court what happened once she woke you up.’

  ‘She made me go to the peephole so I could see who it was.’

  ‘She wanted to shock you, because you knew Daniel, had met him before at the refuge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What happened after that?’

  ‘She went into the room, locked the door behind her and made me watch.’

  ‘Made you watch what?’

  ‘While she did things to him. Bad things.’

  ‘So to clarify, your mother woke you up to make you watch her hurt a little boy she had brought home, Daniel Carrington being the boy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What else happened that night?’ Skinny asks.

  I’M STILL HERE, ANNIE. LISTENING. EVERYBODY IS.

  The jury, pens moving now. Don’t look at them. Safe place instead.

  ‘She got angry with Daniel, started to hit him.’

  ‘That must have been very hard for you to watch. You knew Daniel, you liked him.’

  ‘I didn’t watch, I closed my eyes.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘She came out of the room, locked the door and went to bed.’