Good Me Bad Me

  Today we’re having an end-of-week play rehearsal in the Great Hall. I’ve read Lord of the Flies over a dozen times now. It’s comforting. Reading about other children in circumstances that scare them, acting in ways they thought they never could, or would.

  I carry my rucksack carefully, a candle in a glass jar inside. Saskia has a cupboard full, I asked if I could have one for my room. I took two, one for MK as well as a thank you. I’m due to see her at lunch today, I’ll give it to her then.

  When most of us have arrived in the hall Miss Mehmet claps three times, waits for the chitter-chatter of thirty or so girls in the same room to cease.

  ‘I hope you’ve all been busy learning your lines, we’ll pick up where we left off last time, which was, let’s see – oh yes, Piggy’s death.’

  ‘Aww.’

  ‘Very good, Lucy, but let’s save the dramatics for onstage, shall we?’

  ‘Miss?’

  ‘Yes, Phoebe?’

  ‘Are we allowed our scripts?’

  She sighs, rests both hands on her hips, her large breasts wobbling for a second or two before settling.

  ‘No, you should all be well on your way to knowing your lines by now, and if you aren’t, we’ve got Milly on hand to prompt.’

  No. A word Phoebe hates to hear. That, and Milly.

  ‘Hurry up, you lot, over there, on to the stage and put your phones away. Silly girls.’

  The noise lifts as chairs are pushed back, the last handful of girls climbing up the steps to the stage. I approach Miss Mehmet, ask her where I should sit. She explains that for the actual performances I’ll be onstage tucked behind the curtains, but that it’s not necessary right now.

  ‘Take a seat in the front row and follow the script, line by line, okay?’

  When I look up at the stage I can tell from Phoebe’s face she’s dreading it, hasn’t learnt her lines. She’s sat on a chair, on the left-hand side of the stage, frantically scanning each page. Too late. Show time.

  ‘Shh, everyone, we’re about to begin. And action.’

  This is Phoebe’s cue, the opening of the scene. Her feet are crossed, pulled back under her chair, not still though, the right one dances, a continual nervous jig. The script now on the floor next to her. Tempting. I see her look down, then out to me. I hold her gaze for a second, enjoy her needing me, then say the first line.

  ‘Without Piggy’s glasses, Ralph is –’

  ‘Unable to light the fire.’

  She interrupts, finishes the sentence, continues on.

  ‘Ralph calls a meeting by blowing the conch.’

  ‘Saafi – you’re Ralph, pretend to blow the conch.’

  The girls who do know their lines, the majority, take over. Progress is good until it’s Phoebe’s turn again. She stumbles and mumbles, looks like a fool. Feels worse, I imagine.

  ‘No, no, no,’ comes the cry from Miss Mehmet. ‘Phoebe, this is unacceptable, what makes you so busy and important you can’t learn your lines? I’ve watched Milly, she’s hardly even using the script, knows the whole thing by heart.’

  Ouch.

  ‘I do know my lines, Miss, I just keep forgetting them.’

  ‘Well it’s not good enough. If you continue like this I’ll be forced to give your part to Milly, understood?’

  She nods, is silent, wouldn’t dare say what she thinks to a teacher’s face. When we finish, are filing out of the hall, she comes up behind me, whispers in my ear.

  ‘And then Piggy dies.’

  I have lunch with MK in her room today and I notice we both chose the same sandwich, ham and cheese. When we finish, she stands up, clips paper on to one of the easels and says, ‘Feel free to start sketching whenever you like.’

  I take the candle out of my bag.

  ‘This is for you.’

  ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘To say thanks for helping me with the girls.’

  ‘That’s very sweet, Milly, but we’re not allowed to accept presents from pupils unless it’s Christmas.’

  ‘It’ll be half-term soon, Christmas isn’t too long after that.’

  I smile at her, walk over to her desk, put the candle down.

  ‘It’s vanilla. I tried to find a lavender one, I know you’d have liked that.’

  She picks it up, smells it, then puts it back on the desk.

  ‘It’s lovely, but really I can’t –’

  ‘It’s fine, it was a silly thing to do. Bin it if you like.’

  I walk over to the easel, sit down.

  ‘Don’t be upset, Milly, it was a lovely thought, but rules are there for a reason.’

  The phone on her desk rings, the noise, shrill, at odds with the sombre atmosphere in the room, a welcome intruder. She picks it up.

  ‘Hello.’

  A pause then, ‘Yes, she’s with me. Right now? Okay, I’ll send her down,’ and she replaces the receiver.

  ‘Mrs Newmont’s in reception.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Not sure, that was Mrs McDowell from the office, you should go and find out though.’

  Bad news. Bad enough for Saskia to come to school.

  ‘About the candle, Milly –’

  ‘It’s fine, I understand.’

  I wouldn’t want a present from me either.

  Saskia smiles as I approach her in reception. She wouldn’t smile, would she, if it was something really bad? Something about me?

  ‘There you are.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Mike called, asked me to pick you up, he’s on his way home. June’s back from holiday, I think she needs to talk to you about something. Have you got everything?’

  I nod.

  ‘I’ve signed you out, let’s go.’

  I follow tight leggings, bony hips, to the car. While I was making her a pot of tea the other night Mike came in for his eye drops. I watched him tilt his head. Squeeze. Drop. Blink. The sequence reminded me of you. You loved to teach me about chemistry, reactions that hurt. The hours you spent trawling the internet, learning. Eye drops for eyes become poison in tea. Taught me too. You didn’t only want a helper, you wanted someone to carry on your work.

  When we arrive home Saskia says, ‘I should think they’re already in the study, would you like me to come with you?’

  ‘No, it’s fine, it’s probably better if it’s just me and Mike.’

  ‘I understand, I’ll be around if you need me.’

  I ignore Rosie jumping at my legs, eager and gooey for company during the day. My shoes echo on the marble, lonely as I walk, my heart pounds. Why is June here? The door to the study is open, I go in. Mike stands, a mistake, too formal, his face tense. Runs his hands through his hair.

  ‘Hi, Milly,’ says June.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

  ‘Take a seat, we’ll talk everything through.’

  ‘I don’t want to sit down.’

  Mike comes over to me.

  ‘Sit next to me on the sofa.’

  I don’t have a choice, June’s in my chair, the velvet cushion next to her. Mine.

  ‘Shall I, Mike? Or do you want to?’

  ‘You start.’

  ‘Okay. I received a phone call this morning from Simon Watts, one of the lawyers.’

  Skinny.

  ‘There’s a couple of things I need to tell you and I wanted to do it face-to-face and as soon as possible in case the papers get wind of anything. The first thing is that you’ll definitely be cross-examined during the trial. As we expected, the defence want to focus on the most recent events, so the last few days you spent at home with your mother, including Daniel’s death. They want to clarify a few things.’

  ‘Clarify what?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t know. Simon did say it’s likely to be a bit of smoke and mirrors, that the defence are playing the hype game. Sadly, we see these tactics all too often in the run-up to a trial.’

  My left eyelid begins to tic, a hidden puppet master pulling on my strings
. Reminding me you’re still in charge.

  ‘Surely we’ll find out before the trial though, June?’ Mike asks.

  ‘Unless new evidence needs to be submitted, no, it’s unlikely we’ll find out exactly what it is the defence are referring to until we get to it. It could be as simple as Milly clarifying something she saw or heard. Our lawyers are confident nothing new will be brought up at trial.’

  But they don’t know you, do they? They don’t know how your mind works. How much you enjoy playing with people.

  ‘So what exactly will Milly be required to do?’

  ‘She’ll have to present twice. Once for the prosecution to question her and a second time for the defence. It’s important to remember, Milly, that special measures can be reinstated at any point, it’s not necessary for you to be questioned in the courtroom.’

  ‘That may not be a bad idea, considering we’re not sure what the defence are going to ask. What do you think, Milly?’ Mike turns his body fully towards me.

  ‘I don’t know. I still want to do it, I need to, but I’m scared.’

  ‘What are you scared of?’

  ‘That she wants people to blame me.’

  ‘Nobody’s going to blame you, Milly.’

  ‘You don’t know that, you’re not the jury.’

  ‘No, we’re not the jury,’ June responds. ‘But the court will recognize you as a minor, at home with her under duress, and to make things easier our lawyers have put together some example questions for you and Mike to go through.’

  She makes it sound so simple. Like learning my ABC. But there’s nothing simple about what I’m going to have to do in court.

  ‘And will she have a chance to go through her statement again?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. In the week prior to the trial I’ll ask you to bring Milly into court so she can have a look round and also review her statement. Once is more than enough – it can be very traumatizing to have to go over it all again and can also create doubt and confusion in witnesses. Can make them feel under pressure to “learn” their statement, when really we encourage them to focus on the questions they’ll be asked.’

  Mike responds by saying, ‘That makes sense I suppose. We can go through this all again later, Milly, but is there anything you’d like to ask at this point?’

  ‘No.’

  Like Phoebe with Miss Mehmet, nothing I can say out loud.

  ‘Will I be able to go into the courtroom with her, June?’

  ‘I doubt it, no, in a high-profile case such as this one the judge will likely use what’s called an anonymity order with the fewest number of people there possible. In the past there have been incidents of information from the courtroom being leaked to the press. I’ll be there the whole time, sat to the side of Milly. Yourself, and Saskia, if she wants, can wait in one of the family rooms nearby.’

  ‘You said there were a couple of things you wanted to tell me, what was the other thing?’

  ‘The date of the trial has been moved. The case that was due to be heard before ours has collapsed, which frees up the judge,’ June explains. ‘It’s been brought forward, which means it’ll start three weeks on Monday.’

  Forty-five becomes twenty-four. I’m good at maths, especially when it involves you.

  ‘The week after half-term,’ I hear myself say. ‘I won’t be ready.’

  ‘We’ll make sure you are. June, is there anything else we can be doing in the meantime so Milly does feel ready?’

  ‘Strange as this might sound, nothing hugely different from what you’re doing now. Keep meeting on a weekly basis, more if either of you feel it’s needed, and once I get back to the office I’ll forward on to you the lawyers’ questions.’

  ‘So other than going through the questions, we continue as is?’

  ‘That’s right. Actually, will you be around over half-term? That’ll probably be when Milly reviews her statement.’

  ‘Yes, we will be. Phoebe’s away with the school and we might head off for a few days, a bit of distraction, nowhere too far though so we can be around whenever you need us to be.’

  ‘Good idea to take some time out, lie low for a bit. The news that the trial has been pushed forward will be released to the press tomorrow and, as we’ve previously discussed, we need to think about managing your exposure to this, Milly. Are any of the girls at school mentioning the case at all?’

  I could tell the truth, that Mike’s darling daughter likes to read you out loud, thinks you should be burned at the stake, an adoring audience nodding in agreement at her feet. But I don’t want him to know how bad things are between me and Phoebe. I know who’ll be shown the door.

  So I say no, nobody really is.

  ‘Grand. It’s difficult I know but the right way to deal with it if they do is just to move yourself away. I’m aware this is an awful lot to take in but you’re in excellent hands with Mike and if you think of anything you’d like to ask me after I leave, get Mike to pick up the phone or drop me an email. Okay?’

  She approaches me, is about to touch my shoulder, withdraws her hand at the last minute when she remembers. She kneels down in front of me, the smell of stale coffee on her breath. ‘It won’t be as bad as you think it might be,’ she says.

  I look down at her. Committed, she is. Clueless though. It won’t be as bad as you think it might be – no, June, it’ll be worse.

  After Mike sees her out, I tell him I want to be alone, I need time to process everything.

  ‘Of course, yes, I’m here whenever you’re ready to touch base.’

  I stand at the sink in my bathroom. The razor on my skin. Press harder than usual. A knife through butter. A lightning bolt along my rib. Warm, red drips.

  But no comfort.

  16

  I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes I could see you, in your cell. You were smiling, happy with how things are going. How your plan is coming together. I start a countdown, in charcoal, inside the bathroom cabinet mounted on the wall. The days until the trial. I thought it would help, but when I write the number my hands begin to shake. Lawyers and jury members. The judge.

  And you. There behind a screen.

  Waiting.

  Mike texted me first thing this morning saying he was going to work early, a full day of clients, but he’d like to catch up tomorrow, or Monday. There’s nothing he can say or do. He’s said it already, ‘the only way out is through’.

  Phoebe turns her back towards me as I enter the kitchen, butters two slices of toast. Saskia by the sink. A spare part.

  ‘Morning,’ she says.

  ‘Hi, I just wanted to let you know I’m going out this afternoon, taking photos for art.’

  ‘Fine,’ she replies. ‘I’ll be out and about too, but perhaps we can all watch a movie together later on? Something girly.’

  ‘I’m going straight to Clondine’s after breakfast so you can count me out – not that you care,’ Phoebe responds, throwing her knife in the sink and walking out, toast in her hand.

  ‘What about you, Milly? Do you fancy it?’

  ‘Maybe, but I’m not sure how long I’ll be out for.’

  I eat my breakfast alone, thankful I’m seeing Morgan later. In her messages she tells me how she dreams about living somewhere else, away from the estate. I’ve written a message to her a hundred times, deleted it before sending. I think if I ever told her about you it would be face-to-face.

  We meet in the afternoon as arranged, down one of the side streets, away from the main road. She nods as I approach, a swift upwards movement of her head, a huge grin on her face.

  ‘All right,’ she says. ‘Have you missed me?’

  I smile which she takes as my reply.

  ‘Come on,’ she says, ‘let’s go.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To meet some friends of mine.’

  ‘Which friends?’

  ‘Just a couple of boys I know.’

  ‘Do we have to?’

  ‘What’s the problem
?’

  ‘Nothing, it doesn’t matter.’

  We cut through two streets I’ve never been along before. Quiet, the mayhem of the weekend markets not noticeable from here. The houses become less white, less grand, and soon we’re near another estate. As we turn the corner and go to cross the road I see the line of black cars before I notice the church. A small group of people file out of the building, a vicar at the front, head bent down. A woman being supported, two men, one on either side.

  ‘Wait, let them get in the cars, Morgan.’

  ‘Nah, it’s fine, come on.’

  As we get closer I see the coffin, the brown varnished wood shining through the hearse window, the October sun penetrating the glass. A floral tribute. DAD. The drivers of the cars open the doors, smart in their uniforms, hats held by their side. I stop before we reach them. Interrupting their procession, their grief, feels wrong. Morgan walks on, oblivious, weaves her way through the mourners. When the cars are full and pull away, and the vicar goes back inside, I stand outside the church for a minute or two longer, think about my dad. He left long before the worst of it but he must have seen the news, he must know. Run away. Hide. Denial about who he married, denial about who you preferred over him.

  Morgan whistles and beckons to me, looks impatient. When I join her she asks me why I stopped.

  ‘Out of respect, I suppose.’

  She spits on the ground, pulls a face that implies she doesn’t get it or doesn’t give a shit. A small pocket of heat flares up inside me. Lessons, she needs to be taught, I’m a good teacher.

  We turn a corner into a residential street, tower blocks on both sides, a shop on the right, metal grating covering the windows. We enter the estate on our left, walk through it until we reach a small play park, the ground littered with glass and fast-food wrappers. No children playing, just two older boys sitting on the roundabout, cans of beer in their hands.