‘Psycho bitch, they should hang her,’ she says.
A knot in my stomach. I make contact with the nearest thing, swipe it off the counter. A splintering as it hits the slate tiles, a red ooze of jam colours the floor. I kneel down, my hand meets the glass. More red, this time from my finger. There’s a scraping of chairs and someone switches off the radio. Sorry, I say. Sorry. Phoebe looks down at me, mouths ‘freak’ and walks out, I hear Rosie yelp as she passes her. Mike crouches next to me. We shouldn’t have had the news on, we didn’t want you to hear that, he says.
Your name. The charges against you, Mummy.
My reality spelled out in public.
I shrug. All I see is red, I’m used to it. The spillages and seepages, how red trickles into the cracks of the floorboards, and no amount of scrubbing erases it. I remember the hours spent in the secure unit, where ‘they’, the professionals, tried to prepare me for life after you. How to answer questions like where I’m from, what school I used to go to, why I live in a foster family. What they didn’t prepare me for, couldn’t prepare me for, is how much I look like you. And although you’re in the news most days, when the court case is in full swing it’ll be worse. So much worse. You will be everywhere.
I will be everywhere.
You’re the spit of your mother, they used to say at the women’s refuge you worked at. That’s what I’m afraid of, I replied in my head.
I clear up the mess on the floor. Mike tries to help but I ask him not to, he hands me a plaster for my finger. Have something to eat, Saskia says. Practise what you preach, I want to reply, but instead I say, ‘I don’t think I can manage breakfast, I’m going to go and brush my teeth.’
Mike says he’ll wait for me in the hallway, not to be too long, we need to be at the lawyers’ by nine. I hear Phoebe on the phone, laughing, as I pass her room. Relaying the story about me dropping the jam, probably to Izzy or Clondine. And when I’m brushing my teeth I hear your voice: WHO DOES THAT? WHO HANDS IN THEIR MOTHER? I don’t answer, I don’t know what to say or how I feel about being that person.
When I make my way back downstairs, I pause to tickle Rosie on her tummy, the hair of her coat gingery, bristly. She appreciates the gesture, gentle touch, her tail sweeping the floor.
‘She likes you, you know,’ Mike says as he approaches.
‘I like her.’
‘We’ll take the Tube I think, it’ll be quicker than waiting in traffic.’
We join the throngs of commuters as we reach Notting Hill Gate, head down into the Underground and on to a train. The carriage is busy, full of City workers in suits, jackets off, sleeves rolled up to escape the heat of the Underground, even in September. Life, so different in London, the way people move around together, live so close to each other. No acres of privacy here. Mike and I stand, sandwiched between the crowds, get off at a station called St Paul’s, and as soon as we emerge into the open, Mike starts a conversation about the trial, about the options available to me if I have to go to court.
‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot,’ he says. ‘About the special measures you’ve been placed under, so you can use a live video link instead of having to go into the courtroom. What do you think about that?’
Futile. That’s what I think. I can feel you lining up the guns, loading them. I could say yes to Mike, yes, I’d much rather give evidence from a video link, but he doesn’t know the feelings I live with every day. That even though I’m no longer with you, a part of me still wants to please you and indulge my desire to be close to you again, the same room. The last chance I’ll get.
I hear Mike say, ‘Let’s take a left here, avoid the crowds.’ We leave the main road and walk down a cobbled alleyway, the change of pace and noise calming. St Paul’s Cathedral rises up between the gaps in the buildings. Until today I’d only seen it in pictures. So much more beautiful in real life. I never thought I would like living in a big city, but the density of the buildings, the amount of people, is reassuring. Safe.
‘Milly, you didn’t answer me. Did you hear what I said?’
‘Yeah, I did, sorry, and I get why you think the video link is a good idea, but what if I want to opt out? What if I don’t want to use special measures? When June came to see me at the hospital she left me a leaflet. It said I was allowed to do that.’
‘You can opt out, but I’m not sure why you’d want to do that?’
I can’t tell him, I’m not able to say it. That the person I want to run from is also the person I want to run to. So instead I tell him it’s because, for once, I want to choose. I want to be the one making a decision involving me.
‘I appreciate where you’re coming from but I’m not sure I agree, especially after this morning. You were very upset when the headlines came on.’
‘It was more of a shock than anything, the jam slipped through my fingers, an accident.’
‘I know, but still, we want to protect you.’
He can’t. Nobody can. There’s a game being played, a secret head-to-head. No referee. My only chance to break free is if I go to court.
‘I’ll be sixteen soon, Mike. I’m not a kid any more. I want the chance to do this, to feel brave, to walk away knowing I managed to stand up in court and be questioned, knowing that she was there too.’
‘I need to think about it some more, Milly, but what I can say is that you’re doing very well, better than anyone could have hoped.’
‘So in reality I should be able to manage to go to court.’
We stop at the end of the alleyway, where it rejoins the main road, the noise from the traffic apparent again. He turns to face me. I give him eye contact – I can, when necessary, just not for long.
He nods, cognitive wheels rotating. A spit inside his head.
‘We’ll talk to the lawyers about it today. I can see your point of view but everybody has to be in agreement on this one and, to be honest, I’m not sure June will be. But if it’s any consolation, I’ll talk to her, at least help her see it from your point of view as well, and we’ll go from there. Okay?’
‘Okay. Thank you.’
Got him, just where I want him.
We enter the reception of the lawyers’ offices through a large set of revolving doors, an atrium flooded with light from a dome-shaped glass ceiling. June’s there already, smiles as she greets us. When I met her at the unit she said, in a thick Northern Irish accent, we want what’s best for you. You don’t even know me, I wanted to reply.
‘Hi, guys, did you dander your way here okay?’
‘Yeah, no problem at all,’ Mike replies.
‘Hi, Milly, nice to see you again, it’s been a while. You okay?’
I nod. Look up at the offices surrounding us, floor after floor, a corporate cake, no cherry on the top. People in suits, neutral looks on their faces. Masks. A sense of purpose in the air, movement, shoes tapping across the floor, also marble. A security guard monitors the turnstiles as identification cards on lanyards round necks are removed and swiped. So many decisions made here, so many lives changed. Soon it will be your life. And mine.
‘Milly.’
‘Milly. June’s talking to you.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I was just explaining to Mike that the courthouse, which is called the Old Bailey, isn’t far from here. You’re to use the underground car park if you’re called to attend the trial at any point.’
‘Why?’
‘Just a precaution really.’
She looks at Mike. He looks back. The world turns on a million different looks. Glances. I work hard to decipher them, harder than most. My psychologist at the unit enlightened me. You may have a compromised ability to read emotions, he said. He meant: my mind does not function the same way an average person’s does. So I read textbooks, watch people on TV and in the street. I practise. Leaps and bounds, improvement can always be made. ‘Average’ is not a word I like.
‘It’s nothing to worry about, it’s just sometimes there can be a bit of a crowd outside w
hen there’s big trials going on. Some real eejits, mostly just looking for trouble.’
‘People want to see her, don’t they?’ I ask.
June places her hand on my forearm, I move it away. Mike nods, he understands.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘And yes, people will want to see her but it’s also a way of protecting you. Even though the press aren’t allowed to mention you by name or use any photographs, you never know.’
‘Shall we make a move,’ Mike says. ‘It’s almost nine.’
‘We should, you’re right, the lawyers are waiting. Must be about time for a cup of tea as well, maybe even a choccy bicky if we’re lucky. You fancy that, Milly?’
I nod, fancying the idea of shoving one down her throat more.
We take the lift to level -2, the bowels of the building. Quiet. We won’t be disturbed. I’m disturbed enough already, they think. June shows us into a room, two men around a large rectangular table. Long strip lighting, a migraine threatens, will be made worse by the slight flickering from the light furthest away at the back of the room. Coffee- and teacups in the middle of the table, proper cups made out of china, no polystyrene excuses. The detective at the police station where I gave my first statement said it was for safety, you can’t smash polystyrene, love.
I remember thinking, no, but you could use the scalding contents.
The men stand up, shake hands with Mike. Crown Prosecutors is their official title. I wonder if they were specially selected, or perhaps they volunteered. Perhaps there was a scrum of volunteers, all keen to be involved in one of the most high-profile cases ever to be tried. Their job is to pursue, and persuade the jury to nail you to the wall. Merely a formality, I’ve been told. Your ship has sailed. A one-way ticket to jail. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred. Fucked.
I did that to you.
I don’t catch their names, Skinny and Fatty will do, easy to remember.
‘Shall we begin?’ Skinny says.
June kicks off with an update as to how I’m ‘coping’ at home, and the adjustment to a new school. Mike chips in, good stuff mainly. Everyone’s impressed by how well I’m doing.
‘No disturbed sleep?’ June asks.
‘Not really,’ I reply.
Lie.
Mike casts a fleeting look at me, he suspects otherwise, says nothing. Ownership. He’ll take the credit for me doing well, looking like I’m doing well. I wonder if he’d also take the fall if I turned out just like you.
Fatty moves on to discuss the trial process in detail, says that if need be I’ll be brought in the week before to watch my evidence video.
‘By then we’ll know the angle the defence lawyers plan to come in at – and how to bring them down, of course,’ he says.
Leans back in his chair. Pudgy interlocked sausages at the end of his hands, resting on his fat stomach. Smug. Buttons strain in protest. I look away, sickened by his lack of discipline. He continues.
‘The jury will be presented with the details of your childhood. They’ll be given copies of your medical records, including the extent of your –’
He pauses, the room heavy with words he can’t say. I look at him, his turn to struggle with eye contact. He nods slightly, we move on. I don’t blame him, a common reaction. I heard the nurses at the hospital discussing my injuries. Out of earshot, they thought. Never seen anything like it, one said, her own mother it was, and she’s a nurse would you believe. Yes, another replied, that’s why most of the injuries were never reported, dealt with at home, she’ll never be able to have kids, you know. You told me I should be thankful, you’d done me a favour. Children were nothing but trouble.
‘The final and perhaps most important point to be discussed is whether or not Milly presents in court,’ Skinny says. ‘And at some level this may be out of our control due to developments in the last few days.’
‘Developments?’ June asks.
‘There’ve been noises from the defence camp in regards to certain things they’d like to question Milly on.’
A pounding in my chest. A carrier pigeon, an important message in a small barrel round its neck. Cage door locked, while the others fly free.
‘What sort of things?’ June asks.
‘We’re not entirely clear yet, and it’s probably not helpful to dwell on it too much until we’re sure,’ Fatty says.
‘Well, it would have been helpful to know about this prior to today,’ Mike says, looking first at me then the lawyers. ‘It doesn’t leave Milly in a very nice position, wondering what it is they want to ask her.’
I have a feeling I know. A bad feeling.
‘Agreed,’ says June.
‘Like I said, it’s a new development and at this point they’re keeping their cards close to their chest,’ Skinny responds.
‘Seems like desperate measures to me, given the evidence.’
No, June, not desperate, but the first phase of a plan being executed by you, Mummy.
‘In terms of what it means for Milly,’ Skinny responds, ‘we should prepare her for the eventuality she’ll be cross-examined on her evidence.’
‘Mike,’ I say.
He looks at me. ‘It’s okay, it’s going to be okay.’
Stomach empty, no breakfast, yet my throat feels full. Swallow. I’m not on trial, you are. That’s all I need to remember.
‘How likely is it looking?’ June asks.
‘We’re pretty sure the defence will want to go down that route. It’ll be the judge, taking into account our recommendations, who makes the final decision, but it’s not all doom and gloom,’ Skinny replies. ‘Milly has the choice of doing it through a video link or – if we think she can handle it – she can go on the stand. There’ll be a screen set up so Milly won’t be able to see her mother. In my opinion, putting her on the stand can only evoke a favourable response from the jury. Nothing like a kid in court to pull in the sympathy.’
‘I don’t like the idea of Milly being used as bait,’ Mike responds.
‘I second that,’ June says.
‘Like it or loathe it, it’s the nature of the court system,’ Skinny says. ‘And at the end of the day, we all want the same thing.’
Everybody at the table nods but me, I focus on breathing. Calm. On not letting them know I can hear you laughing in my head.
‘What about you, Milly? What do you think?’ June asks.
Protégée. You loved saying that word. Brave enough. Am I? The lessons you gave me, good enough. Were they? You want them to blame me. YOU WERE THERE TOO, ANNIE. I try to block out your voice, answer June’s question.
‘Me and Mike have been talking a bit about it and we think by the time the trial starts I’ll be strong enough, and that it might actually help if I go into the courtroom.’
‘Very sensible attitude,’ Skinny says, picking a small scab to the right of his mouth. The sight makes me feel uncomfortable so I look away, turn towards the flickering light, but it makes me feel dizzy and my heart beats faster.
‘It all sounds rather gung-ho if you ask me.’
Well we didn’t, June, did we?
‘We all know what the defence lawyers can be like when they get going,’ she continues.
A blockage in my throat, I’d scream if I could. Pins and needles in my feet from pushing them hard into the ground. If only I could tell them why it’s so important I go to court. Why I have to play the game with you. I look at Mike, give him eyes enough, ask him to step in. He does.
‘Milly and I will work on strategies over the following weeks but in my opinion she does seem to have her head in a reasonable place about this. It might also be useful to view this as an opportunity for closure. A cathartic experience if handled correctly.’
‘And if it’s not? I’m sorry to play devil’s advocate here, but what if it’s too difficult for her in the actual moment? What if the defence go hard, try and confuse her, manipulate her into agreeing with their version of events? She feels guilty enough as it is.’
‘Hang
on, June, I’m not sure it’s helpful to talk about Milly’s feelings in front of everybody.’
‘Sorry, you’re right. But we do need to make a decision about this and I think it might be beneficial if we stepped outside to do that. Shall we?’
She gestures to Mike and the lawyers and they leave the room, saying they won’t be long. I trace the ripples of scars through my shirt. Count them. Twenty times, or more.
I ask you what happens if I don’t want to play, if I say no. Your reply, a scornful voice. YOU’LL ALWAYS WANT TO PLAY, MY LITTLE ANNIE, I MADE YOU THAT WAY.
Finally, they return. Skinny first, then June, followed by Mike. Fatty, gone. An early lunch. And this little piggy always had some.
I hear nothing else apart from Skinny’s words.
‘We’ve agreed that if you’re called, you’ll take the stand.’
But instead of satisfaction, it’s a gap I feel, opening up inside me. An empty, lonely place. Nobody can help me now.
A discussion kicks off around how to manage my exposure to press coverage in the run-up to the trial, limit the time I watch the news and listen to the radio. Mike, my monitor. They advise me to keep busy. Some of it I hear, most of it, I don’t.
I’m listening to another voice, one that says:
GAME ON, ANNIE.
8
Mike drops me at Wetherbridge just before morning break. He tells me he’s proud of me, I thank him, wish I could feel the same. As I sign in at the office I realize I forgot to remind him I’m meeting Miss Kemp after school, so I send him a text while I enjoy the last few minutes of quiet in the locker room. No poster greets me today but when I log on to the school email from my laptop – another present from Mike and Saskia – there’s a message from Miss Kemp:
Hi, Milly, really looking forward to our meeting today. Thought we could do some sketching? See you in the art room later.
MK.
MK. I’ve never known a teacher to sign off with initials before.
The rest of the day is uneventful. Maths, double science and religious studies to end on. When the bell goes, I head up to the art room. I hear their voices before I see them. Nasal and shrill. Mean. Girls. They come down the stairs towards me and I wonder what sort of punishment, if any, MK gave them for the poster. I pause to let them pass, the staircase not wide enough. Phoebe pushes me against the banister.