Good Me Bad Me(31)

‘What song did she sing?’

‘Lavender’s green, dilly dilly, lavender’s blue.’

IF YOU LOVE ME, DILLY DILLY, I WILL LOVE YOU. YOU STILL LOVE ME, DON’T YOU, ANNIE?

‘I was there too, Mike.’

‘Where were you, Milly?’

I open my eyes. He’s leaning forward in his chair.

‘You said you were there too, what did you mean?’

I bite down on my tongue. Bitter and warm as the blood flows.

‘You did everything you could, Milly. Everything you could in the circumstances. It must be especially hard remembering Daniel.’

‘Why do you think it was him I was remembering?’

‘You recognized his voice. He was the only one you knew well enough.’

‘But that doesn’t mean I didn’t care about all of the children she took.’

‘I know, and I’m not saying you didn’t, but it must have been that much harder when you realized it was Daniel she’d taken, you’d spent time with him at the refuge.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘But you need to. You need to be able to if you go to court.’

‘I will be able to by then.’

‘Why not try now?’

‘I feel like you’re pressuring me, I need more time.’

‘I just want you to know this is a safe space, Milly, you can tell me anything, talk to me. That’s what I’m here for.’

I tell him I know, but I’m tired, and I don’t want to talk any more.

He sits back in his chair, nods, says, okay, let’s leave it there for tonight.

I read until midnight, exhausted, yet sleep doesn’t come. I long to be held, comforted by someone. How your touch hurt, how no touch hurts more. I get out of bed, unlock the balcony door, open it wide. Cold air floods the room, every shiver and goosebump on my body a welcome sensation. My lonely skin.

I sit down on the stool in front of the easel Mike and Saskia bought me. Kindness from them, every day. It’s late now, past two a.m. The night air wraps around me, my feet hum from exposure. I like the noise charcoal makes. The smudges, the smears, perfection left out in the cold. The black on my hands reminds me something is happening. Being done. I rock on the stool as I sketch, back and forward. I close my eyes for a moment, my grip on the charcoal tightens. The wind reaches through the balcony door, pinches my breasts. My nipples, hard and tight.

I rock to the side.

The left and the right. A circular motion. I enjoy the wood of the stool through my knickers, the heat created, a stark contrast to the rest of my cold body. I rub.

Harder on the page.

Harder on the stool.

The charcoal breaks. I’m left with a pulse down below, black dust on my knees.

In the morning a sketch clipped to the easel. You, again. I remove the paper, roll it up, place it in the pull-out drawer under my bed.





14


The past few days haven’t been good. A recurring dream about being on the stand, opening my mouth, but instead of words, a colony of bats flies out. Screeching the truth. The shame of saying it out loud, of what I let you do to me. Of what I let you do to them. I woke up this morning gasping for breath, the pillow game you used to play.

Morgan didn’t reply to my messages over the weekend. She sometimes helps her uncle out so I know that’ll be what it is but I’ve often wondered what would happen if she found out about me. Whether she’d understand, still want to be my friend. I’ve thought about telling her. She’s the person I feel closest to, and sometimes the burden of you is too much on my own. The need to share, to feel normal. I’m not sure if she’d keep it secret though and I worry that if the parents of the children you took can’t get to you, they might come after me. A child for a child.

I choose a black hoodie and jeans. Uggs. Today we’re going on a school trip with Brookmere College, and I’ve been dreading it since it was announced. Visible I feel, for all the wrong reasons, the other girls, confident. Know how to act around boys. In the kitchen there’s a note from Mike, along with a plate of croissants: ‘Monday treat, enjoy the trip, girls.’

The way he pluralizes me and Phoebe. A team. I wouldn’t mind it being true, we’d make a good one. Saskia comes in, asks if I’m looking forward to the trip.

‘Sort of.’

‘Better than lessons, surely?’

Not really, no.

‘Here, take a croissant with you.’

‘Thanks. Has Phoebe left already?’

‘About five minutes ago, I think.’

‘Okay, see you later.’

I chuck the croissant in the bin on the way to school, stomach all over the place. I’m hoping to see MK this afternoon when we get back, show her more of my work. She nods and smiles whenever she sees me at school. Last Friday she stopped at my table during lunch, wished me a nice weekend. I found myself imagining what my life would’ve been like if I’d grown up with her instead of you. I felt guilty afterwards, almost immediately.

The bus is outside school when I arrive, registration on board. Hurry up, everyone, on you go, says Mr Collier, one of the classics teachers. I choose a seat near the front, less likely anybody will sit next to me. Headphones on, no music though. The bus fills quickly, energy full and ripe. The girls aglow, an extra layer of bronzer applied, perfume sprayed liberally. The boys, like apes, do pull-ups on the overhead luggage rack. A zoo. Overwhelming. A headcount is done, somebody shouts from the back, Joe’s missing, a joke about him taking a dump. Limits are set by Mr Dugan, the boys’ teacher.