Good Me Bad Me(54)

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, under 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.

I close my laptop, unlock the door, my heart keen in my chest. Her hood pulled up, covering most of her face.

‘I’m sorry, Morgan. I really, really am.’

She shrugs, looks down at her feet. I reach for her hand, bring her inside, show her the snow globe.

‘Shake it.’

And when she does, I know we’re going to be okay.

Forgiving, that’s what she is, and lonely. A person can forgive a lot if they need the company.

When the fireworks start we go on to the balcony. Brightly coloured rockets and explosions paint the sky.

‘Don’t ever do anything like that again,’ she says, after the display finishes. ‘You hurt me.’

‘I know, and I won’t. Did you tell anybody about it?’

She shakes her head, looks disappointed I asked that, then leaves, taking the snow globe with her.

I hear you coming, weaving your way across the thick carpet in my bedroom.

You’ve got a message for me, something you’d like to say.

SEE YOU IN COURT, ANNIE.





Up eight. Up another four.


The door on the right.


You wanted to cut off my hair, long down my back, to short as a boy’s.

But you didn’t, it would draw attention to me at school.

You still had your fun though.

Dressed me up, stuffed my knickers with socks.

But I wasn’t enough for you.

The room in our house that had lain empty for months.

The room opposite mine.

You announced it to me at dinner one night.

The playground, that’s what I’ll call it, you said.

Insatiable.

I knew you’d never be through, so I took my chance to leave you too.





24


Day one of your trial. I say no when Mike suggests I stay off school for the week. He’s trying to shield me. The press. Erupted. Every news report and headline I read online before breakfast, fill to overflowing with you. The BBC website shows the crowd gathering outside the courthouse. A mob. Angry. If they could they’d hammer on the van as you pass. Spit on it. Throw paint bombs, the colour of red. Murderer. Murderer.

The silence in the house is deafening, the radio in the kitchen unplugged. Mike jokes to us all, I think we should try and do a week, maybe two, without TV. Phoebe says she doesn’t care, she’ll watch Netflix on her laptop. This morning before I leave the house Mike pulls me to one side, tells me to come home straight away if school gets too much. What about if it all gets too much, I wanted to ask.