Good Me Bad Me(59)

‘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 prosecuting 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.