Good Me Bad Me(60)

There is no.

Lash.

Such thing.

Lash.

As the wrong sort of love.

Lash.

Spittle, yours, blood, mine, alchemized in the air.

I don’t tell the jury you said it was love because my lawyers told me not to, that you’d get your wish to be sentenced on the basis of diminished responsibility. Because only a person who was mad, insane, would believe what you did to be love.

Next Skinny asks me if I wanted to help the children you hurt. I pause, focus on the plaque again, flashbacks like missiles, rampaging through my mind.

Jayden. Ben. Olivia. Stuart. Kian. Alex. Sarah. Max. Daniel.

Jayden. Ben. Olivia. Stuart. Kian. Alex. Sarah. Max. Daniel.

You didn’t like using their names, gave each one a number. Couldn’t wait for number ten you told me on the drive to school the morning after Daniel’s death. But I never forget any of their names. Or me standing at the peephole, my hand on the doorknob, trying to get to them, to stop you. Your laughter loud. The child in there with you, crying even louder.

‘Does the witness need a break?’ the judge asks.

SO SOON, DEAR OH DEAR. I THOUGHT I’D TAUGHT YOU BETTER THAN THAT, ANNIE.

You did.

I answer.

‘No thank you.’

‘I’ll repeat the question, did you want to help the children your mother hurt?’

Twelve sets of eyes staring at me. Waiting.

‘Yes, very much.’

‘But you couldn’t, could you?’ Skinny continues. ‘Because not only were you a victim yourself but the room used by the accused to abuse and murder the children was locked. Isn’t that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Please tell the court who held the key.’

‘My mother did.’

‘Objection, your honour, we have evidence to suggest the witness also had access to the room.’

‘What evidence have you?’ the judge replies.

One of the defence lawyers stands up, speaks.

‘I ask the jury to turn to page five of the report detailing the evidence gathered from the address occupied by both my client and the witness. It lists a number of children’s toys found in this so-called “locked” room. Toys that belong to the witness, a teddy bear with her name sewn into the ear and a doll from a set, the remaining dolls found in the witness’s bedroom. It is our position on the matter that the witness herself placed these toys in the so-called “locked” room.’

‘Your honour, might I ask what proof the defence has to support this position,’ Skinny counters. ‘Her mother could have placed these items there without the witness’s knowledge.’

‘Would the defence please respond.’

I hold my breath when the defence lawyer begins to reply. Petrified by what he might say. An assortment of trump cards hidden up the sleeve of his gown.

‘I find it highly unfeasible that the prosecution expect the court to believe somebody else, other than the witness, placed these toys in the room. The prosecution are asking the court to believe that my client, thus far only portrayed as evil and uncaring, placed items of comfort for the children in this locked room, out of what, out of kindness? I highly doubt that. I offer the witness as an alternative instead. Motivated by care, she placed the toys there, proving she also had access to the room.’

I breathe out. He responded as we expected him to, as my lawyers predicted he would. I know what Skinny’s going to ask me next.

And I know how to answer.

CLEVER GIRL, ANNIE. HOPE IT LASTS.

‘Allow me to humour the defence if I must,’ Skinny continues.

He turns to face me.

‘Were you the person who placed the toys listed in the evidence report into the room? Did you indeed have access to this room?’

‘I did place the toys there but only when the room was empty and unlocked, I thought it would help whoever my mother brought home next. And no, when someone was in the room I didn’t have access, there was only one key. She kept it on the same bunch as her car keys, took them to work every day.’

The defence lawyer who is yet to speak writes something on a piece of paper, underlines it. The other lawyer looks at it, nods. He picks the paper up, leans to his right, my left, until he’s almost out of his seat. His right, my left. You. He waits a second or two, nods while looking in your direction, slides back into his seat, the paper no longer in his hands. Whatever he wrote, he left it with you. Not feeling so good any more, I didn’t want to see that, the transaction between him and you, not just before we move on to the next bit. The bit that troubles me the most.

‘Did you know a boy called Daniel Carrington?’ Skinny asks.

‘Yes, I knew him from the refuge my mother worked at.’

I look at the jury, I don’t mean to. All twelve are holding their pens, poised. Ready.

‘Tell the court about the night your mother brought him home, it was a Wednesday night.’

I know, I remember.

‘She brought him home when I was asleep, she normally did that, brought them back at night so nobody would see. Sometimes she drugged them, so they’d be quiet.’

‘So you didn’t see Daniel on this particular evening?’

‘I did. She woke me up.’

‘Please explain to the court what happened once she woke you up.’