Good Me Bad Me(63)

‘What was it like where you used to live?’ Morgan asks.

‘Why?’

‘Was it really different from here?’

‘It was in the country, surrounded by trees. There were birds everywhere, I’d watch them for hours.’

‘What sort of birds?’

‘Starlings.’

A murmuration of starlings.

‘Like a swarm, they moved in perfect unison, dipping and rising as if they were one. A secret language, a tilt of a wing, a flick of a feather. They flew up, flew down, flew all around, they never stopped.’

‘A secret language? Like squawking and stuff?’

‘No, something more beautiful, more subtle.’

‘Why were they always moving like that, up and down?’

‘So the bigger birds wouldn’t catch them.’

‘Do you reckon that’s why your mum got caught, from not moving around enough?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Do you ever feel bad, like, I know none of it was your fault but it’s still your mum, isn’t it?’

‘They come to me at night.’

‘Who does?’

‘Ask me to help them, but I can’t.’

‘Who are you talking about? You’re being weird, I don’t like it. You’re scaring me.’

I’m just being me.

‘Let’s talk about something else, Mil. Tell me another story, another one about the birds where you lived.’

Morgan’s face soothes me, her freckles, pale, not brown, a peaceful feeling when I look at her. I move up to the top end of the bed, so we’re lying next to each other.

‘Ready?’ I ask.

‘Yep.’

‘It was late at night. I was washing my hands at the sink in my bedroom. I heard something behind me, scraping at the window.’

‘Were you scared?’

‘No, I turned round and it was there.’

‘What was?’

‘It was staring at me, eyes wide as can be, saucers surrounded by white.’

‘What was?’

‘An owl, through the window. It turned its head all the way round to let me know.’

‘Let you know what?’

‘It had seen what I’d done.’

‘What do you mean? What had you done?’

‘What I was told to.’

‘By who?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘It flew away. The things it saw, the things I did, too horrible for it to stay.’

She bursts into laughter, tells me I’m full of nonsense, I should be an actress.

‘I haven’t finished the story yet.’

‘What, now you’re going to tell me it came back?’

‘No, it never came back but I think of it often, the shape of its face, a love heart. It looked into my window then left, flew away.’

What it saw was too ugly to love.





28


I don’t remember much about getting to the court today, the drive there. The room painted cream. I’m back on the stand, one of the defence lawyers facing me. Beelzebub. I look closer but there’s nothing to see, a serious face in a gown and a suit is all, his wedding finger naked, no ring. Single? Divorced? I doubt he has a child of his own tucked up at home in a crib. How could he when he’s defending you?

What he does is subtle, he’s better than my lawyers thought he was, much better, a slow build. I don’t even notice where he’s going until he gets there.

Throat.

Mine.

‘Do you like children, enjoy playing with them?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s how you got to know Daniel Carrington, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘You played with him at your mother’s workplace, didn’t you?’

‘Once or twice, yes.’

‘Once or twice? I’ve statements here, one from Daniel’s mother and another from the woman who lived in the room next to hers at the refuge. They both corroborate you played with Daniel multiple times over a period of weeks, that you cared greatly for him, used to bring him treats. Is that true?’

The trial’s not mine, not publicly anyway, yet I hear a choir start up in my head.

There’s a dead man walking.

His questions are familiar, I’ve practised them, but today after staying up all night hiding from you again, I can’t remember how to answer.

‘Would the witness please respond. Did you or did you not play with Daniel multiple times over a period of weeks? A simple yes or no will do.’

‘Yes.’

I look like a liar now, the jury write in their pads. A stitch inside me comes loose, is unpicked. A small amount of stuffing slides out. A lot more when he suddenly shifts the direction of his questions. Veers off course. Tactics. Dirty.

‘When your older brother was taken into care, why didn’t you tell the social worker who interviewed you that he was being abused by your mother? Why did you lie?’

Skinny is up on his feet immediately, challenges the defence.

‘Objection, your honour, an outrageous claim, the witness was four years old when she was interviewed.’