Good Me Bad Me(64)

‘Sustained. This bears no relevance to the case and is a timely reminder to the defence that you are interviewing a minor.’

For weeks and weeks we drove to see you in the secure unit, Luke, but you kicked off, refused to come out of your room, wouldn’t let Mum or me near you. Braver than me. I’m sorry I didn’t tell them, Luke, but neither did you. I was scared, she persuaded me she was playing nice games with you, that you enjoyed them. You were diagnosed with a conduct disorder, she tried to convince the professionals to let you come home, that it wasn’t your fault, probably a delayed reaction to our dad leaving. You smashed the common room at the unit to pieces the night after we left and the professionals said, no, it was safer for everyone if you remained at the secure unit. I wish I had told them, I wish I’d known how to, because things at home got so much scarier after that. I was to be her little helper from then on but I wasn’t enough for her. I wasn’t a boy.

The defence lawyer looks at the judge and says, ‘I’d like to ask the witness about her statement claiming she saw her mother kill Daniel Carrington.’

The judge looks over at me, asks if I’m ready. I have to say yes, the only way out is through, Mike’s words ringing in my head.

‘Yes, I’m ready,’ I reply to the judge. He nods and tells the defence to continue.

‘You said you saw your mother kill Daniel.’

‘Yes, I did, I think so. He didn’t move after she left the room.’

‘You “think” so. You said in your video evidence you saw your mother kill all nine children. Are you now saying you can’t be sure whether or not she did kill Daniel?’

‘I am sure, it’s just hard to explain.’

IT IS, ISN’T IT, ANNIE.

You’ve been quiet so far, while Luke was being mentioned, but not now. Leaning forward in your seat, waiting.

‘What’s hard to explain?’ the defence lawyer asks.

Another stitch unpicks, more stuffing leaks out. My mouth. Dry. I reach for the glass of water on the table to my right, spilling it, my hands shaking. On the edge. Me. I am.

‘He wasn’t moving so she must have killed him,’ I reply.

‘But you can’t be sure, can you? Daniel’s death was recorded as suffocation, could this not have been accidental after being left on the mattress with injuries rendering him immobile? Therefore, not directly at the hands of my client.’

‘No, I don’t think so. I’m not sure.’

‘There seems to be a lot you aren’t sure about today. I wonder what you would say if I asked you about the spare key to the room where the children were kept, the key my client claims you had access to.’

‘Objection, your honour, again, the witness is not on trial here,’ Fatty counters.

‘Sustained, could the defence focus on questioning the witness rather than wondering out loud or providing the court with a commentary.’

The lawyer nods, walks towards me.

‘When you last saw Daniel, where was he?’

‘On the bed in the room she called the playground.’

‘Can you describe what position he was lying in, please.’

‘On his back, I mean on his front, he was on his front. Lying face down on the mattress.’

The jury’s eyes pierce through me. Scribble, scribble. Liar, liar, they’re thinking. Pants on.

‘Which one was it? On his front or on his back?’

I’m holding the crystal Saskia gave me, my knuckles crack as I clench my fist round it. All I can think is that June was right to play devil’s advocate: what if she can’t cope. What if the reality of being on the stand is too much for her.

The judge speaks again, asks as he did yesterday, does the witness need a break?

If it’s lucky, yes please.

‘No thank you.’

The lawyer continues.

‘So just to clarify, what position was Daniel lying in?’

There are eight little somethings hidden in the cellar and if the ninth little something also dies. Whose fault is it?

‘On his front, face down,’ I reply.

‘And you’re sure this time?’

I nod.

‘Please can the witness answer the question out loud.’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

In the same way my silence unnerves Phoebe, yours unnerves me. Confident. That’s how you feel. You expect me to mess up but secretly you’d like me not to, I expect. A testament to how well you taught me, able to hold my own while expert lawyers try to unravel me. Loosen my fingertips on the edge of a building. A long way to fall.

‘My client claims that the day after she brought Daniel home, a Thursday, she went to work and stayed there late unexpectedly.’ He turns to me. ‘You got the school bus home, the driver confirmed this, he remembered because as you said yesterday your mother usually drove you, meaning you were home alone for over two hours before your mother returned to the house. Is that correct?’

The nod of his head yesterday, in your direction, when I said you usually drove me. Heat being turned up. Can’t breathe. Very well. You. Me. Both witnesses, we were there. I saw you. My chest feels tight. Head, busy. I ask him to repeat the question.

A lady in the second row of the jury circles something in her notepad, looks up, her eyes locked on me. I look away, try to focus on what he might ask next but there’s no point, these aren’t questions we prepared for. I never told my lawyers I was alone in the house, they never asked, it’s not me who’s on trial, there was no need to check whether she drove me home that day or if I took the bus. The faces of my lawyers are stony, not at all at ease. I’m not doing so well today, and I’m sorry to say, things could get worse, a lot worse, if I tell the truth. Release the carrier pigeon trapped in my chest, let it do its job. Deliver its message.