Good Me Bad Me(66)

‘No, only a few minutes maybe. When she came out of the room we went down for dinner.’

True.

‘And you went back later on, did you? To the peephole.’

‘Yes, I went to comfort him.’

True.

‘But he was dead, you said you saw your mother kill him. Why would you go back if he was already dead?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You weren’t sure if he was dead, that’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?’

‘No. He was dead, he wasn’t moving.’

I see the second defence lawyer being passed a piece of paper from my left. From you. My insides untether, a hot-air balloon straining at its moorings. He reads it then asks the judge if he can pass it to his colleague. If relevant to the questions being asked, then yes, the judge replies. The lawyer in front of me walks away, collects the piece of paper, reads it, nods. I look out at the jury, Daniel’s ghost is standing next to them. He’s shaking his head, hangs it down and begins to cry. Two peas in a pod we are, you said one night, Mummy. So alike. Sticks and stones may break my bones but names can never hurt me.

False.

The lawyer walks back over to me, the piece of paper slid along the bench from you now in his hands, then says, ‘The forensic expert concluded that Daniel’s death could have occurred during the time period you were alone in the house with him, not necessarily after my client returned home as was previously thought. What would you say to that?’

‘Objection, your honour.’

‘Overruled, let the witness answer.’

The bleed in my nose has stopped but a red polka dot of blood must have landed before I was given the tissues. A stain on the front of my shirt like ink on chromatography paper. One of the women in the jury looks close to tears. She’s a mother, I bet. I’m sorry, I am.

‘I don’t know. I’m not sure.’

The lawyer pauses, looks down at the note in his hands. Looks up at me, makes me wait. Ready when he’s ready, torture is best served slow. He walks closer towards me, brown shoes like Prof West’s, a navy pinstripe suit visible under his gown. He nods as he walks, stops directly in front of me, then says, ‘I can see why you might not be sure. It’s a tricky one, isn’t it? There’s the matter of the spare key your mother claims you had access to, your DNA being found on Daniel’s clothing, and now the time of his death potentially being when you were alone in the house. I think, given the facts I’ve just laid out, I’m entitled to, perhaps even obliged, to ask you –’

Skinny interrupts with, ‘Objection, your honour, the defence are being inflammatory.’

‘Overruled. But I urge the defence to tread carefully.’

The lawyer nods, but something about the way he’s standing, legs wide apart, shoulders pulled back, indicates that the last thing he’s thinking about doing is treading carefully. It’s glory he’s after. It’s me he’s after. His eyes narrow as they look at me, he breathes in, his chest full. His Ulysses moment. Then he asks it, the question he’s been building up to all along.

‘It wasn’t my client who killed Daniel, was it? Tell the court what really happened the night of his death, tell the truth.’

Nobody hears my answer, drowned out by an eruption of ‘objections’ from both Skinny and Fatty. Shouts of ‘objection, your honour, this is intimidation of a witness’. Both on their feet, both saying, she’s a minor, she’s not on trial. The jury look confused, pens no longer poised but being chewed, a man in the front row holding his hands up in a ‘who knows’ gesture. June is also on her feet, not looking half as ‘grand’ as usual. It’s only you I can’t see. Smiling though, I bet, enjoying the chaos you’ve managed to cause, to orchestrate.

I lied.

That’s what my answer was.

I say it again.

‘I lied.’

It takes a further two times, I lied, I lied, for the judge to hold up his hand, silence the court. ‘Let the witness speak,’ he says.

This is it, Mummy, the moment you were waiting for, where I crack. Where you win.

‘I lied.’

Nobody but the defence lawyer moves a muscle. No shifting of feet, no crossing and uncrossing of legs, no scribbling of notes. The lawyer walks over to me again, rests his hand on the wood in front of me, a friendly gesture, but he’s no friend, he’s hungry. Wants feeding. Alphabet spaghetti served in the shape of lies he’s slowly squeezing out of me, the key witness. I can see that night so clearly, I was there. I know what happened.

‘What did you lie about?’ he asks.

I nod, I can tell them, it’s okay. I tried to help Daniel, I did the best I could. I wanted him to be safe dilly dilly, out of harm’s way. True. I tell them I’m sorry. So sorry. True. The jurors’ faces, frozen. June. My lawyers. The judge.

‘What did you lie about?’ he asks again.

‘I lied to Daniel when I told him through the peephole everything would be okay, I knew it wouldn’t but I told him that anyway. I let him down. That’s how I lied.’

I begin to cry, salty tears stained red as my nose begins to run. I can see the defence lawyer’s disappointment, his face crumples a little. It’s not dinner time yet, you know.

Now fuck off.

He removes his hand, continues to look at me. He can look all he likes but he can’t prove a thing and his time is up, he’ll be done for harassing a minor if he keeps going and he knows it. He walks away, sits back down and says the words I’ve been waiting to hear.