Good Me Bad Me(9)

‘I’m sure tomorrow’s been on your mind, the meeting with June and the lawyers. You remember June, don’t you? She’s your Witness Case Officer, you met briefly in hospital.’

I nod.

‘We’ll be discussing a few things, but primarily the fact you might be cross-examined on your evidence.’

I reach for the cushion, hold it into my body.

‘I know this is hard for you, Milly, and I know how painful it was giving a statement against your mother in the first place, but whatever happens we’ll get you through it.’

‘What will they want to ask? Will I have to tell them everything all over again?’

‘We’re not a hundred per cent sure yet, the prosecution lawyers are working on finding out what the defence are up to.’

I wish I could tell him it’s not the defence they need to worry about, it’s you. The hours and hours spent every day, confined to a cell, you’ll be putting them to good use. I know you will. You’ll be thinking up a plan.

‘You look troubled, Milly. What are you thinking about?’

That if I’d gone to the police sooner, Daniel, the last boy you took, would still be alive.

‘Nothing really. I was just wondering if the lawyers that are defending my mum have been given a copy of my statement?’

‘Yes, they have, and likely that’s what you’ll be questioned on. You’re the key witness in your mother’s trial and the defence will look to find ways to undermine your statement, try and create reasonable doubt around certain events.’

‘What if I mess up, or I say the wrong thing?’

‘I don’t want you to worry about that at the moment. We’ve plenty of time to prepare if you are called upon. Hopefully we’ll find out a bit more tomorrow. But what’s important here is that you remember you’re not the one on trial. Okay?’

I nod, say yes. For now, I think.

As soon as Mike starts I realize he’s better than the unit psychologist, or maybe I’m just more comfortable with him. I want to move on from the past. I do. Yet even so, I try to resist relaxing into the session. My hands clench into fists, he tells me to unclench, concentrate on breathing. Close your eyes, rest your head on the back of the chair. He asks me to describe my safe place, I tell him. His voice in response, low. Steady. Soothing. Breathe in, and out. He moves through each limb of my body, asking me to tense and relax each one. Again. And again. Heavy now, full. Let your mind go where it wants, where it needs to.

My safe place dissolves. Other things come into the foreground. Images sharpen. My mind cycles, swims against them, tries to reject them. A room. A bed. Darkness, the outline of trees dancing manic patterns on the ceiling. The feeling of being watched, a dark shadow behind me. Beside me. Breath on my neck. The bed depresses as the shadow lies next to me. Too close. It doesn’t speak, it moves all around me. Over me. Bad. Worse. Mike’s voice is far away now, I can hardly hear what he’s saying. I keep going back to a place I don’t want to, the room opposite mine, the sound of children crying. You laughing.

He asks me what else I can see, or hear. A pair of yellow eyes glowing in the dark, I tell him. A black cat, the size of a human, a sentry by my bed, sent to watch, to keep me there. Extending and retracting its claws.

‘I don’t like it there, I want to leave.’

Mike’s voice, clearer now, tells me to go back to my safe place. Walk towards it, he says. So I do. The hollow in the old oak tree, behind our house. I used to climb into it, the heart of the tree, when you worked weekends and didn’t always take me with you, watch the way the light changed over the field. Crimson and orange.

Safe.

‘When you feel ready, open your eyes, Milly.’

I stay still for a minute or two. A feeling of wet under my chin. I open my eyes, look down at the cushion, tie-dyed with tears, the velvet mottled. I look over at Mike. His eyes are closed, he pinches his fingers above the bridge of his nose, massages a little. Making the switch from psychologist to foster dad. He opens his eyes when I speak.

‘I must have been crying.’

‘Sometimes remembering does that to us.’

‘Isn’t there another way?’

Mike shakes his head, sits forward in his seat, says, ‘The only way out is through.’

I open Saskia’s present when I get back to my room. The first thing I see inside the small square box is: gold. A chain with a name. Milly, my new name, not Annie. I run my fingers over the edges of the letters, the sharp points, wondering how much a name can change a person, if at all.

I finish off an essay for French and am about to do some drawing when I hear Phoebe’s door open, close again, footsteps on the stairs as if she’s dumped her stuff and gone back down. I follow a few minutes later. I want to see if Saskia is home so I can thank her.

I find her in the snug with Phoebe, a cosy room full of soft sofas, a cinema screen mounted on the wall. The TV’s on but Saskia flicks it off when I come in. She cradles a drink against her chest. The clink of ice cubes, a heavy short glass, crystal. A slice of lime. Phoebe’s slouched over her phone, doesn’t look up.

‘Hi, Milly, are you feeling better? Mike said you had a migraine.’

‘Much better, thanks, and thank you for my present.’

I hold up the necklace, she smiles, foggy. She likes her drink strong and, when it’s mixed with the tablets she takes, lethal. Phoebe looks up, pushes herself off the sofa, walks over to me.