Our Kind of Cruelty(82)

‘Objection,’ Petra shouted, standing up.

Justice Smithson banged his hand on the table. ‘Sustained. Mr Jackson, your questioning is crossing the line.’

Xander bowed his head lightly to the judge and then Petra. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I got carried away with the atmosphere. No further questions, my lord.’

He walked back to his seat calmly, but the air in the courtroom was anything but. It fizzed and squealed around us, enclosing and disposing of us. V and I were breathing in the same air, our bodies recycling it to keep each other alive, as the moments passed in thundering heartbeats.

V stood shakily to exit the witness box and I thought she might stumble but she made it back to our box, where she sat with her head dropped and her back curved away from me.

Xander looked tired when we met in our strange airless debriefing room at the end of the day. I was angry with him for bringing up the Kitten Club without warning me, but he countered with his own anger which, I realised, was just as vibrant as mine.

‘Was she lying?’ he asked, like a threat. ‘Did you go more than once?’

‘No,’ I answered. ‘It was just as she said.’

‘Shame,’ Xander said, rubbing his temples like he had a headache.

‘I don’t even see how it helps anyway. I mean, I did all the same things she did. Petra’s bound to ask me about everything.’

Xander looked at me disdainfully. ‘Grow up, Mike. It’s totally different for you.’



It is morning now and I haven’t slept. I have had to go over and over all the things that were said yesterday. Writing it down has helped somewhat. I am sitting on my bunk now, watching the sun break milkily in the fogged sky and all I know is this: Verity is truth. She is my truth. The only truth. What we know and do is the only thing that matters. It transcends all the petty lies and misrepresentations, all the innuendos and gossip. We rise above it like the eagle does above the mountains. We look down and see mess but it doesn’t touch us. I need to use the truth today to reach a greater truth, a greater place of safety in which V and I can live forever, untouched by all the banality which constitutes this sorry world.

After watching you on the stand yesterday, V, it was like you were giving me permission to lie. You lied for what you thought was our good, but you got it wrong in your confusion, and now I must swoop in like the eagle and guide your hand. I now know what I must do, V. I know how to save you, my love, my darling, and nothing has ever felt more wonderful.



I am just back from court, but I am compelled to write because the adrenaline is still coursing through my veins. V, all of this has always been for you. I even understand now why I am writing at all: this will stand as a record of our pure, unending love, binding us together for all eternity. We will share and celebrate these words forever and the way we have conspired with our enemies to bring us to the ultimate craving truth of our love. When you read this, as you surely must, I want you to know that I own every word I uttered today. Every single movement I made in there I made for you, my love.

There was real hate in Petra’s eyes when she stood to cross-examine me. Her long thin body vibrated with distaste and her voice was harsh. ‘Mr Hayes, I put it to you that you are a fantasist. A dangerous fantasist at that.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m not.’

‘But then you would hardly admit to it, would you?’ She put on her glasses and flicked through her notes. ‘We have of course heard from Mrs Lascelles, your old headmistress, and I have several school reports and social service referrals in my possession and they all talk about your lack of empathy, your trouble with making friends, your tendency towards violence and your sexualised language.’

I still don’t recognise this person, though hazy memories are appearing through the smoke of my mind. I can just about make out chairs flying across rooms and girls crying and adults pinning me to the floor. ‘I left school a long time ago.’

‘Not that long,’ Petra replied. ‘So you don’t deny how you behaved back then?’

‘I can’t exactly remember. But I think we’ve established I had a bad childhood. I was an angry kid.’

‘Would you agree it’s fair to say you’ve never dealt with that anger?’ Petra asked, removing her glasses and beginning her walk.

‘No. I think I’ve dealt with it.’

‘But I mean professionally. You’ve never seen anyone, have you, even though your foster mother and Mrs Metcalf, doctors even, have advised this.’

‘No. I’ve never felt the need.’

‘But I think we’d all agree that the abuse you suffered would have left deep scars which it is almost impossible to eradicate without professional help.’

I watched her legs as she walked, willing her to trip and break her neck. ‘I don’t know. I feel fine.’

‘Do you think the emails you sent Mrs Metcalf after your break-up and then again whilst she was on her honeymoon were the actions of a rational person?’

‘I was very upset, both times.’

‘Yes, but don’t you think they were extreme?’

‘I’ve already said I was very upset when I wrote them. I’m not proud of them at all.’

Petra looked at the jury. ‘I know you all have these in your notes, but perhaps I could read one out to you, dated February the fourteenth last year.’ She put her glasses on and opened the papers in front of her: