A blockage in my throat, I’d scream if I could. Pins and needles in my feet from pushing them hard into the ground. If only I could tell them why it’s so important I go to court. Why I have to play the game with you. I look at Mike, give him eyes enough, ask him to step in. He does.
‘Milly and I will work on strategies over the following weeks but in my opinion she does seem to have her head in a reasonable place about this. It might also be useful to view this as an opportunity for closure. A cathartic experience if handled correctly.’
‘And if it’s not? I’m sorry to play devil’s advocate here, but what if it’s too difficult for her in the actual moment? What if the defence go hard, try and confuse her, manipulate her into agreeing with their version of events? She feels guilty enough as it is.’
‘Hang on, June, I’m not sure it’s helpful to talk about Milly’s feelings in front of everybody.’
‘Sorry, you’re right. But we do need to make a decision about this and I think it might be beneficial if we stepped outside to do that. Shall we?’
She gestures to Mike and the lawyers and they leave the room, saying they won’t be long. I trace the ripples of scars through my shirt. Count them. Twenty times, or more.
I ask you what happens if I don’t want to play, if I say no. Your reply, a scornful voice. YOU’LL ALWAYS WANT TO PLAY, MY LITTLE ANNIE, I MADE YOU THAT WAY.
Finally, they return. Skinny first, then June, followed by Mike. Fatty, gone. An early lunch. And this little piggy always had some.
I hear nothing else apart from Skinny’s words.
‘We’ve agreed that if you’re called, you’ll take the stand.’
But instead of satisfaction, it’s a gap I feel, opening up inside me. An empty, lonely place. Nobody can help me now.
A discussion kicks off around how to manage my exposure to press coverage in the run-up to the trial, limit the time I watch the news and listen to the radio. Mike, my monitor. They advise me to keep busy. Some of it I hear, most of it, I don’t.
I’m listening to another voice, one that says:
GAME ON, ANNIE.
8
Mike drops me at Wetherbridge just before morning break. He tells me he’s proud of me, I thank him, wish I could feel the same. As I sign in at the office I realize I forgot to remind him I’m meeting Miss Kemp after school, so I send him a text while I enjoy the last few minutes of quiet in the locker room. No poster greets me today but when I log on to the school email from my laptop – another present from Mike and Saskia – there’s a message from Miss Kemp:
Hi, Milly, really looking forward to our meeting today. Thought we could do some sketching? See you in the art room later.
MK.
MK. I’ve never known a teacher to sign off with initials before.
The rest of the day is uneventful. Maths, double science and religious studies to end on. When the bell goes, I head up to the art room. I hear their voices before I see them. Nasal and shrill. Mean. Girls. They come down the stairs towards me and I wonder what sort of punishment, if any, MK gave them for the poster. I pause to let them pass, the staircase not wide enough. Phoebe pushes me against the banister.
‘Hello, dog-face.’
Dog-face? We were supposed to become sisters. Little women.
‘She’s waiting for you. So sweet that you got your itty-bitty Miss Kemp to fight your battles.’
‘About the necklace, Phoebe, I won’t wear it, I feel bad.’
‘What’s this about a necklace?’ Izzy asks.
‘Nothing,’ Phoebe responds.
‘Oh, come on, share,’ Izzy says, jabbing her in the stomach.
Depleted. Less hostile, less brave. Embarrassed in front of her friend. I should feel bad for mentioning it now, in front of someone else. I should.
‘My stupid fuck-face of a mother bought her one of those gold name necklaces too.’
‘The one she had made for you? Did she not have one made for herself as well, so you guys could be matching?’
Phoebe nods. I try to say sorry, but she tells me to shut up.
‘Uh-oh, dearest Mummy let you down again, has she?’
‘Fuck off, Iz.’
‘Chill out, who needs mothers anyway when we have each other?’
They laugh and continue down the stairs to the next landing. I say nothing, but I want to say, I do.
I need a mother.
Izzy stops, looks up at me, asks, ‘Had any strange phone calls recently?’
My hand moves towards my phone in my blazer pocket.
‘I take it by the silence that’s a no then. Well, strap in, I’m sure it won’t be long.’
More sniggers and laughter.
Salt in the wound. Stings. As I look down at their beautiful faces I remember a story I read. A Native American tale where the Cherokee tells his grandson there’s a battle between two wolves in all of us. One is evil, the other good. The boy asks him, which wolf wins? The Cherokee tells him, the one you feed. Their faces become targets as I look at them. I’m tempted to open my mouth, saliva and spit across the make-up on their faces. Dolls. A biscuity smell of fake tan hangs in the air. Izzy makes a V with her fingers, shoves her tongue through them. Phoebe does the same. Bad thoughts in my head. A door opens in the corridor below, prompts them to move. I check my phone as I head up the remaining stairs to MK’s room, no calls.
When I arrive there are two easels set up opposite each other. Two stools, two boxes of charcoal. Two of everything.
‘Hey,’ she says. ‘Welcome! Ready to do some sketching?’
I nod, place my bag and blazer down. She asks me if I’d like a glass of water.
‘No thank you.’
‘Have you worked with charcoal before?’
‘A little bit.’
‘Good, grab a seat at one of the easels.’
Her hands are flighty, move quickly, as if the weight of the rings would be too heavy if they remained stationary for more than a split second. She sits down opposite me.
‘Any idea what you’d like to draw?’
Yes. But I don’t think people would approve.
‘Not really, I don’t mind.’
‘How about we sketch the figure over there on the table, it’s by a sculptor called Giacometti, or I’ve got some perfume in my bag, the bottle’s an interesting shape.’
Her perfume. That’s what it is. Familiar. Fresh sprigs of lavender cut from our garden, by you.
‘The figure is fine,’ I reply.
‘Good choice, I’ll grab it.’
She moves with fluidity, the tribal beads she wears leaving a wake of noise with each step. Her hair piled up in a messy bump, secured by a clip with some kind of Asian pattern on it. She reminds me of something from a National Geographic magazine – a cross between a messy geisha and a tribal high priestess. We begin sketching at the same time, in tune somehow, our hands synchronized, reach for the charcoal. She asks me how things have been so far, I tell her fine.
‘Fine as in really fine, or as in could be better but you don’t want to say?’
‘A bit of both maybe.’
Sweep. Dust. A head on the page, I wonder if she started at the top too.