Isn’t it?
‘Transference is a process by which someone unconsciously transfers feelings about a person in their past on to a person or situation in their present.’
‘I was only trying to thank her.’
Not ask her to be my mum.
‘And it was a very thoughtful gesture but it would have been okay, better even, if you’d just said it to her.’
I bite down on my tongue, the pain, and having to stifle a reaction, sends a sharp twinge through the lower part of my spine, the way the nerves are connected inside a body.
‘Nobody’s blaming you, Milly, it’s a very normal feeling for you to have.’
There it is, the difference, flagged up about me again.
A normal feeling for ‘you’ to have.
Mike’s face swims around in front of me, tears, rogue joyriders, land on my knees. He tells me it’s okay, not to punish myself for having these feelings.
‘Does it mean I can’t see her any more?’
‘We’ve agreed you can work with her on your portfolio for the art prize until the end of term. After that we’ll see, none of us know what’ll be happening then anyway.’
To me, he means.
In the sanctuary of my room I take out my sketches. Portraits of you. A gallery of the darkest parts of my mind, where you live. I tell you I’m sorry about MK, it won’t happen again. I hear a message come through on my phone, walk over to the bed, read it. It’s Morgan, confirming we’re still meeting at the bottom of the garden at six. Yes, I reply, hearing Phoebe in the corridor, shouting:
‘I don’t care!’
‘Well you should,’ Mike responds.
I listen through the door.
‘Why should I stay at home, you’re never around anyway.’
‘That’s not the point,’ Mike replies.
‘I DON’T FUCKING CARE. LEAVE ME ALONE.’
I lean into the wood. Child and parent, no other relationship more complicated exists. Her bedroom door slams shut, I move away from mine, put the sketches back into the drawer under my bed and sit down at my desk, try and do some homework, but I’m too angry and ashamed by how wrong I got it with MK. You never got it wrong, you knew how to be with everybody. The women’s faces would light up as you walked into work, the children’s too. I used to watch you, hoping one day I could be that version of you.
When it’s time to meet Morgan I’m unsure if I should go, I recognize the feelings inside. A dark colour. Not good. I wouldn’t have gone if she hadn’t called me saying she was already there. Waiting. Hurry up, she said, it’s freezing. I put on a jumper and leave my room using the fire stairs attached to my balcony, stay flat against the perimeter wall of the garden, the security light only activated if you cross on to the gravel or grass. I know, I’ve tested it. She’s in the bottom corner next to the gate leading to the close. It’s dark by six o’clock now and as my eyes adjust I can see the details of her face, and that she’s eating a sandwich.
‘It’s got crisps in it,’ she says. ‘Remember you gave me a packet when we first met?’
I nod.
‘So, what’s been happening?’
‘Nothing much, just some stuff at school.’
‘What kind of stuff?’
‘To do with one of the teachers.’
‘Eww, like a creepy teacher?’
It turns out I’m the creep.
‘No, just a misunderstanding.’
‘Did he try and touch you or something?’
‘It’s a she, not a he.’
‘Even worse.’
Yes, the public feel that way about you too. A woman killing children. Newspapers opened at breakfast tables, milk in stripy jugs curdled all around the world when it was first reported. Cereal spat out of mouths. I kick the wall with my foot. Hot molten lava bleeds inside me.
‘What’s up with you, I was only joking.’
I tell her nothing’s wrong but what I should say is: stay away, I don’t feel like me. Or maybe this is me, this is who I am, someone standing in front of a friend fighting the urge to do something, to cause pain so it’s shared, so it’s not just me.
She eats noisily. The crunching of the crisps, the sound pollutes the silence I need. Usually her company helps but not today. I keep thinking about the lawyers, their questions. What did you see on the night Daniel died? What happened? I saw my mother. You saw her do what?
‘Is it about your mum, is that why you’re stressed out? I saw something on the news by the way, it said she was a nurse. Fucking crazy, imagine being looked after by her.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it, Morgan, stop it.’
‘It might help if you talk about it, it’s not your fault she’s mental. It also said she had a kid living at home with her – if it wasn’t you, who was it? I never knew you had any brothers or sisters.’
‘I don’t.’
None that I want to talk about.
‘Who do you reckon it was at home with her then?’
I shrug. ‘I’ve asked you already, Morgan, please stop.’
Silence is better, say nothing at all. Please. Too many questions. Too many voices filling up my head. THAT’S NOT TRUE, ANNIE, IT’S ONLY MINE. The lava inside me scorches anything good or gentle along the way. I watch Morgan’s mouth move, the way she licks her lips. Eat them, eat it all up. I want her to stop talking about you.
‘My lot reckon she’ll go down for life, you’ll never see her again, which is probably just as well.’
‘Shut up, Morgan, I mean it. That’s the last time I’m going to tell you.’
‘Jesus, talk about being sensitive, she’s a fucking monster, you should be glad I hate her.’
Eats like an animal, all over her face. Her teeth and her tongue. Still talking about you, isn’t she. YES SHE IS, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO? Good wolf. Bad wolf. Crunch. Crisps. Tongue. Lips. I move to diffuse the bad, tell her I’m cold, I’m going inside.
‘Why are you so angry? You don’t care about her, do you?’
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.
The sandwich gets it first, smacked out of her hand, her arm next. I pin her against the wall, the place we arranged to meet no longer feels safe. I use my height, squeeze her arm with my fingers, think about what shape and colour the bruise will be.
‘Get off,’ she says. ‘Stop it.’
It used to be me who said that, the tables now turned, the shoe on the other foot. It feels good to be bad. I’m sorry, I can’t help it, but she’s no longer talking about you so maybe being bad sometimes works. I might have done something worse but when she says, maybe you’re more like your mother than you think, the hot lava recedes, turns purple. Cools. Sick. A sickness inside me. I let go of her arm, step back, lean over. My hands on my thighs. Can’t be. Like you. Don’t want to be.
Neither of us speaks, processing it in our own ways. I turn to face her, she rubs her hand up and down her arm.
‘Morgan, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.’
‘Yeah, well, it won’t be happening again.’
‘What do you mean?’