At lunch I feel the stares as I walk past the tables to the servery. The majority look down as I walk back towards them with my tray, Clondine included, but not Phoebe or Izzy. Phones out, vicious smiles on their lips. It won’t be long until I’m allowed to have my own Facebook page. Once the trial’s over, June said. A lot of normal things to catch up with. In it to win it. I take a seat at a table as far away from them as I can and when they leave the dining room a girl called Harriet approaches me. Asks if I’m okay, says, not all of us are like Phoebe, just try and ignore her, she’ll leave you alone eventually. Sympathy. An important tool in my armour. A camouflage of my own.
It hurts, don’t get me wrong, I’m not made of steel, but the heading on my photo – Milly the FREAK, she can run but she can’t hide – makes me feel better. Phoebe still doesn’t get it.
My intention of running is nil.
Hiding.
Yes.
Running.
No.
‘I want you to imagine you’re up on the stand, you’re safe, the screen hides you from harm. The people who can see you, the jury, the lawyers and the judge, are not there to hurt you, only to listen. Identify an object to focus on in the courtroom, something that brings you comfort. I want you to look at it if any of the questions become too upsetting.’
‘What if I don’t know how to answer?’
‘Tell the lawyers you don’t understand, they’ll rephrase, ask it in another way until you do.’
Mike ends the session by giving me instructions for the morning, tells me to stay in my room until Phoebe leaves for school. He told her yesterday about my minor ‘procedure’, that I’d be off for the rest of the week. I thank him, and I mean it.
The air in my room feels stuffier than usual, the heating in the house up high. Hard to breathe. A headache lies heavy in the centre of my forehead, makes it hard to see. I focus on laying out the clothes I’m wearing tomorrow. It isn’t until they’re hung over the back of the chair that I realize what I’ve chosen. Clothes to impress you. Trousers, not a skirt, a plain white shirt I’ll tuck in like a boy. You won’t be able to see me but I know you’d approve. I shouldn’t be doing that. Still trying to please you.
I can’t do tomorrow if I see you tonight, if you come into my room, so I sit up with the lights on, read Peter Pan as the hours crawl by. It’s my favourite book, has been since I was a little girl. The idea of night lights as the eyes of mothers guarding their children. I used to pray for a night light, I believed in a god back then but instead I got you.
One weekend at the refuge I watched the movie with the children. When Peter says to Wendy: ‘Come with me where you’ll never, never have to worry about grown-up things again,’ I remember thinking, I’d like to go there.
Please.
27
I stay awake all night and when morning comes I open the cabinet door in the bathroom and wipe off the number. One becomes time. It’s time.
When I’m dressed I stand in front of the full-length mirror, eyes closed. I open them only to look at my outfit, I don’t look as far up as my face. On the outside I look well put together, my shirt and trousers ironed by Sevita, my shoes black, flat, a ballerina-style pump. But on the inside. A jumble sale of organs. Upside down, back to front, too much heart in my chest. Not enough.
I take the crystal Saskia gave me out of its pouch, hold it in my hand. The opposing sensations of its edges, rough and smooth, soothe me. I’m not sure I believe in it, but I put it in the pocket of my trousers anyway.
And wait.
Mike comes twenty or so minutes later, knocks on my door, tells me we’re ready, Phoebe’s gone.
‘You should eat something,’ he says.
‘I can’t.’
‘You need to, it’s going to be a long morning, even just a piece of fruit or a cereal bar.’
‘Afterwards, maybe.’
‘I’ll grab a few things from the cupboard, you can have them in the car if you change your mind.’
Saskia’s waiting in the entrance hall and as I approach her she begins to play with the zip on her coat, back and forth. Up and down. A frantic, manic noise. She stops when I stare, attempts a smile. Mike comes out of the kitchen with a plastic bag containing food I won’t be able to eat. We take his Range Rover, tinted windows, I bet when he bought it, had it modified, he never thought they’d be useful in the way they are today. Shielding me from eyes that might pry, might know I’m coming.
The journey to you is hell, a private one. Nobody talks, everybody stares straight ahead, traffic lights and buses, a rubbish truck in the way. The universe saying, don’t go, stay away. Mike puts on a CD, the radio too risky. A surgery overnight, performed on me. A Chinese fortune fish, red and flippy, placed in the pit of my stomach. Moves to the beat of the music, makes me feel sick for the entire fifty minutes it takes to get there. I don’t want to hear Mike’s words, when he says, ‘We’re here.’
Saskia looks round, offers me a mint. I turn away, stare out through the tint. We drive in as per June’s instructions. I close my eyes as we pass the front of the building, open them again when we’re deep underground. I know what the crowd looks like, I’ve seen it on the news. Mike never thought to remove my laptop or phone. The women you took from, in hiding, now stand in the daylight united in hatred. They trusted you. A banner held up in the crowd, an eye for an eye. Press and photographers too, not allowed inside, one official reporter only appointed by the court, a privilege. Or burden.
June waits for us by the lift in the car park, reassures me I won’t see you, you’re being kept in the cells on the other side of the building. The purple scar on my arm throbs as we go up in the lift, a secret hello, your way of telling me you’re near. We go into a room, looks newly painted. Cream. What will they do with our house, Mummy, a lick of paint won’t be enough. Saskia asks where the bathroom is, Mike and I sit down. Four chairs in the room, soft material, a dark shade of green. I perch on the edge of mine, I don’t want to feel anything against me. Behind me. Some kind of surge inside me, moving through me as if on entering the building the voltage has been turned up. Mine.
June offers me a drink of water, suggests I go to the loo while I can, but I’m not sure I trust my legs to carry me. Breathe, just breathe. A lady I’ve never seen before puts her head round the door.
‘Five minutes, we’re just waiting for the judge.’
I wipe my palms on my trousers, feel the hard lump of Saskia’s crystal against my thigh. I wish I was alone, I could count my scars. Mike tells me I’ll be fine, everything will be okay. I wish I believed him but the fortune fish in my stomach flips over again, predicts otherwise. I try in my mind to go to my safe place inside the hollow of the tree but when I get there, it’s gone. Chopped down, taken as evidence. Saskia arrives back, the woman from earlier too.
‘June, the judge is ready.’
‘Grand. Okay, Milly, it’s time.’
Mike stands up, I do too even though I’m not ready. You’d think I would be, I’ve counted the days, but something, you maybe, must have come into the room, tied sandbags round my ankles. DID YOU THINK I WAS GOING TO MAKE IT EASY FOR YOU, ANNIE? I’m not listening to you, I can’t. All I have to do is answer the questions. Answer them. I follow June to the door. Both Saskia and Mike squeeze my upper arms as I pass them, one on either side. I stop, take the crystal from my pocket, show them. Saskia turns away, tearful. Mike speaks.