The verdict comes in on Wednesday, just under a week after I was in court. I check my phone as usual on the way back from school, three missed calls from Mike in the past half hour. I log on to the BBC news web page, your picture. The word: sentenced.
Guilty.
Guilty.
Guilty times twelve.
You go down for all nine murders, the judge passed sentence immediately. Life, no chance of parole. Mike’s waiting for me by the front door, opens it as I arrive. I nod to let him know I’ve seen the news. He says, come here, shh, it’s okay.
I thought I’d be happy, relieved. That after the trial was over I’d be able to leave behind what I did to Daniel. I did what I did to be good, to save him, yet it still makes me bad. It makes me the same as you.
Saskia comes into the hallway, rubs the spot in between my shoulder blades.
‘I’m sorry, Milly. But at least it’s over now, we can start planning your birthday,’ she says.
When I look up I see Mike signal no with his eyes. Too soon, he means. She clocks it, looks disappointed for getting it wrong. Again.
‘Whenever you feel ready then, Milly,’ she says, walking away.
Mike asks me if I’d like to catch up, he’s keen, the next chapter of his book to be written I bet. The day of the verdict. I tell him no, I’d like to be alone.
I sit on the floor, my back against the end of the bed. I sit and think of you. Of the times we had. The times you sat there in your chair, no such thing as underwear. A programme on killers, brethren you said, though I’m better than them, I won’t get caught. How will they catch me? You berated their inadequacies, their failings. It’s because they’re men, you said, being a woman gives me a shield and you do too, Mummy’s little helper.
The press, the name they gave you, you’ll have heard, and seen your face on the front of the newspapers. Your nickname, my favourite book, written in bold:
THE PETER PAN KILLER
You’ll like it I think, the sentiment is right. Out of your hands anyway, now under lock and key. The extra details I provided to the police must have leaked to the press. The words you whispered to each limp body that lay in the room, tucked up asleep. For ever. That’s what you get for leaving your mummy, your voice, through clenched teeth as you hissed in their ears though they couldn’t hear any more. I tried to say to you it wasn’t their choice, their mummies gave them away. No, no, no, you shouted at me, I didn’t give my son away, he was taken. They’re not Luke, I said, you can’t replace him. You beat me black, you beat me blue for mentioning his name.
You beat me.
More disturbing than hurt is love when it’s wrong. In your arms you swayed them, placed them down as if they could be broken, even more, or again. Six boys. Daniel was seven but he wasn’t yours. Six little princes of sorts, wrapped up in blankets, new pyjamas each time. Two little girls. You didn’t care for the girls. Don’t disturb me until I’ve finished, you used to say. Finished what?
Saying goodbye.
Every single time, that’s what it was about. The rituals, the dressing of the boys in pyjamas. Pyjamas is what Luke was wearing the evening he was taken away after they discovered it was him that snuck out one night and set fire to the post office in our village, the flat above thankfully empty at the time. He was eleven years old.
Hellos are important, it’s how we begin, but to steal a goodbye, not giving you the chance to hold Luke one last time before he was taken. To you that was the ultimate sin.
I’m interrupted by my bedroom door opening and Phoebe walking in. She doesn’t say anything, stands there, looks down at me and stares.
‘What are you looking at?’ I ask.
She doesn’t answer. Tiny piranhas tear at my insides.
And all the king’s horses, and all the king’s men.
She stares for a bit longer, then backs slowly out of the room, not bothering to close the door behind her.
I meet with Mike after dinner, he asks me how I feel about the verdict. Sick, I tell him, not how I expected to. He spoke to June, wanted to know the details of what happened in court, asks me why I never told anybody I was home alone with Daniel. I was scared, I reply, I knew my mum might try and blame me. And what about you, do you still blame yourself, he asks. Yes, I tell him, I always will. Why, he persists. Why wouldn’t I, I reply. He looks at me strangely, a scrutiny of sorts, but lets it drop.
Later on I take out the remainder of my sketches of you, the ones I didn’t enter into the art prize. I can’t explain why it’s comforting to look at you. But it is. What’s not comforting is feeling Phoebe’s eyes on me. Coming into my room, staring at me.
It hurts me to do it but I rip up your sketches until you’re nothing more than a pile of eyes, lips and ears. I want to move on, I want a normal home filled with normal things. Mike asked me once what I wanted from life. Acceptance. That’s what my answer was. To accept where I’ve come from and who I am, to be able to believe and prove the curious shape you twisted my heart into could be untwisted. And it will be, Milly, he replied, just wait and see. He doesn’t know how curious a shape it is though. I gather up the ripped sketches, put them in the bathroom bin. An hour or so later I remove them, tape them back together.
Morgan’s text comes through after midnight, are you awake, she asks, I need to see you. I tell her to come to the balcony and when she does she looks smaller than before, shrunk a size or two. I open the door. Cold air chases its way in, the jester of winter fills up each corner, dances. Jeers. Her mouth is bloody and swollen, the skin on the left-hand side of her forehead scraped, looks like a carpet burn. I take her by the hand, bring her inside, close the door and lock it. Check it twice.
‘What happened?’
She shakes her head, small stiff movements, her eyes on the floor.
‘I didn’t know where else to go,’ she replies.
Her fingers cycle the air in front of her, tying and untying imaginary knots. I walk over to the bedside lamp, switch it on. Her jeans are stained and a salty sour smell emanates from her, a hint of alcohol on her breath.
‘Are you hurt anywhere else?’
She wipes her sleeve across her nose and straight away it runs again, a stream of clear liquid into her mouth. Her chin begins to wobble. No tears. The shock of whatever’s happened stops them. I pick up the box of tissues on the floor by my bed.
‘Here.’
I raise my arm to throw them to her, she flinches, cowers a little. I lower my hand, want to say, it’s me, don’t be afraid, but then I remember I’ve hurt her before.
‘You can stay here tonight.’
She shakes her head.
‘Yes, I’ll help you, I’ll make it better.’
‘What if somebody comes in?’