‘We were told to expect these. It’s probably best if you stay off school, certainly for the morning anyway. Try and sleep it off.’
My first instinct is no, but then I remember where I am – and where you are. Sometimes you’d take a Friday off work, a long weekend. You’d call school, tell them I was sick, a stomach bug or flu. Three whole days, just me and you.
‘The kettle’s boiled, I’ll make you some tea then back to bed, okay?’
I nod, he helps me up. I ask him where Phoebe and Saskia are, they’ve gone already, he explains.
‘Which reminds me, Sas left you a present in the kitchen.’
The present is small, shaped like a square. Wrapped in blue paper, a red bow.
‘Open it if you like.’
The gesture is kind. I sit down at the table and as I watch Mike make the tea, the gentle way he lifts things, places them down, I’m flooded with gratitude. Not many people would take someone like me in, not many people would want that responsibility. That risk. I fight back the tears but they win. Land on the lilac tablecloth. Mike notices as he brings the mugs over, sits in the chair next to me. He looks at the unopened present in my hand, tells me not to worry. Take your time, he says, drink the tea, there’s some honey in it, the sweetness will help.
He’s right, and the warmth.
‘I know it’s only Tuesday but we should meet later, if you’re up to it. I think you’d benefit from some time today, what do you think?’
I nod, though I want to say no. I don’t want him to trample, wade through my inner thoughts and desires. He’d be disgusted to know I miss you, am missing you now as I sit here. When I opened the curtains this morning I noticed a bird box in the neighbours’ garden and it reminded me of the time we built one together. You used a hammer to bang in the nails. When I asked to have a go, you stroked my hair, said yes, but be careful with your fingers. The nurse in you, thinking about preventing pain rather than causing it, for once.
‘Good to see you’ve got some colour back. Why don’t you head up to bed and I’ll wake you later?’
I manage to sleep for the rest of the morning. Mike works from home for the day and we have lunch together, soup prepared for us by Sevita the housekeeper, and ham sandwiches. Rosie sits with her nose almost touching my leg, dewy brown eyes boring into my side. I slip her a piece of meat while we clear the table.
The lighting is kind in Mike’s study, two lamps, nothing on overhead. He explains he’ll drop the blinds but keep the shutters open. The blinds have elaborate purple pom-poms at the end of their ropes. He follows my gaze, smiles.
‘Sas. She’s the artistic one, not me.’
He walks to his desk, closes the lid of his laptop, takes his glasses off. Take a seat, he says, pointing to the armchair I sat in last time. I count as I sit, backwards from ten, try to calm my breathing. He picks up a cushion from one of the other armchairs. Blue velvet. Walks over to me, places it on the arm of the chair I’m sitting in. Smiles. He sits down opposite me, crosses his legs, interlocks his fingers, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair.
‘I’m sure tomorrow’s been on your mind, the meeting with June and the lawyers. You remember June, don’t you? She’s your Witness Case Officer, you met briefly in hospital.’
I nod.
‘We’ll be discussing a few things, but primarily the fact you might be cross-examined on your evidence.’
I reach for the cushion, hold it into my body.
‘I know this is hard for you, Milly, and I know how painful it was giving a statement against your mother in the first place, but whatever happens we’ll get you through it.’
‘What will they want to ask? Will I have to tell them everything all over again?’
‘We’re not a hundred per cent sure yet, the prosecution lawyers are working on finding out what the defence are up to.’
I wish I could tell him it’s not the defence they need to worry about, it’s you. The hours and hours spent every day, confined to a cell, you’ll be putting them to good use. I know you will. You’ll be thinking up a plan.
‘You look troubled, Milly. What are you thinking about?’
That if I’d gone to the police sooner, Daniel, the last boy you took, would still be alive.
‘Nothing really. I was just wondering if the lawyers that are defending my mum have been given a copy of my statement?’
‘Yes, they have, and likely that’s what you’ll be questioned on. You’re the key witness in your mother’s trial and the defence will look to find ways to undermine your statement, try and create reasonable doubt around certain events.’
‘What if I mess up, or I say the wrong thing?’
‘I don’t want you to worry about that at the moment. We’ve plenty of time to prepare if you are called upon. Hopefully we’ll find out a bit more tomorrow. But what’s important here is that you remember you’re not the one on trial. Okay?’
I nod, say yes. For now, I think.
As soon as Mike starts I realize he’s better than the unit psychologist, or maybe I’m just more comfortable with him. I want to move on from the past. I do. Yet even so, I try to resist relaxing into the session. My hands clench into fists, he tells me to unclench, concentrate on breathing. Close your eyes, rest your head on the back of the chair. He asks me to describe my safe place, I tell him. His voice in response, low. Steady. Soothing. Breathe in, and out. He moves through each limb of my body, asking me to tense and relax each one. Again. And again. Heavy now, full. Let your mind go where it wants, where it needs to.
My safe place dissolves. Other things come into the foreground. Images sharpen. My mind cycles, swims against them, tries to reject them. A room. A bed. Darkness, the outline of trees dancing manic patterns on the ceiling. The feeling of being watched, a dark shadow behind me. Beside me. Breath on my neck. The bed depresses as the shadow lies next to me. Too close. It doesn’t speak, it moves all around me. Over me. Bad. Worse. Mike’s voice is far away now, I can hardly hear what he’s saying. I keep going back to a place I don’t want to, the room opposite mine, the sound of children crying. You laughing.
He asks me what else I can see, or hear. A pair of yellow eyes glowing in the dark, I tell him. A black cat, the size of a human, a sentry by my bed, sent to watch, to keep me there. Extending and retracting its claws.
‘I don’t like it there, I want to leave.’
Mike’s voice, clearer now, tells me to go back to my safe place. Walk towards it, he says. So I do. The hollow in the old oak tree, behind our house. I used to climb into it, the heart of the tree, when you worked weekends and didn’t always take me with you, watch the way the light changed over the field. Crimson and orange.
Safe.