149
Sebastian
‘What is clear is that he was a man with no love for either of them.’
Ms Little QC’s words sear into me. I am so angry, my lower lip is trembling. My head feels as if it is exploding. I loved Zara so much. What does Ms Little know about love, or loss? Oh how I have loved and lost. I would die for those I love. I will kill for those I love. Just watch.
My fist clenches and I hit the back of the bench in front of me so hard I fear for a second I have broken my hand. Two guards are on me, restraining me, dragging my arms behind my back and cuffing me. Big brutes, chests built of brick. I try to bite one of them but my mouth doesn’t quite reach. They bundle me out of court, frisk me, and lock me in a holding cell in the basement of the building, to calm me down. I am trembling with anger.
I love Zara so much I will never calm down. Miranda will not get away with this.
150
Members of the jury exchange glances as Sebastian is escorted from court. I see Ms Little exchange a glance with Theo. Theo turns to me and mouths to ask if I am all right. I nod back, pretending I am OK. But I do not know whether I am OK or not. I feel light-headed, as if I am in a vacuum.
‘Please continue, Ms Little,’ the judge intervenes.
‘Miranda’s sister, in a rage of hate and jealousy, knowingly brought on by that man, tried to kill her. Miranda acted reasonably in self-defence. She loved her sister and is devastated by what has happened.’ There is a pause. Ms Little gesticulates in my direction. ‘Look at her. Look at what this is doing to her. She needs to go home to her bereft mother. They need to have time to rebuild what is left of their lives. They need to be together in privacy and peace.’
I do not see anyone looking at me, except my mother, who has turned her head towards me, tears streaming down her face. I long to touch her, to hold her, pain rising inside me.
Ms Little sits down. Time stops. The court seems to have frozen around me. Nobody speaks. Nobody moves. Then slowly, slowly, the judge starts to address the jury.
‘To convict this young woman of murder, you must be sure, beyond any reasonable doubt that Miranda intended to kill her sister – that it was a deliberate act, and not one undertaken in reasonable self-defence. I have no need to tell you that this is a very serious case regarding an intelligent young woman, with no previous record of violence or indeed any criminal conduct. A young woman whose behaviour and achievements until this point in her life appear to have been exemplary. A woman who may have been raped. Please now retire and deliberate upon your verdict.’
Theo turns to look at me and nods his head. The softness in his eyes tells me he is pleased with the summing up.
151
I am taken to a holding cell beneath the court to wait for the verdict. I look at my watch. It is midday. At four-ish, Theo has told me, the judge will talk to the jury. If it looks as if the jury won’t reach their decision today, I will be taken back to Eastwood Park prison. Difficult as that will be, because it will mean the jury are divided, at least I’d be able to see Jane – my favourite listener. But if their decision is taking that long, I’ll need to see Jane, not just want to. Jane has been so good to me, encouraging me to carry on through my darkest patches.
The guard who is looking after me today, a swarthy man with large brown eyes and a beard, is trying his best to be kind. He has brought me a cup of coffee, a block of chocolate, and three lifestyle magazines. Lifestyle. Will I ever have a life again, far less a lifestyle? After so long in prison the concept seems frivolous. Sitting in my cell looking at lifestyle magazines doesn’t help me pass through time that has stopped. It pushes me back. Uncertain of my future, all I can do is dwell on the past. Snippets of the past race through my mind like a film montage.
My very first memory of you, Zara. Two years old, holding hands as we ran across the beach. Barefooted. Grains of sand sticking between our toes. Running. Running. Running.
Later, running across playing fields, towards your netball changing rooms. People staring. Whispers on the wind. Zara. Zara Cunningham. They called the ambulance and the police.
The doctor walking towards me in the hospital corridor.
‘Zara is stable. She has regained consciousness. All the neurological tests are positive.’
Stable. Positive. Neurological. Words tumble in my head and for the first time in hours I stop having to concentrate to breathe.
And now you are home from hospital and we are lying on the floor together in my bedroom, sharing a joint.
‘Miranda,’ you say, ‘stop beating yourself up. It wasn’t your fault.’
I wish you could say that to me now, Zara. I wish that was what you thought.
Again and again I see you bursting through the door of our shiny flat in Bristol, skin slightly flushed.
‘I’ve met someone,’ you say.
Emphasising someone, Zara. So many people, but never ‘someone’ before.
A portfolio of photographs of Sebastian, spilling from Mother’s hands across the coffee table in our flat, and I hear you telling me, ‘I never knew I was alive until I met Sebastian. I love him so much.’
You step towards him, put out your hand and stroke his cheek.
And now Sebastian is pulling me into his arms and kissing me. His tongue is in my mouth. And now Sebastian is shoving me face down into the duvet and penetrating me from behind. It hurts. It really hurts. A burning pain in the walls of my vagina. The pain is rising, engulfing me, and I am telling the psychotherapist I do not resent my sister. Tears are rolling down my face. Sebastian’s face is moving towards me. I feel his heat. I taste his breath.
‘I like it when you beg.’
He puts his head back and laughs his hyena laugh. Sebastian’s face disappears. I see your beautiful face, Zara, riddled with anger.
‘I’m going to kill you, fucking kill you,’ you shout at me.
I feel the slippage of skin. The resistance. The wetness. And I am walking behind your coffin at the funeral, Sebastian’s eyes searing into mine. Sebastian’s eyes soften. They become Theo’s. Seeing Theo’s eyes in my mind soothes me. The images disappear. I begin to breathe gently again.
152
The jury are ready to return their verdict. The court buzzes with anticipation. Mr Mimms, Ms Little and Theo are heads together, conferring. Early-Smith and co. are huddled together looking smug. Can they tell anything? I’ve not even been sent back to Eastwood Park, their decision is so quick.
Court officials are laughing and chatting, an air of relaxation etched across their faces. As if they are about to get an early break. Mother is sitting at the front of the spectator gallery, hands together on her lap. The press. Sitting watching me. Watching my reactions like gannets ready to dive for prey. Probably already ready with two different stories, depending on the next five minutes. Some in the seats to the left of the witness box. Some in the upstairs gallery. Gannets. Crows. Vultures. Rooks.
Sebastian is here. Sitting behind my mother as usual. My mother never talks to him. He always ignores her. He always ignores me. He never tries to talk to me, not even when I pass him in the corridor attached to my guard.
Theo turns to look at me. His eyes glisten towards mine. I’ve just seen him in the meeting room. I wasn’t sure he would brief me today. What is there left to say? Good luck? But he did, and instead of talking much, he held me against him in a special bear hug. He smelt musky and reassuring. Like when I asked him, before. Except I didn’t ask him this time. It just happened.
‘Miranda, we know you’re innocent. If you’re not released today, we’ll appeal,’ he said.
He tells me that again now with his eyes, before he turns away.
The judge enters through her doorway at the back right of the court, a pile of papers in her hand. As soon as she arrives, the court quietens and everybody stands. She tells a court official to fetch the jury and I tremble inside. Is the entire course of the rest of my life to be determined by a single act of sex, instantly re
gretted?
The jury arrive, far more perky than normal. Maybe the sniff of release from their duty has energised them. As they enter the court the young woman with the silky lashes and the stretched earlobe looks across at me. I sit looking across at them, these people on whom my fate rests. These people whom I know nothing about. These people who know nothing about me. They might think they do, because of the court case; but sex, blood, knives and grief – is that really me? Or just what has become of me?
The three jurors who are severely obese hobble towards their seats. How did they become so fat that they can hardly walk?
The Sikh man with the turban. Is he shocked by my sexual behaviour? Will that count against me? The bald man. About forty. The bearded man. About twenty. What do I know of their attitude?
The girl with the lashes and the earlobe. Do her glances demonstrate empathy? Maybe. I like to think so. The girl who looks like a pixie with short hair and big eyes. A modern girl. Or at least that’s how she presents. Might she understand what I’ve been going through? What it feels like to be raped? She looks so well groomed, so innocent. Will she have empathy for someone who plunges a knife into their sister? Does she have a sister she loves? Does she know what it feels like to love, and be loved back?
Once again I feel the slippage of your skin, Zara, the resistance, the outpouring of your blood. The stench of blood. Heady, heavy like the stench of a butcher’s shop. The stench of blood fills my nostrils and for a second I fear I will vomit. I sit, head down, cup my hands across my mouth and swallow to push the nausea back.
Calm again, I lift my head, my eyes back to the jury on whom my life depends. I see a middle-aged woman with curly hair. She looks kind enough. But what do I know of her? The cross-dresser. Hopefully a broadminded thinker. Next up, a man in a lumberjack shirt with darting eyes. And finally the Hugh Grant lookalike. Foppish blond hair constantly pushed from his eyes. Hugh Grant, did you support me? Or did Sebastian’s tale of being hit on by women resonate with your own personal experience?
Enough of this. I cannot cope with this petty analysis any more. I pull my eyes from the jury and rest them on the floor. Nausea wells inside me. Urgently this time, pushing into my throat.
‘I need to go to the bathroom,’ I tell my guard.
It is like Chinese whispers. The guard whispers to a court official, who whispers to the judge. The judge whispers to the court official who walks across the court and whispers back to the guard.
‘Permission granted, but please be as quick as possible.’
As quickly as possible, the guard takes me to the lavatories for prisoners in the bowels of the building, near the cells, deep below the court. Once inside the dated lavatory cubicle with cracked grey tiles and mould in the grouting, I lift the toilet lid and vomit profusely. A sea of soupy pink vomit, slippery with grease. It smells like cow dung. The smell of it makes me retch and vomit again. Sickness expunged, I shake and shiver, covered in goose bumps.
Then my body calms and at least for the time being I feel much better. I stand up and flush the toilet. I wash my hands, splashing my face with cold water. I clean my teeth with my finger and a nugget of liquid soap from the hand dispenser. The detergent froths across my teeth. It tastes sharp. Some slips into my throat and makes me cough.
In the lift on the way back to court, the guard holds my trembling hand.
Back in the dock. All eyes are on me. Eyes making me feel sick again. But even if I vomit all over myself, all over the dock, I cannot leave again. Theo turns to look at me. For a second the sickness evaporates.
The judge stands. The court quietens.
‘Jury, have you elected a foreperson?’
The jury nod, and mutter yes.
‘Will that person please stand.’
The bearded man of about twenty stands. Fancy electing someone so young. Perhaps he is older than he looks.
‘Have you reached a decision?’
‘Yes.’
‘And is it the decision of all of you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty of murder?’
‘Not guilty.’
I exhale with relief. And Zara, if only you were still alive I would shout for joy from the top of the highest mountain I could find.
Not guilty.
Not guilty but still sentenced to spend the rest of my life trying to forgive myself. Trying to get on with my life. But at least I will have the freedom to try.
153
Sebastian
She looks so relieved. She steps out of the dock, towards the insipid Theo. I can’t believe what’s happened as she falls into his arms. I can’t believe the jury let her go. How did they fall for her lies? Her cunning? Can’t they understand, Zara’s the victim here? Were they bribed? Threatened? Pushed? No one notices me slinking away. No one sees me slip into the side street across the road from court, to watch and wait. Miranda Cunningham cannot be allowed to live.
154
The guard is releasing me, letting me out of the dock. My limbs are so stiff I can hardly walk. I am in a daze. After so long incarcerated I can hardly take in what has happened. I look across at the jury gratefully, but they are filing out, unperturbed, probably in a hurry to get home. I am out of the dock. Standing in court as free as the next person. Free to go anywhere I want. Free to go home. But somehow freedom stifles me and I can’t move at all.
Before I know what has happened I am in Theo’s arms. He pulls me towards him and holds me against him as if I am precious. As Theo lets me go, I see the back of Sebastian’s head as he skulks out of court, and a shadow darkens across my heart.
Ms Little steps towards Theo and me. Too friendly Theo, too friendly, she tells him with her eyes. She puts her hands on my shoulders, holding me primly from a distance, showering me with wafts of her flowery perfume, and telling me how very pleased she is. Mr Mimms shakes my hand and nods his head. A shake and a nod. Friendly for Mr Mimms.
‘Thank you so much, Mr Mimms,’ I manage.
And Mother is here, moving towards me. Crying. Smiling. Laughing. Trembling. Loving me. Holding me in her arms.
‘Come on,’ Mother says, ‘let’s get straight in the car and drive back to Tidebury tonight.’ Tears are streaming down her face. I step back from her a little.
‘Please Mother, I just need a little time on my own.’ I pause. ‘I want to go back to the flat, to try and face what happened.’
She is looking at me, eyes riddled with concern.
‘I was taken away from the flat immediately and I haven’t been back since,’ I continue. ‘I need to be there with my thoughts for a few days first, before I come home.’
For a second Mother looks crushed. Devastated. Then she composes herself. Her eyes soften a little. ‘OK. I’ll wait. I’ll stay a bit longer in the hotel.’
‘I won’t keep you waiting long, I promise.’
The world moves around me, slow and unreal, as Mother and Theo escort me out of court, into the lobby. Somehow, from somewhere, I seem to be carrying my prison possessions in one of those weird perforated bags.
Standing in the middle of the lobby, Mother and I stare at each other.
‘Are you sure you want to go back to the flat tonight?’ Mother asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right? Why not wait until tomorrow?’
‘Yes Mother, I’m sure.’
Mother hovers around in the lobby for as long as possible. Eventually she tears herself away, reluctantly. So reluctantly. Walking away as slowly as possible as if she can’t bear to leave me. Turning in the doorway for a last concerned look. Now not quite so stooped as in court, but still only a shadow of her former self. As soon as she has stepped outside I am flooded with relief. I have enough guilt to carry. Her pain increases it.
Theo and I stand looking at each other in the lobby.
‘Thank you so much for everything,’ I say.
‘Can I give you a lift to the flat?’ h
e asks.
‘No thanks. It’s no distance. I can easily walk from here.’
His eyes, like my mother’s eyes, brim with concern.
‘I really do need a little time to myself.’
‘I understand,’ he says face stern. There is a pause. ‘Well, bye then. Good luck.’ His feet shuffle a little from side to side. ‘You’ve got my number if you need it. Call me anytime.’
‘Thank you.’
He walks away slowly. I feel lost.
Dragged down by the weight of my large plastic bag, I move through the Crown Court exit onto the street. A dark February afternoon, cold nipping at my fingers and my face, and I realise I don’t have a coat. Where is it? It could be anywhere after all that has happened: the prison, the police station. At the bottom of the large plastic bag I am carrying. Did I even have it with me in the first place? If I’ve lost my coat it’s nothing. Nothing in the scale of things.
How long will my perspective stay like this? A year ago I’d have beaten myself up if I’d lost my coat. But then I had not lost my sister. Pain and death push irrelevances out of you, at least for a while. Maybe the world needs some trauma to keep it balanced.
Without my coat, I rush home pinched with cold. Past the theatre. Past the restaurants and bars of Harbourside, people sitting outside beneath heaters, drinking, smoking, chatting. The evening lights reflecting and shimmering across the water, making everything look more mysterious. More glamorous. I had begun to think I would never see this again, or at least not until I was too old to enjoy it. But without you, Zara, I am not sure I will ever enjoy it again.
Five minutes later I am standing outside my flat. So close to the Crown Court. So close, and yet when I was incarcerated there it seemed so far. I stand outside the flat, heart thumping. I put the key in the lock. I turn and push. It is a little stiff. It needs some WD-40. But I push and twist and it releases. It allows me in. Into my small hallway.
Guilt Page 24