Lisa Ballantyne - Guilty One

‘I think so. But what will the psychologist do?’

‘You’ve not to worry about that. It’s just to see how you might cope with the trial. He’s our witness, remember, so you’ve not to worry, OK?

‘What I wanted to try and explain to you today was the prosecution’s case against you – that is the arguments that they will put forward to try to prove that you killed Ben. We have only recently received these documents, and I’m working on building your defence, based on what the prosecution have against you … If you don’t understand anything, let me know.’

‘It’s crystal clear,’ said Sebastian.

Daniel paused as he watched the boy. As a child he had come close to being in Sebastian’s position – but he had never owned Sebastian’s confidence.

‘The main evidence against you is that although you say you were only playing with Ben, and that he did fall and hurt himself while he was with you, your clothes and shoes have Ben’s blood on them.’

‘It’s not a big problem,’ said Sebastian, his eyes bright and alert suddenly.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well, because you can say the blood and stuff got on to me because he got himself hurt …’

There was a pause. Sebastian met Daniel’s eyes, then nodded once.

‘We’ll be arguing that Ben fell and hurt himself, and we have your mum as an alibi from 3 p.m. onwards, which throws into question the witness’s assertion that he saw you fighting with Ben again later in the day. But the Crown will argue that the blood and DNA on your clothes is evidence that you murdered him.’

Daniel glanced at Charlotte. The ring finger on each of her hands was trembling. Her attention seemed to drift, so that Daniel wondered if she had heard.

‘I didn’t hurt Ben like that; I was just playing with him …’

‘I know, but someone did hurt him, you know – hurt him very badly – someone murdered him.’

‘Murder’s not that bad.’

In the silence of the room, Daniel could hear Charlotte swallow.

‘We all die, you know,’ said Sebastian, smiling faintly.

‘Are you telling me you know how Ben died? You can tell me now, if you want.’ Daniel winced in expectation of what the boy would say.

Sebastian tilted his head to one side and smiled again.

Daniel raised his eyebrows to prompt him. After a few moments, the small boy shook his head.

*

On his legal pad Daniel wrote down for Sebastian the sequence of events that would follow: from the first formal conference with the barrister to the preparation for trial.

‘After the committal hearing, there will be a period of waiting for the trial. I want you to know that you and your parents can still see me or talk to me during that period if you have any questions.’

‘Cool,’ said Sebastian. ‘But … when will the trial be?’

‘Not for a few months yet, Seb. We have a lot of work to do before then, but I promise we will take you to see the court before your trial.’

‘Noooooo,’ Sebastian whined, slapping a hand on the desk. ‘I want to go sooner. I don’t want to stay here.’

Charlotte sat up and took a breath, as if someone had thrown a cup of water in her face. ‘There, darling, there,’ she said, her fingers fluttering to Sebastian’s hair.

Sebastian’s eyes shone as if he might cry.

‘Look, Seb, I’ve got an idea,’ said Daniel. ‘How about I run and get us some sandwiches. How does that sound?’

‘I’ll go,’ said Charlotte, on her feet. Daniel noticed a purple bruise on her wrist as she reached for her bag. ‘I really need some air anyway. I’ll be right back.’

When the heavy door clunked shut, Sebastian rose to his feet and began to walk around the room. The boy was thin, with delicate wrists and elbows that protruded. Daniel thought that apart from anything else he was too small to be capable of Ben’s brutal murder.

‘Seb, did anyone speak to you that day in the park, apart from the man who called on you both to stop fighting?’ The chairs were fixed, so Daniel had to stand up so that he could face Sebastian. The boy stood just taller than Daniel’s waist. Ben Stokes had been three years younger than Sebastian, but only two inches shorter.

Sebastian shrugged. He shook his head, not looking at Daniel. He was leaning against the wall, examining his nails and then turning forefinger on thumb as if miming a nursery rhyme: ‘Incy Wincy Spider’.

‘Were you aware of anyone acting strangely in the park – did you see anyone watching you play?’

Again Sebastian shrugged.

‘Do you know why she’s wearing that jumper?’ said Sebastian. He held his hands up to his face, thumbs and forefingers touching, and looked at Daniel through the rectangle of his fingers.

‘What, do you mean your mum?’

‘Yes, when she wears that jumper it means that she has strangle marks on her neck.’ Sebastian was still looking at Daniel through his fingers.

‘Strangle marks?’

Sebastian put both hands to his throat and squeezed until his face started to turn red.

‘Stop it, Seb,’ said Daniel. He reached out and pulled gently at the child’s elbow.

Sebastian fell against the wall, laughing.

‘Were you scared?’ he asked, smiling so broadly that Daniel could see one of the child’s missing teeth.

‘I don’t want you to hurt yourself,’ said Daniel.

‘I was just trying to show you,’ said Sebastian. He returned to sit at the table. He seemed tired, reflective. ‘Sometimes if he gets annoyed he squeezes her throat. You can get dead that way too, you know? If you squeeze too hard.’

‘Are you talking about your mum and your dad?’

There was the sound of the door unlocking. Sebastian leaned over the table, one hand held up to cover his mouth, and whispered: ‘If you pull down the neck of her jumper you’ll see the marks.’

Charlotte came in with the sandwiches and Daniel found himself watching her more closely as she unpacked the bag of food and drinks. He looked at Sebastian, who was choosing a sandwich. Better when I’m there, he remembered the boy saying. Daniel felt another sudden flush of empathy for the child. He remembered his own mother with a man’s hands around her throat. He remembered how desperate he had felt as a child, separated from her, unable to protect her. It had driven him to terrible things.

12

Early dawn and Daniel was in the chicken shed.

The first ground frost of autumn, and his fingers were stiff with the cold. The day opened lazily to him as he inhaled the smell of the shed, chill with frost but warmed by feather and straw. Minnie was asleep. He had heard her snoring above the sound of her alarm as he made his way downstairs. In the living room, a drink had spilled on the piano top. It had dried to a white stain, like a large blister on the wood.

Now he was outside as she lay unconscious, carefully going about his chores. He felt strange: bereft, alone, cruel – like a falcon he had seen on his way to school one day, on a post, intent, dismembering a field mouse.

He didn’t know where his mother was. It felt as if she had been stolen.

Daniel picked up a warm brown egg. He was about to place it in the cardboard tray which she had left out for him, as always, on the kitchen bunker. He felt it hard inside his palm. His palmsensed the vulnerability of the egg. His palm knew the shell-skin and the liquid yolk it contained, the suspended promise of chick.

Without meaning to, almost so that his palm could feel the sharp nip of broken shell and the cloying run of albumen, Daniel squeezed the egg and crushed it. The yolk ran through his fingers like blood.

He felt a flush of heat suddenly: nape of his neck and small of his back. He picked up one egg after another and squeezed. His fingertips dripped clear drops of this small violence into the straw.