Guilt

by Amanda Robson

  ‘Even though we were arranging to go out later I knew I had time for a cup of tea, so I went straight into the corner of the kitchen to put the kettle on.’

  ‘What time was that?’ His voice is harsh. Staccato.

  ‘It was about six o’clock.’

  ‘When did you first see your sister?’

  I have been through this so many times, but now I don’t remember. I don’t remember exactly. I close my eyes and try to picture it, where she was when I entered the flat. I open them to find Early-Smith’s bulging eyes raised to the sky impatiently.

  ‘Well, Ms Cunningham, are you able to continue?’

  I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out. Paul Early-Smith QC glances across at the judge to gauge her reaction.

  ‘Yes. Yes,’ I finally manage.

  ‘When did you first see your sister?’ he repeats lancing me with his eyes.

  ‘About the same time. I’m not sure where she was. It all happened so quickly.’

  ‘Did you greet her?’

  ‘I suppose I must have.’

  ‘You suppose?’ There is a pause. ‘So you don’t remember whether you greeted her, yet you expect us to believe you remember she was about to kill you?’

  My insides tighten. My pulse is racing. ‘I can’t remember where she was when I first came home. All I remember is that she came at me. She was so angry. I have never seen her like that.’

  ‘When did you first realise that she had a knife?’

  ‘When she came at me. She had her Swiss Army knife in her hand and she stabbed me in the neck. She was going to kill me, to stab me again. So I … So I …’ I am crying now, tears streaming down my face.

  ‘Please continue, Ms Cunningham.’

  ‘I grabbed the only thing I could – the bread knife from the kitchen counter, and stabbed her in the stomach.’

  Early-Smith’s lips stretch into a disbelieving smile. ‘Had you ever seen your sister this angry before?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘Had your sister ever attacked you before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even when you were children?’

  ‘Maybe. I can’t remember.’

  ‘There seem to be a lot of things you can’t remember. Is that convenient?’

  I don’t reply. He gives me a short, contrived smile, a sideways glance to the jury, and turns his head back to me.

  ‘Tell me, Ms Cunningham, to the best of your knowledge, has your sister ever attacked anyone else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Had she ever shown any signs of violence at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So how were you so sure she was about to kill you?’

  ‘She accused me of seducing Sebastian. He’d told her we’d slept together. She loved him very much. She was so, so angry.’

  ‘But how were you so sure?’ He pauses. He raises his hands in the air. He looks across at the jury again. Not a sideways glance this time, a full-blown triumphant stare. ‘To kill someone but rely on self-defence, Ms Cunningham, you have to be sure.’ The end of his knobbly nose looks as if it is pulsating. He shakes his head a little. ‘Tell us all, Ms Cunningham, were you sure?’

  I do not reply at first. Two can play this game, Early-Smith, pausing for dramatic effect. Then: ‘Yes, Mr Early-Smith. I was sure. Very sure. I loved my sister very much. I would never have stabbed her unless she was about to kill me. I didn’t intend to kill her. I just needed her to stop.’

  140

  ‘That’s it. It’s over. I’m going down,’ I tell Theo.

  ‘It isn’t over,’ he replies, eyes hard and definite. He reaches across the table and takes both my hands in his. ‘Prosecution counsel always treat the defendant like that. The forensic and medical evidence completely verifies what you say.’

  Tears in my eyes. Knots in my stomach. ‘I hate the man. He makes me feel dirty.’ I pause and clench my fist. ‘But not as much as I hate Sebastian.’

  His hands stroke mine. ‘Calm down. I know it’s difficult to handle but Early-Smith’s only doing his job. Everything went just as expected. It’s our witness evidence tomorrow. I promise you, everything will be fine.’

  ‘It feels as if nothing will ever be fine again.’

  He lets go of my hands. He moves his right hand towards my face. Gently, softly, he touches my chin and lifts it a little, pressing his eyes into mine, eyes that are softer now. ‘Not long to go now.’

  141

  Ensconced behind my wall of glass, another key day is starting in court. Witness evidence. The first witness to be called is the forensic expert – Professor Holywell. I see him waiting on the benches to the left of the judge’s area. He has thin white hair around the edge of his pate that seems to be sticking up with static, staring eyes and round glasses. He is wearing crumpled cords, and a threadbare tweed jacket with leather pads at the elbows. Rummaging through a pigskin briefcase as if looking for a document. His shoulders widen with relief as he pulls out some papers and starts reading them. Despite his thick glasses he still has to hold the notes at the end of his nose, frowning as he reads.

  The morning court gathers as Professor Holywell continues to read his report, oblivious to the movement around him. All the usual. Barristers. Court officials. Jury. Rising for the judge. And now Professor Holywell is taking the stand, being sworn in, and Ms Little is standing up to examine him.

  ‘Let’s not waste the jury’s time and just cut to the quick. Tell me Professor, does the evidence that you have examined regarding wound size and shape, and force used, corroborate the defendant’s evidence?’ Ms Little asks.

  ‘Undoubtedly yes. Without question. Entirely and completely.’

  Theo turns around and smiles at me with his eyes. Eyes that say I told you so. Mother turns around and smiles. My insides flood with a warm sense of relief. Ms Little sits down and Paul Early-Smith stands up. Paul Early-Smith does not look pleased.

  ‘On page seven of your report, you discuss blood splatter evidence. According to the defendant there was only a few seconds between the two stabbings. Allowing for margin of error, could the order of stabbing have been the other way round?’

  Early-Smith is standing, shoulders wide, bulbous nose raised. Pleased with himself. I do not like the way his smile plays on his lips. Professor Holywell runs his fingers through his hair. He leans forwards to address Early-Smith. ‘No. On every occasion where there is overlap, the blood that soaked into the underlying fabric was always Miranda’s.’

  Theo turns around to look at me. I told you so, his eyes tell me once again.

  142

  The second witness to be called today is my GP, Dr Dale. I do not want to listen to this, but I have no choice. What is she supposed to say? I never even told her what happened. But Theo and Ms Little have insisted she is called. She is standing in the witness box, fine-nosed and smartly dressed. Navy blue perfection edged in white. Hands brandishing matching shellac.

  I am sitting here dying inside, trying to keep calm. Trying to do my best. I feel empty and limp. As if my body is no longer my body, but a sack of skin with no tissue or bones to inflate it.

  ‘I understand from your statement that you have been a GP for twenty years and that you are specifically trained to deal with rape victims. Is that correct?’ Ms Little asks.

  Dr Dale nods her head. ‘Yes. Dealing with rape victims has always been one of my specialisms.’

  ‘Is it correct that you believed the defendant, Ms Miranda Cunningham, had been raped, around the time she now alleges the incident took place?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even though she never actually told you that she had been raped?’

  Dr Dale gives Ms Little a slow purposeful smile. ‘Yes. It’s common for people to be secretive after such a terrible experience.’

  Her voice stalls on the word terrible, as if she is in pain herself. Early-Smith stirs uncomfortably.

  Dr Dale continues, ‘She had developed a severe burning pain in her vagina
l area that wouldn’t go away. Once investigated this couldn’t be explained by a physical cause. The cause of this psychological symptom is invariably rape.’ There is a pause. ‘She seemed very distressed, but wasn’t willing to talk about why. When I asked her whether she was in a relationship she became tearful.’ Dr Dale pauses again. ‘Miranda most definitely exhibited all the warning signs of rape. I documented it fully in her medical notes, which I made at the time, and are being distributed by the clerk right now.’

  143

  Sebastian

  Dr Dale. Yet another condescending woman full of clap-trap. Rape? Miranda was gagging for it. Desperate. She hadn’t had sex for over three years. Zara had spilt the beans to me about that. I know I put a little something in her drink to warm her up, but she needed me to do that to help her relax. Once she was relaxed there was no stopping her. You should have heard the scream of her climax.

  144

  More witnesses today.

  Ms Holt is approaching the box. I don’t know who she is. I didn’t know she was being called. A slightly overweight blonde of a similar age to me. Quite pretty, wearing a short red woollen sweater dress and black boots. I flick through the bundle to try and find out about her. Nothing here. A clerk is walking around court with a pile of photocopying. He passes a sheet to my guard, who passes it to me. Ms Holt’s witness statement. A last-minute addition to today’s list. I don’t have time to read it, or even skim it.

  Ms Little is starting the questioning.

  ‘I understand, Ms Holt, you are here because you are suggesting that Sebastian Templeton raped you.’

  Another rape. The bastard. My heart skips a beat.

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Could you explain what happened please?’

  Ms Holt begins to speak. She has a calm, clear voice. I don’t want to listen to this. Her words move in and out of focus. Words and feelings and memories all jumbled. I see him sitting next to me at work again. I hear his voice. I know what you like. Remember, Miranda. And I feel him entering me again. I see your face, Zara, the face I loved so much. I want to speak to you. I want to touch you. Hold your hand and tell you how sorry I am.

  I push my memories away. The court comes back into focus. Ms Little has finished questioning. Ms Holt has finished speaking. Mr Early-Smith is standing up to cross-examine her.

  ‘You are accusing Mr Templeton of raping you, but this was two years ago and you never brought charges – can you tell us why?’

  She flicks her hair from her eyes. ‘He threatened to hurt me if I reported it.’ She pauses. ‘He said no one would believe me anyway.’ Another pause; she almost cries. ‘Also I was applying for a job as a nursery school teacher and I thought being involved in a rape accusation would make schools feel uncertain about me. I felt tainted by what he had done to me.’

  Mr Early-Smith smiles. A knowing smile, as if he thinks he is about to trap Ms Holt.

  ‘Surely if he really had done this you had a moral responsibility to report him immediately, to protect other people?’

  She doesn’t reply. She is fighting back tears and looking at the floor.

  ‘Why are you speaking out now? What was your trigger? Why not last month? Last week?’

  She looks up. Head high and proud now. ‘Theo Gregson came to see me and explained what had happened to Miranda. He seemed to know I used to spend time with Sebastian Templeton. He explained the situation and I agreed to help. His behaviour almost ruined my life. I don’t want it to ruin anyone else’s. Surely, Mr Early-Smith, this is the perfect time to speak out?’

  Mr Early-Smith frowns over the top of his half-moon glasses. His termination look. ‘Thank you, Ms Holt. That will be all.’

  Ms Holt looks across at me and nods, purposeful rather than intimidated now, as she leaves the stand and goes to sit at the side of the court. Her shoulders are wide. Her head is raised. Her eyes shine. Pleased with herself. Proud she has fought back.

  145

  Sebastian

  So, Miranda Cunningham, Caroline Holt, where do you think you are going with this? You say I raped you, so why did neither of you report it? You wanted it, both of you. You were desperate for it. A man like me always knows what a woman wants.

  146

  Ms Little. On her feet again. Adjusting the angle of her glasses, checking her notes. She calls Ms Phipps. Our English teacher from school and close family friend of many years. My godmother. Your godmother too. Almost sixty now, approaching retirement age. Over a year since I last saw her. She has lost weight and grown her hair; it tumbles onto her shoulders and softens her face.

  Ms Little leans forward eagerly. ‘It has been alleged by the prosecution that Zara and Miranda were rivals. That Zara was lively and pretty, much more popular than Miranda. Apparently Miranda was jealous of her.’

  ‘They are so wrong. Both girls were very popular in their own way. Zara had a more lively social life than Miranda. But Miranda was very popular too. It was just her choice to live a quieter life. Miranda was more academic, but Zara was very artistic. They complemented each other perfectly. They loved each other intensely. They were inseparable. I should know. I am their godmother. I have known them all their lives.’

  I watch Mr Early-Smith, sitting at his bench. He shrugs his shoulders condescendingly, and raises his palms.

  147

  I am with Theo Gregson in our court meeting room, again. This morning he has shaved roughly and cut himself, a little bit of blood on his chin. My fingers itch to clean him up, to wipe it away. And he looks as if he hasn’t slept. Pale skin. Bags beneath his eyes. Is he worried? Does he think we are going to lose the trial?

  ‘Summing up today,’ he says. ‘Most important day.’ There is a pause. ‘Apart from the verdict.’

  My stomach coagulates. ‘Not that you’re trying to make me feel nervous or anything?’

  ‘Would I do that?’ He manages half a smile.

  ‘How many things could go wrong?’

  ‘Hard to say.’

  ‘You’re usually more encouraging.’

  He shrugs. ‘Nothing to worry about. I’m always like this on the last day.’

  148

  The court has moved to a new level of seriousness. No interim buzz of conversation between the clerks, between the solicitors and barristers. The members of the public sit forwards, stiff like dummies, hands in laps. The judge arrives, brow furrowed, and everyone stands. The jury return and the air around me tightens. My mother looks around and catches my eye anxiously. Sebastian doesn’t turn around; his eyes are firmly fixed to the front. Theo doesn’t turn around either but I know he is rooting for me.

  Paul Early-Smith stands up and I feel weak. He stands and gives the jury his I’m an officer of the court look. The one I suspect he practises in his hallway mirror every morning. Folded brow. Dimpled nose. You don’t need to try, Paul Early-Smith. You already look intimidating enough. He coughs to clear his throat.

  ‘Miranda Cunningham murdered her sister in cold blood.’ He pauses. ‘In cold blood,’ he repeats in a thunderous tone. My insides quiver. ‘Because she was infatuated with her sister’s boyfriend, and wanted her sister out of the way so that she could have him to herself.’ He waves his right arm dramatically towards the jury. ‘The sex tape has shown us all the level of enjoyment she had with him.’

  The sex tape.

  I feel sick whenever anyone mentions it. I feel my face reddening. I look across at the jury and hope they are not watching me. But two of them are. The girl with the weird ear piercing, and the man in the turban, are both looking my way. My face becomes hotter as they gaze at me. The man in the turban has a sneering, twisted face. The girl’s expression does not change. I pull my eyes from them and stare back at Mr Early-Smith. I stare at his profile as he addresses the jury and I hate him for the way he is twisting me, twisting my life.

  ‘She had been pestering and cajoling Sebastian Templeton ever since she met him,’ Mr Early-Smith continues. ‘After being envious of h
er more attractive, outgoing sister for years, she finally took revenge on her.’ He pauses for dramatic effect, shoulders and nose raised, making him look increasingly pompous, making me resent what he is saying even more. ‘Over the relevant period, Miranda Cunningham became increasingly unstable and now, for her own safety and that of the larger public, she needs to be incarcerated as soon as possible.’

  It’s not true, I want to shout. But I am not allowed to speak. It’s not true, I shout in my mind, body stiff with anger.

  The conniving bastard otherwise known as Mr Early-Smith, sits down with a flourish, the jury still transfixed by him, still watching him. My heart stops for a minute. I put my arm on the shelf in front of me to steady myself. I breathe deeply until everything calms, until my heartbeat comes back.

  I watch Ms Little rising from her seat. Smooth. Cool. Confidence rippling across her skin. She moves slowly, with certainty. She turns to face the jury.

  ‘I want you to understand that Miranda Cunningham loved her twin sister more than anything in the world and grieves for her every day.’ Silent tears run down my face. ‘That grief is painful to watch for anyone who knows her.’ Theo turns around to check whether I am all right. My eyes melt into his. My tears continue.

  Ms Little’s words are cascading over me somewhere in the distance of my mind, but I am not sure whether I am hearing them or whether they are just an echo. ‘Miranda Cunningham is the last person in the world who would cause deliberate harm to her sister Zara. We can see this both through testimony, and observation of her loving nature.’ Ms Little pauses. ‘What has happened here is a travesty. A man playing around with twin sisters, attempting to pit one against the other. Manipulating both of them.’ A long pause just as dramatic as Early-Smith’s. ‘What motivated this man remains a mystery. What is clear is that he was a man with no love for either of them.’