Page 70 of Cuckoo

Chapter Fifty-Nine

No tears leaked from my eyes as I faced the coffin, a bunch of white lilies clutched before my chest. I stared at the dark polished wood resolutely. This was my final goodbye to Mother. It seemed odd that such a huge force, such a violent and brutal part of my life, was now in a narrow box. I’d never realised before quite how petite she was, she had always seemed larger than life to me. Behind me was a room full of people I didn’t know, faces I vaguely recognised, most of them men. I hadn’t arranged a fancy funeral. She hadn’t deserved an expensive final send-off.

But I had booked a slot at the local crematorium and put a notice in the local paper, in case she’d had any local friends I hadn’t known about. Apparently she did, because many more people turned up than I had expected. I was the only family there, though. Not that I’d have known, because she never introduced me to her relatives– having been cut off from them since she was a teenager. I didn’t know who my father was, and looking around the room I wondered, for a split second, if there was any chance that he was in the midst of the mourners. But I shook the thought away. I was never destined for family life. Never destined for loving parents, for mischievous siblings, for marriageor children. It would always be just me on my own. Just Claire.

‘Claire, why did you manipulate those photographs of you and Noah?’ Grosvenor is asking me once we’re back in the consultation room. Her voice is unnaturally gentle.

‘I… I didn’t,’ I reply.

‘You did though. The evidence was up there on the screen and it was checked by an editing expert,’ Grosvenor says, holding up the court notes. ‘Do you know how to use Photoshop? Is that what you used to edit them?’

‘I… I use Photoshop for work, I design press releases, but I don’t do photo editing at work,’ I try to explain. My head is buzzing, everything hazy.

‘Claire, are you okay?’ Grosvenor asks.

‘I don’t know,’ I reply. My chest is seizing. I feel like I can’t breathe.

‘Someone get a paper bag,’ Grosvenor is saying, but her voice is distant and echoing as though she’s underwater. I grip onto the edges of the table and feel like I might die. I want to curl up into a ball and hide, escape everything that is happening to me right now. I want to be anywhere but here.

The last time I had a panic attack was the day I got the phone call to inform me that Mother had died.

‘Is this a joke?’ I asked, assuming she had roped someone into calling me as a prank, one of her friends from the pub perhaps. It was exactly the sort of thing she would do, tryingto cause me distress and then passing it off as a joke, telling me I’d overreacted, laughing at my distress.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Arundale, this is real and we will require you to make some decisions regarding the body. We can refer you to a brilliant funeral home who can take care of everything you need…’

The voice trailed off as I began to hyperventilate, dropping the phone onto the ground. Mother was dead. Mother had died of cancer and I hadn’t been there; she had died alone in a hospital and I hadn’t been visiting because I didn’t believe her, because I thought she was trying to punish me for leaving home, for losing contact with her. If I hadn’t left home, I would have been there with her. I would have been there to care for her and maybe she wouldn’t have died so young.

My chest ached with a sharp stabbing by my sternum. My eyes clenched shut as I curled up and tried to control my breathing. Mother was dead and it was my fault. The guilt was suffocating me, and I was rocking where I sat, trying to sob but nothing was coming because I barely had enough air in me to breathe, let alone sob, and why were there no tears? How could I be so cruel as not to cry when news of my own mother’s death arrived?

It was the first time I had experienced a panic attack, and for months afterwards, even after meeting Noah, I jumped and felt my heart quicken every time the phone rang, waiting for more bad news to arrive. I ended up setting my phone permanently to Do Not Disturb, I was so afraid of bad news reaching me again. Would Noah die next? I had begunto spin out of control after she died, my emotions ruling me and dictating all of my actions. Sometimes I felt as though I was a ghost, looking at Claire from the outside. Sometimes I felt something rotten in my core crawl out, nasty thoughts and words plaguing me. Sometimes I felt nothing at all, as hollow as a coffin.

One night, I screamed into a pillow. It wasn’t from grief. It was fury that she had died, a selfish slice of rage at the fact that she had dared to leave this world before I had the chance to tell her the truth about how I felt. About how she had hurt me, how there was something wrong with her and I had been the one to suffer for it while I was growing up in her care. I screamed loudly into a pillow until I was sure my throat was bleeding, then I passed out. The next morning I went to work, and met Noah.

I scold myself for being so selfish that the thought of going to prison can instil the same visceral reaction in me as finding out I caused my own mother’s death. Such a selfish murderer I turned out to be.

The closing statements and verdict were delayed because we had to wait for a doctor to sign me off after my panic attack ended. Then, Grosvenor made me speak to my psychiatrist, Dr Pye, again, with the trial on hold until I was medically signed off. We spoke for an entire week, almost all day long. Just me and my painful, traumatic memories playing on a never-ending loop.

‘Look, Claire. You don’tneedto lie. You did not go into that house to murder Lilah, you did not intend for her to hither head when you pushed her. You arenota bad person,’ Dr Pye tells me one day as I repeat Mother’s words to her through my racking sobs.

I am a bad person.

Chapter Sixty

Jessica Pye

Dr Jessica Pye steps up to the stand. She looks too young to be a seasoned psychiatrist, too inexperienced for my entire future to rest on her testimony, but I know from our conversations that she’s switched on. I like her, if I’m being honest, after spending hours with her recounting and sharing so much of my life and thoughts. She is very serious, her full lower lip occasionally protruding when I speak, the only sign I can identify that means at least something I’ve said is of interest. She frowns occasionally, but this is often paired with a comforting nod, which leaves me unsure what she is thinking. Is she agreeing with me or am I just highlighting something she already suspects?

When I last saw her she was in a cream dress, but today she’s wearing a black dress and blazer, looking substantially more professional and imposing than she did at our last session. I gulp and hope for the best. This woman is so impartial that I can’t help but feel hopeful that she can intervene and end this entire charade. I’m hoping that the worst that can happen today is that Judge Black finds there is no case to answer in relation to murder, leaving only the possibilityof the lesser charge, manslaughter. After all, I didn’t mean for Lilah to die. I never in my wildest dreams imagined that one little push could have brought us all to where we are today.

‘The court invites Dr Jessica Pye to speak,’ the judge intones.

‘Following several conversations and assessment of all the key parties, it is clear to me that Claire Arundale cannot by any reasonable person be found guilty of murder,’ she says.

My eyes widen and I exhale loudly with relief. I sink my head into my hands, allowing myself to luxuriate in the comfort of this woman, thisstranger,finally defending me. Finally backing me.

‘While we psychoanalysed Miss Arundale immediately after her arrest, I’m sorry to say her mental capacity has deteriorated further since then. We were called in by her legal team who believed she had begun to show signs of mental health issues and I have spent the past week re-evaluating her under the new circumstances. Following my new assessment, I also argue she is not mentally capable of standing trial, and this has been backed by several other psychiatrists following an examination of all court and psychiatric assessment transcripts.’

I jerk in my seat and frown, looking over at Grosvenor, who seems to be nodding in agreement. Not capable of standing trial? What does that mean?

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