Page 71 of Cuckoo

Slowly, she slides me a note.

I’m sorry, Claire. You are not a murderer: this is the best route out for you.

I stare at it, my blood running cold as realisation begins to dawn.

‘During my examination, I found overwhelming evidence that Miss Arundale suffers from a severe case of delusional disorder by way of psychosis. It is, in fact, the most extreme case I have come across in my years as a professional. The defendant is unable to distinguish reality from fantasy, and her unshakable belief she is engaged to Mr Coors illustrates that she is not living in the real world and so cannot tell fact from fiction. It is my understanding that they did indeed meet in Morrisons supermarket on the eighteenth of September 2024, but that it was a brief and professional encounter, as per Mr Coors’s testimony. Following this encounter, the defendant followed him to a coffee shop where she learned his name and place of work from a lanyard hanging out of his backpack. She then began to construct a double life for herself, which she quickly spiralled into, unable to understand what was real and what was a construct of her own mind. The difficulty of this disorder is that, largely, it will not impact a person’s day-to-day life. She is able to work, to function and to socialise, but the depths of the disorder are hidden away within the recesses of the mind and it is not until you begin to dig that you realise just how severely delusional a patient is.’

I feel sick, a sense of hot dread sweeping over me.

‘It is my personal belief that her disorder, while largely genetic, has been fuelled by the environment in which she grew up, over which as a child she had no control. She was raised by an abusive mum, who I believe to have had clusterB narcissistic personality disorder. This induces extremely volatile behaviour and heightened emotions, affecting the same side of the brain as psychopathy or sociopathy. Being raised by someone with this type of personality disorder is proven to leave offspring with severe emotional neglect and trauma wounds, which can occasionally evolve into psychosis if the patient is already genetically predisposed to the condition. After hours of conversation with Miss Arundale, it is clear to me that her childhood left her completely devoid of emotional stability, love, nurturing or security, which I believe to have triggered her psychosis in later life following the passing of her only parent.

‘Furthermore, Miss Arundale’s delusional disorder fits perfectly into the category of erotomania, in which a person believes someone is in love with them. This will often lead to the stalking behaviour we have heard described, and which we have heard instances of from some of the witnesses in the trial. In her defence, these delusions can also lead to irritability and mood swings, which would have been escalated by the defendant’s alcohol consumption in the week leading up to Lilah Andersson’s death. It is clear to me that the defendant is a victim of her own mental health, that she has been suffering from an undiagnosed psychosis for a quite astounding length of time, completely unmedicated, and that she cannot in consequence be held criminally liable for the death of Miss Andersson nor stand trial as a result.’

‘I invite the defence to make a statement,’ the judge is saying, but again the words sound wavy and watery as my chest tightens and I feel myself closing down.

‘We have cross-referenced entries from Miss Arundale’s personal journal and have found various discrepancies between her understanding of reality and what actually happened,’ Grosvenor begins. ‘On September the twenty-second 2024, for instance, she wrote about visiting an Italian restaurant with Mr Coors after an interaction on the street, while CCTV footage shows Miss Arundale never actually entered the restaurant, instead watching Mr Coors through the window while he ate with Mr Barton. On April the fifth the following year she wrote about a trip to Venice, but airline logs prove that only Miss Arundale was booked to travel on that flight, with Mr Coors accounted for at work in the UK the same week that she wrote about their being on holiday together. In February when she wrote about becoming engaged to him, he has a solid alibi, being present at a client party the entire evening. Her ring, we believe, was purchased by Miss Arundale herself from a local Christmas market. The receipt was found in her home, folded into an origami rabbit, beside a bizarre notebook filled with ramblings relating to Mr Coors, his family and friends. It is clear to me that the events described in Miss Arundale’s journal represent the truth as she saw it and not the objective truth. I believe that this is evidence enough of the psychosis Dr Pye has diagnosed her with and ask that my client be discharged from trial on the grounds of mental incapacity.’

I stand, my legs shaking uncontrollably, and vaguely hear Grosvenor telling the court we need to adjourn because I am ill, but her voice is echoing strangely and the next thing I know I am on my knees in a fluorescent-lit court bathroom,heaving into a toilet while two people stand guard over me, and tears are streaming down my face, and all I can think is that this is wrong, wrong, WRONG, and how I wish that Noah would step in and stop it from happening.

Chapter Sixty-One

Diminished responsibility due to an abnormality of the mind. That was how the trial concluded, with all the witness testimonies thrown out. All that emotional trauma was a waste of time and energy. I never should have stood trial in the first place, apparently.

The court noted that my ability to understand my situation and conduct was hugely impaired and had led to a loss of self-control when I believed Lilah was having a child with Noah. Noah is not my fiancé. He is never, according to them, going to be my husband.

Chapter Sixty-Two

I am wringing my hands together in my lap, my eyes fixed on my feet. The disgusting slippers they make you wear here were once white, but are now an off-putting murky beige.

‘And Claire, how about you? How have you been getting on this week?’

I jolt upright at the sound of my name. The team leader, Daisy, looks at me carefully with an encouraging smile on her face. She’s not really a team leader. She’s a psychiatrist. But they make us call them team leaders, as though it makes it all less serious. I take a shaky breath, pairs of eyes peering at me curiously from around the circle we’re sitting in. Some patients, like me, like to keep their gaze fixed on the floor. One woman is muttering to herself under her breath, but she does this so often that it has become a strange comfort to me: a reminder of what true mental illness is. Some of the others are flitting their gaze about restlessly, impatient and bored. But many watch me, interested. And so I begin.

‘This week has been… tough. Honestly, it’s been quite shocking. I’ve now been here long enough that my new medication has worked its way into my system…’

Murmurs around the group of understanding and empathy. ‘And now I guess I’m just coming to terms with whatI’ve done, who I really am, and how I’ve ended up here.’ My shoulders sag at this point. Daisy beams at me as though I’ve told her she’s won the lottery. ‘That’sbrilliant, Claire. Really good self-awareness and progress! And how are you feeling about these revelations?’

I sigh. ‘Honestly? Tired.’ I get some chuckles around the circle at this, vigorous nods of understanding and camaraderie.

‘I guess it all stems from my childhood, my relationship with my mother. I need to work through all that I went through then, and my unhealthy attitude towards being loved, as a first step.’ Daisy is now nodding her head so enthusiastically that she reminds me of those bobbleheads in cars, and I worry hers may fall off her neck entirely.

‘And how about your emotions? What have you been feeling this week? I know the last time we spoke there was a lot of anger.’ She’s frowning at the memory.

‘Yes, well, I’m still angry, I’ll be honest. I feel betrayed by the court system, even though I suppose it kept me out of prison.’

‘Barely!’ someone heckles.

‘Prison is entirely different and much worse,’ Daisy counters crisply. ‘Claire, carry on, please.’

‘You’re right. Prison is entirely different. At least here we have our own toilets!’ It’s only half a joke, but falls almost entirely flat.

‘Anyway, I wish they’d diagnosed me sooner, prepared me for what was going on. I felt ambushed by my own lawyer. And as part of the psychiatric evidence, they sharedmy diary entries. Those private, personal memories in my own handwriting… I felt so humiliated,’ I admit for the first time. That was the final kicker, those diary entries. The last trace of any sort of pride I might have retained, dashed as my innermost thoughts, secrets, wishes and horrors were shared with a bunch of strangers. I feel my face flush at the memory, the complete horror of the diary becoming part of my case notes, typed out letter by excruciating letter.

‘And what about Noah? His friends?’ Daisy asks.

I keep my face carefully neutral. ‘I can’t be angry with them: they only went up there and spoke the truth– anybody would have done the same. But I am sad every day about what happened to Lilah, and I wish it hadn’t.’ I look at the ground again and swallow down the lump in my throat. I feel tears spring to my eyes and hurriedly wipe them away. Nobody is laughing now, the circle around me grown quiet. Even the muttering woman has reverted to shaking her head furiously and silently.

‘And that’s what we’re here to help you work through,’ Daisy says gently, watching me with pity in her eyes. ‘Let’s move on. Jacob, how are you getting on with your outbursts of anger this week?’ She turns away from me and I relax just a fraction. I’ve said my piece. Now I just have to sit through the rest of this session and then I can go back to my awful little box room and reflect on what I’ve learned in my journal. A journal that, hopefully, willremainprivate.

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