CHAPTER 29

                                    

                                          
IRIS
                          
My father comes to the trial, turning up on the first day in the public gallery amongst the journalists and general gawkers. I do not recognise him. It is my lawyer who tells me who he is. I look at him, this man who fathered me, who abandoned me. It takes me a second look to realise that he is an old man, seventy-eight this year, my lawyer says, a stranger to me. Emerson Adamson. That is his name, I have thought of him often, although I have never seen him for forty-three years. When I was young and idealistic I imagined scenarios where he arrived at my grubby apartment and understood everything without me even speaking. He would take me to live with him -- his wife out of the picture -- in a big house. I imagined running into him in antiques shops, at book fairs and in libraries, and somehow, he would recognise me immediately, because I would resemble my mother.
                          
Nothing of the sort happened. He didn't want anything to do with me, or my mother. 
                          
Later, when my mother turned cruel and abusive, it was her I blamed for making my father abandon me. He knew she was wicked, he saw her true nature, and that was why he had walked out on her. It was more bearable than the truth, which was that he never wanted me in the first place. He had got an easy girl pregnant, and he had left her; it was as simple as that.
                          
My case made headlines all over the papers. That was how he found me. My mother's name was in the articles: Iris's mother who was suffering from early onset dementia wandered from her daughter's house one evening in Leicester. To this day she is still listed as missing.
                          
I see my father for the first time in court.
                          
His hair and his moustache are white, his neck scrawny, but with just one look from him, love and anger fill my heart. I can't take my eyes off him. When I should have been concentrating on what the prosecutors and defence lawyers are saying, making certain I get my story straight, I am staring up at the gallery. My father averts his gaze. You've come! I want to shout. Too late! Too late! I can't wait for that first day to be over so I could be passed his note, or his request for a private visit. I try to work on the strength I would need to tear it up in front of him or deny his request. I am impatient for the day to end. I ask the officer who takes me back to my cell in the breaks to double-check, but there is no note, no request. What? It must be a mistake. Surely, surely, my father would want to talk to me? Speak to me? The officer shakes his head. There is no mistake. I fall silent. My steps drag. The cell door closes with a clang behind me.
                          
My father comes every day, sitting in the same place with his eyes downcast or closed. Perhaps he too carries some guilt for the way I have turned out. Or maybe like the rest of them in the courtroom, he is a voyeur.
                          
"I understand that your mother suffered from early onset dementia."
                          
"Yes. She was forgetful."
                          
"You locked the door."
                          
"She opened it by turning the knob twice. I should have been there with her. But I had just popped over to the store to get her oat biscuits. I served her scones for tea, you see. She prefers oat biscuits. It was my fault she --- she --- "
                          
The defence lawyer hands me a tissue and I dab at my eyes.
                          
When I glance up, my father's eyes have snapped open.
                          
"And when was this?"
                          
"Twenty years ago."
                          
"And she's still missing."
                          
"Yes." I bow my head. "I'll never forgive myself."
                          
I look up. There is a face at the window behind the packed gallery. Mama is staring at me, her eyes accusing. Murderer, she mouths. I look at my father. His face is blank.
                          
My mother hates me. My father doesn't care about me.
                          
So I think of Colin, instead. 
                          
There is an ache under my breastbone and a sting in the bridge of my nose when I think of Colin's body against the bathtub and the knife, its hilt shining with red from his blood.
                          
My father is late on the seventh --- the final day --- and there is shuffling in the gallery before a space could be made for him. I have stopped willing him to look at me. I wonder if he is hoping for a reconciliation on the steps of the courthouse when I am found not guilty of attempted murder. My lawyer is confident I will be found not guilty on the grounds of temporary insanity.
                          
I have tried to practise my expression in the cell below the courtroom, but there is no mirror. I decide on a sad, remorseful expression during the prosecution's closing speech. I am a good actress. After all, I have been playing a role my whole life.
                          
The chief prosecutor reminds the jury that I have admitted I am in love with Colin and have been rejected by him, that he has given me gifts and led me on, that I have been led to believe that he would marry me, that I have divorced my husband for him, and that I own the knife that had stabbed him and maimed him, an injury which has serious repercussions and long-lasting consequences. Colin Clayton would never fully recover again. It is for this reason his evidence was filmed on camera from a hospital bed. He is too weak to stand for long, let alone walk. Colin Clayton is a shadow of the strong, virile man he once was. I made sure of that.
                          
The chief prosecutor claims that I had attempted to murder Colin in a crime prompted by jealousy. If I can't have Colin, then no one would, he tells the jury. I applaud him secretly. He is speaking the truth. He tells the jury that my fingerprints are all over that steak knife. He shows the jury the steak knife in the plastic bag, brown stains covering the hilt and the blade. The women in the jury shudder. The men press their lips tightly. I stare at my hands. It is clear, the chief prosecutor says in a ringing and strident voice, that I am guilty of the attempted murder of Colin Clayton, and it was only Edward Cartwright's intervention and timely calls for help that had saved Colin Clayton's life.
                          
I have never been more nervous than when the jury return from their deliberations.
                          
"Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty of the attempted murder of Colin Clayton?"
                          
"Guilty."
                          
A gasp from my father.
                          
A cry of "No!" from the gallery, and I can't help myself, I look up to see my father with tears on his cheeks.
                          
I smile at the verdict, not because my father has cried, but it is fair. Penance, that's what I crave. Payment will be due for any wrongdoing. I had killed my mother. By the time I hear the judgements, I know I would be strong enough to veto any demands for a retrial and to turn down any requests my father might make to visit me in prison.








                          
AUTHOR'S NOTE

                          
Hey, everybody. Surprised to hear from me?
                          
I may be busy in the next few days, so I thought I'd get this chapter out first.
                          
Please be patient if you don't get my updates.
                          
My boss has been away but tomorrow he's back.
                          
EVERYBODY, SCREAM WITH ME.
                          
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All the best,
                          
Ashleigh