Machines Like Me

It was almost midnight when we went to the table to eat the meal she had prepared. From next door came the rattle of Adam at the keyboard. He wasn’t making us richer on the currency markets. He was typing up the transcript of Gorringe’s confession, including his self-identification. The transcripts and the video and accompanying narrative would make up a single file that would go to a named senior officer at a police station in Salisbury. A copy would also go to the Director of Public Prosecutions.

‘I’m a coward,’ Miranda said. ‘I’m dreading the trial. I’m frightened.’

I went to the fridge for the bottle and refilled our glasses. I stared into my drink, at the bubbles detaching themselves as though reluctantly from the side of the glass then rising quickly. Once the decision was made, they seemed eager. We had talked about her fears before. If Gorringe was charged and pleaded innocent. To be in court again. To suffer cross-examination, the press, public scrutiny. To confront him again. That was bad, but it wasn’t the worst of it. What terrified and sickened her was the prospect of Mariam’s family in the public gallery. The parents might give evidence for the prosecution. She would be with them as they learned, day by day, the details of their daughter’s rape and of Miranda’s wicked silence. The omertà of a silly teenage girl that cost a life. The family would remember how she had deserted them. As she repeated the story from the witness stand, she would struggle and fail to avoid the gaze of Sana, Yasir, Surayya, Hamid and Farhan.

‘I told Adam I can’t face it. He won’t listen. We had an argument while you were asleep.’

We knew, of course, she would face it. For several minutes we ate in silence. Her head was low over her plate, contemplating what she herself had set in motion. I understood why, for all her dread, she must go ahead and try to undo the errors she had made before and after Mariam’s death. I agreed that Gorringe’s three years were not enough. I admired Miranda’s determination. I loved her for her courage and slow-burning fury. I’d never thought that vomiting could be a moral act.

I changed the subject. ‘Tell me more about Mark.’

She was keen to talk about him. He was much wounded by his mother’s disappearance from his life, kept asking for her, was sometimes withdrawn, sometimes happy. On two occasions, he was taken to see her in the hospital. On the second visit, she didn’t or wouldn’t recognise him. Jasmin, the social worker, thought he’d been smacked frequently. He was in the habit of chewing on his lower lip, to the point of drawing blood. He was a fussy eater, wouldn’t touch vegetables, salad or fruit, but seemed healthy enough on a diet of junk food. Dancing remained a passion. He could pick out tunes on a recorder. He knew his letters and could count, by his own boast, to thirty-five. On shoes, he knew his left from his right. He was not so good around other children and tended to move to the edge of a group. When asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, he would answer, ‘a princess’. He liked dressing up as one with crown and wand, and ‘flitting about’ in an old nightie. He was happy in a borrowed summer frock. Jasmin was relaxed about it, but her immediate superior, an older woman, disapproved.

I remembered then something I had forgotten to tell her. When I crossed the playground, hand in hand with Mark, he’d wanted us to pretend we were running away, in a boat.

She was suddenly tearful. ‘Oh Mark!’ she cried out. ‘You’re such a special beautiful kid.’

After the meal, she stood to go upstairs. ‘I always thought I’d have children one day. I never expected to fall in love with this boy. But we don’t choose who to love, do we?’

Later, while I was clearing up the kitchen, I had a sudden thought. So obvious. And dangerous. I went next door and found Adam closing down the computer.

I sat on the edge of the bed. First I asked him about his conversation with Miranda.

He stood up from my office chair and put on his suit jacket. ‘I was trying to reassure her. She wasn’t persuaded. But the probability is overwhelming. Gorringe will plead guilty. It won’t come to court.’

I was interested.

‘To deny what he did, he’d have to tell a thousand lies under oath and he knows God will be listening. Miranda is His messenger. I’ve noticed in my researches how the guilty long to shed their burden. They seem to enter a state of elated abandonment.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘But look, it’s occurred to me. It’s important. When the police read of everything that happened this afternoon?’

‘Yes?’

‘They’re going to wonder. If Miranda knew that Gorringe raped Mariam, why would she go alone to his bedsit with a bottle of vodka? It would have to be revenge.’

Adam was already nodding before I’d finished. ‘Yes, I’ve thought of that.’