Cuckoo (aka Claire, Darling)

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Six

Emilia Waterson

‘Next to the stand the prosecution calls forward Emilia Waterson,’ Dodgson announces.

I watch as a slightly built elderly woman with dyed red hair permed into ringlets steps up to the witness stand, holding on to the handrail and giving a nervous nod of her head to the judge. She avoids looking in my direction and exhales heavily as she sits down. She looks harmless, a little old lady, the sort I’d probably stop and offer my arm to if she was trying to cross a road.

‘Can you tell the jury your relationship to the victim, please?’

‘I’m her neighbour,’ Emilia replies. ‘I’ve lived in the house opposite Lilah for years, been there since the day she moved in. Lovely girl,’ she adds with a sorrowful shake of her head.

Lovely enough to steal my fiancé. Still, I shouldn’t think ill of the dead.

‘And where were you on the day of her death?’ Dodgson asks.

‘I was at home, gardening. Perfect weather for it, you know. I was sorting out the pebbles around my path and weeding the flower beds by the windowsill… Dratted weeds pop up there every year.’

This triggers a vague recollection of a flourish of red hair tucked between the bushes across the road when I approached number 48 to speak to Lilah.

‘Had you ever seen the defendant before that day? Did you recognise her at all?’

‘Well, to be honest, that day I didn’t recognise her, no. She’s not very memorable,’ adds Emilia, unnecessarily. ‘But then when all of this was on the news, I realised that I had seen her before! So I told my son when he was visiting and he helped me to check my archived doorbell camera footage to be sure, because my eyesight and memory aren’t quite what they used to be, and sure enough, there she was! She had come round a few days before the incident, but late at night. I have footage of this lady,’ she points a shaky, gnarled finger at me, ‘sneaking past my front door on the driveway and then standing behind a tree for a bit. Then she leaves the frame.’

‘You say sneaking. Why is that?’ Dodgson asks. To my horror, the doorbell footage is now playing for everyone to see. To be honest, I look sneaky. I’m twitchy and glancing behind myself frequently. I resist the urge to bury my head in my hands.

‘I assume she was trying to use the tree in front of my home to keep her out of sight?’

‘Objection! Speculation.’ Grosvenor stands up to intervene.

The judge nods at her and she sits back down. I dare a glance at the jury but their expressions seem confused, as though they can’t work out what to think. A few of them are writing notes. I catch the eye of one man and quickly look away before I can register his expression.

‘Thank you, Mrs Waterson, this goes towards showing the attack on Miss Andersson was premeditated– that the defendant had been in the area, watching the victim’s house, at least once ahead of the attack, and quite possibly on other occasions that were not caught on camera.’ Dodgson walks back to his table, chest puffed out, conscious this is damning evidence. His skin looks grey under the strip lighting.

Grosvenor stands slowly and walks around the desk, her footsteps echoing in the silent courtroom.

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,’ she says loudly, and I flinch. Grosvenor then turns to Emilia, giving the old lady a little nod before facing the jury again. ‘I remind you that the heart of this case is whether or not, on the morning that she visited Lilah Andersson in her home, my client intended to cause her serious harm, as required to prove a charge of murder.’

Members of the jury eye each other sidelong and I hear murmured comments.

‘Order!’ the judge calls again.

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, please concentrate on the events of Saturday the twentieth of September 2025. What did you see on the day of the victim’s death ?’ Grosvenor asks the witness.

‘I saw this woman knocking on Lilah’s front door,’ Emilia answers.

I resist the urge to shrink back and instead remain totally still, trying to keep my face blank. She’s not a sweet old granny after all.

‘And how was Miss Arundale behaving when you observed her arrival?’ Grosvenor presses.

Emilia shrugs. ‘Like any other visitor.’

‘Nothing to cause alarm? You didn’t think she was sneaking , to use your own word?’

‘No,’ Emilia concedes.

‘You said she was knocking on the victim’s door? So not banging loudly or bringing undue attention to herself?’

‘No, it was just a normal knock. She was not raising her voice. I couldn’t hear what was being said between the two of them once Lilah answered the door. I only remember that the interaction between them seemed strained. Lilah looked like she didn’t want to let her visitor in, she wouldn’t open the door fully. I assumed this was one of those door-to-door canvassers, you know, collecting money for charity or asking the occupant to fill out a questionnaire or something. They can be a real nuisance.’

‘So my client didn’t appear aggressive, over-emotional or otherwise out of control before she entered the house?’

‘No.’

‘And it was in fact Lilah Andersson who was behaving strangely?’

‘To me, who knew nothing about the situation, yes. Lilah’s behaviour seemed nervous and Miss Arundale was calm in her delivery when she spoke.’

‘But you didn’t hear what was being said?’

‘No, my house is across the street and I was weeding behind some shrubs.

‘And the time Miss Arundale visited before this, where you suggest she was “sneaking”, is it possible that she was in fact there to see Noah Coors, not Lilah Andersson, and was taking precautions so as not to be seen by his other girlfriend?’ Grosvenor pushes.

‘Well… well, yes, that’s definitely possible. I don’t know that she was watching Lilah specifically,’ Emilia admits, the reply sounding weak.

‘No further questions from me. This highlights the fact that there was no visible anger or emotion apparent in my client’s behaviour on the day of her encounter with Lilah Andersson immediately preceding Miss Andersson’s death. It also dispels the idea that she was stalking the dead woman. None of this proves any element of premeditation. Thank you, Miss Waterson,’ Grosvenor tells her.

I watch Emilia shuffle away from the witness stand and wonder how much of a help her reluctant observations will be towards convincing the jury that I did not go to Lilah’s house with the intention of harming her.

After this evidence, the judge calls for proceedings to end early.

I am ushered back into one of the small, beige consultation rooms behind the courtroom by my assigned security. Grosvenor and her junior are waiting for me and she is pacing up and down excitedly.

‘An early finish! It’s a good sign. We’re rattling Dodgson, debunking his argument that you were angry and emotional when you arrived at the house. He’s going to spend the rest of today looking for another angle to pursue,’ Grosvenor tells me enthusiastically. It’s the first time I’ve seen her look so alive, brown eyes shining and her thin mouth curved up in a Cheshire Cat grin.

‘What do you think he’s going to try and say tomorrow?’ I ask warily.

‘Whatever it is, we’ll have rebuttals,’ she tells me confidently, pouring herself a cup of water from the dispenser in the corner. She takes a long sip before leaning over her documents. ‘Let’s get to work, team.’

‘My mother is coming,’ I said smugly to the little girl standing next to me. Our teacher was busy securing my ridiculous lion headdress. ‘She can’t wait to see me because I’m the lion,’ I added, as though it wasn’t obvious.

The girl nodded but I was sure she couldn’t possibly understand. After all, she was just a chorus deer. I was the lion, with lines to say and everything.

I was nine and it was the school play: a strange story written by our drama teacher, set in a jungle where a pride of lions decides to become vegetarian and live in harmony with their neighbours, the dancing deer. In hindsight, it was a way for her to push her own vegan agenda, but at age nine, invited to take one of the most coveted parts, I didn’t care. All I cared about was that Mother had promised to be there and had spent a surprisingly undramatic afternoon helping me make my costume. I couldn’t wait for her to see me up on that stage, performing, being successful. She might even be proud of me.

So the lights went down and I waited nervously backstage, hopping from foot to foot and fiddling with my fake paws.

The zebra had gone out and introduced the play and I waited until it was my first moment onstage. I marched out proudly, swinging my butt a little to give my tail some impetus. I tried to look out into the audience but the spotlights were blinding and the audience one dark mass of unrecognisable silhouettes. I decided to ignore it. Mother was out there, I knew she was. So I carried on regardless, and gave it my all. I roared and I sang and I leapt and I laughed, and the audience clapped and I imagined her clapping along, perhaps nudging the couple next to her and saying proudly, ‘That lion there, that’s my daughter!’

But at the very end when the house lights came up and we were on our final song– in which we interacted with the audience, running down the aisles and throwing confetti on everyone– I saw a couple of newcomers stumble through the doors at the back and my heart sank. I heard a shrill giggle and knew for sure it was Mother. A few of the other parents turned and shot disapproving frowns in her direction. She deflected them by exaggeratedly shushing her companion, a man I had not seen before. I stood onstage blinking, unsure what to do. She didn’t even notice me, staggering along a row to protests from the other parents as she tried to find two vacant seats.

When the song was over, everyone rushed out to meet their parents, praise and laughter filling the air. I sat at the back of the hall behind the costume rails, my arms folded, not wanting to see her. She had missed the entire performance.

Eventually, she came looking for me. She reeked of alcohol and cigarettes, and was stumbling a little in heels that were higher than any the other mums had been wearing. Her date stood back a little awkwardly, nodding to me.

‘Darling!’ she called musically, loud enough for the parents nearby to turn and look. ‘Oh, Claire, darling, you were just wonderful! What a fantastic little cougar you were!’ She laughed a little too loudly, teeth bared as she did so.

‘Good job, kid,’ her date added.

‘I was a lion,’ I corrected her quietly, but she hadn’t heard me. She hadn’t seen me at all. All this praise was not for my benefit. I had trusted her when she’d promised to come, trusted that she would be there to support me. But instead she had gone on a date, got drunk, and forgotten all about me until it was too late.

I decided that day that I wouldn’t trust her again. If you don’t trust people, they can’t let you down.

Now I study Grosvenor’s determined expression and feel a flicker of fear in my belly. I’m having to trust her, this random woman whose only loyalty to me comes from her pay check, to prove I did not murder Lilah.