Читать книгу Flawed / Perfect - Cecelia Ahern, Cecelia Ahern - Страница 32

I stand in the corridor, mind reeling.

I am seventeen years old, and though I have fought with my parents about my being more responsible than they give me credit for, I am not ready for this decision. I enter the courtroom, my mind far from clear, my focussed plan now a blur in my mind. I don’t even know what the right thing is any more. Me, who is always so sure. My black and white is now fuzzy and grey.

I scan the room for Art. Even though I know we have just left him in disguise outside, I still remain hopeful he has entered through the public entrance. When I look at the back of the courtroom, I can’t believe what I see. Carrick is standing at the back of the courtroom, his cap on low over his face, arms folded, shoulders up as if he’s a bodyguard watching the door. Our eyes meet, but neither of us reacts. He even stands with the Flawed at the back as though he already is one. I’m beyond moved by his presence, and my eyes fill. I wonder if he has chosen to watch my trial or if they are making him, just as they forced us to listen to that man being branded. And if they are making him, then a lesson is about to be taught in order for him to learn. Either he is supporting me or they want to scare him.

Granddad grins broadly at me and gives me a thumbs-up. Juniper sits beside him, looking tiny and terrified. She gives me a small smile. I’m glad she’s here. My mind is at peace with her being ashamed of me at least.

The trial begins by listening to the first of my character witnesses, Marlena, my friend since I was eight years old. She is nervous, but she is loyal, telling stories of how I have always been mindful of correct behaviour, even when around those who aren’t. I think she sums me up well: logical, loyal, fun, but always staying within the rules. It is the first time in two days that I recognise myself in somebody else’s description of me, and I’m glad of the general description of my being considered boring for a teenager.

“Ms Ponta, is it your belief that Celestine North’s character is Flawed?” Bosco asks.

She looks at me, and there are tears in her eyes, but she speaks firmly, “No, not at all.”

“Thank you, Ms Ponta.”

Dad speaks on behalf of him and Mum. He talks about how he took me to work with him when I was younger, to the TV station, and how I had to be removed from the editing suite because I wanted everything to be perfect and I kept pointing out imperfections and continuity issues. “Celestine is a logical child. She is a mathematician; she scores top marks in her class; she wants to study at the School of Mathematics at Highland City University; and her December results show that she is on course to receive far above the required points. She is a very bright young woman, a pleasure to have as a daughter. She likes things to be in their rightful place; she takes problems and, using theorems, solves them. She follows rules.”

I smile at Dad. This is me.

Judge Sanchez looks at Dad, with her bright red lipstick visible from the moon, and smiles, a sneaky look on her face. “Indeed, Mr North, but I’d like to quote Kaplansky when he talked about mathematics: ‘The most interesting moments are not where something is proved but where a new concept is involved.’ Mathematics takes basic concepts, but these varying applications have led to a number of abstract theories. Is this the kind of mind your daughter has, Mr North? The mind that creates new theories, new concepts, takes risks and goes against the grain?”

Dad thinks about this and looks at me. “No.” He pauses. “I would never have said that Celestine was the type of person to go against the grain. Never.”

I understand what he’s saying. To go against the grain in this circumstance is to go against myself. I have never been the type of person not to do what I believe. He’s telling me to follow my heart.

Judge Sanchez smiles and hears the same thing I heard. “And what about now, Mr North?” she says in her honey, dulcet tones. “Our children have the ability to take us by surprise. They change when we haven’t noticed.”

Dad looks at me and almost views me as if seeing me for the first time. I wonder what on earth he is going to say.

Bosco interrupts, annoyed. “What Judge Sanchez is asking, Mr North, is is it your belief that your daughter Celestine North’s character is Flawed?”

Dad turns back to face him. “No, sir. Under no circumstances is my daughter Flawed,” he says, working hard to keep the anger out of his voice when I know he just wants to jump up and scream and shout and punch whoever is closest.

“Thank you, Mr North.”

Then Margaret and Fiona have their moment of glory. When I hear their testimony, it sounds like they’re talking about somebody else. That’s not me. I was never that brave. But then I also hear a group of clowns speaking completely illogically. What they are saying about the rules of the Flawed and us no longer makes sense to me. They only confirm to me that I was right to do what I did on the bus, if not doing it would mean I was one of them.

Mr Berry’s act is not like a performance, as I thought it would be, like in the movies, bringing on the razzle-dazzle, sashaying around the floor as though he’s dancing. He is perfectly normal and straightforward, and for that he is even more credible. But he is quick, and he is sharp, and he picks up on tones and nuances and pauses quicker than I believe even Juniper would. The women are dubious about him but can’t help liking him. He is charming and interested in them; he is not – yet – calling them liars. He shares with them the theory that Bosco created, that I was trying to protect the people on the bus from the Flawed man.

They mull it over.

The first lady, Margaret, concedes that it’s possible; the second, Fiona, with the crutches, is adamant that it was not so.

“I don’t care what story the defence are trying to push,” Fiona says. “They can’t brainwash me. I know what I saw. That girl –” she points her cane at me – “helped that Flawed man to his seat.”

The public erupts at her accusation, and a few members of the media rush out to make their reports.

Bosco announces that the CCTV in use on the bus at the time of the event, when seized by the Guild, was, unfortunately, deemed ineffective and cannot be considered as proof. I have no doubt this is Bosco managing to twist things in my favour and hold back the proof that could destroy me. Bosco announces that we must take into account it is merely the view of the people on the bus and not something we can witness ourselves. I suppose being able to witness my act themselves would be more damaging to me, at least they can make their own decision on whether to believe the witnesses or not. I’m thankful for his deception.

It occurs to me, as everyone speaks of the old man, that I don’t even know his name. I never asked and it has never been mentioned, like it isn’t important. The case revolves around him, and yet he is brushed aside as though he is nothing. I don’t want to ask Mr Berry. I don’t want it to seem like I’m pitying the man, like I have sympathy for a Flawed. I need Mr Berry to believe in me more than anyone ever has.

As the proceedings finally break for lunch, I quickly turn to my granddad before I’m taken away. “Can you get information to me about the old man?” I whisper in his ear. He nods, face intense, and I know he won’t let me down.

Everyone goes back to their lives after my entertainment, and the reporters continue their reports outside. I’m thankful we can wait in a room near the court so that I don’t have to cross the courtyard again.

I sit with my parents, Juniper and Mr Berry in the waiting room, picking at charcuterie and crackers, feeling sick from the hunger and unable to eat at the same time. I appreciate everybody’s company, but I don’t speak. I am happy to be away from all the noise, away from the unwanted attention, without having to worry about every part of me being analysed: my facial expressions, my reactions, how I sit, how I walk. I can just be.

Tina enters the room and hands me an envelope, and I know it’s from Granddad. He hasn’t let me down. Unaware of who it’s from, Mr Berry and Mum eye it like it’s a grenade, and when I read its contents, I feel like it might as well be.