“You don’t look particularly happy about it. I hope I’m not dying.” She winced as she spoke at the sound of her false cheerfulness.
Mora Piozzi didn’t smile. She was studying the screen in front of her, swiping through pages. Then she looked up.
“I’m not particularly happy,” she said.
Tabitha felt a lurch in her stomach.
“Do you remember I said you should tell me of anything relevant—anything I’d rather hear from you than from the prosecution?”
“Did you say that?”
“You didn’t tell me about your history of depression.”
“It’s not really a history.”
“You were hospitalized in 2010 and then again in 2013.”
“It was more of a clinic.”
“You were sectioned.”
“Only the once. The second time was voluntary. And it wasn’t for long. I was going through a bad patch.”
“Tabitha, I’m not judging you, but don’t you see that this is relevant information?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t even think of it.”
Mora Piozzi looked down at the screen again. “Over the years, you’ve been prescribed a variety of medications: Citalopram. Paroxetine. Most recently—in fact until ten days before the murder—Zoloft and amitriptyline.”
“I didn’t get on with them, though.”
“Which is also relevant. And you’ve had therapy.”
“That was a waste of time.”
“Did you think all this wouldn’t come up, Tabitha?”
“Why should it?” Tabitha bunched her fists up and leaned forward. “Why the fuck should it? When I was younger, I had a hard time and I dropped out of uni. That’s not a crime, just a wasted opportunity. I’ve had drugs and therapy to help me cope. That’s not a crime. I don’t like people knowing about it because then they put a label on me and I hate that. I know what I have to do to deal with it. I make myself get up. I walk. I swim in the sea. I eat healthy food. I do practical things, like fixing my house. I put one foot in front of the other. I have my bad days, sure, but I’m doing all right. I was doing all right.”
Mora Piozzi briefly put a hand on Tabitha’s bunched fist.
“I am sure you were and in normal circumstances, of course, you can keep it all private. But these are not normal circumstances. You’ve been charged with murder. Your whole life will be scrutinized. The fact that you have been seriously depressed is relevant. The fact that you have been on a regime of strong anti-depressants, some of which are associated with memory loss, is relevant.”
Tabitha’s mouth felt dry and her head hurt slightly. The lights in the room were too bright; it was like being in a laboratory.
“Dr. Hartson says you were resistant to his questions.”
“I answered everything he asked,” said Tabitha. “What did he want me to do? Break down and weep? Tell him all my troubles so he could be the good doctor? Where would that get me?”
Mora Piozzi was looking at her as if she was a problem to be solved. “Was that day one of your bad days?”
“It wasn’t great.” Not great at all, she thought: a day that had been heavy and colorless and grim.
“And you say you can’t remember much of it.”
“It’s a bit of a fog. But I’d remember killing someone.” Tabitha laughed harshly. “That’s not something I’d ever forget.”
Piozzi didn’t smile back. She started to write and then stopped.
“You believe that I’m here to do everything I possibly can for you?” she said. “Don’t you?”
“I have to. It’s not like I’ve got many other people on my side.”
“You’ve got to trust me,” Piozzi continued. “But I also have to trust you. I need to know the problems, the weaknesses. I need to hear them from you, not from the police, not from the prosecution. You have to be straight with me.”
“Just ask me anything,” said Tabitha, “and I’ll answer it.”
“That’s not enough. You need to tell me the things I wouldn’t even think of asking about.”
“I’ve told you everything, everything I can think of.”
Piozzi put her pen down.
“Good,” she said, very softly.
Eleven
“There’s a visitor for you,” said the warden.
Tabitha looked up from where she was lying on her bunk.
“Who?”
“How should I know?”
Tabitha got up and quickly walked past the warden and along the corridor. She would have liked time to prepare mentally for a visitor, collect her thoughts, think of questions. She would have liked time to prepare physically. She hadn’t looked in the mirror but she suspected that her hair was disheveled and greasy. She probably didn’t smell too good either. She hadn’t showered today, just a quick wash under the arms. But it was too late. The important thing was to get there on time.
She was so used to the noises of the prison—the clanging of doors and footsteps, the shouting—that it took her a moment to notice a scuffle taking place across to one side. The old woman with the papers was being jostled by two young women. Some of the papers had fallen to the floor.
Tabitha continued walking. She remembered the advice she had been given. To get through this just keep your head down, don’t get involved, don’t make trouble. Besides, she was in a hurry, someone was waiting for her. Anything she would do would only make things worse.
She stopped. She muttered to herself angrily. She felt a familiar sensation, as if something were tearing apart in her head. A wave of anger was curling and cresting inside her. Don’t, she told herself. Just don’t. She knew she would.
She turned back. The old woman was on her knees, trying to collect her papers, but more kept falling.
“Excuse me,” said Tabitha. “You never told me your name.”
The old woman looked up. “Vera,” she said.
The two younger women looked round. One of them had tattooed tears down one cheek. The other had hair that was shaved, leaving a ribbed pattern across her head.
“Fuck off out of it,” said the tattooed woman.
“Leave her alone,” said Tabitha.
The shaved woman pushed
