Flawed / Perfect. Cecelia Ahern

is still no sign of Art, though thinking he could be outside, in disguise, is better than nothing.

      “We know the story of what happened on the bus,” Judge Sanchez says, beginning it all. “We’ve heard it repeated time and time again in this court over the past two days, and we could spend another two days listening to the testimonies of the other thirty people on the bus who witnessed the same thing. Your representative, Mr Berry, has kindly told us that you have waived that and accepted what they saw, and the court appreciates your understanding and respect of our time, so we will not ask you to tell us again what happened. We also understand that the only difference between your story and theirs is that they say you were helping the old man, and you say you were trying to get rid of him. And where the majority saw you as helping the man to his seat, you say he sat himself? Is this true?”

      I take a deep breath.

      Suddenly there is an outbreak of noise and protest within the courtroom. Four people, two women and two men, are standing and shouting, punching their fists in the air, pointing their fingers at me. They shout a single word.

      “Liar.”

      They shout it over and over again.

      “Liar. Liar. Liar.”

      “Order.” Bosco bangs the gavel. “Order.”

      “If you do not silence yourselves, you will be removed from the court,” Judge Sanchez says, raising her voice.

      Three of them stop shouting and sit, but one woman continues. “Our dad did nothing wrong! Our dad followed all the rules! You are a liar, Celestine North! You should be ashamed; you should be disgusted with yourself!”

      The guards make their way over to her; and as soon as they lay their hands on her, the other three jump up to defend her, their sister. I’m so close to calling out I’m so sorry to Clayton Byrne’s children, but my mouth goes dry and my heart beats manically.

      “It is not right what you are doing,” one son shouts, glaring at me.

      “You will be reminded to stay quiet,” Judge Sanchez says. “If you have one more outburst, you will be removed from the court.”

      The four of them go silent and sit down. One daughter starts crying and is comforted by the other.

      My heart starts to palpitate; my breathing is irregular. All eyes are on me, judging me, thinking these things of me. All this to prove that I am not Flawed, and by doing so I feel less than perfect. It feels wrong.

      “Okay, Celestine?” Mr Berry watches me intently.

      My eyes dart around the room as I tally the people I am letting down: Granddad; Juniper; Dad; even Carrick at the back, who must know by now I’m lying; and the woman with the pixie cut who nodded at me with respect both days. Art, who is waiting for me somewhere outside, who told me to do exactly what Mr Berry said. Myself. The people I will actually let down if I admit to being Flawed is far fewer.

      “Can my client have a drink of water?” Mr Berry asks.

      My mind races as I see him pouring a glass of water and bringing it to me. I take a sip, my mind still racing, and suddenly I notice that Mr Berry is trying to get my attention. The judges are talking to me and I haven’t been listening.

      “I’m sorry, pardon?” I ask, coming back into the room.

      “I said, what possessed you, Celestine? It’s a simple question, isn’t it?” Judge Sanchez is looking at me over the rim of her red-framed glasses, which match her lipstick.

      It is the question my mum asked, that countless others asked. What possessed me? I never had an answer for them, but now I do. It’s not the answer I rehearsed with Mr Berry, but they are the only words my mouth will allow me to say.

      “He reminded me of my granddad,” I say, and it’s as though there is no air in the room. Not a sound. I see Carrick stand more alert. I can now see his eyes, which were hidden beneath the cap. He’s looking right at me. Something about having his eyes on me makes me feel stronger.

      “The old man, his name is Clayton Byrne,” I say closely into the microphone, the first time his name has been said. “When Clayton got on the bus, I thought he was my granddad.” I think about how I felt then as he started coughing. “He was coughing, and I thought he was going to die. I didn’t care if he was Flawed; I just saw a person, a human being, who reminded me of my granddad, who no one was helping. So to answer your question, as to what possessed me … the answer is, compassion. And logic. He didn’t take a seat, I helped him into it. At the time,” I address everybody now, willing them to understand, “it felt like the perfectly right thing to do.”

      Outrage. Mania. Noise. Bang, bang of the gavel.

      

      I look around the courtroom and see madness. The media are in a scuffle to get out the door to make their exclusive reports; members of the public are standing and throwing their arms at me in disgust. Those who supported me are feeling betrayed. I see my friend Marlena bury her face in her hands. She vouched for me, and I didn’t back her up. The Flawed in the back row appear genuinely moved, some angry that I took it this far in the first place, that I even allowed a day to go by with Clayton Byrne’s name being tainted. My mum is in tears and is being comforted by Dad, who has her head on his chest and is rocking back and forth at the same time as wrapping his arm around Juniper, who is staring at the ground in shock.

      In the midst of all the madness, Granddad stands and claps with a proud smile on his face. I focus on that look, on that face, while inside my mind and body try to deal with what I have done.

      The judges are banging their gavels, fighting to be heard over the public, fighting to be heard above one another.

      The Flawed are emotional, as though it’s a win for them. They embrace one another, careful not to gather together in more than twos. The old man’s children fall into a huddle, weeping and rejoicing at their father’s cleared name. I don’t expect them to show any gratitude for something that should have been said from the beginning.

      I see Carrick in the back row. His hat is off and his chin is high. He’s standing still and solid in all the mania around us, nodding at me in support, his eyes on mine, not moving. I focus on him. For once not judging me, for the first time not laughing at me. I didn’t realise it was his respect that I wanted so much, but I know now that it was, that without our ever speaking I knew his thoughts about me and I agreed with him. I know this because, despite the terror that’s inside me over what is about to come, I am satisfied.

      I focus on Carrick, even as Tina and Bark come to take me away. I watch him, still, strong and silent, like the rock he was named for.

      

      Tina and Bark take me out of court and lead me back into the waiting room where I had lunch not long before. My head is still spinning from what has just happened. It’s all a blur already, and I need someone to help bring it all back to me, to remind me of what has happened. What did I say?

      I notice Tina’s grip on my arm is tighter than usual, and so is her face.

      “Tina?” I hear the terror in my voice. Gone is my earlier certainty and bravado, if that’s what it is called. I’ve learned that to be courageous is to feel fear within, every step of the way. Courage does not take over; it fights and struggles through every word you say and every step you take. It’s a battle or a dance as to whether to let it pervade. It takes courage to overcome, but it takes extreme fear to be courageous.

      Tina