Page 107 of Mad Mabel

“I’ll make sure Persephone is safe when she’s with me,” I say. “I swear it on my life. But I can’t help you, while you are out there at all hours of the night.”

She shrugs. “I’ll be all right. Don’t worry about me.”

“You can’t go on like this,” I tell her.

“What choice do I have? I don’t have another house to go to. I don’t have a security guard. I have to deal with reality.”

“I’m sorry, Roxanne.”

“Don’t be.”

But I am. Not just sorry—useless. Powerless. I hate that more than anything.

I hadn’t realized before that an upside of being alone was that I never had anyone to worry about. No one to protect. But looking at Roxanne, and thinking of that child asleep in my bed with one arm around my waist, I feel the weight of powerlessness like a millstone around my neck.

75

Libby and Adeem’s YouTube documentary about my life is calledMagnificent Mabel. The title was Adeem’s idea, and even Libby admits, it’s genius.

I’m invited to Adeem’s house for a “screening” before they release it. I dress in my good slacks and blouse, but when I arrive and see the red carpet that has been laid down the hallway of Adeem’s apartment, I wish I’d bought a frock.

I’d taken Libby and Adeem up on their offer to bring a “plus-one” and invited Peter. I’d asked Adeem if a “plus-two” would be appropriate so I could extend the invitation to Joan, and while Adeem agreed, Peter said he’d rather just the two of us attend, and assured me that Joan was perfectly happy to sit this one out.

Libby has a plus-one too: her best friend, Sasha, a firecracker who tells me she liked me even back when she thought I was a serial killer, and goes on to tell me about all the people she wants to murder: her boss, the fellow she’s dating, his mother—and that isthis week alone! She asks for tips on how to do it, and I tell her she needs to watch the show and everyone laughs.

Meera made the canapés, which are delicious. She offers to send me home with some—and Peter too—and Peter comments that he’d need to get his slacks adjusted if he eats even one more (then immediately accepts her offer). Then we are ushered to the “screening room,” which is the living room. It has an enormous television that I assume has been hired specially but turns out is just their regular television. Young people these days.

Meera gives us each some popcorn in a red and white striped bag and Adeem lowers the lights. Peter and I sit on the couch with Libby and Sasha. Adeem and Meera sit on beanbags on the floor.

It starts with a monologue from Libby.

“In 1959, at just fifteen years of age, Mabel Waller became the youngest Australian in history to be convicted of murder. The media interest around the case was enormous, due to the aggressive nature of the crime. Rumors abounded that this was not Mad Mabel’s first murder, and this has remained the topic of debate for decades. She is known around the world as Mad Mabel. But is she mad? More importantly, is she guilty?

“In a world first, at the age of eighty-one, Mabel Waller is speaking.”

It cuts to Adeem. “It is our privilege to tell this story. It’s a story you’ll be familiar with. One you’ve probably heard countless times, from countless people. But never from the one person at the center of it. The only person who knows the truth. A person you’ve come to know as Mad Mabel. But was the child at the center of this story really mad? Or was she sad? Sad that she lost her sister, her mother, and was socially ostracized at the behest of her father? This isn’t the story of a murderer. It’s a story of a child who was failed not onlyby her father, but by all of us. Mabel Waller is her name. This is her story.”

A photo of Rosehill, and then of me, as a child, appears on screen. Then it morphs to me at eighty-one. I’ll admit, it’s quite a shock, on the giant screen.

Then I start talking.

“It’s interesting to note that there are two groups of people who are rarely, if ever, suspected of murder. These groups are elderly women and little girls.

“On the whole, when it comes to murder, the stats very much favor the men. The odd woman is thrown into the mix every now and again, but she’s inevitably perimenopausal—and having been through the change myself, I certainly understand why. But an elderly woman or little girl committing murder? It’s one in a million.

“I’ve always liked to think I was special.”

And so it goes on.

Peter’s instinct was right, to keep the event intimate. I’m grateful for the small group, and for the low lighting, a thin shield of protection for my emotions as I hear my story back. But Peter still notices me weeping, because he reaches for my hand in the darkness. Neither of us lets go.

A day after the first episode is “released” on YouTube, Libby calls to tell me it has 1.5 million views. I ask for context and she tells me that the top-selling newspaper in Australia sells fewer than a million copies per week.

“Right,” I say. “Well. That’s… not bad then.”

A week after that, it has 7.5 million views.

And it continues to grow week after week.