The Kindest Thing

Chapter Twenty-three

The wind is fierce tonight. You could mistake it for a jet engine. It sweeps the clouds across the dark sky. It shakes the limbs of the lime tree and snatches at doors and windows. Anything unanchored is hurled up and down the avenues.

They say the prison houses are haunted, ghosts of women who’ve died there, and the orphans before them. I am not afraid of ghosts. I am afraid of just about everything else. All day long my stomach is cramped with dread. I am afraid of the jury, of the power they hold, of remembering Neil’s dying seizure. I am afraid of losing Sophie for good. I am afraid of being summoned to the office to hear that Adam has joined his father and grandfather. I am afraid of staying here: of going mad, of locking myself in and copying the other lost souls, with a lighter to my bedding or a knife to the long blue vein that pulses through my forearm. Of diving down into the cold, dark embrace of the river Styx, feeling the silt and the water fill my lungs.

I must have slept because I wake at six, my head feeling fuzzy and my skin chilled, covered with goose-bumps. I get ready quietly; the other women still have an hour before roll call. I cannot face any breakfast but drink a little milk. Even that turns to curds in my mouth. The prison officer takes me over to the gatehouse. I am strip-searched again.

It is only just light as the van arrives at Minshull Street. Ms Gleason comes in to see me in the court cell. She has coffee in one of those enormous polystyrene beakers, which she leaves with the guard. Enough caffeine to strip half your stomach lining.

When she asks me how I am, I shake my head. She places her hand on my shoulder. The touch is such a comfort.

That’s something I crave: physical intimacy. Not the sex, though if Neil were raised from the dead I wouldn’t think twice. No, it’s the everyday contact, the hugs and pats, kisses and strokes, the handshakes. They shrank when Neil died and disappeared almost completely when they locked me up.

In the closing rounds, Briony Webber gets to go first.

‘Members of the jury, British law does not permit us to assist in the taking of life, no matter what the individual circumstances. So-called mercy killing is illegal under our law. It is murder. That is why Deborah Shelley lied so brazenly: to her children, to the ambulance crew, to the police, to Neil’s GP. She lied before the murder and after. She is lying to you now. Don’t be fooled. She knew that what she was doing was wrong. She knew it was murder. Ask yourselves this…’ She pauses and I swallow. My view wavers, the light dims, the jurors on their benches swim closer, then retreat.

‘Why did Ms Shelley change her story? She changed it because she got caught. Because the police evidence, the forensic evidence, demonstrated beyond any doubt that Neil Draper died an unnatural death. Since that point everything Deborah Shelley has said has been with one end in mind – that she get away scot free. That she get away with murder.’

She swings around and her black robe billows out, then she strides over to her table and examines her papers. But not for long.

‘My learned friend is arguing that Ms Shelley lost use of her reason under pressure of the strain of her husband’s illness and conceded to his wishes. I ask you to consider this: there were ten weeks between her agreeing to his request and carrying it out. Ten weeks during which time she competently set about preparing for the event, gathering information, stock-piling morphine, practising her lies. You have heard Ms Shelley’s account of the terrible events of June the fifteenth. But consider this: Neil Draper was still alive when Deborah Shelley pulled a plastic bag over his head and held it tight, hell bent on finishing what she had started. If she really was as distressed and ill as the defence claims, wouldn’t you expect her at that point, with her husband unconscious, when she tells us she was panicking, to collapse in defeat? To cry for help? No. Not only did she hold the bag over Neil’s head while he fought to breathe but she then hid everything – the bag, the evidence of the drugs – and set about creating a sham, a charade for the whole world.’

Mute and mutinous, I listen to her singing my sins, feel the breath stutter in and out of my windpipe, the beat of blood in my ears.

‘Deborah Shelley is an intelligent woman, a university graduate, a businesswoman. She knew how to seek help, she was articulate, financially secure, she knew the law, she knew…’ Miss Webber turns and stares at me, nodding, calling me a liar. I will not bow my head. ‘… yet she chose to go along with her husband’s wishes. Her intentions may have been honourable but her actions were not. What she did may have been out of loyalty but her motive was sadly mistaken. She murdered her husband. Neil Draper’s mother wants justice for her son. Neil Draper’s daughter, who has spoken so bravely here in court, needs to know that you will recognize her courage and heed the truth.

‘The victim is not here. He cannot speak and tell us what transpired. If he were I have no doubt that he would tell you he begged his wife to help end his life. No one disputes that. What is in dispute is whether Deborah Shelley knew what she was doing. Do not be fooled by her lies. She has shown she can be fluent in her explanations, but no matter how smoothly she tells it, her account is a fabric of falsehoods and deceit. I believe there can be only one verdict returned on the basis of the evidence you have heard. And that is guilty, guilty of murder.’

Miss Webber returns slowly to her seat and the room is still.

Mr Latimer takes a sip of water and gets to his feet. When he speaks his voice is soft, just audible and he sounds regretful.

‘When Neil Draper asked his wife to help him die, she refused. He asked her again months afterwards and a second time she said no. But in April last year, when he asked her a third time, Deborah had become seriously ill. Her life was unravelling. The depression that had numbed her in the months after her mother’s death returned with a vengeance. She had no faith in anti-depressants. She didn’t believe anyone could help. Deborah was unable to sleep, her son Adam was a constant worry, known to be suffering from cannabis-induced psychosis. Deborah herself was having paralysing panic attacks. She could no longer hold everything together. The child of two depressives, one of whom took his own life while she was still small, Deborah had fought hard to cope. It’s what women do, as mothers, wives, workers. They soldier on, they cope with crises, and they clear up the messes.’

It’s a lovely, generous speech, and the jury are captivated.

‘But Deborah could no longer manage. Her savage attack on her neighbour is testament to how disturbed she was becoming. W-w-weakened and terrified of what lay ahead, Deborah was unable to resist her husband any more. You have heard her say that she thought it might not happen even as she hoarded the drugs, that it might not happen even as she planned what to say if anyone grew suspicious, that it might not happen even as she poured Neil his last glass of wine. Her grasp on reality was loosening. Like a child who will hide behind his hands and imagine he can’t be seen.’ He dips his head for emphasis; the scrappy wool gives a little shiver, like a stiffened, shrunken lamb’s tail.

‘When Deborah gave Neil those doses of morphine, when she then suffocated him, it was because she was literally out of her mind. She could no longer tell right from wrong. She loved him and wanted to help him but she knew that by helping him she would be committing murder. The fear of what would happen added to her mental collapse.’

I hold myself tight, bound up, hands grasping each other, mouth rigid, frightened of flying apart, of unravelling before them.

‘Deborah Shelley was sick. She could no longer be held responsible for her actions. She acted while she was unfit to judge. Now you must judge her. The burden of proof is on the prosecution, which means that they must prove to you beyond all reasonable doubt that Deborah Shelley murdered her husband, fully aware of what she was doing. Ask yourselves: are you one hundred per cent certain that this was the case? One hundred per cent,’ he says again. ‘When she lay beside her husband on that early summer day, when she told him she loved him, was she fully aware of what she was doing? In the midst of the horrendous pressure she had been under, was she still completely responsible for her actions? If you have any doubts you must find Deborah not guilty of murder. Deborah Shelley was not flouting the law, she is not an advocate of mercy killing. She is a woman who, in the height of her sickness, got swept along by her dying husband’s pleas. She did wrong and has admitted it. All we ask now is that you bring your intelligence, your common sense and your humanity to consider the evidence. And find Deborah Shelley innocent of the charge of murder.’

The judge has the last word. He must interpret the law to the jury.

‘This has been a very sad case: a terminal illness, a life cut short, children left fatherless. But now you have one task ahead. That task is simple yet arduous. On the evidence you have heard, and only on that, you must judge whether Deborah Shelley was mentally responsible for her actions, whether or not the balance of her mind was disturbed on the fifteenth of June 2009 when she helped her husband die. If you find the evidence shows that she was of sound mind, then the verdict must be guilty of murder. If, however, you believe the balance of her mind was disturbed to such an extent that it diminished her responsibility then you must find the defendant not guilty of murder but guilty of manslaughter due to diminished responsibility.

‘You have heard experts give opposing views of Ms Shelley’s state of mind. This court now entrusts you with the duty of considering all the evidence and deciding who to believe. And I must remind you that if there is any doubt in your minds then you must find her not guilty of murder. Thank you.’

There is no knowing how long they will take. The hours drip by as I sit in the court cell but I would stop time. Because when they call me again my fate will be sealed.

Neil is with me now, his long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, his black hair tangled. He is reading. He looks up when he feels my eyes upon him and his own green eyes meet my gaze. They are merry and mischievous. He sets his book down, his movements fluid, and reaches over, cups his hand around the back of my neck.

‘Deborah.’ Three syllables savoured.

He bends to kiss me. His lips are smooth and warm, his tongue gentle, and I kiss him back, soft at first then harder.

We are floating, a long way from the shore. The water is balmy. I can taste the salt and smell the brine on the warm breath of the wind.

We swim on together; we will always be together. The sun is high. It glances off the water, fracturing into a million diamonds.

Neil holds my hand, palm to palm, his slim fingers entwined with mine.

Deborah.

Three syllables.

They call me back.

The jury have their verdict.

My jaw is rigid, my guts churning, my ears buzzing as I enter the dock. My breath is erratic and I’m aware that people can hear the stutter of it and see me fight to control my facial muscles, my movements spastic. I am so cold. I think my teeth must shatter, my skin harden and crack.

I want to be strong, for Adam, for Sophie and Jane, but it is beyond me.

They have chosen PA as the forewoman. I am surprised: she seems so young, with her neat ponytail and her tidy clothes. Is she a teacher, has she demonstrated some sort of leadership that influenced them to pick her? She’s shown little emotion during the trial – I’ve had no sense of empathy from her.

‘Have you reached a verdict?’the court clerk asks her.

‘Yes, we have.’

‘Is that a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’

‘Yes.’

‘On the charge of murder how do you find the defendant? Guilty or not guilty?’

I cannot hear, the buzzing in my head swells, I gulp to try and clear my ears. Dizziness spins me round, bubbles in my blood. I am choking.

I see Adam leap to his feet, and Jane. Sophie blanches, clutching at Veronica, who falls forward a little as though someone has punctured her, and Michael’s hand sweeps his face but his expression is relief, I think, not dismay.

Paralysed, petrified, I watch these motions, unable to translate. Sound is muted, stretched. I am very far away, shrinking, disappearing.

Then I catch the words. ‘Not guilty.’

Tears spill down my face and I gasp and cry out, a great howl of release.

There’s a pause and people sit again. I am huffing and puffing, the handkerchief that I’ve used already a wet ball.

‘And on the charge of manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility, how do you find the defendant, guilty or not guilty?’

‘Guilty.’

The judge thanks the jury for their service. Hilda and Flo look pleased with themselves. Dolly is crying and the Prof puffs out his cheeks and messes with his glasses.

Ms Gleason’s eyes are shining and she is beaming at me.

Someone at the side, a reporter I think, dashes out. I will be on the teatime news.

In Styal, Prison Officer Clarkson is in the house office. She asks me how I’ve got on, and congratulates me on the verdict. I am drained, punch-drunk with relief. Upstairs is quiet. The shower is empty, still steamy from the last occupant. I stand under the jets and savour the warm spray on my eyelids and lips, turn and let it pour through my hair, drumming on my shoulders and down my spine. Sluicing away the grit and grime and sweat of the long day.

I put on my pyjamas and dressing-gown, go to get a cup of tea.

The women from my house are crowded into the kitchen. They let out a cheer when I come in.

‘We made you a cake,’ says Patsy.

They’re nudging each other and grinning, banter slipping back and forth. On the table is a glistening chocolate cake. I can’t speak.

‘Put the kettle on,’ someone yells, ‘she’s gasping. Aren’t yer, Mercy?’

I smile and nod, then sit at the table while mugs of tea are made and the cake carefully divided.

‘Did yer faint?’ Patsy asks. ‘I got a not guilty time before last, nearly keeled over.’

I lick the sweet, dark crumbs from my fingertips. ‘Nearly,’ I admit.

I will be back to Minshull Street for sentencing in two weeks’ time. The women speculate as to how long I will get. Estimates range from a suspended sentence to five years. But it is much more likely to be the former, as I was not responsible for my actions. And I will be free.

They swap war stories, verdicts and surprises, reversals of fortune. Their voices blur and swell, salted with laughter. I let it all wash around me. I feel a rush of love for these women with their chaotic, fractured lives, the grim burdens they bear and their sparky, bloody-minded, frail resilience.

It is almost seven thirty and PO Clarkson comes to remind us she needs to lock up soon.

Patsy and I clear the plates as the others drift away with words of congratulation and jokes; the atmosphere in the house is warm with good humour.

‘So the jury believed yer?’ Patsy says quietly. ‘That you were off yer head when you did it?’

‘Yes.’

‘But yer weren’t really, were yer?’

I freeze, my hand on the cupboard door. A prickle of fear needles through me. Will she tell? Could they try me again? My mind soars back to that summer afternoon. I look her in the eyes and I trust her.

‘No, I wasn’t.’ I was in a hard place.

She wipes the sink. ‘You were just being kind, really. Anyone’d do the same, if they really loved someone. It shouldn’t be counted like murder.’

She is right.

I leave my curtains open and watch the tree. A pitch silhouette against the luminous sky. The moon is almost full and hangs fat and low, blue-white like milk. I long to be home, to be gone from here. Home, where I will roam the house and garden, drink in the sight and smell of my son, begin to find a way to bring my fine fierce daughter home.

I peel back the sheet and mattress cover. Take a black felt pen. Add my own mark: Deborah Shelley and Neil Draper. Our names will always be linked. Not just in private but in the public domain: on search engines and in legal casebooks, in people’s memories. The dying man and the wife acquitted of his murder, her reason lost. The ill-starred lovers.

But I am not going to climb on any more pyres for you, Neil, not hurl myself from a tower or slip my neck in a noose. What you have put me through has been more than enough for a lifetime. You will have to wait for me. I will rewrite our ending. We will be Baucis and Philemon, beloved wife and husband, who give shelter, food and wine to the incognito Zeus when others shun him. Rewarded, we are led from disaster and granted a wish – to stay together for the rest of our lives, to die together. And then we become two trees, an oak and a lime, side by side, our roots tangled in the earth, our branches intertwined, our leaves kissing in the wind. For ever.