The Kindest Thing

Chapter Nine

The judge suggests we break for lunch and the jury file out. Mr Latimer comes over. ‘Everything all right?’

I nod, a little dazed. The tension in my body is suddenly evident to me, running the length of my limbs, coiled round my spine.

‘Good.’ He smiles.

I wonder why he doesn’t invest in a new wig – or is the tatty relic some sort of statement? The legal equivalent of a Hell’s Angel’s dirty denims.

The guard escorts me downstairs and, after using the facilities, I sit in my cell. This is a windowless box with whitewashed walls and a bench seat across the narrow rear wall. Hundreds of people have sat here, waiting to be called, to be tried, to be sentenced.

The guard brings lunch, a cheese-salad sandwich, bag of crisps, a pack of round shortbread biscuits and tea in a plastic cup. I eat half of the sandwich and one of the biscuits. The tea is tasteless, an odd grey colour with little discs of oil visible on the surface. I sip it and close my eyes. My bones feel weak, my muscles feeble. I’m like a puppet that has had its strings cut.

My case had already made the national press and television, so when I got up the courage to go into the prison kitchen and meet some of the women I’d be sharing the place with, they all knew what I stood accused of.

There are eighteen of us in Shapley House; perhaps eight were in the kitchen that day. ‘I couldn’t do that,’ announced one of the women, flatly, arms crossed and staring at me as I fumbled about trying to find the things to make a cup of tea. ‘Drug someone up, then hold a bag over their head and watch them die.’

The room was quiet and I stilled, not knowing how to reply. I set aside my cup and turned to leave.

‘You got any burn?’ the same woman asked. She had a crude tattoo on her neck, small, hard eyes. ‘You, Mrs Mercy Killer, you got any burn?’

Some of the other women laughed but I sensed unease riddled through it. The nickname was to stick. I became known as Mercy.

‘Any baccy?’

‘I don’t smoke.’

‘What bleedin’ use are you, then?’

I fled to my room. ‘Burn’ was short for Old Holborn, the rolling tobacco of choice that the women wound into needle-thin cigarettes. It was the top currency in Styal, prized even higher than the methadone given out to the addicts three times a day. Some of the addicts sold their methadone to buy tobacco.

Fleetingly I considered taking up smoking in order to have something to trade.

I don’t know why Gaynor, the loudmouth in my house, took such an instant dislike to me. I guess I was an easy target, different from nearly everyone else, different class, different background, different accent, room of my own. It was like being in a foreign country: I didn’t understand the culture or the language. ‘The sweatbox’ was the name for the van that transported us to and from court. People would say, ‘I’m in on a section twenty,’ and I’d need it explaining – assault inflicting grievous bodily harm. There was no neat little number for me. Murder is murder.

In prison there are sheets to fill in for everything: phone credit, CDs, shampoo, tampons, lip salve. For some reason all the toiletries have to be from Avon. We fill in our menu choices ahead of time and these are sent to the kitchen. At the top end of the prison, along from the main gate, there are old vegetable gardens. Long abandoned, the poly-tunnels are ragged with holes; weeds grow waist high among them. It’s a shame we don’t grow our own fruit and veg – they’d be a welcome addition to the meals. I don’t eat much. The food reeks of institution, tray-baked for too long. The women constantly complain about the portion sizes.

I was allowed to have things from home, and I made a list to give to Jane. Clothes and sketch pad, pencils, some of my earrings (nothing larger than a ten-pence piece allowed) and a decent pillow. Neil’s denim jacket. When Jane sent stuff in it was examined, then added to my property card.

‘You could have told me,’ Jane said, when she first visited. It wasn’t a reproach, there was no glint of that in her eyes: she was stating fact – you could have told me and I’d have stood by you.

‘I couldn’t.’ I shook my head.

‘I might have been able-’

‘It was part of the deal. With Neil.’

She took that in, her face shorn of artifice or the usual glimmer of mischief. ‘Would you have told me eventually?’

If they hadn’t found me out? Would I? I’d said nothing in the days between Neil’s death and my arrest even though Jane came whenever she could, day or night. With food and wine and the comfort of her presence. ‘I don’t know.’

I think she was hurt. I would have been. We’d never had secrets. But it will not come between us, I trust in this. We have come too far to lose each other now. I’ve known her longer than I knew Neil – just. I know her well enough to see beyond the public persona, the humour, the upbeat take on everything, the endless energy. Over the years we have revealed ourselves to each other, peeled back those social layers, the poses and façades, sharing the bad times, the languors and doldrums, the storms and shipwrecks that punctuate our lives.

‘Well, thank God you didn’t – I might have been done for aiding and abetting,’ she said ruefully. I grinned. With the quip she forgave me. I wish she would stop smoking. I won’t grow old with Neil but I would like to share whatever’s still to come with Jane.

Once I have Neil’s jacket, I wear it every evening. It’s big on me, I have to roll the cuffs back, but it smells of him; it feels like him.

The only thing I sketch is the lime tree. Again and again, charting its journey from high summer into autumn and on. The glow of its large soft leaves from bright green to sherbet yellow. The little ball-shaped fruits dancing in the winds. The same fruits that Sophie used to collect and paint red as miniature cherries for her teddy bear. In the winter months the tree is often shrouded in mist in the morning, its stark trunk black, branches reaching up and out. On grey days it is wreathed in fog, which settles along the avenues muffling what we can see and adding a spookier quality to the noises of the prison.

The days are strictly regimented. Set times for meals, for work, for breaks and association. The roll is called at the beginning and end of the day and also at random times. We all have to stop what we are doing while the officers count us and relay back the numbers to Security. Everyone in the prison has a ‘job’, from working in the laundry or the gardens to piecework in the textile factory or helping in the office. As soon as I opened my mouth and demonstrated I was well educated and literate, they suggested I work in education. Many of the women can’t read or write more than their name and those of their children, and there is a constant demand for people to tutor those wishing to learn.

I thought the work might be like the miserable sessions we had trying to teach Adam to read, the leaden silences, his restlessness, one foot kicking against the chair, but the women are not sullen or resistant. They’re greedy to learn and when they do make progress I share their sense of pride. Our sessions are short, twenty minutes at a time; little and often is the best way. As the weeks go by, I get to know them: we exchange titbits of information, the small victories and defeats of prison life and the life outside that they yearn for – the excitement of visits and parole hearings, the bad news about children with problems and illnesses, or husbands getting into trouble.

When the court resumes the pathologist takes the witness stand. He is a gingery man with a beard and a Canadian drawl. I guess it’s Canadian because his initial qualifications are from Toronto. In answer to Miss Webber’s questions he tells us he has been a practising pathologist for twenty-three years, that he has conducted thousands of post-mortems and that he performed a post-mortem on Neil Draper on 23 June 2009.

‘Please summarize your findings for the court.’

‘The deceased was in an advanced stage of motor neurone disease and muscle wastage was apparent in the limbs. The external appearance of the body was otherwise unremarkable save for petechial haemorrhaging, which was visible in both eyes.’

Miss Webber asks him to describe this for the jury.

‘This presents as broken capillaries on the whites of the eyes.’

‘Comparable to broken veins?’

‘Smaller, but the same principle.’

‘Please continue,’ she says.

‘Internal examination revealed trauma to the alveoli of the lungs and the presence of fluid in the lungs. The stomach contents contained alcohol and I ordered a toxicology report.’

‘Am I correct in saying that the report establishes what, if any, drugs or poisons are present?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘And the results?’

As the pathologist begins to talk of negligible amounts of Zoloft but morphine present in so many parts per million, Dolly blinks and a look of boredom steals over her face. In the row behind her the Cook folds his arms and tilts his head, eager to give the impression of someone taking it all in, but I suspect the pose is a disguise for being completely at a loss.

Thankfully, the pathologist then simplifies the dizzying numbers by telling the court that this level of morphine would invariably result in death. So our calculations weren’t that far out.

‘A fatal dose?’

‘Yes.’

‘In a healthy person of the same age as Mr Draper what effect would this have?’

‘Metabolisms do vary a great deal but in most people such an amount taken with the alcohol would be likely to precipitate depression of the central nervous system.’

Callow Youth frowns: he doesn’t like the long words, or maybe he just doesn’t like being here. Me neither.

‘How would that manifest itself?’

‘Tiredness, dizziness, loss of motor faculties, then a slide into unconsciousness.’

‘Were you able to establish cause of death?’

‘Brain failure.’

‘Due to the drug and alcohol?’

‘No, the evidence, the state of the lungs, the petechial haemorrhages, suggests that the deceased was suffocated, which deprived the brain of oxygen.’

‘Would the drug and alcohol have contributed to the death?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you summarize for us the most likely scenario based on the physical evidence you observed?’

Someone over on the benches to the right is scribbling. Ms Gleason has told me that’s where the press sit. Something spicy for tomorrow’s readers.

The pathologist clears his throat. Dolly sits forward and rolls back her shoulders. Behind her the row of jurors shuffles about too. In the back row of the jury, the two oldest women, who are neatly turned out – blow-dried hair, colour co-ordinated scarves and cardigans, looking for all the world as if they have strayed in from doing a bit of shopping in St Ann’s Square and will head off for a cuppa at Marks & Spencer’s any minute – exchange a glance. They are probably Veronica’s age, maybe a bit younger. The upper age limit for jurors is seventy. I dub them Hilda and Flo, old-fashioned names that may be coming round again.

‘My conclusion would be that the deceased imbibed a mixture of morphine and alcohol and that he then suffocated.’

The room is quiet. Miss Webber leaves it hanging there for a few beats while everyone absorbs the hard facts. ‘Were you able to ascertain how he suffocated?’

‘No. We swept the nasal passages and examined the trachea but there was nothing conclusive.’

‘Could it have been a pillow?’

‘Yes.’

‘Or a plastic bag?’

‘Yes.’

The detail drills through me. What must it be doing to Adam?

We will not contest this evidence because I am admitting to all of this. Yes, I fed him the morphine and the booze. And, yes, when he still wasn’t dead, I smothered him.

Nevertheless the way the pathologist has set it out for us, the stepping-stones that Miss Webber has laid down, lead to a picture of ruthless intent, not one of a person pushed to extremes, and I wonder if Mr Latimer will cross-examine. Is there any finely phrased question that might redeem me? Any image he can elicit to show me as crazed and demented rather than efficient and cold? I catch my breath as he rises, but then he turns to the judge. ‘No questions, Your Honour.’

The first time Adam came to me in Styal was the worst – the unfamiliarity of it all, I suppose, the institution, the room full of bustling families and women prisoners all used to the parade.

My expectations bristled with iconography from the movies and American crime drama series on the box. Would we be allowed to touch? If we betrayed any emotion would a guard with a scowl and a nightstick yank us apart and slam me in solitary?

As it was there were no hands pressed palm to palm either side of a Perspex screen, no screens at all, no sadistic screw ready to pounce or cakes with nail files. It was all a little shabby and terribly depressing. The visiting lounge had all the atmosphere of a coach station – perhaps the shadow of parting and separation was similar.

‘Mum.’

We hugged and I wanted to hang on to him for ever. Adam isn’t as tall as Neil was but he’s got the same build. For a dizzying moment Neil was in my arms and when I opened my eyes we would be back home.

‘Did you find it all right? Did they tell you what to do?’ I made small-talk as we sat.

‘Yeah, cool. Miss Gleason sorted it out. There’s a bus from town.’

A moment’s pause and then we both spoke at the same time. I heard him say, ‘Sophie,’ and stopped. ‘That is so wrong,’ he went on.

‘Adam, I know it’s hard but… she’s not doing it to be mean… Something this serious-’

‘You could go to prison.’

‘I am in prison.’

He half smiled. ‘Mum.’

‘I’ve got good lawyers. They will do everything they can.’ I studied him a moment. I owed him a bit of gravity. ‘I never wanted you to find out like this.’ I felt uncertain; should I continue to talk about the situation, explain everything that had gone on or steer us into safer territory? My concern was that the strain would tip him into a reprise of his own destructive behaviour. ‘We can talk about this later,’ I offered.

‘I’m all right, Mum. It’s just Sophie – I hate her. Why’s she doing this?’

‘Adam, even if she hadn’t gone to the police there would still be enough evidence to put me here.’

He was surprised.

‘The medical stuff,’ I elaborated.

‘Even so-’

‘Have you seen her? Has she said anything?’

‘I got some fuckin’ lecture from her before she went to Grandma’s. Dad wanted this, right?’

I nodded.

‘Then what is her problem?’ His face was intent, his eyes blazing.

‘She’s hurt, she’s missing him, and I know we all are, but Sophie must feel that this is the right thing for her to do.’ It was ridiculous. There I was defending her when she was lining up to throw stones at me – but it hurt me so much that they couldn’t rely on each other to get through this.

‘Like I care? You did what Dad wanted, why can’t she just accept that?’

I rifled through platitudes and homilies, discarding them. Nothing fitted. I put my hand on his arm and smiled. ‘Tell me about the festival.’

He raised his eyes, aware of the clumsy change of subject, but went along with it. As he talked, various practical questions occurred to me. Things I needed to ask Ms Gleason about. How could the kids get money while I was inside? Did I need to give anyone power of attorney to deal with the house stuff? And Neil’s will? Would that be in abeyance until the trial was over?

‘The house is okay? No problems?’

There was a spark of irritation in his eyes. For my asking? Was I undermining him? I began to explain but he cut across me: ‘Fine except for Pauline. She keeps trying to ambush me – she waits by the bins.’ I laughed at this image of our next-door neighbour. We don’t get on and there have been a few run-ins over the years. She’s big on complaints. One of her better offerings was a request that we ask the children not to make so much noise when they were playing out. They were nine and six, playing out the best thing they could be doing. Noise came with the territory, and it wasn’t late at night.

‘They’re kids, Pauline, they need to let off steam,’ I tried to reason with her.

‘They make such a racket.’ She glowered. She hadn’t any kids of her own and I did wonder if there was some sadness there, grief that hearing Adam and Sophie and their friends at play tapped into, resulting in irritation.

‘You could try ear-plugs,’ I suggested.

She had snorted with annoyance and bustled back inside.

‘Just smile and ignore her,’ I told Adam now. ‘Any other news?’

‘I’ve got an interview tomorrow,’ he said. ‘A club in town.’

‘Bar work?’

He nodded.

‘How many hours?’

‘Don’t know yet.’

Adam had worked in a few pubs and bars in the previous year but never for very long. He was a poor timekeeper. I was glad he had the prospect of work, something to structure his time. He was all alone in the house. The fallout from our seismic shift in fortune struck me again. A month ago the house was home to a family of four; now the sole occupant was a teenage boy.

‘You seeing anyone?’

He grinned. Another flash of Neil in the alignment of his features and the warmth of that smile. ‘No chance. We’re notorious, aren’t we?’

Christ! I hadn’t thought. People in the city know each other. They gossip and chat in shops, on the corner, at work. My murder trial was front-page material. Draper and Shelley – the names must now be synonymous with sinister deeds, a savage end, a lying spouse. ‘No telling what you might do,’ I said darkly. Wit seemed to be the best defence. He laughed. I loved to make him laugh.

My mind rolled back over the years to previous scandals or tragedies that had touched our circle of acquaintances: the teacher caught downloading porn, the priest at Veronica’s church done for drink-driving, a colleague of Neil’s who ran off with a sixth-former, a friend of Adam’s whose father beat his mother and broke her jaw. We’d tittle-tattled along with the best of them, sharing our latent suspicions or our complete surprise.

And, of course, now all our friends and acquaintances, all Sophie’s mates and Neil’s colleagues would be swapping their reactions. All over Manchester Neil and I and our children were being picked over like so many bones.