The Kindest Thing

Chapter Seventeen

My mother’s death seemed brutal. There were times when it was hard to tell what was actually killing her: the cancer or the treatment. Perhaps if she’d had my father to support her, or a close friend to weather the journey with her, it would have felt less bleak.

Martin was there to ferry her to the clinic and run errands. He lived about ten miles away from her, in a flat above his business: an insurance brokerage. He lived alone. There were girlfriends from time to time but nothing ever developed. At weekends, when I would drive over and visit, our paths would cross but our exchanges were exclusively practical and we were rarely out of earshot of our mother.

Invariably I would return home from those visits feverish with resentment, feeling cheated and miserable. Cheated because I was waiting for death’s drum to make my mother dance to a different beat. I longed for the illness to bring us closer, for her distance and reserve to melt away and for her finally to open up, to share her feelings with me, to acknowledge the difficulties we had had and at last, with the end in sight, to be able to love me. I wanted to be able to tell her I loved her, without feeling it was a love born of obligation not pleasure, that I was sorry we hadn’t shared much enjoyment in life, that we both deserved some reconciliation before the end.

Now and again, I’d make crass efforts to pave the way for this transformation. I would talk about my feelings for Adam or my anxieties about the coming baby and then refer to her own experience. Or I’d ask leading questions about her upbringing. She would always deflect me, never giving an answer but finding some little task for me to perform: switch the TV on, check the thermostat, top up her tea, take a note for the paper shop. Distraction techniques. The sort of thing you try on a toddler in a tantrum.

One day my patience snapped. Wretched with lack of sleep and frightened by how sick she looked (the whey colour of her skin, the peculiar smell, like sour fruit, that came from her), I challenged her outright. When she blocked my opening gambit with some flummery about the fuel bill, I rounded on her. ‘Mum, can’t we just talk like normal people for once? About something other than the bloody gas meter? Can’t we talk about us, about what’s happening?’

She blinked; dots of colour stung her cheeks. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘We never talk about ourselves, about the past or our problems or how we feel. It’s like we’re strangers.’ Tears unshed pressed behind my eyeballs. There was an image in my head. Motherhood idealized. She who would laugh with delight when I appeared, who would drink me in with warm eyes, listening to news of my triumphs and disasters. She who would celebrate my pregnancy and touch my belly, enthralled at the quickening ripple of her grandchild-to-be. She’d sit up late regaling me with tales of life with my father, of my own childhood, confiding in me her own disappointments and regrets. She would send me to bring out the photograph album and demand the latest photos of Adam for her bedside.

She frowned. ‘I don’t-’ She broke off, an expression of defeat on her face. ‘You’re here, Martin comes. That’s not strangers.’

A quiver of frustration vibrated through me. She didn’t get it. Or maybe she pretended not to get it. Could she really think this was enough? Either way I never found the intimacy I craved with her.

The night she died, I was driving to the hospital and my thoughts were circling like vultures, picking over the remains of our relationship. I’d been trying to tell myself that she’d had no choice in how she acted, that her own upbringing, about which I knew little, had made her like this. But in my heart I blamed her. Oh, yes – I had her strung up and crucified with my childish rage.

She died before I reached her. No last words of redemption for me. She lay there, frail and pale, like the husk of something, and I was sad. Not for what I had lost but for what we’d never had. For the absence in our lives.

When it came to my trial they would argue that the spectre of my mother’s painful illness and death, the stress of watching her wither and die, had contributed to tipping me over the edge into killing Neil. That I couldn’t bear to see another person close to me go through that.

They didn’t understand that it wasn’t her death that haunted me. It was the cold embrace of her life.

Dolores Cabril is a small plump woman with protruding teeth, fine brown hair the colour of walnuts and a husky smoker’s voice of a darker shade. She wears a black trouser suit with a tan Paisley blouse, an ensemble that serves to emphasize her short stature. We have already met. She visited me in prison to assess me and to come up with her expert opinion as to whether I was firing on all cylinders when I helped Neil die.

I notice that the jurors are a little more uncertain about her than they have been about the previous witnesses – it’s in the postures they adopt. Mousy’s chin drops lower so that she has to cast her eyes upwards slyly to see the stand. Freckly Alice on the back row has lost her smile and three of the men, smart Media Man, the Cook and Callow Youth, have folded their arms. I assume a mistrust of shrinks is behind it. Perhaps a fear that Dolores Cabril is going to march into uncomfortable territory, spouting about penis envy and incestuous desires, or a notion that she has delved into the nastiest recesses of my mind and is going to drag out the ghastly entrails and drape them round the court.

This defensive reaction is not necessarily good for me because later the weight of my own defence will rest in the arms of my own expert psychiatrist. It is fine if the jury mistrust or dislike her, even better if they dispute her opinion, but if they simply despise the profession then I am way up the creek.

Dolores Cabril is dwarfed by the stand. We can just see her head and shoulders. She raises her hand to the good book and swears to tell the truth. Her voice is alluring. If you close your eyes and listen you might imagine it emanating from a six-foot siren who has wandered out of the steamy Havana of a Graham Greene novel. There’s a tinge of her Spanish mother tongue in the smoke, audible in the way she pronounces ‘truth’; a hard t at the end.

Briony Webber makes a meal of establishing her credentials: the degree from Cambridge, the MA and PhD, the years spent working as a psychiatric consultant, the books, the papers, the time as a forensic psychiatrist at Broadmoor high security hospital, her role as chair of the working party into human rights and mentally ill patients, her position on this and that select committee and the number of court appearances she has made. The MBE.

Hilda and Flo flicker into life at this last revelation and the Cook relaxes his arms and appears to revise his opinion. Beside him the Artist rolls his eyes – a republican I guess, given that the honours system and royalty are still so closely bound together.

Miss Webber continues: ‘Professor Cabril, you first met Deborah Shelley on November the eighth last year. Can you tell the court the purpose of this visit?’

‘This was an opportunity for me to assess Ms Shelley’s state of mind.’

‘Would that be her state of mind on November the eighth?’

‘Yes. And also to hear about the circumstances surrounding her husband’s death and to draw conclusions about her state of mind then,’ she explains.

‘And after meeting Ms Shelley you drew up a report for the prosecution?’

‘That’s right.’ She gives a sharp dip of her chin.

‘Was that report based solely on your meeting with Ms Shelley?’

‘No. I also had access to police interviews and witness statements.’

Miss Webber nods and smiles, giving us the impression that she is pleased with the amount of care that Professor Cabril has put into the case.

‘How did you find Ms Shelley to be at your meeting last November?’

‘Functioning well, displaying normal reactions to her bereavement and incarceration.’

She imbues the last word with the tang of Spanish and I imagine Styal transformed, sweltering in a sun-baked landscape, dried mud walls and a corrugated-tin roof, the whine of mosquitoes, pitiless thirst, cockroaches and screams from the ‘interview’ room down the end of the corridor.

‘Can you please take the jury through the summary of your findings on page three?’ Miss Webber gives Professor Cabril the report and clears it with the judge. ‘Your Honour, I am now passing Professor Cabril a copy of the report that is included in the case papers.’

The judge grunts, shuffles through the pile on his bench, and unearths his copy.

Professor Cabril reads her summary: ‘Having reviewed the evidence provided and the account given to me in person by the defendant, and taking into account her prior medical history and her behaviour before and after the incident, it is my considered opinion that Ms Deborah Shelley was of sound mind and that she was not suffering from any abnormality of mind that might have resulted in diminished responsibility. Overall Deborah Shelley enjoys a well-balanced mental disposition.’

A pit opens in the bottom of my stomach. They have warned me to expect this description but her certainty, her brio, as she pronounces the phrases ‘sound mind’ and ‘well-balanced’, are overwhelming.

‘In fifty years she has only once sought psychiatric support and that was in the classic situation of losing a close family member, namely her mother. In her behaviour preceding the event I have found no evidence of abnormality of mind. To all intents and purposes Deborah Shelley was coping admirably with a demanding situation.’

Coping. That bloody word again. I want to yell, ‘What else could I do?’

‘In the planning and execution of Neil Draper’s death, Deborah Shelley exhibited a considered and rational approach. In the aftermath she was able to maintain a version of events constructed to evade prosecution. These are not the actions of someone suffering from an abnormality of mind. Setting aside any consideration of motive, which is beyond my remit, but focusing solely on her state of mind, it is my considered opinion that Deborah Shelley was mentally responsible for her actions and that her behaviour was consistent in this regard.’

It’s all a bit wordy and the jury react. Media Man grips his forehead, hiding his eyes – all the better to think about something else. Hilda gives a slow blink and fiddles with her necklace. The Callow Youth casts his eyes skywards, consumed with interest in the chandeliers that hang in the vault of the ceiling.

‘Thank you,’ Miss Webber says. ‘As this expert testimony is crucial to the prosecution case, I am concerned to ensure that the members of the jury fully understand your report and its implications.’

Professor Cabril gives a quick nod. She is the final witness for the prosecution, and the most important. Miss Webber must milk her for all she’s worth.

‘In my opening speech, members of the jury, I outlined for you the legal basis for this trial. Namely that Deborah Shelley faces a charge of murdering Neil Draper and that you will find her guilty or not guilty of that charge. You may find her not guilty of murder but guilty of manslaughter, due to diminished responsibility. This is the crux of the matter.’ Miss Webber turns back to her witness. The lawyer’s eyes are bright, her expression alert. She has an air of competence, of energy. This is what she does, and she does it well.

‘Professor Cabril, you say Ms Shelley enjoys a good overall standard of mental health.’

‘Yes, she does.’

‘And does her behaviour in the period immediately before her husband’s death show any deterioration of her mental health?’

‘Nothing of any great significance.’

‘Does her behaviour in the period after her husband’s death show any deterioration in her mental health?’

‘Nothing beyond the normal grieving process.’ A roll on the final r, a flourish.

‘In your expert opinion…’

I notice Dolly give a little huff. She doesn’t like all this expert business. Or maybe she’s already grasped the point and finds the repetition patronizing.

‘… is there any evidence other than her own version of events to suggest Ms Shelley was suffering from abnormality of mind when she administered a fatal overdose to Neil Draper?’

‘None at all.’ Complete confidence.

No shred of doubt. I’m holding my breath. The tension burns in my neck.

‘With your extensive experience, did you find any evidence that Deborah Shelley had impaired mental responsibility when she used a plastic bag to hasten her husband’s death?’

I don’t like to think of this. It makes me nauseous. Sophie bows her head and Adam sets his jaw. I force myself to keep looking ahead, then up to catch his eyes. I may regret what I have done but I will not be shamed. At last his gaze flicks my way and my pain softens a touch. He gives a wobbly grimace, trying for a smile.

Professor Cabril is answering: ‘Not at all. Her actions were those of a mentally responsible person.’

‘Professor Cabril.’ Miss Webber pauses, lowers her voice a touch, drawing us in. Her words are measured, solemn, laden with gravity. ‘When Deborah Shelley killed Neil Draper, was the balance of her mind disturbed?’

‘No. She was fine, healthy, responsible.’

It’s a neat last line. Succinct, deadly. The room is still, silent. The implication of her opinion hanging there, shrouding us all. Murder. My eyes are hot, my mouth dry. There’s a fizzy sensation at the back of my skull as if I might faint.

Quietly, with a reverential nod and a whispered, ‘Thank you’, Briony Webber leaves the floor.

It is Mr Latimer’s turn and he is on treacherous ground. He must attempt to discredit Professor Cabril’s opinion without compromising the jury’s view of the profession – for it won’t be long till his own expert shrink is trundled out for more of the same.

‘Pr-Pr-Professor Cabril. Your testimony here today is an opinion, is it fair to say, not a fact?’

‘Yes, an opinion based on facts.’

‘But an opinion all the same?’

‘Yes.’ She gives a tight smile.

‘And opinions, particularly opinions about human behaviour, may vary?’

‘Yes.’

‘So the jury here will have to try to decide which expert opinion best fits the rest of the evidence?’

I think of the trail of lies, stitched to my widow’s weeds, and shudder inside.

‘Please can you tell the court how Ms Shelley herself described her state of mind immediately before her husband’s death.’

Professor Cabril appears to fish for recollection. Mr Latimer is quick to prompt. ‘In your report, paragraph four on the first page. Please can you read that for us?’

‘‘‘Deborah Shelley reports feeling under great pressure. She states that she felt trapped into agreeing to help Neil but was very anxious about that agreement. She also reported panic attacks and insomnia.’’’

‘Panic attacks, anxiety, insomnia? Are these indicators of a healthy mental state?’ Mr Latimer could be scathing but he’s careful not to ridicule the witness.

‘No, but they should be taken in context.’ She takes a breath to expand, but Mr Latimer cuts her off.

‘I am keen that the jury should understand this apparent contradiction.’

The Cook smiles and glances at the Artist. He’s enjoying the jousting.

Professor Cabril lowers her shoulders, clasps her hands together, an unconscious attempt to regain equilibrium. ‘Deborah Shelley reported these symptoms but my opinion rests on her behaviour. Her actions were those of a coherent and fully responsible individual.’

And we all know actions speak louder…

‘That is your interpretation?’

‘Yes. I am not saying there were no stresses whatsoever. She was faced with a difficult situation but her actions – the research she carried out in preparation for the event, the careful planning, the collected way she behaved afterwards. This is hard to square with her own description of her state of mind at the time.’

I am a liar. Mr Latimer must navigate carefully. Here be monsters.

‘But another person,’ Mr Latimer says reasonably, ‘knowing how trapped Deborah Shelley felt, hearing of her panic attacks, her lack of sleep, her anxiety might formulate a different interpretation?’

‘They might,’ she allows.

‘They might deduce that Ms Shelley was driven to the brink by the appalling situation she found herself in. That, racked by anxiety and paralysed by panic attacks, she lost the ability to distinguish right from wrong. That she became disturbed to the point where she bowed to the pressure of her husband’s pleas. The husband she loved. A man she had been with for more than thirty years. Her husband of twenty-four years. They may well deduce that?’

‘They may,’ Professor Cabril says drily. The subtext: they’d be a fool if they did. ‘In my experience,’ she goes on, her dark eyes glinting, ‘people who commit acts of this nature while the balance of their mind is disturbed find it impossible to sustain normal behaviour for very long. Like a pressure cooker, the cracks are there-’

‘Professor Cabril.’ Mr Latimer tries to shut her up.

‘Let the witness finish,’ insists the judge.

‘Your Honour, my client’s liberty, her reputation, her freedom are at stake here,’ Mr Latimer says forcefully.

‘Let the witness finish,’ the judge repeats, frowning.

‘Your Honour-’

‘Mr Latimer!’ The judge slaps him down. I sense the gathering clouds, the swell of disaster dark on the horizon.

Dolores Cabril inclines her head by way of appreciation, ‘If Deborah Shelley had been as vulnerable as she reported then it is my opinion that she would have swiftly broken down after the event. She would not have had the resilience to stand any scrutiny of her behaviour, to maintain her composure, and certainly would not withstand the police questioning she underwent. The need to confess, the relief she would seek from her situation, would have been paramount.’

‘In your opinion,’ Mr Latimer repeats. It is the best he can do and it is nowhere near good enough. I feel cheated, stuck in sinking sand with the waters rising. He walks back to his table and sits as Briony Webber leaps up for a last bite of the cherry. Mr Latimer has tried to introduce the spectre of doubt and she is keen to repair any damage.

‘Professor Cabril, if Deborah Shelley actually did suffer from some anxiety and insomnia, if…’

Each ‘if is dripping with scepticism.

‘… she had some panic attacks as she reported, would these symptoms constitute severe abnormality of mind sufficient to substantially impair her mental responsibility?’

‘No, they would fall a long way short.’

‘Thank you.’

So, even if I was having the odd wobble, I wasn’t mad enough, according to Professor Cabril, to be guilty of the lesser charge of manslaughter. For that I’d need to be completely deranged. If I’m just a bit freaked out, it’s murder. A bit of a conundrum, really.

‘Your Honour,’ Miss Webber addresses the judge, ‘that is the case for the prosecution.’