I drove automatically. I turned the wheel when I had to. I obeyed the rules of the road. In terms of where I was going, I simply headed away from everything. The light changed, became softer, yellower. The children made occasional noises, but slept most of the time, lulled by the motion of the car. I pulled off the road, into a field, parked in the lee of a high hedge, switched off the engine. I sat for a moment, hearing a gentle shifting behind me. I checked the mirror. Laura was moving about in her seat; Jonathan was rubbing his face with his fist.
I opened my door and got out. I stretched. I opened the rear door and leaned in. I kissed Laura on the forehead and squeezed into the space between the front and back seats so that I could reach Jonathan also. I kissed him on the cheek and noticed the little round scar at the corner of his eye. I caught a whiff of washing powder or fabric conditioner. I pulled back and exited the car.
I went to the boot and opened it. I took out the black bag and removed from it a coiled length of hosepipe. I put the bag back in the boot and closed it. There was a noise coming from somewhere, but I didn’t know what it was. I got down on my hands and knees to affix one end of the hosepipe to the exhaust. This was difficult to achieve but after two attempts I got it in place. I wiped my hands on the grass and dried them on my jeans. I uncoiled the hosepipe and walked around the side of the car. I placed the pipe on the ground and it immediately started to recoil itself. I opened the rear door on Laura’s side and wound down the window a short distance. I picked up the hosepipe and threaded it through the gap, then wound up the window enough to trap the hosepipe without squeezing it too hard. I was still aware of a noise coming from somewhere. I didn’t know what it was. I ignored it. I closed the door and got back into the car. I reached round the back of the driver’s seat and picked up Laura’s coat from the floor. I got out of the car again and stuffed the coat into the gap at the top of the window. I used one of the arms to plug the last bit of the gap, noticing a stain where Laura had spilt something on it. I got back into the car and closed the door. Jonathan was crying and trying to get out of his seat. Laura was watching him. I turned the key in the ignition. Laura was asking questions. I couldn’t tell what she was saying. I climbed into the back of the car and squeezed into the space between their two seats. I told the children it was going to be all right. Jonathan’s crying got so bad he coughed and kept coughing and I thought he was going to choke. But he was OK. Laura was still asking questions and I was still unable to process the sound of her voice. I could no longer hear the other noise that I had heard outside. I could now hear the chugging of the car’s engine. I looked through the gap at the dashboard and saw that there was plenty of petrol in the tank. Now that Jonathan was calmer I undid his seat belt and he moved free of the straps. I leaned forward and around the driver’s seat to engage the central locking. I undid Laura’s seat belt and encouraged both children to sit in my lap. Laura kept talking and Jonathan was saying something as well. I hugged them both, pulling them into my body. It’s going to be all right, I told them. It’s going to be all right.
Lumb Bank
‘. . things happen only in the present.’
IT WAS EITHER going to be all right or it wasn’t. In fact, no, it wasn’t. It was never going to be all right.
It wasn’t all right.
I woke up in hospital under police guard. Once the medical staff informed them that I was good to go, officers removed me to the police station where I was formally charged with the murder of my daughter Laura and the attempted murder of Jonathan, my son.
Some days passed.
I had been assigned a lawyer called Arnold, a tall, well-built Yorkshireman with a gruff, friendly manner. He had dark hair cut very short at the back and sides, just beginning to go grey at the temples, and rimless glasses with red plastic arms. He walked a difficult line between seriousness appropriate to the alleged crimes and off-the-cuff jokey remarks, including disrespectful references to certain police officers. I asked him at one point why no one had mentioned my attempted suicide.
‘If they ignore the attempted suicide angle, it should be easier for them to make the murder charges stick.’
‘Murder charge.’
‘Murder charge and attempted murder charge.’
‘But how can there be any doubt?’
‘We need to argue you didn’t know what you were doing. The emotional upheaval caused by the impending divorce and probable loss of your children upset the balance of your mind.’
‘Temporary insanity.’
‘It’s our best shot.’
It took a long time for the case to come to trial. Jonathan had made a full physical recovery. I had requested permission to see him, which had been denied. According to Arnold, we could have challenged that decision, but it would not have looked good. A great deal seemed to rest on what looked good and what didn’t.
‘It’s the way the law operates,’ Arnold said.
Arnold also reported some chat that Veronica was coping very badly and that it couldn’t be assumed that Jonathan would necessarily end up with his mother in the long term.
‘Where would he end up in that case?’
‘There are different options.’
‘None of them involving me.’
‘That would be unlikely, even given a good outcome.’ Arnold looked at me. ‘So how would you feel about Jonathan ending up in the system somewhere?’ he asked me.
It was a strange question, coming from him. He had not previously asked me about my feelings. I told him I didn’t have any.
He reminded me — he said he was reminding me — that when I had been informed of the charges against me, having been told nothing of what had happened prior to my arrest when I had regained consciousness in hospital, I had broken down and the investigating officer had suspended the interview. I was locked in my cell and a suicide watch was maintained. On the third day, by which time I was quiet and withdrawn, they made the decision to continue questioning me.
‘Did you know what you were doing when you attached the hosepipe to the exhaust of the car?’ Detective Inspector Huxtable asked me.
‘You don’t have to answer that,’ Arnold advised me.
‘Either I did or I didn’t,’ I said.
‘Do you feel any remorse over your actions and their consequences?’ asked Huxtable, rubbing at the bags under his eyes with nicotine-stained fingers.
‘My client chooses not to answer that,’ said Arnold.
‘Either I do or I don’t,’ I said.
Arnold requested a temporary halt to the interview and we ended up back in my cell.
‘I strongly advise you to answer “No comment” to all further questions,’ he said.
I tried to follow his advice, but the fact was I didn’t care enough about the outcome.
The case eventually went to trial and despite Arnold’s best efforts I was convicted and handed a life sentence for murder and a further five years for attempted murder, but given the nature of the case the two sentences could be served concurrently and the amount of time I had spent on remand would be credited to my account, as it were.
In 1993, I began my sentence, in prison rather than hospital, the temporary insanity argument having failed to impress the judge.