Chapter Thirteen
They have finished with Sophie. The judge thanks her, warmth in his manner; the creases in his face deepen as he smiles at her. She walks down from the witness box, a blur of colour in her cheeks now. The urge to cry out to her is visceral, a fist in my chest eager to punch its way out. What can I say? Forgive me. If I had only known… I’m sorry. I love you. We never meant to hurt you.
She does not look at me, or anyone, but makes her way steadily to the doors. I watch her back, her hair flowing down to her shoulder-blades, honey-coloured against her top. When will I see her again? Will I see her again? My girl. I do not speak, I barely breathe. My cheeks are wet.
The judge calls an end to the day and we all stand. The jury are solemn, subdued. Media Man rubs at his face and sighs, and Alice is fiddling with her hairband but she’s gazing off into the distance. I wonder if she is thinking about what Sophie has said.
I force myself to look at Adam, to suck the grief from my face and give him a nod of reassurance. He dips his head and casts down his eyes. He, too, is on the verge of tears. My expression must have changed because Jane, catching my eye, blanches with consternation and turns to Adam, says something. He nods at her enquiry. Who is comforting Sophie? Are Veronica and Michael waiting for her out there?
The court empties. Jane lifts her hand, a wry farewell as they troop out. The recorder and the barristers are exchanging comments. Bits of business that they need to share before tomorrow. Miss Webber piles her files high, scoops them into her arm, sings a cheery goodbye to Mr Latimer. She is riding high on Sophie’s testimony. The jury loved her. Who wouldn’t want to believe a young girl prepared to bear witness in such raw circumstances? Her youth and courage sound a clarion call to truth.
Mr Latimer gives me no false hope when he stops beside me on his way out. ‘Early days,’ he says. He sighs. ‘We’ll get our turn, r-remember. Always difficult for the defence at this stage.’
Ms Gleason comes up after he’s gone. ‘How are you holding up?’
‘It was hard.’
‘Yes. Try to rest tonight. Is there anything you need?’
I shake my head. Whatever I need, freedom, absolution, a night down the pub chewing it over with Jane, my home and children, is way out of her provenance.
On Adam’s third or fourth visit to Styal he was very subdued. He had returned from his trip to the Spanish festival, which I’d insisted he go to, and seemed to have survived it intact. He was working at the club in town. He said it was a bit boring but the people were ‘cool’.
I worked hard at the conversation, trying to find out if he’d changed his mind about Jane’s place, even if just for a while. ‘It must be lonely, there on your own?’
‘I don’t mind.’ He shrugged. Then his face collapsed, his eyes reddened. ‘I miss you – and Dad. I miss him so much.’
My heart thumped. I lurched across the low table separating us, wrapping my arms about him. ‘I know.’
The guard called for me to sit down. I glared at him, furious.
‘Adam, I’m sorry.’ I moved back a little, my hands cupping his face. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘No – what you did… that was right. It was what he wanted. You did the right thing.’
My breath caught and I waited. His belief in me was so precious and I was afraid that perhaps it was not warranted. ‘He loved you so much,’ I told him. ‘Don’t ever forget that.’
Adam nodded, rubbed at his face with his hands. I was sorry and scared at what it would mean for him when we went to trial. I took a breath and leaned close again. ‘I’ve been talking to the solicitor,’ I said. ‘We have to argue that I was disturbed when I gave your dad the overdose.’
‘But he wanted you to?’ Adam frowned.
‘Yes, but if I say that I did it to help him and I knew what I was doing they will find me guilty of murder.’
‘That’s mental – that’s totally cracked.’
‘I know. But that’s the law. The only chance I’ve got is to plead guilty to manslaughter and argue that I was in such a state by then I can’t be held responsible.’
He shook his head, bemused.
‘The thing is, it means that in court I have to talk about everything that contributed to my state of mind, all the stresses…’ I paused, hoping he’d make the leap, but he watched me, waited. ‘Adam, I’m going to have to tell them all about you being ill, the overdose, everything.’
Embarrassment swept his face and he reddened. ‘It’s cool,’ he said. ‘You did the right thing – that’s all that matters.’ And he shrugged again.
I made an effort to smile but I wasn’t sure I agreed with him. The consequences of doing the right thing were very wrong: my family scattered, our grief choked off and sullied by the investigation and the trial. Right for Neil, but for the rest of us?
It is dusk as they take me from the back door of the court building to the prison van. The air is cold and damp and from somewhere there is the smell of fat and onions, fast-food. One of the trams gives a melancholy hoot and I catch a glimpse of figures hurrying along the street at the end. People making their way home for tea, carrying shopping or laptops, looking forward to a hot soak, a TV dinner or the ritual of bedtime stories.
Neil hated weather like this. Before we had Adam, at weekends the dull drizzle, the mottled sky would see us cocooned. Wearing woolly socks and jumpers in bed, reading the papers and snacking, getting high and making love, our hands grubby with newsprint, faintly sticky with marmalade. He couldn’t bear a dreary Sunday; he said it reminded him too much of the aching boredom of his childhood days, the weekly ritual of no breakfast before mass, the tedium of the service, the long dull afternoons when the whole world seemed shut, the visits to his grandparent Drapers’ graves. He said that wasn’t every week but it felt like it.
Once the children came along we had two strategies to redeem those miserable days. One was to cocoon them too, to make a feature of being trapped inside, building dens from big cardboard boxes or making a tent with the clothes horse and sheets, passing them in picnics to share. Whitewashing one wall in their playroom and bringing out chalks for hours of scribbling and drawing. Or ‘making mess’, setting out the kitchen with Play Doh and food colouring, water and sieves at the sink, glue and paper and glitter. All four of us mucking about with the curtains drawn and the lights on. The other technique was to cock a snook at the gloom and go out in it. But far out – to the hills, sealed in waterproofs and wellies, where even the dimmest day was enlivened by the sights and smells of nature, and puddle-jumping or mud-dancing was de rigueur. The promise of chips and cocoa when we got home. Clothes steaming on the radiators, smelling of fresh air and grass and earth.
It was weather like that when we buried Neil. Fitting. They let me out to attend the funeral. It was October, four months after he had died, and six months till my trial. Everything had been delayed because of the post-mortems. Prison guards escorted me; I was handcuffed lest I do a runner at the graveside. I hadn’t had much input into the arrangements. No doubt Neil’s parents had thought bumping him off was more than enough of a contribution from me. I’d provided the body, they’d see to the rest. Thank goodness they included Adam in the process: he reported back to me with youthful disdain. The notice in the paper asked for donations to the Motor Neurone Disease Association rather than flowers. I remembered from burying my mother that there are so many decisions to make when someone dies: which coffin, what service, who will read, lilies or a wreath, where to go afterwards, which clothes to dress them in.
‘His suit.’ Adam snorted. ‘He hated suits.’
‘He didn’t, actually.’
Adam stared at me.
‘He made fun of people who acted like suits but he quite liked that last one, the charcoal, soft wool. He looked good in it.’ Neil had bought it in the sales. His old suit was showing its age. There were times at work when he wanted to look smart and a suit in the wardrobe was always there if you had to attend a funeral. His own would be the first funeral he’d worn it to.