‘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.’
Chapter Eighteen
Although I am hungry, when I try to eat my lunch my mouth floods with saliva and I feel sick. Mr Latimer will open the defence case when we resume and I will be the first witness. He is limiting the defence witnesses to the bare minimum. ‘Less is more,’ he pronounced, when he explained it to me. ‘The jury wants the essential facts, not to be alienated or, worse, bored by an endless procession of faces all chipping in their two-penn’worth.’ After I’ve given my evidence, he will call my neighbour, Pauline Corby, and then Don Petty, our shrink. We will all be saying variations of the same thing – that I was out of my mind when I agreed to Neil’s request and off my rocker when I went ahead.
Earlier on I had thought about asking Jane to testify. She’d have had no qualms and she probably knows better than anyone how I had struggled through the first half of last year. But if Jane had been a witness she would not have been able to attend much of the trial and Adam would have been on his own if he chose to come. It was better for Adam and better for me if Jane was there to support him.
I have rehearsed my testimony with Mr Latimer, and he and Ms Gleason have drummed into me the pitfalls to avoid when I take the stand, especially during cross-examination. No losing my temper, no backhand remarks or trite put-downs, no evasion. I must keep my tone level where I can but not appear cold. My demeanour, my character, will have more impact on the jury’s verdict than any other aspect. I must make them like me, or at the very least not dislike me. For someone who has never sought much approval from people, never wanted to be popular, rarely worried about what others thought, this is a tall order.
‘We want them to step into your shoes,’ Mr Latimer said, ‘to think that in your situation they may well have responded in the same way.’
Cast reason to the wind and lined up the drugs. Lost their marbles and prepared a last drink.
Throughout the whole of the trial we must quash any debate around the notion of mercy killing (or assisted suicide or whatever label we use), any whisper that this might be a rational, humane, tenable course of action. The trial is not about Neil’s right to die, it is not about my right to help him, it is solely about one question: was I responsible for my actions? My role is to play the madwoman – now recovered and remorseful.
The third time that Neil asked me was in April 2009. We were at home. He had stopped teaching: he no longer had sufficient strength or mobility. He was occasionally breathless. Trips downstairs were quite an effort and I was wondering whether we should convert the dining room into a bedroom. That way he would remain part of the household without being stuck upstairs like some benign Mrs Rochester. We never used the dining room for eating: the computer table was in there, lots of books and a second TV, which Adam used to play games on. But the computer and TV could easily go in the lounge for the duration. Not for ever, I thought, and the notion seemed awful and funny and poignant all at the same time. Neil would still need to get upstairs if he wanted to shower or bathe; we only had a loo on the ground floor. He was finding it harder to get in and out of the bath. His arms were worse than his legs, and the weakness was debilitating. We had to remember simple things, like giving him smaller, lighter mugs so he could lift them, and using tops and T-shirts that had a front opening so he didn’t have to raise his arms above his head, which he could barely do.
The day before, Neil had seen the neurologist. The consultant recommended a wheelchair and suggested talking to the GP about medication if the pain in his shoulders got any worse. I say it was the third time but the question had hung between us ever since Barcelona. It was there in Neil’s glances and silences, between our phrases as we discussed his symptoms and how we managed them, in each kiss. A briny tide lapping at my ankles, eroding the honesty between us. I knew he wouldn’t give up on the idea but, like a child, I hoped that if I ignored the issue it would go away.
We were in the kitchen after breakfast. Sophie had gone into school and Adam was still asleep after a late night working at the airport bar. Neil was still eating – everything was taking longer – and I was loading the dishwasher.
‘I was thinking about moving our bed,’ I said, ‘bringing it downstairs.’
Neil went to pick up his coffee and stalled, his arm shook and he lowered it to the table.
‘Tired?’ I asked.
‘Deborah.’
I could hear it in his voice, hear it coming and taste it in the air between us. Like the ominous drop in pressure before a storm. I tried to escape. ‘I need to leave soon – my meeting’s at eleven.’
‘Please,’ he said, ‘sit down.’
I made him wait. Stood, sullen and scared, like a teenager, for a few beats then slid on to a chair, sat with ill grace.
‘I’ll get weaker. I won’t be able to walk. I might not be able to swallow.’
‘I’ll look after you.’
‘That’s not what I want.’
‘If this is about pride…’
‘No.’ He stopped me.
‘I don’t want you to die, Neil. How can you ask me-’
‘I am dying. One way or another.’
‘Wait.’ I felt jittery, buffeted by his arguments. I pushed myself away from the table, shaking with emotion, mainly anger. Cross that he was asking again. Furious that he wanted to leave me. I snatched the book I wanted from the dining room, thumbing through to the page I remembered on my way back to the kitchen. I read it through clenched teeth. ‘‘‘Medical advances mean many of the symptoms of MND can now be treated and with planning and support patients can enjoy a good quality of life and a peaceful death.’’’ I looked across at him, said fiercely, ‘You’re not going to lose your mind, you’re not going to become incontinent, you’re still going to be you…’
‘So I’m lucky? Please, Deborah, this isn’t a whim. I know it’s a lot to ask.’
‘You want to leave us… me, the kids.’
‘Just a bit sooner. I could have another year, maybe two, with my world shrinking, getting frightened, depressed, helpless. I don’t want to go on to the bitter end.’
‘It might not be bitter,’ I insisted. My throat ached, ringed with grief.
‘I’m happy now, still. I love you, I love Adam and Sophie.’
‘You don’t want to be a burden?’
‘It’s not that. I want to go while it’s still good.’
Like leaving a party before the end.
I shook my head, pressed my palm to my mouth, unable to answer. I looked across at him, my eyes blurring. Thought of the boy I’d seen at uni, making his friends laugh, his long legs and mischievous eyes, of the man who had led me round the Acropolis spinning stories, who had wept at the birth of his children, who had never belittled me or neglected me, who had encouraged me in every venture, who had never cheated on me but had had the generosity of heart to forgive my transgression. The man who could still set my pulse singing with a certain look, whose touch was balm and spice. My man.