The midwife spoke tersely, telling us the cord was tight around Sophie’s neck. The atmosphere in the room changed, a vortex of panic sucking the air. There was a whirl of activity as they readied instruments, told me not to push and prepared to cut the cord. I had read enough books to know that the cord was the baby’s lifeline and that if she didn’t get out quickly now she could be in trouble.
As soon as the cut was made I was instructed to push. I strained and groaned, the pain tearing through my vagina and bowels. With the second push she slithered out. She was paper white, her lips and eyelids blue like a fish. In the heartbeats it took to revive her, I was falling, falling through the back of my skull into the velvet dark, falling away from everything to my own deep retreat. Her cries: a mewl, a creak, caught me. Held me, pulled me up. That, and the hot splash of Neil’s tears on my forearm.
If we had not got her out in time she would have suffocated. Her lungs filling with amniotic fluid. Drowning. Like my father. Choking on brine. Like Neil did, the alveoli filling with the salty fluid from his body. Drowning in his tears.
Chapter Nineteen
They call me to the stand. They are all in the public gallery: my children, my in-laws, my friend. For a stupid moment I wonder where you are, Neil. It’s an error I want to share with you. I heard somewhere that it’s good to talk to the dead and sometimes I do. Murmur news of my day behind bars to you in the dim, dry, stifling night.
Mr Latimer stands up and addresses the jury. It is his task to convince them that I am no feminist harridan with a smooth tongue who would perjure herself, but a loving wife and mother driven demented by circumstances, pushed to the giddy limit and beyond, now drowning in regret and desperate for understanding.
‘Members of the jury, you have now heard the case against Deborah Shelley. A case which rests on one, and only one, question: was Deborah Shelley suffering from diminished responsibility when she helped her husband Neil die? The answer to that is yes. And we will present evidence from Deborah Shelley to support that. We will hear from Deborah how living with Neil’s terminal illness affected her own mental health, leading to insomnia, panic attacks, anxiety and depression. Her situation was made even worse by concerns over the well-being of her son Adam. Things reached the stage where Deborah was no longer able to act responsibly.’
Adam colours but keeps looking at Mr Latimer. I had discussed with the barrister whether we had to drag Adam into it but he made it plain I needed all the help I could get. And a drug-addled teenager who had had spells in a loony bin would score plenty of Brownie points. Though he had a more elegant way of putting it.
Mr Latimer goes on, ‘Deborah’s neighbour and the expert psychiatric witness for the defence will describe to you a woman who, weakened and isolated, was faced with a tremendous pressure that she was incapable of resisting. Deborah Shelley broke the law because she could no longer differentiate between right and wrong.’
He turns to me and gives the tiniest of nods, a little jerk of his scrappy wig, to calm me. It will be all right, he is saying, you will be all right.
‘Deborah,’ he will make a point of always using my first name – humanizing me for the jury, ‘your husband was diagnosed with motor neurone disease in September 2007?’
‘Yes.’
‘What impact did that have on you?’
‘I was numb at first, it was such a huge shock, and when we learned that there was no cure, that Neil would get progressively worse and then die, well, it was shattering.’
I let my eyes scan the jury. Dolly, jaunty today in pillar-box red, draws her mouth tight in a shrug of regret. And I see the Cook’s face soften in sympathy – or I think I do.
‘But you were able to carry on working and looking after the family?’
‘Yes. I had to. In that sort of situation you cope, you carry on. That’s all you can do.’
‘Some years earlier your mother had died?’
‘Of cancer, yes.’
‘Would you say that she had a good death?’
A torrent of emotions unseats me. I feel my face heat up. ‘No, not at all. She was in a lot of pain. It was horrible. She was on her own at the end. No one ever seemed to talk to her, or to us, about what was happening.’
‘Her death affected you deeply?’
‘Yes, I became depressed.’
Hilda and Flo exchange a look. They know something of this. What? Depression, losing a parent, cancer? Live long enough and I guess the odds are good for all three.
‘And around this time you and Neil had your second child, Sophie?’
‘That’s right.’
‘W-was the d-depression,’ he starts to stutter and segues into the chanting delivery that eases the flow, ‘severe enough to warrant medical attention?’
‘Yes. I saw my GP and he put me on medication. Anti-depressants.’
‘Did these help?’
‘A bit. Not a lot. Mainly it was the time that helped. The passing of time.’
‘How long did this period of depression last?’
‘About a year.’
‘And when you knew Neil had a terminal condition did you think you might become depressed again?’
‘No. Not at first. I was upset, angry – it just felt so unfair.’ It still does. His illness was unfair, his death too. I want him back. Perhaps this is the denial stage. People write about the different stages of grief but I haven’t a clue where I’m up to. He wasn’t dead three weeks when they locked me up. Arrested development.
In the second row of the jury box, the Sailor nods. I’m relieved at his empathy until I realize with a rush of outrage that he is dozing, nodding off. Too big a lunch, perhaps. Not on my watch, matey. I give a sharp cough and he startles awake, rubs his face and rolls back his shoulders.
‘And after the initial shock?’
‘Then I was more worried about Neil, how he would deal with it, and the children too.’
‘Had you any particular fears regarding the children?’
There’s the taste of coins in my mouth as I reply. Blood money. ‘Yes, my son Adam had been having problems. He isn’t well – mentally.’
‘Please can you tell the jury what is wrong with him?’
I cannot look at Adam or I will cry. I want to fend the question off. Tell them what a lovely child he was, how he delighted in the world, show them how beautiful he still is, how he has his father’s eyes and a kindness, a naïvety, about him. Holding my jaw taut I tell them, ‘Adam suffers from delusions. He gets panic attacks and sometimes becomes paranoid. The doctors believe the illness was triggered by using cannabis.’
Even as I say the word I see the Prof and Mousy stiffen, Hilda and Flo shuffle uneasily. A generation thing, I think. The older members of the jury probably see little distinction between cannabis and heroin. I assume those under fifty have at least tried it – even if they didn’t inhale. As for Media Man, in his sharp suit, the Artist, and the PA with her lovely tan and flawless makeup, I bet they’ve hoovered up plenty of coke in their time. The Sailor’s probably seen it all – a new drug in every port, though the ruddy complexion, the road map of capillaries, suggests a lifetime’s acquaintance with the bottle, too.
‘I’m told some people are more susceptible than others,’ I continue speaking.
‘And at the time when Neil was diagnosed, how was Adam’s health?’