Blood Relative (10 page)

‘In which case, what will you argue then?’

‘That the charge of murder should be replaced by one of manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. It’s a plea in mitigation. We’ll say that she had no prior intent to cause your brother any harm, and was not responsible for, or even aware of her actions when she attacked him.’

I winced.

‘It’s very hard, I know,’ Khan said. ‘But I’m sure we have a good chance of persuading the court.’

‘All right, then, suppose you win. Suppose the jury says, yes, she was out of her mind, it’s manslaughter not murder. What then?’

‘Then it makes a huge difference to her likely sentence. In a manslaughter case like this judges have incredible latitude. They can order anything from immediate release to life imprisonment. To be honest, neither of those two extremes are very likely. I can’t see a judge giving your wife a life sentence, given the state she’s in, but neither do they like setting murderers free: it doesn’t look good. Mitigating circumstances, however, almost always result in a much reduced sentence.’

‘Reduced by how much?’ I asked.

‘Depends. The judge has to consider two things: the degree to which the accused was or was not responsible for their actions, and the danger, or lack of it, they pose to the public now. If we can convince the judge that this defendant suffered a single psychotic incident that will never be repeated, then she could be looking at secure hospital care, the duration of which would be very much at the discretion of the psychiatric experts. Hang on a moment …’

Khan’s phone was ringing. She took the call and listened intently for a few seconds before asking, ‘You’re quite sure of that?’ and, ‘So that applies immediately?’ Then she turned to me with a broad smile.

‘At last I have some good news! The judge has decided that your rights as a husband outweigh all possible prejudice to any testimony you might give as a witness. You are free to visit Mrs Crookham.’

‘Oh God, that’s fantastic news.’ I slumped with relief as some of the tension left my body. ‘Where is she? When can I see her?’

‘She’s being transferred to the medium-secure facility now, so I’ll give you the address and directions. I’d allow a few hours for her to be moved and settled, but I don’t see why you can’t go there today – mid-afternoon, four o’clock, perhaps, something like that.’

‘I’m so relieved.’ I gave Khan a weary smile.

‘Please, don’t get your hopes up too high. You saw the state your wife is in. She is a little more aware of her surroundings now, but she’s hardly going to greet you with open arms and a kiss.’

‘I know. Believe me, I’m very, very aware of how damaged she is. But just to see her, to hold her hand. Well, that at least would be something.’

15

The unit where they were holding Mariana was about an hour’s drive away, south of Leeds. I found a complex of low, yellow-brick buildings with steeply gabled roofs. A heavy, oppressive portico, clad in black-stained wood, loomed menacingly over the main entrance like the Grim Reaper’s cowl. But despite this, and the further depressive effect of a freezing drizzle seeping from leaden skies, there was actually a spring in my step as I crossed the visitors’ car park. I was about to see Mariana! We would talk at last and maybe, just maybe, she’d be able to answer some of the questions that had been nagging at me day and night. But just to see her would be enough.

The reception area didn’t look much different to any other hospital. The same bland, pastel-toned modernism, the same harassed receptionist. I beamed at her with what I fondly imagined was my most ingratiating grin.

‘Hi, my name’s Peter Crookham. My wife Mariana is a patient here and I have a judge’s order authorizing me to see her.’

The receptionist did not smile back.

She consulted a computer screen and then said, ‘I’m sorry. That won’t be possible.’

I was not deterred. ‘If I’ve come at the wrong time, just let me know when visiting hours are and I’ll come back then.’

‘No,’ she repeated. ‘It will not be possible. Not at all.’

‘You don’t understand,’ I insisted. ‘The judge personally said I could visit my wife. Look, I’ll get my lawyer on the phone. She can confirm it.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, that won’t make any difference. It will not be possible for you to visit your wife, even if she is a patient here, which I cannot confirm or deny.’

After all the pent-up frustrations and horror of the past few days something inside me snapped.

‘Don’t be so fucking ridiculous. I know she’s here and I’ve got a court order to prove it. I insist on seeing my wife.’

She sat up straighter in her padded office chair. ‘This unit does not allow the abuse of staff members. You will have to leave. If you do not, I will call hospital security.’

‘Oh for God’s sake! Can’t you stop reading the bloody rules and react like a human being? I’m sorry if I offended you, but I’m desperate to see my wife. There must be something you can do. Please.’

‘I must ask you to leave the premises, according to hospital policy.’

‘I’m begging you. Isn’t there anyone I can talk to?’

Two bruisers in pale-blue uniform shirts, dark trousers and heavy-toed black shoes were striding across the foyer towards the desk.

‘Please …’ I repeated.

The first of the men had got within a few feet of me.

‘You – outside!’ he snarled.

This couldn’t be happening. I’d finally been given my chance to see Mariana, to look into her eyes and perhaps get some tiny fragment of understanding about what was going on in her mind, and now it was being taken away by a bunch of knuckle-dragging jobsworths because I’d used a dirty word. Every animal instinct was screaming at me to lash out at them, but I fought to maintain some degree of coherence.

‘If you could just wait one moment,’ I said, my voice trembling with suppressed rage and grief, ‘I am not a security risk, and I am not threatening anyone or anything. So, please, may I make a reasonable request to see someone in authority? And while you think about that, consider the fact that my wife and I have been all over the tabloids in the past couple of days and I’m sure the
Sun
lads would just love to get their teeth into a story about how I got thrown out of here. Believe me, those reporters will certainly want to speak to someone high up in the hospital, and I can’t see that going down too well, can you?’

The security men looked at the receptionist. She looked at me. She pursed her lips, gave a heavy, ‘suit yourself’ sigh and dialled a number. Then she spoke with her hand over the mouthpiece so that I couldn’t make out what she was saying. Finally, she put the phone down and spoke to the two security men: ‘Take Mr Crookham to Dr Wray’s office. He’s expecting him.’

I was marched off between the two men, half a head taller than either of them, but a lot less wide. We walked down a series of corridors at right angles to one another, right into the heart of the facility. Finally, they stopped outside a door that looked indistinguishable from any of the countless others we had already passed, but for a nameplate that said, ‘Dr Tony Wray’. One of them rapped twice and a voice from inside answered, ‘Come in!’

‘In you go,’ said the guard who had knocked. ‘We’ll be waiting for you outside.’

He said it in a way that was almost daring me to to give him and his mate the excuse to come in and give me the beating they were so obviously longing to dole out. I ignored him and went in.

16

Dr Wray stood up, leaned across a desk covered in files, assorted scraps of paper, random bits of stationery and a mass of nondescript junk, and shook my hand. He was a small, wiry man in a tweed sports jacket and black jeans and he had a mass of greasy, steel-grey hair that looked as though it had been left the same length for the past forty years, in defiance of the large, monkish bald spot clearly visible on the top of his scalp. All the years of dealing with the criminally insane had left their mark in the deep lines on his face, but there was, nevertheless, a buzz around him. When he spoke, his words were interrupted by vocal tics: hums, hahs and ers, like little bursts of excess energy being expelled from his system.

‘Sit down, sit down,’ he said, pointing to a chair. ‘Why don’t I join you, eh?’

He came out from behind the desk and sat in a chair opposite mine. ‘Hmm … I gather things became a bit fraught.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. I’d been looking forward to seeing my wife. I was pretty upset when I heard I couldn’t. Took it out on the receptionist. I shouldn’t have done that, I know …’

‘Don’t worry, they’re used to it,’ he said. ‘Happens all the time.’

‘She didn’t seem to understand the situation, though. I mean, I have the judge’s permission. I am officially allowed to see Mariana.’

‘Well, ah, it’s not really the judge’s decision,’ said Wray. ‘I mean, he can say that he has no objection to your seeing your wife. But that does not mean that you can. Or even that she’s actually a patient at this hospital.’

I’d been comforted up to now by the delusion that I’d be able to talk to Wray man-to-man and sort the whole thing out. It suddenly struck me that he might be living in the same Alice-in-Wonderland world as everyone else I’d met in the psychiatric unit.

‘Look, I know she’s here,’ I said. ‘The police brought her here today. She’s bloody well here …’ I was conscious that my voice was rising. I thought of the gorillas waiting outside with their ears pressed to the door, and forced myself to lower the volume: ‘Why can’t you admit that she’s here?’

Wray frowned to himself. He pressed his lips together, deep in thought. He ran a hand through his tangled hair. He gave another ‘hmm’, grimaced and then said, ‘I can’t admit or deny anything about your wife at all, Mr Crookham. But I can tell you about the general conditions that I, like any clinical psychiatrist, operate under. Maybe that would help.’

‘I suppose …’

‘Well then, let me explain a little about patient confidentiality,’ Wray said. ‘It’s a matter of duty-of-care. Any psychiatrist, in any facility, is governed absolutely by the wishes of their patient. If a patient is eighteen or over their right to total confidentiality is assumed unless they choose to waive it. They may agree to limited information being made available to their spouse, or their parents. But equally, a patient may insist that they don’t want anyone to know anything. And when that is the case, we are obliged to respect their wishes.’

‘Are you telling me Mariana doesn’t want to see me?’

‘I’m not telling you anything about her.’

‘She’s my wife, for God’s sake. Doesn’t that count for anything?’

Wray sighed. His voice softened a little. ‘I understand, Mr Crookham, really I do. But there’s nothing I can do. I’m afraid that any kind of mental illness is incredibly hard on the patient’s loved ones in many different ways, and this is just one of them … Ach!’

Wray’s fingers made another trip through the wild greasy strands of his hair, pausing to scratch the top of his scalp. He frowned, then said, ‘Look, as well as my work here, I practise at a private clinic, hmm? When they come to us, some of the patients are in a terrible state, close to death, or suicidal. Their families are often desperate for news. I’ve had mothers calling me, wanting to know whether their sons or daughters are alive and I’ve not even been able to tell them that.’

‘But that’s just being cruel.’

‘I know … it’s not easy for us, either. But our first and only concern as doctors has to be for our patients. And those patients own their conditions. Whatever they are going through, it is their experience, their struggle and, in the end, hopefully, their cure. You see? So they have the right to decide whether they want to share that experience with anyone else.’

‘But they’re ill, you said so yourself. How do they know what they really want?’

‘Ha! Even patients who are psychotic or delusional in one aspect of their lives may be perfectly rational in another. And they can make reasonable decisions about the degree to which they do or do not want anyone to know about their illness. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, but I still don’t understand why patients wouldn’t want to be with the people who love them. Wouldn’t that make them feel better?’

‘Not necessarily. It might make them feel ashamed. Should they see a family member, or someone they love, and that person is upset, that will only cause terrible feelings of guilt. And the deeper the love, the greater the guilt. The patient thinks, “I am doing this to someone I love. I’m hurting them. I must be such a bad person.” This adds to the feelings of shame that they already possess about themselves: feelings that may very well have caused their problems in the first place. That’s why they can’t bear to be seen.’

‘Well is there anything you can tell me? Anything at all?’

Wray looked at me with a completely flat, unresponsive expression that was somehow more infuriating, more provocative than anything he’d actually said.

‘You don’t get it,’ I said, getting to my feet as my voice rose again. ‘I mean, screw Mariana’s guilt and shame! What do you think I feel like? I’m tense all the time, day and night. It never goes away.’

I started pacing up and down, desperately trying to burn off some of my nervous energy, ranting more than talking in an unbroken stream of consciousness.

‘I feel nauseous. My guts are churning and I’ve got a choking feeling in my throat. And it hurts, physically hurts, like I’m being bruised from the inside out. My mind is racing round and round, but it never gets anywhere …’

‘Mr Crookham, take it easy. Try to relax.’

‘Relax? How the hell am I meant to relax?’ I tapped a finger hard against my skull. ‘In here I’m screaming. I’ve got a million questions and not one bloody answer …’

I heard the door open behind me and saw Wray lift a hand as if to say, ‘Don’t worry I’m handling it.’ The door closed again.

Somehow the hand seemed to push me away too. I slumped back down into my chair.

‘I feel so guilty,’ I confessed, burying my head in my hands. ‘My brother’s dead, my wife’s locked up and it’s all my fault. They’d never even have met if it wasn’t for me. But I’m the one who’s free. I can’t take it. I’ll go mad if this goes on much longer. I swear I will.’