The Kindest Thing (10 page)

Miss Webber turns Andy Frame’s attention to me. ‘You were also Deborah Shelley’s doctor?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And when did you last see Ms Shelley?’

‘In October 2008.’

‘You didn’t see her at all in 2009?’

‘No, not on her own behalf.’

I stiffen, waiting for him to mention Adam’s name. This is one of the worst things – not being able to insulate the children from it. But he continues: ‘I saw her on occasions
with Neil.’

‘As her GP, what would you deduce from her lack of visits to your surgery?’

Mr Latimer stands, but before he can say anything the judge speaks. ‘No deductions, please, Counsel.’

‘Sorry, Your Honour. Dr Frame, did Deborah Shelley come to you with any health problems in 2009?’

‘No.’

‘Had she ever come to you for help with psychiatric problems?’

Andy Frame nods. ‘Yes. In 1993 she was under a lot of stress. I prescribed Prozac’

‘But not since then?’

‘No.’

‘If she had been under stress again would you expect her to come to you for help?’

He hesitates but what else could he say? ‘Yes.’

‘And she didn’t. Thank you, Dr Frame.’

The implication hangs heavy in the air. I wasn’t off my rocker when I helped Neil. I was as right as rain.

Mr Latimer has a few questions of his own for Andy Frame. He asks him about my medical history. Was I a frequent visitor to his surgery?

‘No.’

‘How often did Deborah Shelley come to see you, on her own account, in the years between 1993 and 2009? How many times a year?’

‘I don’t have the exact figures here.’

‘A general idea?’

‘Perhaps twice a year.’

‘And when you prescribed the Prozac for Deborah Shelley in 1993 this was in the aftermath of her mother’s death. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long did she take the medication for?’

‘Six months.’

‘She could have taken it for longer if she wished?’

‘Yes.’

‘But she chose to come off the medication. Why was that?’

‘She didn’t like the side-effects, and she didn’t really feel it was helping.’

Mr Latimer pauses, turns a page of his notes and examines something.

There’s a juror on the second row, a weather-beaten man with long grey hair. I call him the Sailor. I imagine him salted and sozzled at ports around the world. He sneezes into a big white
handkerchief, interrupting the thick weight of the silence.

Mr Latimer returns to the task in hand. ‘And in the years between 1993 and 2009 did Deborah Shelley ever seek your advice for help with stress?’

‘No.’

‘For depression or anxiety?’

‘No.’

‘Did she ever ask for a psychiatric referral?’

‘No.’

‘The appointments she made were to discuss physical ailments?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So, even after her husband’s diagnosis, or in the time when there were other family troubles, she did not come to you with any emotional problems?’

‘She didn’t.’

‘Thank you.’

The questions end abruptly and the jury look a little perplexed. The Prof rearranges his legs. The Sailor glances at his neighbour, the eldest of the two Asian men who is very plump. He has a
little gesture, pinching the corners of his mouth together – it makes me think of someone savouring food so I nickname him the Cook. The other Asian man is much younger, with collar-length
hair, and wears a colourful handmade jumper. The sort of thing from a designer stall rather than an unwanted present. He will be the Artist.

At this stage Mr Latimer can’t explain what’s significant about the GP’s answers. He will get his chance later. But he has told me already that he wants to show how unlikely I
was to seek help, how Prozac hadn’t really helped me before so I wouldn’t bother asking for it as I became increasingly unhinged caring for Neil.

The prosecutor asks the judge if he has any questions for the GP. He does not. He thanks Andy Frame and tells him he may go. As he leaves there’s a little surge of activity among the
lawyers, notes referred to, gowns straightened, water poured. As soon as the door closes behind the doctor, Miss Webber announces her next witness.

‘Call Mr Byron Wallis.’

He is one of the ambulance men. He’s wearing a nice suit, a white shirt and green tie. I don’t recognize him but I realize he is the man who tended Neil while his colleague asked me
questions. He confirms his identity and affirms he will tell the truth.

‘Mr Wallis, you are a paramedic.’

‘Yes.’

‘You attended an emergency call on June the fifteenth at 14, Elmfield Drive.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Can you please tell the court what you found on your arrival?’

‘We went upstairs and there was a man in the bed. I checked for vital signs but he was dead.’

‘Did you carry out any procedures for resuscitation?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘It was too late. There were already signs of lividity.’

‘Can you explain what lividity is for the jury?’

‘After death, blood settles and pools. With a body lying on its back, like this one was, it’s visible in the underside of the limbs, the back, the fingernails. It’s the effect
of gravity.’

‘What would it look like?’

‘Discoloration, like faint bruising, purple.’

‘And you observed this where on the deceased?’

‘On his fingertips.’

Oh, Neil. Unexpectedly, grief clasps my throat. I think of his fingers, long and slender like a pianist’s though he only ever played a guitar and that with little real skill. Just good
enough to strum a few tunes round a campfire.

‘How long after death would lividity appear?’

‘From half an hour or so.’

‘And did Ms Shelley say anything about her husband’s condition?’

‘She said he had motor neurone disease, that he had been very ill.’

‘Do you recall seeing any medicines in the room?’

‘No.’

‘Did you look for any?’

‘No. We didn’t think it was a poisoning.’

‘A poisoning?’

‘An overdose.’

‘It was a sudden death?’

‘Yes.’

‘But at that point, judging by the information you had from Ms Shelley, you believed it was a natural death, occurring as a result of Mr Draper’s illness.’

‘Yes.’

‘No further questions.’

The first time Neil had raised the prospect was a few weeks after his diagnosis. We were still reeling from the shock and trying to find a way to interact. It was as if our old
routines rang hollow, as though a new sun shone light on habitual gestures and exchanges, painting them false.

But what he hated, what we both hated, was that for a while, every smile and glance and touch was heavy with the burden of his prognosis.

One night we got drunk. We’d eaten late and shared wine with the meal and more after. We were looking through old photographs. Sophie was doing an art project and wanted pictures of
celebrations. Neil and I ferreted our way through packets of prints, reminiscing about the phases the kids had gone through, the faces of people we no longer saw, birthdays and holidays and all the
in-between days when I’d got my camera out. I remained chief photographer in the family.

When Neil opened another bottle, I raised my eyebrows.

‘Well, I’m not exactly bothered about liver cancer any more.’

Giggling, I held out my own glass. ‘Silver lining.’

He poured and began to speak. ‘When things get bad, I want to be here. Not some hospice or hospital.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed, without hesitation.

He sought my eyes. ‘Deborah, if I wanted to choose when it happened, if I needed help . . .’

There was a spurt of fear in my stomach. His words sobered me up but I pretended to be pissed still, hiding my panic and slurring my words. ‘I’m sure the doctors’ll sort you
out. They do that nowadays.’

He wouldn’t let me go, his eyes clamped on my face. ‘I’m not asking them,’ he insisted.

I was scared, scared by what he was asking and by my own cowardice. I wanted to say no. My first instinct was to say no. I closed my eyes, tilted my head back to escape his scrutiny. When I
recovered and opened my eyes he was looking down at the coffee-table, his fingers tracing a line with the spilled drops of wine.

After a while we resumed drinking, sifting through the photos, but the wine tasted acidic, our recollections were superficial, going no deeper than the obvious anodyne memories: Adam loved that
trike, the time Sophie ate the sand.

That night I woke in the early hours, shaky and hung-over and feeling dirty.

Back then, I thought he’d taken my silence as refusal. That the question wouldn’t arise again. Whenever I allowed myself to envisage the outcome of his illness, the inevitable,
unstoppable end, dread reared inside me. Not just the dread of losing him, of bereavement, but the dread that he would ask me again. If I refused, what would that say about my love for him, my
compassion? That I wasn’t prepared to stand by him and let him control the event? And if I agreed, what would it mean? How would I weather the reality of killing him? How would I bear
breaking that taboo?

It was another six months before we spoke again about the manner of his dying.

‘Call PC Stenner.’

My neck prickles and I sense a frisson of interest from the jurors: a policeman – maybe now we’ll get to something juicy. He comes in, wearing his uniform, and is sworn in. His
blocky head and wide jaw are as I recall. He has an angry rash on his neck.

‘PC Stenner, please take us through your notes from the fifteenth of June, when you attended 14, Elmfield Drive.’

‘Yes. I had a report of a sudden death. An ambulance was attending and I was in the vicinity. On reaching the premises, I found the ambulance service already in attendance. I spoke with
Mrs Deborah Shelley, who reported that her husband had been terminally ill and she had been unable to rouse him that afternoon. She also stated that it had been only a matter of time.’

‘What did you think she meant by this?’

‘That he could die at any time, that it was expected.’

‘At that point did you make any further enquiries?’

‘No.’

‘Can you recall for the jury Ms Shelley’s demeanour at that time?’

‘She was quite calm.’

‘Thank you, PC Stenner.’

Mr Latimer gets to his feet. Some of the members in the jury box rearrange their positions. Are you sitting comfortably?

‘PC Stenner. Did you meet anyone else at the house that afternoon?’

PC Stenner looks blank. I wonder if his mind is working furiously or whether you get what’s on the tin. ‘The daughter.’ He’s got there at last.

‘Yes. And can you describe her demeanour for the court?’

The constable hesitates. He knew they’d want the low-down on me but he hasn’t done his homework on Sophie. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘R-really.’ There’s a hint of Mr Latimer’s stammer but then he gets going. ‘You recall clearly the demeanour of Deborah Shelley but have no recollection whatsoever
of the demeanour of her daughter, Sophie?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘I suggest to you that the reason you cannot recall Sophie’s demeanour is that there was nothing remarkable about it.’

‘I don’t recall.’

‘I suggest, like her mother, Sophie appeared calm. Do you remember she offered you a cup of tea?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hardly the actions of an hysteric. Let us return for a moment to your description of Deborah Shelley. She seemed calm. Would it be fair to say she conducted herself with dignity, as did
her daughter?’

There is a squawk of protest from Miss Webber. Mr Latimer cuts her off: ‘Let me rephrase that. Did Deborah Shelley behave in an undignified manner while you were at the house?’

‘No.’

‘Thank you.’

Mr Latimer has planted the notion of dignity, altogether a different image from the woman who had just calmly seen off her husband. Not cool and calculating but brave and dignified. Mousy gives
a little nod and that spark of hope tickles in my chest.

T
he judge suggests we break for lunch and the jury file out. Mr Latimer comes over. ‘Everything all right?’

I nod, a little dazed. The tension in my body is suddenly evident to me, running the length of my limbs, coiled round my spine.

‘Good.’ He smiles.

I wonder why he doesn’t invest in a new wig – or is the tatty relic some sort of statement? The legal equivalent of a Hell’s Angel’s dirty denims.

The guard escorts me downstairs and, after using the facilities, I sit in my cell. This is a windowless box with whitewashed walls and a bench seat across the narrow rear wall. Hundreds of
people have sat here, waiting to be called, to be tried, to be sentenced.

The guard brings lunch, a cheese-salad sandwich, bag of crisps, a pack of round shortbread biscuits and tea in a plastic cup. I eat half of the sandwich and one of the biscuits. The tea is
tasteless, an odd grey colour with little discs of oil visible on the surface. I sip it and close my eyes. My bones feel weak, my muscles feeble. I’m like a puppet that has had its strings
cut.

My case had already made the national press and television, so when I got up the courage to go into the prison kitchen and meet some of the women I’d be sharing the place
with, they all knew what I stood accused of.

There are eighteen of us in Shapley House; perhaps eight were in the kitchen that day. ‘I couldn’t do that,’ announced one of the women, flatly, arms crossed and staring at me
as I fumbled about trying to find the things to make a cup of tea. ‘Drug someone up, then hold a bag over their head and watch them die.’

The room was quiet and I stilled, not knowing how to reply. I set aside my cup and turned to leave.

‘You got any burn?’ the same woman asked. She had a crude tattoo on her neck, small, hard eyes. ‘You, Mrs Mercy Killer, you got any burn?’

Some of the other women laughed but I sensed unease riddled through it. The nickname was to stick. I became known as Mercy.

‘Any baccy?’

‘I don’t smoke.’

‘What bleedin’ use are you, then?’