Cath Staincliffe - The Kindest Thing

Nevertheless the way the pathologist has set it out for us, the stepping-stones that Miss Webber has laid down, lead to a picture of ruthless intent, not one of a person pushed to extremes, and I wonder if Mr Latimer will cross-examine. Is there any finely phrased question that might redeem me? Any image he can elicit to show me as crazed and demented rather than efficient and cold? I catch my breath as he rises, but then he turns to the judge. ‘No questions, Your Honour.’

The first time Adam came to me in Styal was the worst – the unfamiliarity of it all, I suppose, the institution, the room full of bustling families and women prisoners all used to the parade.

My expectations bristled with iconography from the movies and American crime drama series on the box. Would we be allowed to touch? If we betrayed any emotion would a guard with a scowl and a nightstick yank us apart and slam me in solitary?

As it was there were no hands pressed palm to palm either side of a Perspex screen, no screens at all, no sadistic screw ready to pounce or cakes with nail files. It was all a little shabby and terribly depressing. The visiting lounge had all the atmosphere of a coach station – perhaps the shadow of parting and separation was similar.

‘Mum.’

We hugged and I wanted to hang on to him for ever. Adam isn’t as tall as Neil was but he’s got the same build. For a dizzying moment Neil was in my arms and when I opened my eyes we would be back home.

‘Did you find it all right? Did they tell you what to do?’ I made small-talk as we sat.

‘Yeah, cool. Miss Gleason sorted it out. There’s a bus from town.’

A moment’s pause and then we both spoke at the same time. I heard him say, ‘Sophie,’ and stopped. ‘That is so wrong,’ he went on.

‘Adam, I know it’s hard but… she’s not doing it to be mean… Something this serious-’

‘You could go to prison.’

‘I am in prison.’

He half smiled. ‘Mum.’

‘I’ve got good lawyers. They will do everything they can.’ I studied him a moment. I owed him a bit of gravity. ‘I never wanted you to find out like this.’ I felt uncertain; should I continue to talk about the situation, explain everything that had gone on or steer us into safer territory? My concern was that the strain would tip him into a reprise of his own destructive behaviour. ‘We can talk about this later,’ I offered.

‘I’m all right, Mum. It’s just Sophie – I hate her. Why’s she doing this?’

‘Adam, even if she hadn’t gone to the police there would still be enough evidence to put me here.’

He was surprised.

‘The medical stuff,’ I elaborated.

‘Even so-’

‘Have you seen her? Has she said anything?’

‘I got some fuckin’ lecture from her before she went to Grandma’s. Dad wanted this, right?’

I nodded.

‘Then what is her problem?’ His face was intent, his eyes blazing.

‘She’s hurt, she’s missing him, and I know we all are, but Sophie must feel that this is the right thing for her to do.’ It was ridiculous. There I was defending her when she was lining up to throw stones at me – but it hurt me so much that they couldn’t rely on each other to get through this.

‘Like I care? You did what Dad wanted, why can’t she just accept that?’

I rifled through platitudes and homilies, discarding them. Nothing fitted. I put my hand on his arm and smiled. ‘Tell me about the festival.’

He raised his eyes, aware of the clumsy change of subject, but went along with it. As he talked, various practical questions occurred to me. Things I needed to ask Ms Gleason about. How could the kids get money while I was inside? Did I need to give anyone power of attorney to deal with the house stuff? And Neil’s will? Would that be in abeyance until the trial was over?

‘The house is okay? No problems?’

There was a spark of irritation in his eyes. For my asking? Was I undermining him? I began to explain but he cut across me: ‘Fine except for Pauline. She keeps trying to ambush me – she waits by the bins.’ I laughed at this image of our next-door neighbour. We don’t get on and there have been a few run-ins over the years. She’s big on complaints. One of her better offerings was a request that we ask the children not to make so much noise when they were playing out. They were nine and six, playing out the best thing they could be doing. Noise came with the territory, and it wasn’t late at night.

‘They’re kids, Pauline, they need to let off steam,’ I tried to reason with her.

‘They make such a racket.’ She glowered. She hadn’t any kids of her own and I did wonder if there was some sadness there, grief that hearing Adam and Sophie and their friends at play tapped into, resulting in irritation.

‘You could try ear-plugs,’ I suggested.

She had snorted with annoyance and bustled back inside.

‘Just smile and ignore her,’ I told Adam now. ‘Any other news?’

‘I’ve got an interview tomorrow,’ he said. ‘A club in town.’

‘Bar work?’

He nodded.

‘How many hours?’

‘Don’t know yet.’

Adam had worked in a few pubs and bars in the previous year but never for very long. He was a poor timekeeper. I was glad he had the prospect of work, something to structure his time. He was all alone in the house. The fallout from our seismic shift in fortune struck me again. A month ago the house was home to a family of four; now the sole occupant was a teenage boy.

‘You seeing anyone?’

He grinned. Another flash of Neil in the alignment of his features and the warmth of that smile. ‘No chance. We’re notorious, aren’t we?’

Christ! I hadn’t thought. People in the city know each other. They gossip and chat in shops, on the corner, at work. My murder trial was front-page material. Draper and Shelley – the names must now be synonymous with sinister deeds, a savage end, a lying spouse. ‘No telling what you might do,’ I said darkly. Wit seemed to be the best defence. He laughed. I loved to make him laugh.

My mind rolled back over the years to previous scandals or tragedies that had touched our circle of acquaintances: the teacher caught downloading porn, the priest at Veronica’s church done for drink-driving, a colleague of Neil’s who ran off with a sixth-former, a friend of Adam’s whose father beat his mother and broke her jaw. We’d tittle-tattled along with the best of them, sharing our latent suspicions or our complete surprise.

And, of course, now all our friends and acquaintances, all Sophie’s mates and Neil’s colleagues would be swapping their reactions. All over Manchester Neil and I and our children were being picked over like so many bones.

It is Detective Sergeant Bray’s turn to talk about me. He makes an excellent witness: the same disarming manner and friendly approach as when he questioned me at the police station. The lawyers all have transcripts of my interviews and DS Bray holds one too.

Miss Webber establishes the date and time of the first interview and then asks, ‘DS Bray, is it true that when you questioned Deborah Shelley she offered no comment?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And in the second interview, which commenced at sixteen forty, that is twenty to five in the afternoon, she again offered no comment?’

‘Yes.’

‘And in the third interview Ms Shelley refused to answer any of the questions put to her but said only, ‘‘No comment’’?’

‘That’s correct.’

Miss Webber nods along with him, both sharing disapproval at this monstrous display of uncooperative behaviour. ‘DS Bray, you’ve many years’ experience in the police force?’

‘I have.’