Cath Staincliffe - The Kindest Thing

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?’

‘Not good. Adam had taken an overdose just before.’

‘And as time went on and Neil’s health deteriorated how was Adam’s condition?’

‘Variable. The hardest thing was really not knowing whether he’d be okay or not. It was so unpredictable. He had a couple of hospital stays, in 2008, as a voluntary patient.’

Callow Youth looks anxious. Perhaps he likes to smoke weed but gets edgy. The Prof continues to look remote. Surely he’s come across drug use with his students. I wonder what his poison is. Fine wines? Then I remind myself he may not be the academic that I imagine. He may be a catalogue buyer or a window cleaner or a brickie.

Do any of them blame the parents? See in Neil’s and my treatment of Adam the seeds of his destruction? Are they judging me? Well, duh! The absurdity of the question threatens to make me smile. Not good body language as Latimer walks me through my descent from grace.

‘At what stage did you become ill yourself?’

‘I think the anxiety was there all along but I tried to ignore it. Then when Neil began to talk about-’ I can’t say any more, a ball of grief chokes me. I grip the edge of the stand. There’s a humming in my ears.

The judge leans forward. ‘Ms Shelley, this is obviously very difficult. Would you like a break?’

I shake my head. Find a word. ‘No.’ Fumble for the current of my thoughts. ‘Sorry.’ Good, Deborah, humility, weakness, that’s the style. ‘When Neil said he wanted to plan his death, it began to get worse.’

There is a rush of interest in the court. I see it in the way the PA’s sharp face narrows with interest and the Cook’s head whips up. See it in the way the press reporters at the side begin to scribble. The truth stalks closer.

‘When was that?’

‘In March 2008. About six months after his diagnosis.’

‘And he asked if you would help him?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was your answer to him?’

‘I said, no, I wouldn’t do it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I didn’t want him to die. I wanted as much time together as possible. And there was help available. Ways of making sure he had a good death, when the time came.’

‘Were you aware that he was asking you to break the law?’

‘Yes – well, I checked actually. I wasn’t sure, but when I looked into it, it was clear.’ Sitting by the computer, scanning the Internet, clicking back and forth, my stomach plunging as I found the same stark answer time and again. Now moves to change the law were gaining ground but too late for Neil. For me.

‘Did Neil raise the subject again?’

‘Yes. We had a holiday together in Barcelona, that September. He asked me then.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘We argued about it. I couldn’t agree to do it. I was angry that he’d asked me again. And I was sad. I’d hoped he’d changed his mind. Given up on the idea.’

Is Sophie hearing this, taking it in? Does she understand that this was not my will?

‘How was your own state of mind at this time?’

‘Shaky. I wasn’t sleeping well and I’d lost weight. I was depressed.’

‘Did you see your doctor?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I didn’t think there was anything he could do, really. I just had to keep going. Neil was the one who was dying. I had to be strong for him.’ This is the truth, not an embellishment to prop up my defence. I had felt frayed and woozy; my hold on everything was brittle.

‘Did you ask anyone for help?’

‘I rang the MNDA helpline a lot. Let off steam. But there didn’t seem to be any point in seeing a doctor. Nothing could stop the inevitable. It was something we had to live with.’ Die with.

‘And did Neil ask you to help him end his life a third time?’

‘Yes.’ There’s a wobble in my throat and I sound feeble. What might have happened if you hadn’t? You might still be here, loved and looked after. The three of us round your bedside. A Walton family death. ’Bye, Pa. ’Bye, Adam. ’Bye, Pa. ’Bye, Sophie.

‘And what did you say?’

‘At first I said no, again. But he was begging me. Pleading with me. He wanted it so much and I was so confused. I told him to talk to a counsellor. He said he would.’

‘How was your state of mind at that time?’

‘Worse. I was getting panic attacks.’

Late April and I am in the workshop. Dawn and the birds herald the sun, the raucous sparrows in the eaves, the liquid song of the blackbird. I am kneeling rigid on the rug, one arm wrapped around my chest, my hand at my throat. Pain radiates from my heart, robbing me of breath; my throat is sealed, skin slick with sweat. My mind is diving through the groundswell of terror, seeking to break through to the surface. Even in this wilderness I am able to appreciate that if this kills me I will not be able to help Neil. But it is not a heart-attack: breath comes, and the pain seeps away, leaving an imprint to haunt me.

‘I wasn’t sleeping properly and I felt sick all the time. I couldn’t concentrate on anything.’

‘So you agreed to his request?’

I can’t speak. I press my tongue against my teeth, dam my tears. The moment stretches out. Mr Latimer waits.

‘Yes,’ I whisper.

‘In your statement to the court you have admitted administering drugs to Neil and then putting a plastic bag over his head, is that correct?’

‘Yes.’ An eddy of guilt rocks me.

‘How long after agreeing to do this did you carry out his wishes?’

‘Ten weeks.’ Oh, I wish it had been longer. Another day, another week. I miss him so. I want him back now. Sick as a dog and weak as a kitten, I would take him in an instant, sit in vigil until the only muscle moving is his heart. Relishing the breath of him and the feel of his palm and the smell of his hair.

‘And having made the agreement, presumably you and Neil talked further about how to carry out his wishes?’