Authors: Cath Staincliffe
‘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.
I
t 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.’
‘How many?’
‘Seventeen.’ He gives a rueful smile, like
how did I get here?
And the Prof smiles too.
‘In your experience, why do people choose to reply, ‘‘No comment’’?’
‘To avoid saying anything that may be used against them.’
I wonder if Mr Latimer will object to this: even though Bray’s answer is strictly true, it makes me sound like I had something to hide but he makes no move.
‘Ms Shelley failed to give an account of the circumstances surrounding her husband’s death?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did she answer any questions about his illness?’
‘No.’
‘About the family circumstances?’
‘No.’
‘About her own movements on June the fifteenth last year?’
‘No.’ His tone doesn’t change: there’s a steady, slightly downbeat note to it, implying he was saddened but not surprised.
‘When you conveyed to the defendant the forensic evidence that gave rise to concerns, did she offer any explanation?’
‘No.’
‘Please will you explain to the court what effect refusing to answer questions has on the interview?’
‘It makes it uncomfortable for everyone. It is frustrating for us, the police, but it is also difficult for the person being interviewed.’
‘It requires a degree of determination?’
‘It does.’
‘Have you interviewed people before who have found it impossible to sustain offering no comment?’
‘Yes, on many occasions.’
‘Did Ms Shelley answer any questions at all in the course of three separate interviews?’
‘Not directly but she did say—’ Bray looks down at the transcript to check he gets it right. ‘‘‘I love my husband. I would never harm
him.’’’
‘On the second of July last year you received notification that Ms Shelley was changing her story?’
‘That’s right.’
‘That she was admitting to manslaughter due to diminished responsibility?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it the case that if Ms Shelley was found guilty of murder she would face a mandatory life sentence whereas manslaughter carries no mandatory sentence?’
‘That’s my understanding.’
‘In your professional opinion what would be the reason for Ms Shelley changing her story?’
‘The forensic evidence we have is compelling. It is hard to see what other defence might be accepted by the court.’
‘Thank you.’
The jury have hung on his every word but there is no flourish of pride in DS Bray’s evidence. That is why he is so dangerous.
Mr Latimer picks up the transcripts and grins wolfishly at DS Bray. ‘Thank you, DS Bray. Please will you turn to paragraph three on page four of the transcripts. Will you please read that
for the court.’
DS Bray turns the pages. He looks across at Mr Latimer when he’s found the right place. His eyes lose a little of their sheen, or maybe that’s my wishful thinking.
‘‘‘Ms Shelley distressed. Interview suspended,’’’ he reads out.
‘Do you recall this?’
‘Yes.’
‘In what way did Ms Shelley demonstrate her distress?’
‘She was crying.’
‘She was crying.’ Mr Latimer repeats the answer and looks sad, as if he might too. ‘Was she calm?’
‘No, she was upset.’
‘Were you surprised?’
‘No. It was a distressing situation.’
‘In what respect?’
‘She was being asked questions about her husband’s death.’
‘Did you ask a doctor to attend to Ms Shelley?’
A slight hesitation, just a nanosecond but loud as a fart. ‘No.’
‘Even though she was so distraught that you had to stop the interview?’
‘If her solicitor had requested it we would have given any medical care required.’
‘Thank you. No further questions.’
Mousy looks disappointed. She liked DS Bray. Could have listened to him for longer.
The judge decides to call it a day. The jury rise and wind out of the court. He gathers various folders from his table and disappears out of his own door at the back of the room. Adam catches my
eye, attempts a smile. I wink at him and he screws up his mouth as if he’s fighting a guffaw. Winking might send the wrong signal but I reckon with the jury out of the way it’s not
going to affect my profile. The guard approaches and we set off. I’m taken downstairs and straight out to one of the vans parked on the side street. And back to Styal.
There are privileges with living in the houses – no official lights out, a kitchen where we can get drinks and make snacks and associate. We are not locked into our rooms
at night – only the main door to the house is locked – and we are left alone then, though we can summon help by pressing the emergency call buttons. We are ‘free-flow’:
trusted to move around specific parts of the prison complex without an officer escorting us. Women on the wing are escorted everywhere, their every movement checked. They have set times for
exercise in their own concrete yard.
I saw inside the wing one day, accompanying an officer who was returning one prisoner and collecting another to come and work with me on the reading programme. The rectangular building is two
storeys high; the cells run the length of each wall on both levels. The metal cell doors are thickly painted in garish primary colours: red, yellow, blue and green. It reminded me of a car ferry,
the same preponderance of metal and the tough wipe-clean materials. Bad behaviour could see any of us sent to the wing and subject to an unforgiving system of reward and punishment: red and green
cards. Red cards are issued for the slightest infringement of rules and if you accumulate three you are put into isolation, holed up in your cell day and night. Most of the suicides occur on the
wing.
Some prisoners I never meet, the ones who are segregated in the modern block beyond the wing. These women never mingle with the general population. They are deemed either too dangerous or too
vulnerable. They are escorted everywhere, many on twenty-four-hour suicide watch – they can’t even pee in private. Some are sex offenders who would be recognized. When possible the
prison mixes ‘nonces’ with the general population, though, of course, the women know to lie about the crimes they’ve committed. Those who might be recognized, their faces familiar
from news coverage, stay in segregation.
There are days when the whole prison feels pitched on the edge of hysteria. Four hundred and fifty women close to explosion, half of them suffering from PMT at the same time. A vertiginous mood.
Though there seems no bent to riot. When the dam breaks it is usually individuals falling off, losing their tenuous grip, feeling their nails tear and their feet flail for purchase. They’re
more likely to descend into madness or take a blade to their own flesh than attack their gaolers.
One night I woke to shouting. This was not the echoing chorus of women calling from building to building but something close and urgent, with the rhythm of violence. Before I had opened my door
the alarm sounded, a deafening shrill in my ears. Someone had summoned the guards.
On the landing Gaynor was red-faced, screaming at Stephanie, the pretty young Afro-Caribbean girl she was sleeping with. There were plenty of trysts inside and they were tolerated by the staff.
Stephanie’s face was swollen, one eye puffed up and bloody. Her nose was bleeding and her nightshirt patchy with dark stains.
‘Teach you a fuckin’ lesson,’ Gaynor continued to shout. Her fists were smeared with blood.
The guards burst in and we were roll checked, then sent to our rooms. There was more shouting, and banging as Gaynor was taken downstairs. From my window I watched them walking her down the hill
to the wing. She was still cursing and voices began to call back in response from the black windows of the wing, the telegraph already spreading news of the attack.
My life got a little easier without Gaynor’s jibes to deal with. I expected Stephanie to relax now her assailant was locked up, but two days later she too was shipped off to the wing. The
rumours were that Stephanie had sexually assaulted a girl in the gym.
On my wall there are two birthday cards, one from Adam and one from Jane. Nothing jokey about being over the hill or still up for it, thank God. For a while I distract myself
remembering earlier birthdays, the surprises I had, the homemade gifts when Adam and Sophie were little, many of which found their way into my workshop when I couldn’t bear to throw them
away. The time I’d been working away and come home to find the house full of flowers and a birthday tree (a yucca) hung with presents.
Sophie turned sixteen this February. I wanted to send her a present. In prison I am only allowed to order things from the Argos catalogue. I pored over the pages wondering what her grandparents
would get her, wondering if she had bought herself any of the things that I was considering. Although I have some money here, earnings from my job, they don’t amount to much at 15p a session.
I asked Jane to get Sophie’s present for me – I’d try to pay her for it later. Our bank accounts had been frozen. Jane has had to go to the Citizen’s Advice Bureau to help
her sort things out with the bank so our direct debits continue to be paid and money made available from our savings for the children. The bank’s not really geared up for this sort of thing
– one account holder dead and the other on remand. Not what’s expected of their platinum reserve customers.
I got Sophie a camera, a digital SLR. She was talking about doing photography at A level. There was a workshop in the prison stocked with graphic materials and computers where we could make
cards and calendars. I designed a card and sent it to Jane to include with the present.
I didn’t hear whether Sophie liked the camera. Would she shun it because it had come from me? I didn’t probe Adam when he visited. He sees her a couple of times a week but he finds
it very difficult, and if I mention her there is always a flash of resentment in his eyes.
I am lost in this chasm between Sophie and me. A trench so wide, so deep, filled with choppy water, sunken rocks. Her insistence on justice is familiar. When she was twelve I mistakenly accused
her and Adam of running up the phone bill, and told them they couldn’t make calls to their friends, especially not to the mobile numbers that cost so much more. Sophie’s face hardened.
She’d stuck out her hand for the bill and disappeared. She returned later and she had highlighted the calls she made. The cost of them was negligible. It was all down to Adam. She had been
furious at the unfairness of my accusation. My paltry ‘Sorry’ and my backtracking weren’t enough. She refused to speak to me for days.
And now here we are estranged. Two pinprick figures either side of a canyon. I ache for the sight of her face turning my way, the break of her smile, the tune of her laughter, the brief weight
of her embrace.
Tonight I lie awake spinning headlines and worrying about the children. When I sleep I dream of sinking sand: it is dark and I am out alone in a vast estuary, being sucked under, my legs leaden
in the mud, my nostrils filling with the cold, gritty stuff until my lungs crave breath and my heart climbs into my throat.