Authors: Cath Staincliffe
‘That’s right.’
‘W-was the d-depression,’ he starts to stutter and segues into the chanting delivery that eases the flow, ‘severe enough to warrant medical attention?’
‘Yes. I saw my GP and he put me on medication. Anti-depressants.’
‘Did these help?’
‘A bit. Not a lot. Mainly it was the time that helped. The passing of time.’
‘How long did this period of depression last?’
‘About a year.’
‘And when you knew Neil had a terminal condition did you think you might become depressed again?’
‘No. Not at first. I was upset, angry – it just felt so unfair.’ It still does. His illness was unfair, his death too. I want him back. Perhaps this is the denial stage. People
write about the different stages of grief but I haven’t a clue where I’m up to. He wasn’t dead three weeks when they locked me up. Arrested development.
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?’
‘Yes.’ Oh, those macabre discussions about methods and dosages, cover stories and timing. We went over it again and again. Me rooting out objections, obstacles, dangers. Neil
persistently working it through.
Neil had spoken to a counsellor as promised. Now we had to plan his death. Spring was unseasonably warm, that day a cloudless sky. I was supposed to be working on some designs for a new
apartment block but I couldn’t settle. I went upstairs to see if he wanted to come down and have lunch in the garden. He liked the idea. Once we’d got him into his shorts and shirt, I
helped him to the top of the stairs. There, he lowered himself to the floor. It was easier for him to shuffle downstairs on his bottom, with me yanking his legs or shoving his back when he seized
up.
Sophie came in when he was halfway down. ‘You ought to get a stair-lift,’ she said. ‘They said you could get one, didn’t they?’
‘Yes.’ And there was a six-month wait. ‘Yes, I’ll give them a ring.’ Sophie got a text message and before long her friend called round and the two of them went out.
Neil and I had lunch, our talk desultory. I cleared the plates and looked out at him. He was settled in the patio in a high-back chair that supported his neck and arms. His face was in repose, his
expression reflective. The ache of knowing I was losing him bloomed in my chest. I fetched my camera from the dining room and photographed him from the kitchen window, zooming in to get a
closeup.
I took drinks out and joined him. Propped a long straw in his beaker so he could hold it in his lap and still sip it.
‘How?’ The taste of fear made me bark the question. ‘How do you plan to do it? How do we avoid being found out?’
‘An overdose.’
‘There’ll be signs, won’t there?’
‘They won’t necessarily do a post-mortem.’
I shivered in the heat. ‘Neil, I don’t know whether . . .’
‘Ssh!’ His look was gentle, indulgent, his olive eyes calm.
‘And what do we use, what drugs, how do we get hold of them?’
He didn’t say anything.
‘Could always ask Adam, I suppose,’ I muttered.
Neil laughed and I began to giggle, my anguish punctured. We couldn’t stop and then I was crying too but trying to hide it because I didn’t want to let him down.
‘Might give the game away,’ he said, his chest still heaving.
Rage flared fresh in my belly.
It’s not a game!
I wanted to scream at him.
It’s your life. It’s my life.
I stood up.
‘Where are you going?’
‘The Internet. Marvellous what you can find.’
It wasn’t, as it happens. There was information about the methods used in the Swiss clinics, doses of barbiturates preceded by a strong anti-emetic to stop the person throwing up the
drugs. How would we get those? Anti-emetic. Would travel pills help? Sophie always got car sick and we gave her tablets, which seemed to help – but whether they treated the symptom or the
cause I’d no idea.
When I typed
suicide
and
overdose
into the search engine it threw up everything from paracetamol to heroin.
Rejoining Neil, I told him what I’d read. ‘So we could try a packet of Joy Rides followed by sleeping pills but (a) we’d have to get hold of the stuff first and (b) if they did
a post-mortem it’d be an obvious deliberate overdose.’
I felt giddy talking like this, as if in a fever, the garden gleaming in the sun, the scent of cut grass and the bony claws of death crawling up my spine.
‘We need something that could be accidental,’ he said quietly, ‘in case anyone does get suspicious.’
‘Could shove you downstairs.’ I groaned. ‘I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.’
Neil reached slowly across and put his hand on my knee. I turned his hand over, pressed my palm to his, locked fingers, willing him to leave it now, to shut up.
But he carried on: ‘Or something I could have taken myself, without your help, without your knowing. Then, even if it does come out, you’re okay. There’s no risk.’
‘Something you’re already taking?’
‘Would Zoloft work?’ he asked. At that stage he had been prescribed Zoloft for depression.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Morphine,’ he said. ‘It’s in the breathing kit.’
‘A dose. Not enough to kill you.’
‘Andy Frame will give me some for the pain – the consultant suggested it. It’s also used for breathlessness.’
‘You’re not breathless.’
‘I could be.’ His voice was quiet, delicate.
‘And save it up,’ I said, cottoning on. ‘The syringes—’
‘I think they do liquid, too. To drink. If it’s hard to swallow, to get solids down.’
It seemed so simple. I coveted his equanimity. But there was a backwash of resentment, too, slapping inside me. I gazed at the crimson and yellow splashes of primula, at the buds on the maple. I
drank in the sweet, creamy fragrance from the magnolia tree. This, I thought, is what’s hard to swallow. That you want to go and leave me here. You can still talk and laugh and kiss and come.
Okay, so we’ll never dance again but you can still breathe and swallow, and yet you want to go.
‘Did you ever consider reneging on your promise?’ Mr Latimer savours the verb though I see Alice’s eyes narrow as she puzzles it out.
‘All the time. I went round and round it in my head, like a maze. I kept hoping he’d die before it came to it. Or he’d change his mind. I dreaded it. I was frightened all the
time but I couldn’t see a way out. Most of the time I just pretended it wasn’t really happening. I’d get these panic attacks when I found it hard to breathe, this terrible dread
like a paralysis.’