It’s a terrible shot, blurred and overexposed, with Noah doing rabbit ears behind his mother’s head. But it’s the last picture I ever took of Mel. It was our last summer as a family.
Get a grip, Jon. Get to work!
When I type “Slade Bristol appeal” into the search engine and hit enter, I get several hits. The most recent articles online – from The Plymouth Herald, The Bristol Press and The Bristol Post – were posted yesterday. Words catch my attention as I scroll down. Will the Court of Appeal grant Melissa Slade leave to appeal? … Melissa Slade to appeal against her murder conviction.
Melissa Slade.
Seeing her full name brings it all flooding back. My hand starts to shake over the touchpad of my laptop. I’m reluctant to go any further. But then I spot a piece from The Redcliffe Gazette at the bottom of the results page. Recognising the headline, I click on it. I feel my brow furrow as I catch sight of the byline: J. Hunt. I start to read the article, but I can’t take any of it in. It’s as if I’m reading a foreign language.
I go back to the top and start again. The words themselves remain meaningless, even though I’m the one who wrote them. But I know the gist of what they say.
I glance at the date. December 2013. Just after Slade’s trial. Eight months before our holiday in Barcelona. That was another lifetime. A different life.
A few seconds ago, I’d been staring at the holiday photo I’d taken of Mel and our boys. Now I find myself looking into Melissa Slade’s mesmerising green-blue eyes as she smiles her wide white smile at me, her sheer beauty at odds with the headline below her picture.
MELISSA SLADE SENTENCED TO LIFE FOR MURDER
This woman killed her daughter.
I’m not doing this. I’ll tell Claire to find someone else.
I’m suddenly aware of Kelly next to me, her loud sniffing filtering through my earplugs. I didn’t notice her come back. I delve into the inside pocket of my jacket, hanging across the back of my chair, and take out a clean handkerchief, which I offer to Kelly. When she has blown her nose, she manages a watery smile.
She says something, so I take out my earplugs and get her to repeat it.
‘Why’s she so hard on me?’
Claire can be hard on everyone. Because of her own quick competence and keen intelligence, she has little patience with people when she thinks they’re not pulling their weight. ‘I’m not sure, Kelly,’ I say. ‘Claire’s a perfectionist and expects high standards from everyone.’
I intend that to end the conversation, but I notice Kelly’s lower lip wobbling.
‘What did she say exactly?’ I ask. I don’t want her to start sobbing again. I don’t know how to deal with that sort of thing.
‘She said my latest copy was “unreadable due to numerous grammatical errors and spelling mistakes”.’
‘Well, that doesn’t sound too big a problem to sort out. Do you type up your stuff with the spellcheck on?’
I end up proposing to have a look at one of Kelly’s feature articles, more as a welcome distraction than out of the kindness of my heart. It’s an interesting story, about Bristol’s homeless, but it’s not particularly in-depth. While I correct it, I give Kelly a few pointers and tell her to find and interview someone living on the streets to add human interest to her article.
‘And get some photos,’ I say.
Next I read through a draft of one of Kelly’s pieces for the arts and entertainment page of our monthly print magazine. It’s a follow-up on an on-going local celebrity scandal, the sort of gossipy article I wouldn’t even glance at normally, but Kelly has written it in an appropriately sensationalist tone, and it only contains one spelling slip-up.
‘This is good, Kelly,’ I comment, which elicits a small smile.
She takes this as invitation to talk to me about her idea of setting up a weekly entertainment vlog.
‘I’ll have a word with Claire,’ I promise. ‘She should probably consider a rejuvenating facelift.’
Kelly grins, then pinches her eyebrows into a quick frown.
‘For The Rag, I mean,’ I add hastily. ‘Keep it,’ I say, as Kelly tries to hand the cotton hanky back to me. She scrunches it up in her hand.
She looks at me, a puzzled expression on her face, as if she’s trying to work me out. ‘I think my granddad is the only person I ever knew who carried cloth handkerchiefs on him.’
I’m not sure how to answer that, and I’m about to make a joke about her unflattering comparison, but I think the better of it. ‘I use them to clean my glasses,’ I say, shrugging.
It’s mid-afternoon before I can talk to Claire again. I’ve reread several articles on the Slade case, including my own. I’m still a bit hazy on some of the details, but I am clear about one thing. I’m not doing this.
It smells of cigarettes in Claire’s office. I suddenly feel like one – the itch has never completely disappeared, even after all these years as a non-smoker. I decide to scrounge a fag if she lights up, but she doesn’t appear to need one herself. She leans forward in her chair, resting her elbows on the desk and her chin on her hands.
I start by pitching Kelly’s vlog idea to Claire, aware that I’m putting off talking about Melissa Slade.
‘We’ll discuss it more fully at the next editorial meeting, but why not? She’ll be more presentable on screen than on paper,’ Claire comments dryly.
There’s a short silence, which Claire breaks. ‘Was there anything else?’
‘Er, yes. About Melissa Slade’s request for an appeal …’
‘Yes?’
‘Is there anyone else you could assign that to?’
‘Jonathan, it’s an interesting story and you’re the best I’ve got.’
‘Thank you, but can one of the others do it?’
Claire sighs. She takes a stick of chewing gum out of a packet on her desk, unwraps it and folds it into her mouth. ‘Is there some reason you can’t?’
Yes. There’s a very good reason I can’t. But there’s no way I’m going to tell Claire what it is. I don’t talk about it. Not to her. Not to anyone.
‘Well, it’s just that I’m really busy at the moment. You know?’ I can see from the expression on her face that I’m not convincing her. ‘Work-wise, I mean,’ I add. I don’t know if Claire has children, but I do know that she doesn’t tolerate anyone using their kids as an excuse for missing a deadline or as leverage for a lighter workload. ‘I’m going to the theatre tonight so I can write a review of The Cherry Orchard for The Mag, I’ve got a Sports Day to cover at the local comp tomorrow and—’
‘Jonathan, I’m giving you the opportunity to get in there ahead of the pack. This is investigative journalism.’
‘Claire. I can’t do it.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘It’s personal.’ I have to make an effort not to raise my voice.
‘So is this.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean it has to be you. It can’t be anyone else. It wasn’t my idea. It came from … Your name …’ She breaks off, as if she realises she has said too much.
‘Who asked—?’
‘Anyway, you know as well as I do, there is no one else.’
I rack my brains, trying to think of another journo who could take the job. I have to get out of this.
‘You never know, Jonathan. Maybe they got it wrong and Melissa Slade was innocent all along.’
‘Yeah, right,’ I scoff.
‘That would be a great angle,’ Claire continues, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘She did time when she didn’t do the crime.’
An image bursts into my mind. Melissa Slade, sitting in the dock at Bristol Crown Court. Impassive and cold. I was in that courtroom nearly every day. I didn’t see her shed a single tear. Not once during the whole three weeks of her trial.
‘She was found guilty,’ I argue. ‘She did it.’
I storm out of the Aquarium, only just refraining from slamming the door behind me.
Chapter 2
I’ve been seeing someone since I arrived here. A shrink. There’s no stigma attached to it the way there is when you’re on the outside. All the inmates I know have regular appointments with the prison psychiatrist. Anyway, he suggested it might be therapeutic if I wrote down my version of events. I don’t like that term – it sounds as if my version is just one possible account of what happened instead of the truth.
At first, I was reluctant to go through everything again, to relive something that was – and still is – so traumatic. But I’ve decided to give it a go and see if it helps. And although one day someone else may read my story – my son, Callum, perhaps – I’m really writing it for myself, so I can always skip the parts that are too painful.
So, this will be a sort of diary, I suppose, but I don’t intend to write an entry about what’s going on in here every day. Where should I begin? I should focus on the events leading up to my imprisonment. It all started when my daughters, Amber and Ellie, were newborn babies. If I could turn back time – and every single day I wish I could – that’s the moment I would go back to.
January – February 2012
It wasn’t the same when I brought Callum home. Back then, I was on cloud nine. It really was the happiest time of my life, just as everyone tells you it will be. He was a calm baby and this gave me the impression I was getting everything right. To my delight, the pregnancy weight fell off my body in next to no time with a little exercise and no dieting whatsoever. Simon and I continued to see our friends, many of whom had children themselves. My best friend, Jenny, was expecting her first baby, too. Once she was on maternity leave, she popped round nearly every day to see Callum and me and, as she put it, “learn the ropes”.
I would spend several minutes a day just watching Callum sleep, marvelling at how perfect he was, this tiny human being that I’d created. I’d devoured at least half a dozen maternity books during my pregnancy, but nothing had prepared me for the tsunami of feelings that hit me with motherhood. Unconditional love like nothing I’d ever known before, but also such intense fear. I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to protect him. He was my responsibility, a huge responsibility. From the instant I brought him into this world, he became my world and I became his. My beautiful baby boy, my life.
With Ellie and Amber, however, it was very different and I didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because Michael wasn’t as supportive and helpful as Simon had been. Or maybe it was due to my age. I was thirteen years older, about to fall into my forties. It might have been because there were two of them. I don’t know.
I remember vividly the first time I realised something was wrong with me. It when I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror above the sofa one afternoon. The woman looking back was unrecognisable. My hair was greasy and lank, my face blotchy and my eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. It struck me that I’d been wearing my pyjamas for at least three days and nights. The top had baby sick down the front. I couldn’t recall when I’d last taken a shower. I looked awful; I felt awful.
Amber – or maybe it was Ellie – started to scream. It was time for a feed. Instead of going to her, I headed for the bathroom.
‘Your mummy is smelly,’ I threw over my shoulder in a voice that didn’t sound like mine. ‘She needs a shower.’
I took my time, spending several minutes under the hot jet. Afterwards, I sprayed on some deodorant, put on a bit of make-up and dried my hair. Then I got dressed – into a maternity outfit – I couldn’t fit into my normal clothes yet, but at least I felt cleansed.
That feeling didn’t last long. It was quickly replaced by a crushing guilt as I came back into the living room and realised both girls were wailing now. Their racket would have been audible in the bathroom – except for when I was in the shower or when my hairdryer was on – and deafening from the bedroom, directly above, but I must have blocked out their cries.
I went through the motions on automatic pilot, laying them on nursing pillows so I could feed them each with a bottle at the same time, and then changing their nappies one after the other. When they’d calmed down and were strapped into their baby bouncers, I went into the kitchen and made myself breakfast. It was three in the afternoon.
Sitting at the wooden table, I remember glancing up at the clock and noticing it was now half past three. My porridge was still in the bowl, in front of me, untouched. I’d been staring at it. I had no appetite. What had been going through my head for the last half an hour? I had no idea.
It didn’t even occur to me to clean up the mess I’d made in the kitchen. I walked back into the living room, my legs heavy and unwilling, as if they’d been chained together. I looked at the twins. My baby girls. They were perfect. Amber had dark hair, like Michael and his daughter, Bella, and Ellie was fair like Callum and me.
I remembered waking up in a pool of sweat the previous night after a particularly vivid nightmare. In my dream, I’d fallen asleep, a baby in each of my arms, and they were about to fall to the floor. It wasn’t the first time I’d dreamt that. Far from it. It had become a recurring nightmare.
When I thought about the dream, two things occurred to me. Firstly, it reflected my fear that I was a bad mother. But I thought it also proved I cared about my girls. I didn’t want them to come to any harm. I found that reassuring because it meant there couldn’t be anything chemically wrong with me. Could there?
Looking at them jiggling on their rocker chairs, I could see how adorable they were. I just didn’t feel any bond. There was no emotion in me at all. I couldn’t connect. No matter how cute they were, or how much they smiled, the bottom line was I didn’t love my baby girls. Apart from a sort of detached numbness, I didn’t really feel anything.
I tried to discuss this with my husband. ‘Do you think I resent them?’
‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘I do too sometimes if I’m honest. After all, we didn’t exactly plan this pregnancy.’
That was true. It came about after I’d had a tummy bug. I must have thrown up my contraceptive pill. Of course, I only realised this about two months later – when it was too late – as I started throwing up again, this time with morning sickness.
‘Our sex life is pretty much non-existent at the moment,’ Michael added, looking at me in a way that implied he blamed me, more than the twins, for that.
‘It will get better.’
‘And we don’t see much of our friends anymore.’
‘I’m sorry, Michael. I can’t help it. I’m simply not up to socialising – I feel exhausted all the time.’
It wasn’t just that. I no longer seemed to have anything in common with my friends. Their kids were around the same age as my son, Callum, and my stepdaughter, Bella, and they were into terrible teens and GCSEs or A levels with their offspring, as we were, but unlike us, they were done with nappies and night feeds and baby paraphernalia.
‘At least you get to go to work,’ I said with a sigh.
Perhaps this was my main regret. I’d had a high-flying career in the police force. I’d made chief inspector at the age of thirty-six and I was heading my second major murder investigation three years later when I found out I was pregnant. In the end, I’d had to hand over the command for that particular case to take my maternity leave. Any aspirations of one day climbing another rung on the ladder had been put on hold. I hoped this was temporary, although in the weeks after the twins were born, I couldn’t imagine ever having the energy to go back to work.
‘Someone has to earn the bread,’ Michael said.
‘I know. I just feel a bit … housebound.’
‘Why don’t you go for a run? The exercise would do you good.’
I’d been completely addicted to sport before I found out I was pregnant. I ran two or three marathons a year, and did ultra trails. When I had the twins, Michael bought me a special buggy so I could go for a jog with them. But the winter was dragging on, Amber seemed to have a constantly runny nose and sniffles, and I was constantly tired. I hadn’t us
ed the sports stroller once. I hadn’t done any sport whatsoever for ages. Michael’s suggestion was a good one, but I didn’t feel like it.
I wasn’t sure how to pull myself out of the dark abyss I’d fallen into. But then one afternoon, Jenny came for a visit. I thought she’d been avoiding me, but perhaps it was just her busy life that had got in the way and kept us apart, even though she only lived up the road, or maybe I was the one avoiding her.
Jenny hadn’t given me much notice and as she stepped into the house, I saw it through her eyes. The place was a pigsty. She made us a mug of tea and rang her cleaner. Ten minutes later, a young woman arrived on my doorstep and introduced herself in a strong Eastern European accent as “Irena the cleaner”. In other circumstances, her greeting might have sparked some amusement, but sleep deprivation had robbed me of my sense of humour.
‘Let’s get the girls ready,’ Jenny said. ‘We’ll go out for some fresh air.’
So while Irena cleaned my house, Jenny and I took Amber and Ellie to the park. It must have been just after school finished for the day because there were lots of children. As we walked along the path, Jenny pushing the buggy, I saw a woman sitting on a bench. She looked how I felt, drained and dazed. She was unwrapping a chocolate bar for her little girl, who was jumping up and down impatiently.
But in the other direction a couple of women walked by, one with a pushchair and one holding a toddler by the hand. They were talking and laughing together, their animated made-up faces glowing with youthful energy. They made it all look so easy; they made me feel like a failure, as if I was inferior to these yummy mummies and would never be up to scratch. I burst into tears.
Using one hand to push the stroller, Jenny took my elbow with her other hand, and led me to a free bench a few feet away. She held me and rubbed my back while violent sobs racked my whole body. I’m not sure how long I cried. I was aware of passers-by staring at us, and I was embarrassed, but Jenny didn’t seem to be.
The Guilty Mother Page 2