by Ruth Mancini
He nodded. “I’m really pleased for you, Lizzie. I’ll call you. We can talk again in a day or two.”
Back at the flat I took a lengthy shower and changed my clothes for a second time. I then picked up the phone, took a deep breath and dialled Oli’s number.
I hadn’t spoken to him since Valentine’s Day, the morning of Helena’s competition and the day of the ‘accident’, when we’d arranged to meet for dinner that evening. I’d phoned Zara from prison, once or twice, with the small amount of change that I’d had in my purse when I’d been arrested, but I’d instructed her not to let on if he called on the land line. I knew he’d have been worried when I hadn’t turned up at the restaurant that evening, or for work for the whole of the following week. I also knew that he, thankfully, never watched or read the local news. But I’d asked Zara not to tell him what had happened if he’d phoned her home number. In truth, I was mortified about having been in prison. Oli may have been sympathetic when I’d told him what happened the last time, but this time was different. I’d been charged with attempted murder – which would become murder, if Martin died – and locked up for it. Never mind ‘innocent until proven guilty’; there was no smoke without fire, right? That’s what people really believed.
I couldn’t bear the thought that Oli might not believe my side of the story and that he might now begin to question everything I’d told him about Martin instead. What if, at the back of his mind, he believed I really had driven at him on purpose? I feared that he would wonder what sort of a woman he’d hooked up with, let alone employed. The truth was that Martin’s injuries were so extensive that it was going to make it hard for anyone who didn’t know both me and Martin really well to believe that I hadn’t done this deliberately. After all, who really was that crazy that they’d jump out in front of a car?
Oli’s voice was full of concern. “Lizzie? Where have you been? Are you okay?”
I took a deep breath. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
“What on earth has happened? I’ve been so worried.”
I looked over at Zara, who was sitting on the sofa. She gave me a sympathetic look.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry I worried you. I just... look, Oli, it’s been so lovely working for you. It really has. And I think you’re a really special person. But it’s just not going to work out.”
Oli was silent for a moment. “I see.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “It’s just that... working with you after we’ve been... intimate. It’s difficult.”
“You don’t want a relationship with me?”
I took another deep breath. “No,” I lied. “I don’t want a relationship with you. And I can’t work for you anymore, either.”
I looked over at Zara again. She looked as though she were about to cry.
“I see,” Oli said. “Well, it’s obviously been a very difficult decision for you. I apologise if I’ve caused this, or done anything that’s made you uncomfortable.”
“Please, don’t think it’s you. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m just not sure about what I want anymore and I need some time to think.”
“Of course. Take all the time you need. If you change your mind, or if you want to talk to me, you can just pick up the phone and call me. You know that.”
“I do know that. I’ll remember that. You’ve been incredibly kind to me, and I’m very grateful.”
“I will miss you very much,” he said, his voice breaking slightly.
I screwed up my eyes and swallowed hard. “I’ll miss you too,” I said.
Zara looked up at me hopefully. I stood there wondering, for just a moment, if there was any other way round this, whether I was doing the right thing.
I thought of Christian, back home in France, also oblivious to the monumental change of direction that my life had now taken. I didn’t deserve his support and it wasn’t fair to involve him.
But Oli? I sighed. I wouldn’t be able to sleep or eat very much between now and the trial date in August, and I knew that I would let him down, one way or another, if I returned to work. I didn’t want to become a liability. I didn’t want to spend the next few months struggling in to the office without having slept the night before, and then doing a half-hearted job for him, when other people’s lives were at stake. I didn’t have a proper contract of employment at the hospital, but I was almost certain that there must be some kind of implied condition that I was meant to tell my employers if I was on bail, awaiting trial for murder. I just couldn’t tell Oli; I was too ashamed. It was too much to dump on a man I’d only known for a few months, both on a personal and a professional level.
“Are you sure about this?” Oli asked.
“I’m sure,” I said. “Thank you for everything, Oli. Goodbye.”
Zara looked up at me. There were tears in her eyes. “Are you okay?” she asked.
I nodded and went over and sat beside her. She put her arms round me and I clutched her shoulder and rested my cheek against hers. But I didn’t cry. I wasn’t going to cry.
*
The Oscar Pistorius trial started at the beginning of March. I went out and bought a Freeview box for Zara’s old TV and we watched it round the clock, whenever it was screened, until it broke for Easter and again for medical reports in May. Zara, of course, remained as convinced of the Paralympic athlete’s innocence as she was of mine. I was undecided, even as the prosecution case concluded and his defence began, but somehow, as the weeks had gone on, I’d begun to link the outcome of his trial in my mind with my own. The incident that had led to his arrest had occurred on Valentine’s Day, as had mine. He’d got bail pending the trial, as had I. If Oscar Pistorius walked free, then I would walk free. It was silly, I knew, but when you’re scared, it seems you grab onto things like this as an attempt at control. I could see that this was the way in which mental illness began. That and the many nights of broken sleep.
Catherine phoned from time to time, and, once or twice popped in to see me. It was an impossible situation for her, I knew, and I was almost certain that Sky would be pressuring her to take his side. I didn’t want to do the same thing. She was my friend, and I knew that she loved me and would be there at the trial, watching and praying that things went my way. But she didn’t want to lose her son in the process, and I, of all people, could understand that. I made a deliberate effort to remain cheerful when I spoke to her, and we both agreed (on Sarah and Dan’s advice) that it would be best not to discuss the impending trial. Although Catherine had told Sarah at the outset that she’d give evidence, if needed, Dan had assessed that she’d be of no use in relation to anything that had happened recently between Martin and I; she hadn’t been party to anything that had occurred. Her evidence would be limited to a portrait of Martin’s violence towards her all those years ago, how he’d bullied her, knocked her tooth out, made her lose her baby, and been violent towards Sky. But it was all unproved and unreported, and the judge, said Dan, would be unlikely to allow it in. I could tell that Catherine was relieved when I told her this, and I didn’t blame her. Her fight with Martin had been over for many years, and I could understand why she wouldn’t want to resurrect it again.
Now that we had the Freeview box, I became a complete news junkie; I had the TV set permanently to channel eighty and I watched it from morning ‘til night, and sometimes during the night as well. I’d always been interested in current affairs – I was a trained journalist, after all – but I remembered my therapist telling me, many years ago, that listening to the news was a good way of managing your emotions in times of stress, in that it took you out of your ‘frightened child’ or your ‘self-critical parent’ ego state and into your ‘rational adult’ – and it was true, it worked. Seeing all the terrible things that were happening in the world kept me in an interested, rational state of mind, in some strange way, instead of an emotional one. I found that instead of mirroring the turmoil in my own life, it enabled me to put my own fears and self-consciousness to one side for a while
.
I’d lie on the sofa, not bothering to get up, eat, wash, or dress most days after I’d slept there. I’d just switch on the TV as soon as I woke and watch the world events of the previous twenty-four hours unfolding before me. Every hour, I’d check the headlines again and wait with anticipation to hear of any new development in the Syrian war, the search for the lost Malaysian aircraft MH370, the loss of the second Malaysian aircraft MH17 a month or two later, the conflict in Gaza, or the attempts to control the outbreak of Ebola in Africa. The news was all heartbreaking, and I felt deeply for the people involved. But this, at least, wasn’t happening to me and it took me outside of myself. I was an observer of life, of humanity, of mankind. What importance did my life have, after all, in the midst of all that?
Zara did her best to get on with her own life, going out in the morning and coming home at night to find me in the same spot that she’d left me, my eyes fixed to the TV screen.
“Didn’t I hear that broadcaster saying that exact same thing three times this morning?” she’d joke.
I must have driven her crazy, but if I did, she didn’t show it. She was nothing short of kind, patient, and understanding with me, and it’s something I would never forget.
The only times I’d leave the flat were to attend appointments at the barrister’s chambers in Grays Inn with Sarah and Dan. Every time I walked past the pub where I’d spent the afternoon drinking champagne with Oli, I’d feel a sinking feeling in my stomach as I was reminded of my former life, my night of passion with Oli, and the happier times I’d spent during the months that I’d known him, eaten with him, or worked alongside him, my mind and my heart fully occupied with this lovely person and this job that I’d so enjoyed.
Martin was on the mend. His injuries were life-altering, but he was going to survive and, what’s more, was going to give evidence, in person, against me. I didn’t know whether to be glad or scared. I knew that, deep down, I hadn’t really wanted him to die, and of course it was good news that the charge against me hadn’t turned into one of murder. Sarah had instructed a crash expert and an engineer to comment on my driving and the condition of my car, which had skidded in the rain on impact, part of the reason why I’d lost control. But both the prosecution and defence experts were agreed that the speed I’d been travelling prior to the impact was a safe one for the road conditions at the time, and that the injury to Martin would have been minimal, had I not then increased my speed and caused the car to skid and hit the wall.
The issue for the court was therefore one of intent. Had I intended to hit Martin? Had I intended to speed up? Was he already walking across the road (on his way to the shops to buy a celebratory cake for Helena, as he’d told the police in the statement he’d now given) or had he jumped out in front of me, like a lunatic, as I claimed? It all came down to who the Court was most likely to believe, Dan told me. The prosecution, with the help of Martin, Sky, and Helena, would do their best to paint me as a crazy, overprotective mother with a grudge. Zara and I would, in turn, give evidence as to Martin’s recent aggressive nature, his own grudge, and my natural concern about his presence in my daughter’s life.
I knew, though, that my biggest problem was Martin’s injuries. The jury wouldn’t be able to resist feeling huge amounts of sympathy for him and being taken in by his story when they saw the photos, heard the doctor’s report, and listened to Martin telling them how he’d never walk again. I needed a way to show them just how crazy he was. But so much of what had happened between us had been for my ears only – he’d made sure of that – and even Zara’s evidence largely related to my character, her perception of me throughout the past eighteen months, my reasons for keeping Helena from Martin, and the things I’d said or done.
I entered my plea of not guilty at a hearing in early June. The trial date was confirmed and the judge made directions in relation to the service of any outstanding evidence by the prosecution. As the trial date drew nearer, my insomnia and listlessness grew worse. I knew that these may be my last days of freedom, yet I couldn’t bring myself to go outside and face the world, or enjoy the sunshine, despite Zara’s constant suggestions that we swim, walk, or go out for a meal. I knew that I was depressed, but I didn’t want to see a doctor or take medication. I knew that this was a reactive depression which was entirely related to my circumstances and I didn’t want Zara – or anyone, least of all myself – to think that I was weak.
July was unusually hot and the flat was stifling. If I opened the windows, the noise of the traffic outside would keep me awake all night. You’d think I would have been too tired to care much about traffic noise; I hadn’t slept properly for months. But the slightest sound – a speeding motorcycle, the heavy rumble of a lorry – would jolt me out of the deepest slumber, and despite the sleep-deprived absent-mindedness I mostly felt during the daytime, my mind seemed to be on high alert throughout the night.
Often, I’d fall asleep easily, sometimes with the assistance of more than one glass of wine, but I’d wake at any time between one and four, my brain chugging away, picking at the relics of my last conversation with Dan or Sarah, whole sentences repeating themselves over and over like a tape player that was stuck on the rewind button in my head. If I did sleep, it was that kind of semi-sleep that keeps you conscious and aware. It was as if I were sleeping close to the surface of a body of water, bobbing around and dipping down a little here and there into an irrational thought or the semblance of a dream, but always rising to the surface again to feel the sofa underneath me, the sheet over me, and to hear the fan that Zara and I had bought from Homebase, whirring away in the corner of the room.
Occasionally, when I was truly exhausted, I’d sleep heavily for a few hours, only to wake far too early, hot and frightened, after a dream about the trial that had left the adrenaline coursing through my body like a lethal injection. Usually, I’d wake up before the verdict, but sometimes not. Sometimes I’d walk free, and Helena would be there, hugging me and saying that she believed me, after all. When I woke, I’d want to die, the pain of her absence leaving me hollow and lower than I’d ever thought it possible to go.
Other times, I’d spend the night in prison, where I’d appear to be in solitary confinement, in a darkened cell with the occasional faceless prison officer appearing outside to talk nonsense to me, stuff that just didn’t make any sense. It was the isolation that pervaded these dreams, the feeling that I was utterly alone, and I know that that part wasn’t nonsense. It was as real as anything could ever be.
I missed Helena. I missed her more than I could ever think possible. My love for her had no outlet, nowhere to go, and so it just lay dormant inside me, eating me up. I hated Martin, with equal passion. But, for some reason, it was Sky’s face that I saw when I closed my eyes: Sky’s grinning, mocking face, with the laughing eyes, the eyes that had been watching me – and blaming me – all along. Was I wrong to hold him responsible for what had happened? After all, he was just a kid. But he was also the linchpin that had brought us all together – me, Helena, Catherine and, finally, Martin – before he tore us all apart.
22
The prosecutor has finished opening the case against me and has now asked for a short adjournment for some legal argument before Martin takes the stand.
Dan exits the courtroom and calls me into the conference room.
“I’m afraid the prosecution are going to make a last minute bad character application against you,” he tells me. “Regarding the knife incident last September.”
My heart skips a beat. “What? Now? I thought they’d agreed? You told me that it wasn’t proved and although they could mention it at the bail hearing, no-one was going to bring previous unproved allegations into all of this?”
“I know. That was the position, until now. It’s Martin, apparently. He didn’t realise it wasn’t going in, and he’s kicked up a stink. The pross don’t want to do this, they have advised him against it, because, technically, if unproved evidence from the past is allowed in,
we could retaliate and get Catherine on the stand.”
“Well, can we, then?”
“I don’t know if the judge will allow it,” Dan admits. “It was a long time ago. There has to be some nexus in time between the offence charged and the misconduct alleged. If the jury has to determine these side issues relating to character, then it could detract from the issue in hand.”
“But they’ll have to do that with the ‘knife incident’ too, won’t they? That’s a side issue – and one that’s not proved. And I’ll be telling the jury the reasons why I had a knife in my hand that day: because Martin had just pinned me to the ground and tried to rape me!”
“Indeed you will.”
“And then they’ll have to determine the truth of that, as well.”
Dan nods. “I’ll oppose it, obviously. And I’ll make a counter-application if it succeeds. But in all honesty, I’m not hopeful. What happened between Martin and Catherine was probably too long ago.”
Zara looks up from behind the glass window of the waiting room as I follow Dan back into the courtroom. I mouth, “See you later,” and Zara holds up her fingers and gives me the ‘okay’ sign.
The judge is critical of the Crown’s application and concedes Dan’s point that it has been made late, and without notice. He is, however, swayed by the prosecutor’s description of Martin’s poor health and condition.
“The aggrieved in this matter, Martin Brown, has spent the past six months in hospital,” she tells him. “An early trial date was set blindly without any kind of certainty as to whether he would actually live to see it, or, indeed, be well enough to give evidence if he did. He made his witness statement from a hospital bed with tubes coming in and out of his arms, stomach and pancreas. He really hadn’t had sufficient time to fully absorb the full nature of the prosecution’s intended presentation of his case.”
The judge nods. “Alright,” he says, finally. “I’ll allow the application.”