All She Ever Wished For

by Claudia Carroll

  Damien King, on the other hand, swishes into court surrounded by flanks of barristers and junior counsels, full of good-humoured chat and bonhomie, even waving to the back row of the public gallery, automatically assuming they’re all there to support him.

  ‘He’d remind you of a star football player stepping out to play in a testimonial match, wouldn’t he?’ says Barney to the right side of me, and it’s hard not to agree. Next thing, Judge Simmonds strides in to an instant hush around the court, calls us to order and initiates the day’s proceedings, inviting the Prosecution to take the floor.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,’ says Oliver, pudgy fingers and thumbs tucked into his swishy black gown. ‘You’ve heard a great deal about Mrs King’s primary motivation for withholding A Lady of Letters from my client.’

  ‘And I was really enjoying all that too,’ Edith stage whispers over to me while the Defence vigorously objects. ‘I was telling the girls at Bingo last night all about it and they couldn’t believe my luck in being here. Mad jealous, they were. Some of them said they’d even try to get a seat in the public gallery if they could, just to cheer me on. Wasn’t that nice of them now?’

  ‘Edith, you’ll get us thrown out of here for yacking,’ I hiss back, but Judge Simmonds is straight onto me.

  ‘I must request silence in court at all times,’ she says, sounding exactly like an exasperated schoolteacher dealing with a bunch of recalcitrant kids. ‘And that includes from the jury box,’ she adds, glaring hotly at me.

  We all settle down as Oliver continues.

  ‘Now we must ask whether there may be other reasons why Mrs King has behaved as she has,’ he says, directly addressing the jury box. ‘And once we’ve done that, then I think you’ll find everything else will fall neatly into place for you.’

  Is Kate King about to take the stand herself, I wonder, automatically finding myself sitting forward, all ears; because that would certainly make for an interesting day.

  ‘We know beyond all doubt that the Defence is in possession of the painting in question,’ Oliver goes on, ‘refusing to divulge its whereabouts, in spite of a lengthy police investigation. Not to mention no fewer than three separate court orders, all of which she’s chosen to ignore.’

  ‘Sorry, but I’ve got to object to that,’ says Hilda, springing to her feet. ‘Your Honour, we’ve been over this already, or maybe my learned friend has forgotten? Why would my client give back what’s her own rightful property?’

  ‘Be careful, Mr Daniels,’ the judge cautions Oliver and after a discreet cough, he resumes.

  ‘However, the Prosecution now feel it incumbent to paint a picture to the jury of Mrs King’s mental state in the run-up to her marriage collapse,’ he says, to a plethora of more objections from Hilda.

  ‘And why is this even necessary, Your Honour?’ she asks the bench indignantly.

  ‘Our aim,’ Oliver replies smoothly, ‘is to illustrate not just a motivation, but to provide a possible understanding for Mrs King’s refusal to give back the disputed painting.’

  Judge Simmonds pauses for a moment, then tells him to proceed.

  ‘But tread cautiously,’ she adds.

  Again, my eyes automatically drift towards Kate King and yet again, she gives absolutely nothing away. Just stares down at her elegantly manicured hands folded neatly in her lap, studying her palms and fingernails.

  ‘So for our first witness of the day, the Prosecution calls Dr Michael Shaw.’

  There’s a frisson around the court, but then Michael Shaw is a very well-known and noted psychiatrist. He’s always on the news giving insights and psychological profiles on cases just like this one, and even has a popular column in one of the papers called ‘Mind Yourself’.

  He takes the stand, all bearded and bespectacled, is sworn in and without a minute’s hesitation, Oliver’s on the offensive.

  ‘Dr Shaw, Mrs Katherine King is obviously not a patient of yours, but you’ve been summoned here today to throw a little light on a matter that’s been troubling me.’

  The good doctor nods as Oliver presses on.

  ‘During a thorough search of the property at Castletown House, a whole cocktail of medications were discovered on Mrs King’s bedside table, including Alprazolam, Bromezapam and Nitrazepam. When questioned about these during the course of the police investigation, Mrs King freely admitted that they were hers and had indeed been prescribed to her.’

  I look across to Hilda who’s frantically whispering to Kate, who in turn, looks blank and unreadable. Oliver then goes on to list a whole other clatter of prescription drugs with names ending in what sounds like ‘-azepam’.

  ‘My question to you is this, doctor,’ he goes on. ‘Can you outline to the court the primary reasons why any patient would have need of all those drugs?’

  Dr Shaw doesn’t even hesitate.

  ‘Typically the medication you list would be used to treat panic attacks, insomnia and generalised anxiety disorder.’

  ‘Can you outline the symptoms of those ailments, please? In your own words.’

  ‘Conditions of that sort may take many shapes and forms with various different patients,’ says Dr Shaw authoritatively. ‘There can often be a variety of symptoms. Physical ones, such as shortness of breath, dizziness, loss of appetite, hyperventilation and heart palpitations.’

  ‘And what,’ says Oliver, sounding like he’s actually gone and rehearsed this in front of a mirror, ‘of the psychological symptoms?’

  ‘These frequently include a great fear of losing control, and I’m very much afraid that’s the case with the vast majority of patients.’

  ‘Any other symptoms you’d care to add?’

  ‘Often a feeling of unreality or of being detached from your surroundings is also common.’

  ‘So would it be fair to say,’ says Oliver benignly, ‘that someone suffering from this type of anxiety very often aren’t aware of what they’re saying or doing?’

  ‘Yes,’ nods Dr Shaw. ‘Yes, I most definitely would. The side effects can include a patient often feeling a complete unaccountability for their actions,’ are Dr Shaw’s last words.

  ‘So there you have it,’ Oliver concludes. ‘We can safely assume that patients suffering from such disorders simply don’t know what they’re doing. Would you agree? A yes or no answer will suffice.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I would.’

  ‘No further questions, Your Honour.’

  *

  At lunch in the Ebola Arms this time, I’m sandwiched in between Ruth, who can be selectively deaf if her hearing aid isn’t on right, and Minnie. And the pair of them seem to have decided that it’s all over bar the shouting.

  ‘Not that Kate King is my favourite person or anything,’ Ruth half-shouts, I think mainly just so she can hear herself. ‘But to be perfectly honest, now it looks like the woman just isn’t in her right mind.’

  ‘Lots of people have panic attacks,’ Beth says stoutly from the other end of the table. ‘That doesn’t mean anything. My mum takes sedatives for them, she’s absolutely fine.’

  ‘That may be,’ says Ian beside her with a rattle of his man-bracelets, shoving lunch away and instead opening a packet of crisps that he’s had the foresight to bring in with him. ‘But I’ll bet your mum doesn’t go around hoarding priceless paintings that aren’t hers.’

  ‘Well I don’t know about the rest of you,’ says Jane curtly, ‘but I was shocked by the sheer amount of medication Kate King is on. Enough to open a small pharmacy with.’

  ‘Oh I absolutely agree with you there,’ says Minnie in between mouthfuls of soup so gloopy I actually have to eat mine with a fork. ‘If you ask me, Kate King hadn’t a clue what she was doing, more than likely. Her brain is probably just a bit befuddled. Sure I’m the same myself if I forget to take my blood pressure tablets.’

  ‘Still and all though,’ says Barney from across the table. ‘That painting doesn’t belong to her. Fair is fair. She has absolutely no right to it, in my o
pinion. The only reason she even wants it in the first place is to get back at your man, moneybags King.’

  ‘What are you saying over there?’ demands Ruth. ‘Speak up, would you?’

  Barney checks over his shoulder to see if Mona’s here, as we all automatically do these days. She’d eat the face off us if she thought we were chatting about the case, and continues to live under the delusion that we’re the only twelve people in the country not talking about it. Luckily though, she’s out of the room, so Barney goes for it.

  ‘Kate King, let me tell you,’ he goes on prodding the air with his soup spoon, ‘was disgusted with her settlement, so she decided to help herself to the single most valuable asset her ex owned. It’s as simple as that and you mark my words, our jury deliberations will take no time at all.’

  ‘Oh I hope not!’ says Edith disappointedly. ‘I’m really enjoying all of this.’

  ‘Ehh … sorry to interrupt,’ says Will politely from the far end of the table. ‘But shouldn’t we at least wait till we’ve heard Kate’s side of the story? Innocent until proven guilty, and all that. We still haven’t heard from her Defence yet; they’ve barely even warmed up. Should certainly be interesting as soon as they get going.’

  ‘Ahh, don’t annoy me, son,’ says a lady beside him who I think is called Daphne and who I’ve only ever had one conversation with, about how she mislaid her bus pass and had to pay the full fare on her way to court. ‘She’s guilty as sin and out to bleed the poor fella for every last drop.’

  ‘I bet Will’s only sticking up for Kate King because he fancies her!’ says Minnie with a laugh that’s more like a cackle really. I throw him a sympathetic glance and he just shrugs back at me.

  Then Ruth pipes up, ‘Sorry, everyone, but if you ask me, this bread roll is like a bullet. Anyone mind if I whip out my teeth?’

  *

  Mona has a job herding us all up to get back onto the bus because no sooner does she start barking at us, ‘lunch is over, time to move!’ than all the elderlies take that as their cue to make a dash – or rather a hobble – to the loo.

  ‘The bus will leave here in precisely four minutes’ time,’ sniffs Mona, unimpressed. ‘So kindly don’t take too long on your bathroom break.’

  ‘Gives me just enough time to finish this delightful dessert then,’ Will smiles benignly back at her, the only one of us still sitting at the table and actually eating.

  Meanwhile I’m gathering up my coat and bag, while Mona thunders off in the direction of the bathroom, no doubt to bark at everyone in there. ‘Fair play to you,’ I say to him, pulling my coat over my shoulders, ‘you were the only one of us who could face that bowl of … whatever gloop it is.’

  ‘Oh come on, semolina? Who could resist? Last time I was served a bowl of this,’ he adds, slopping a spoonful of it back into the bowl, ‘was back in boarding school. Ahh, memories.’

  ‘Three minutes and counting!’ we can hear Mona barking from the corridor outside where the loos are.

  ‘In fact throw in a few house masters parading over us, with a double maths exam scheduled for the afternoon and this is like an action replay of my misspent youth,’ he says, pushing the bowl away and getting up to leave.

  ‘Day care, I’d have compared it to.’ I smile as we walk out of the dining room together, down the stairs and out into the warm sunshine, where the jury bus is waiting for us. ‘For me this whole experience is the nearest I’ve come to being in an old folk’s home, ever since my gran passed away.’

  Next thing, Mona marches out of the hotel, herding Barney, Minnie and Edith ahead of her, almost like they’re hostages.

  ‘Quick as you can, please,’ she barks, ‘Judge Simmonds doesn’t like to be kept waiting!’

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ mutters Barney, clambering up onto the coach just ahead of me. ‘The Gestapo had nothing on that one.’

  ‘After you,’ says Will, taking my hand and helping me up the steps. ‘And whatever you do, don’t forget your Zimmer frame.’

  ‘Shh, or they’ll hear you!’

  *

  It’s stuffy and airless back in court this afternoon. As usual, it’s packed to the rafters and because it’s such a warm day, the whole atmosphere feels close to stifling. There’s a dense mugginess that’s actually making it hard to breathe.

  ‘Jesus, Tess,’ Jess hisses to me, as we take our seats in the jury box, under the full gaze of the press box and public gallery. ‘I’m going to find it very hard to stay awake. Do me a favour and give me a good dig in the ribs if I start to nod off.’

  ‘Kids have you awake at the crack of dawn again?’ I ask her sympathetically.

  ‘How did you guess?’ she yawns. ‘5 a.m. again this morning. I could have strangled them.’

  ‘Oh, you poor thing.’

  ‘Do you have kids?’ she asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Want one of mine?’

  Judge Simmonds bangs us all to order and even Oliver Daniels himself seems red-faced and sweaty, like the stifling heat is getting to him too. I glance around and notice that the only person who looks as unflappably cool as he always does is Damien King himself.

  And speak of the devil.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I now call my next witness. Mr Damien King.’

  It’s like a sudden shot of adrenaline has sent us all fizzing and in a second we all go from soporific drowsiness to full-on high alert. Radiating confidence and urbane sophistication, Damien steps from the bench where he’d been sitting with his legal team, nods briefly at the judge and without making the slightest eye contact with his ex-wife, takes the oath and strides up to take the stand.

  KATE

  Castletown House, April 12th, 2014

  Her birthday party

  ‘Looking fabulous as always, Kate, my darling!’ cooed Samantha Sullivan, weaving her way through the packed throng in the drawing room to air kiss her on each cheek, Mediterranean-style. ‘Is your dress Prada? Yes, I thought I recognised it. From the prêt-á-porter collection, am I right?’

  ‘You’re absolutely right,’ Kate chimed automatically, randomly thinking of how much Samantha had always reminded her of a parrot.

  ‘You know I was almost going to buy it myself only it was just a tiny bit too big on me. But then that’s the problem with being a size zero, the petite sizes always sell out so quickly, don’t they?’

  Typical Samantha, Kate thought. Giving a compliment with one hand, while trumping it with an even juicier one for herself the next minute. Outwardly though, she nodded politely, then murmured some lame excuse about having to greet more guests who’d just arrived, purely to get away from her.

  If it comes to a split between Damien and me, she thought, then he was more than bloody welcome to Samantha Sullivan and her ilk. But then she stopped herself short and quickly recalibrated that thought. When it came to a split between her and Damien, more like it. Because this really was it, this was The End.

  She could tell when he’d strayed in the past; it would all be done very discreetly of course, with nothing to ever embarrass her on her own doorstep. Still, though, she’d always know.

  One sign was that he’d suddenly start being a whole lot nicer and more attentive to her at home. Another was that he’d go out and buy her the most ridiculously lavish gift imaginable. But nothing topped this. €95 million for a Rembrandt portrait? This was serious, this was in a whole different league.

  Another drink, she thought, suddenly realising that her glass was empty already. Weird, she must be on her fourth G&T by now – or was it her fifth? – yet not one of them seemed to be having as much as the slightest effect on her. She started to weave her way through the ridiculously crowded room towards the bar, eyes firmly glued to the door on the lookout for one particular guest to make her entrance.

  Somehow she managed to elegantly dodge one friend after another, all clamouring to grab her, with a polite wave of her hand and quick, hostessy smile, mouthing ‘back in just a moment!’ Next thing thoug
h Grace Clifford and that god-awful husband of hers, George, collared her, standing right in her path and stopping her dead in her tracks.

  ‘There you are, Kate, darling!’ said Grace, trying to force her mouth into a smile, which was a considerable achievement, given the amount of collagen her lips were puffed out with. ‘Happy Birthday! We left a little something for you on the hall table on our way in. Nightmare buying you a gift; what do you get for the woman who has everything?’

  Lots, Kate thought. A faithful husband who knows how to keep his mickey in his trousers would be a very good start. But until then, a very large gin would have to do. Now. She eyed the bar hungrily and twitched to get moving, but somehow there was just no getting away from this pair.

  ‘A flying lesson!’ said George, almost sloshing over the glass of champagne in his hand, he looked that excited about it. ‘So what do you think? Thrilled to bits, I’ll bet!’

  ‘Yes … and thank you, very generous of you,’ Kate replied automatically, with about as much enthusiasm as she could muster. A flying lesson? For someone like her who needed a double strength Xanax before she could even get as far as the airport terminal? Did these people even know her?

  ‘Out in Weston aerodrome,’ George spluttered on, purple-faced from the heat of the crowded room and from the booze he was freely knocking back. Which reminded Kate, where were all the wait-staff who were meant to be circulating and topping up people’s glasses? If she could just nab one of them, she’d be fine.

  She glanced anxiously over her shoulder while George warbled on about the merits of flying a single engine Cessna against the advantages of his own private Gulfstream jet, a fiftieth birthday present to himself, from himself. Classic mid-life stuff, not unlike the vast majority of the men here tonight. But then you’d only have to take a look at George to know that he was clearly going through male menopause; the wide open-necked shirt, the trousers so tight you could practically see what he was thinking. Utterly vomitus stuff.