I closed my eyes. Tears rolled down my face.
I just wanted him to have the book.
They had my evidence. The evidence I’d saved to protect me, was now going to be used to hang me. And my memory stick – they had taken the heart that held my story. I couldn’t explain it all to Richard.
‘I’m in London somewhere – I’m sorry. I don’t understand all the charges. Are William and Elyse okay?’ My face screwed up with emotion.
‘No, course they’re not okay. William is distraught. He’s scared and Elyse doesn’t really understand what is happening but she’s asking for her mummy. What am I supposed to tell them?’ I could hear his voice was on the verge of breaking. ‘Your mum and dad are on their way to fetch them. I want to know exactly what you’ve done?’
‘I’m not sure. The police are asking if I want a solicitor do you think I—’
‘Do what you like – but you can forget me forking out for one.’
‘It’s free,’ I tried.
‘You can go to hell for all I care.’
Richard hung up and I slid down the wall leaving the phone hanging. I wanted William and Elyse. I needed to hear their voices. I wanted to speak to Maddy. I thought about Steve, in jail. I needed my Mum, Dad and Richard. Even Grandmama couldn’t help me now.
My emotions shut down.
The custody sergeant pulled me from the floor and then placed the receiver back on the hook.
‘You do understand what is happening, Nicole? You are being detained overnight and will be interviewed sometime in the morning. You can make a decision about a solicitor tomorrow.’
‘I’ll take the solicitor.’
I didn’t cry or sleep. I tried to clean myself the best I could with the few unexpected toiletries they’d provided, but then spent the night in a catatonic state staring at the cell’s far wall. All I wanted was to be home and snuggled in bed with William, Elyse and Richard.
The cell door opened. I was muddled with time, not having my watch, but the wasted breakfast that they’d sent in earlier had indicated then that it was morning. A woman officer stood in the frame.
‘Nicole. Your solicitor is here, could you follow me please.’
I was taken to a private room and was greeted with a Savile Row-suited man wearing shiny black shoes on enormous feet.
‘Hello, Nicole, I’m David Trevellyn-Smith, duty solicitor, appointed to act on your behalf.’
I didn’t take the hand offered. I didn’t want to touch anyone or for anyone to touch me. He lowered his hand.
‘Nicole. If I am to help you, you have to trust me. I am a duty solicitor, but despite what people say about us, I am independent from the police. Anything you say in this room is protected by legal privilege. Everything you tell me is in confidence. Do you understand Nicole? We haven’t got long before they want to commence the interview.’
I nodded my head to confirm I understood. I then started to look around the room – it was empty but for a couple of chairs and posters on the wall, one of which was for an anti-weapon campaign launched only a few weeks earlier.
‘Nicole, will you stop looking around you like the room is bugged and look at me please. I cannot emphasise enough how important it is for you to stay strong in this interview. Right let’s see, I’ve got here some notes tha—’ he began, but then he somehow managed to drop the papers on the floor. ‘Oopsy daisy,’ he said before going to pick them up. Obviously the notes he had were on me.
I spotted something I desperately wanted round a section of the pages.
‘Can I have the elastic band?’ I asked.
He was back to full height, he was well over six feet and had a kind, fatherly face with thick wavy hair that needed a good trim, but he looked in far better shape than I must have done. In normal circumstances I probably would have found him endearing.
‘Elastic band?’ he repeated.
‘To tie back my hair – I need to get the smell of sick away from my face,’ I was convinced it was still lingering in my hair.
‘Right…right…of course. Yes, no problem,’ he said passing it over. ‘I think we should sit down.’
I sat a one of the chairs opposite him while tying back my hair. I had to force myself to listen for the sake of my family.
‘Have you managed to eat or drink anything since being in here?’
‘No,’ I said. It was a ridiculous question.
‘But, it seems they’ve declared you fit to interview. Nicole, I have a whole bundle of offences here, Malicious Communications, Harassment, Offensive Weapon in a Public place, Threat to Kill. So let’s get the big question out of the way: did you intend to kill Anthony Hope?’
‘No…of course not.’
‘That is good because you are going to need to hold onto that thought in the interview room.’
‘I had a nightmare on the train that I had accidentally stabbed him. I was still dragging myself out of it when the police were pulling me from the carriage. It was the most horrific dream I’v—’
‘For heaven’s sake, stop! Please…do…not…say…that in the interview. Have you not heard of mens rea? Guilty mind?’
‘No. Yes. No. Probably. But it is ridiculous to say I would ever kill him. I’m not a killer.’
‘I must say; you’ve not exactly made this easy on yourself by posting an entire book on the Internet.’ He inhaled a deep breath then exhaled as he spoke. ‘Dearie me! What ever possessed you?’
He turned and spoke to the window. ‘It would have been so much easier for you, if you’d kept any revenge you felt necessary down to a simple little letter or email, like most would. But you haven’t so…’ then he stopped whatever he was going to say. ‘That wretched Facebook destroys so many lives.’
He turned back to me, and continued: ‘As a consequence of your book the police will know every one of your strengths and weaknesses, and will play you for all its worth – which could be a long time in prison if you foolishly say in there that you did “intend” to kill or even harm Anthony Hope. And you have involved an awful lot of police time and resources: e-crime unit, British Transport Police, Metropolitan Police. They’re not going to be too pleased with you, Nicole. You’ve caused some chaos and they believe they’ve pre-empted a murder at the very worst. This is your first offence, isn’t it? You have told the truth on the Risk Assessment forms that were completed yesterday?’
‘I was arrested for shoplifting. But I was fourteen. I don’t think it was even a proper caution they gave me.’
He thoughtfully chewed his lip. ‘The other thing I have to ask is, if you didn’t “intend” to kill – why in heavens name were you carrying a knife and why did you threaten to kill him on Facebook?’
‘I didn’t threaten to kill him on Facebook. I tried to warn Anthony I was heading his way with my book. And it was a legal knife; the shop assistant who sold it said so.’
‘Based on the areas they want to question you – and I am reading between the lines here, as the police do keep their cards close to their chest with the notes they give us – but they seem to think they have Facebook evidence to the contrary regarding the death threat.
‘They’ve misinterpreted my words.’ I said. I knew exactly what the police had gone and done. ‘They’ve not realised that “dead man walking” was a reference to the dead author Anthony Hope, it was my coded message to alert Anthony that I was heading his way. I can explain it to them,’ I said hopefully. ‘This is a big misunderstanding, they’ve misconstrued my words. I know I shouldn’t have put my book on the internet and I know that they will probably try and charge me with something for it. But I was angry. This man had played me for a fool and sent my head crazy with his game. But I would never kill him or even harm him.’
‘But you have given this man enough evidence, ammunition to say that he feels threatened by you. And with your book they have enough for a course of conduct as far as the Harassment Act goes.’
‘I’m not threatening. I haven’t done anything threat
ening. I’ve merely told the truth about what had happened and how it has affected me.’ Why didn’t anyone care about the effect on me?
‘Let’s get back to the knife for a minute, we’re digressing. You are quite right, a three-inch blade is perfectly legal providing it isn’t proven that you were intending to use it to cause fear, harm or kill. If you were then the law changes and it becomes an “offensive weapon”. So why did you have the knife if you didn’t intend to kill or use it to cause fear, Nicole?’
I tried to think. Why did I have the knife? I had no idea why I had the knife in my pocket.
‘Self-defence,’ I said, ‘to protect myself.’ Surely that was a reasonable excuse? I tried to explain it to him: ‘Someone has been texting Richard periodically for well over a year. The last text they sent was on Christmas Eve and it looked like they wanted me dead, if you interpret “dog”, as meaning “bitch”. It said: “waste dog, duck out”. And I constantly have the feeling of being watched. Lots of strange things have happened. We have a number for the last text to prove what I am saying, but no one has ever answered the phone – it permanently goes to answerphone.’ This was the truth. But not the real reason I had the knife because I genuinely did not know why I had the knife in my pocket – it was just there.
‘Okay, the text is a separate issue. Did Richard your partner, I’m presuming he is your partner, report the texts to the police?’
‘No. He refused to.’
‘Right, right…perhaps then, he should at some stage. But those texts are not the issue we are dealing with here and you’re not quite grasping the legal concept of “reasonable excuse”. There is no defence in carrying potentially dangerous items for self-defence. It simply proves that you intended to use the knife as an offensive weapon, if necessary. So given that, you still have no idea why you were carrying the knife?’
‘No. It was just in my pocket.’
‘Just in your pocket, and you didn’t intend to kill him?’
‘No,’ I said resolutely.
There was a knock on the door, the same woman officer who took me out of the cell only minutes before entered. ‘Sorry for the intrusion, but this is important. The situation has changed somewhat.’
‘Camping trip!’ I said. ‘The knife was obviously still in my cream-jacket pocket from a camping trip. I remember. I mentioned it in my book. I have proof. It’s just unfortunate it got left in my pocket.’ Surely this was enough to let me go home?
The solicitor ushered the officer out of the door, obviously to move from my earshot. They had to be arranging for me to go home. He came back into the room.
‘Nicole, it seems that the police cannot interview you as per PACE guidelines.’
‘What’s PACE?’ I asked confused.
‘It’s an Act with guidelines that the police have to follow and failure to follow procedure in given circumstances can result in any statements you make not being admissible in court.’
I pulled a face. He still wasn’t making any real sense. What hadn’t the police done that they should have? Was this good for me?
He continued. ‘Nicole, it seems you have said things in your book which will cause them problems getting anything through the CPS, Crime prosecution because of…,’ he paused. ‘Let’s say your health for now. Nicole, you are who you say you are, aren’t you?’
‘Of course I am. So does that mean they’re letting me go home?’ I said optimistically. They’d obviously seen sense, my actions were justified, provoked.
‘Not quite,’ he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Patient number: Overleaf Psychiatric Doctor: Dr Jane Tondal
Date: 15th October 2010 Provisional Diagnosis: ICD-10, F20.0 & 300.14
Patient was arrested 7th January 2010 by the Metropolitan Police. Her case was referred to FTAC and she was transferred by the police using powers under section 136 of the Mental Health Act for independent mental assessment.
Initially detained for 28 days (MHA S2) before conditions set for outpatient treatment.
Trigger for criminal activity: De Clerambault’s Syndrome: phase of hope followed by phase of resentment.
JT: Are you happy to continue with this session now, Nicole?
Nicole: Yes
(As observed in previous sessions, Nicole picked up the Mind Maze puzzle. From this point in the interview she repeatedly guided the ball through the maze – avoiding all eye contact with me. She sat with one leg curled under and the other leg restlessly kicking against the armchair.)
JT: You do seem exceptionally edgy today. I can reassure you that Cognitive Behaviour Therapy has been proven highly successful when combined with medication. If you would at least try to let me help you, then we can manage this together – help you lead as normal life as possible.
Nicole: There is nothing wrong with me.
JT: That is the difficulty with this type of disorder, sufferers feel normal because for the most part they function perfectly normally in most activities. Can you understand that?
Nicole: Yes, and I’m sick of being told it nearly every time we meet.
JT: You do understand that we are trying to get you to explore the reality of your thoughts and perceptions. To help you distinguish between what is true and real, and what isn’t. You remember having this explained to you, at the hospital?
Nicole: Yes. I remember. It is so that I don’t react dangerously to my hallucinations or delusions. It is so that I don’t harm myself or anyone else.
JT: Yes, Nicole. It is good that you are acknowledging that.
Nicole: Stop patronising me. And I’m not ill.
JT: Nicole, tell me why you attacked the doctor at the hospital?
Nicole: Oh come on, I didn’t attack the doctor. I’d been unnecessarily sectioned for a month, or near as damn it. I had two choices, sit and do nothing while they did test after test, ask question after question, PET scans, CAT scans, basically treat me like a lab rat, or I could use the time they’d pulled me from my children to re-write my book. It was all fine until they started injecting me with drugs and the writing became difficult – I couldn’t think and I barely wanted to move. I started to struggle. But I had a lucid moment and wanted to get something written down before they took me for more tests. All I needed was two more minutes, but the doctor tried to take my paper from me. I instinctively slammed my pen against the paper and accidently caught the doctor’s hand. I didn’t attack him. The hospital twisted the story.
JT: That’s a matter of opinion. You were not sent to a writer’s retreat. The report from the hospital does state that you were obsessive about writing the book and you had socially withdrawn yourself from the other patients.
Nicole: The place was full of nutters, and I had too much to do to bother making small talk with them.
JT: But this was a book that you had already written and posted all over the Internet. The hospital doctors’ considered this as your way of ensuring that you were entwined with Anthony Hope forever. You were writing the book over and over again. It was another one of your symptoms.
Nicole: That is rubbish, I was re-drafting and editing. It was a balls-ache because I had to do it all long-hand. But I was rewriting the book to turn Anthony Hope into fiction, just like the character in the old Simon Dale novel. I decided that it was far better to be moral and protect Anthony’s true identity. Who he really was only mattered to me and I didn’t want to be a dark shadow hanging over his relationship. I was wrong to plaster it all over the Net in the first place – it made me weak. But I had twenty-eight days of being locked-up to revise the whole book. But yet again, the hospital has gone and twisted things.
JT: Finding it increasingly difficult to write would be the dopamine levels in your brain reducing to normal levels. You might be interested to know that excessive levels of dopamine occur from drugs use, smoking and stress. In your case, we think your company collapsing and the financial stress was the trauma that triggered the excess dopamine sending you into an acute phase of you
r condition. It makes you want to take risks and be sexually adventurous – a bit like adrenaline, your body craves the dopamine rush. You did show early signs of this with your crush on your company’s administrator – that was before you fixated on Anthony. It was all part of the same thing. I’m sure you are intelligent enough to see that.
Nicole: But I haven’t had delusions or hallucinations.
JT: Nicole, I know your experiences are very real to you. To everyone else they’re not. We call the type you have experienced, non-bizarre hallucinations. This is because each one could be remotely possible depending on the majority population’s held values and beliefs. I accept that different cultural values do make diagnosis of this disorder so complicated. But it is also what makes your condition so difficult for you to recognise.
Nicole: My so-called hallucinations and delusions all seem possible because everything I said happened – did happen.
(Words spoken in anger and the patient aggressively threw the Mind Maze ball at the far wall. The force caused it to smash into several pieces. Patient sat motionless while I collected the pieces.)
JT: Nicole, why did you say you lived in a St Byrke-Crale, an anagram for cyber-stalker?
Nicole: Because I knew what would be thrown at me after I spoke to the journalist Juliet. I decided to put the rope around my own neck.
JT: Rope around your neck? Are you feeling suicidal?
Nicole: No, it was a figure of speech.
JT: Nicole if you have suicidal thoughts – you must tell me, because it will be another one of your symptoms, we can increase your medication.
Nicole: I am not suicidal.
(Patient having destroyed the Mind Maze ball, reverted to doodling more symbols and numbers on her piece of paper – still avoiding my eye contact.)
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