by John Nicholl
‘We haven’t met before, Mrs Galbraith, but I’m familiar with your case.’
I hadn’t been called Mrs Galbraith in quite some time, and the name took me back, focussing my mind on the past.
‘Did you hear me, Mrs Galbraith?’
I returned to the present in an instant, nodded twice and waited for her to continue, full of anticipation despite the fact she couldn’t have looked less enthusiastic if paid to.
‘I’m here to talk to you about the recent assault on Sheila Davies.’
My heart sank, the disappointment virtually overwhelming. False hope is no hope. Why did I fall for it again? Stupid girl! When would I ever learn? ‘Has she made a statement?’ I knew the answer was no before asking the question. It wasn’t the done thing, as I’ve explained before.
DC Jones ignored my pointed query and spent the next twenty minutes or so asking me about ‘the assault’.
I gave carefully considered, non-committal answers that I knew in no way incriminated me, and got the distinct impression that the officer was simply going through the motions. I suspect she knew the case wasn’t going anywhere. I knew it wasn’t going anywhere. She’d do her job as best she could before moving on to more productive cases in the world outside the walls. Cases with innocent victims. Cases that mattered, involving people that mattered. Or, at least that’s how I saw it.
She glanced at her watch for what seemed the umpteenth time. ‘Is there anything you want to say before I’m on my way?’
‘Not really.’
‘Nothing at all?’
I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’
She rose easily to her feet and closed her black plastic briefcase. ‘Okay, we’re done for now. I don’t think you’ve got too much to worry about.’
‘What are they going to do, send me to prison?’
She chuckled on approaching the exit, but glanced back before leaving the room. ‘For what it’s worth, I think your conviction stank. The bastard had it coming.’
I lifted my hands to my face as the tears began to flow. The kindness of strangers can be particularly poignant for the vulnerable and oppressed. ‘Thank you.’
‘Hang on in there, Cynthia. You may get out of here sooner than you think.’
28
Dr Galbraith’s large imposing Georgian Caerystwyth townhouse was not dissimilar in style to his Cardiff residence, although it was retained as one dwelling rather than divided into flats.
‘Let me show you around, my dear. I’ve been looking forward to introducing you to your new home.’
The guided tour, as he called it, took around twenty minutes, and I have to say I was impressed. The house had generously proportioned rooms, high ceilings giving an impression of space, and large sash windows that filled it with light. There were five sizeable double bedrooms, three bathrooms, two huge reception rooms, and a large family kitchen leading to a conservatory and an attractive walled garden beyond. It also had a study, and a cellar accessed via the kitchen, both of which he repeatedly stressed were his domain and his alone. He sat me at the kitchen table and drove his point home. It mattered, it really mattered.
‘I do important work, Cynthia. Crucial work in the interests of my young patients. Uninterrupted privacy is essential to that process. I can’t stress that sufficiently.’ He paused, and repeatedly tapped the table with his right forefinger, emphasising his point before continuing. ‘You will not enter my study without my prior consent.’ And then he pointed at me with a jabbing digit. ‘You will never enter the cellar under any circumstances. Do you hear me, young lady? Never! Under any circumstances! I sometimes see troubled children there when they require more of my time than the clinic’s busy schedule allows. Were you to interfere with that process, the implications could be dire.’
‘The cellar? That seems an odd place to…’
He leant towards me in his chair and stared at me with unblinking eyes. ‘It’s been converted to a suitable standard. Video facilities were installed. A useful therapeutic tool. It’s more than adequate.’
‘Even so, it seems an odd…’
‘Are you a childcare expert?’
‘No, but…’
‘Am I an expert, Cynthia?’
‘Well, yes, of course you are, but…’
‘So you acknowledge that I’m an expert in such matters?’
‘Yes, of course. I didn’t mean…’
‘Then I suggest we end the conversation there before you make an even bigger fool of yourself.’
I sat in brooding silence, taken aback by the heated intensity of his response.
He shook his head slowly and laughed with an incredulous expression on his face. ‘I can see you’re becoming somewhat agitated again, my dear. It’s not good for the baby. It’s not good at all. Now, what time did you last take your medication?’
He was good at shutting me down, good at making me feel foolish. And it pleased him. I didn’t see it at the time, but it pleased him. And he made regular notes following our interactions. He’d take a small black notebook from the inside pocket of his tailored jacket, open it and start scribbling frantically with that favoured fountain pen of his. He did it so often that it became the norm. If I asked him what he was writing, he’d just say it was to do with his work. ‘Don’t worry your pretty head, my dear. You wouldn’t understand. I suggest you concentrate on your menial tasks. Leave more important matters to the grown-ups.’ The bastard, the absolute bastard!
And so it continued. We had separate bedrooms at his insistence. He continued his work at the clinic, but ended his work at the university, and I stayed at the house, engaged in roles he allocated as he saw fit. These were set out in a second written agreement, which I read and signed that first evening.
To summarise what seemed an unnecessarily complex document, I was to attend to his needs and to the domestic chores. I would rise sufficiently early to shower, dress appropriately, prepare his breakfast in line with his exact requirements, and do so without making any noise that may prematurely disturb his slumber. Every detail mattered. He’d be inspecting my efforts, and the distance between each and every item placed on the kitchen table had to be precisely right. He even gave me a steel twelve-inch ruler for the purpose. I should have heard alarm bells screaming in my ears, but instead I knuckled down and got on with it.
And he really did use the ruler. Every morning he’d enter the kitchen following his early morning exercise routine, take a pristine white cotton glove from a drawer, and walk slowly around the kitchen running a finger over various surfaces. ‘Not bad, Cynthia, not bad at all. Four out of ten on this occasion, if I’m not mistaken. I’d suggest you aim for at least a six tomorrow. That shouldn’t be too much to ask, even from someone of your limited intellect and ability. What do you say, young lady?’
I’d nod and say I’d try harder. I had to try harder.
And then the part I dreaded most. He’d make a show of retrieving the ruler from its prominent allocated position on the Welsh dresser which hid the entrance to the cellar, and hold it up to the light of the window, searching for any sign of greasy fingerprints or dust.
‘I polished it just like you said. I used one of the yellow dusters.’
‘Are you sure? Are you really sure?’
‘I thought…’
He raised a hand to silence me, and approached the table. ‘The position of my glass is two millimetres out of place. That isn’t acceptable. It’s not acceptable at all. I hope you’re not nearly as slovenly when it comes to your care of the brat, when it finally deems to make an appearance.’
‘But I checked repeatedly, I used the ruler.’
‘Are you calling me a liar?’
It was a line he used often and it stung every time. ‘No, I wouldn’t do that. I’d never do that!’
He shook his head and sneered. ‘Oh for God’s sake, stop your pathetic snivelling, you stupid girl. What the hell’s wrong with you? I’ve got important work to do. I shouldn’t have to waste my time deal
ing with your many inadequacies.’ And then he took that same brown bottle from his pocket, shook it in the air as if playing a musical instrument, unscrewed the top, and handed me two tablets with a clammy hand. ‘Take your medication, my dear. And please ensure that the glove is perfectly clean, dry and ironed by the morning’s inspection. Surely you can manage that much?’
I had no idea what the tablets were, but I came to need those tablets. I needed them desperately, and he knew it. He’d hand them out as it suited him, like an adult to a child.
At this point in my story I want to make clear that I still possessed some spirit at that stage of the process, despite his increasing influence. I didn’t roll over like a subservient puppy. I actually considered leaving more than once, before being persuaded otherwise by threats and unkept promises.
‘Perhaps I should go and stay with Mum and Dad for a while.’
And he’d shake his head dismissively and stare at me as if I’d said something utterly outlandish. ‘Oh, no, no, no, you’re far too ill for that, my dear. You require my constant expert care if you’re to retain care of your brat. It’s either that or a psychiatric hospital. You’re a cross I have to bear. I’ve fully explained this to your parents more than once, as you well know.’
‘But Mum said…’
He laughed expansively, seemingly amused by my argument. ‘She said what you wanted to hear, my dear. That’s what parents do at such times. They’re not as young as they once were. They can’t cope with your issues at their time of life. That’s what they truly feel. They have made that perfectly clear to me in our discussions on more than one occasion. That’s why they haven’t visited. You must have wondered. Surely you must have wondered, you stupid girl?’
I stood and stared, horrified by his protestations as his version of reality sank in. Was I really that much of a burden?
‘You would be well advised not to phone them again without my prior agreement. Perhaps in a few months’ time when your mental health has improved, we can revisit the situation and reconsider. It’s what I want, it’s what they want, and I’ve no doubt it’s what Steven would want, were he able to express an opinion. Now, I hope that’s clear enough even for you?’
‘If you’re sure?’
He smiled engagingly. ‘I’m sure, I couldn’t be more sure. If you love them as you claim, you’ll leave them in peace. Now, stop wasting my valuable time and get on with your chores. I want this place immaculate when the midwife calls.’
I smiled at the idea of female company, however brief, whatever the circumstances. ‘I wanted to ask…’
He approached me, placed his face only inches from mine and spoke slowly, clearly enunciating each word. ‘You would be well advised to leave the talking to me. I’ve explained your psychological frailty and its implications to your GP in terms even that pleb can understand, but he’s concerned.’
A single tear ran down my cheek and found a home in one corner of my open mouth. ‘Concerned? What are you talking about?’
He paused, as if carefully considering his response before speaking again a second or two later, ‘Will you be able to look after the brat to an acceptable standard? That’s what he’s asking himself. There’s talk of social services. Talk of a case conference. Talk of potential legal action. Talk of taking the infant away at birth. I work with those morons on a regular basis. They value my advice. They respect my contribution. And now they’re talking about my child! Can you imagine how that makes me feel?’
‘I’m doing my best.’
He slammed the palm of his right hand down on the tabletop. ‘But it’s not good enough, you stupid bitch. It’s simply not good enough.’ Quieter this time, hissing the words, a myriad tiny globules of spittle spraying from his mouth.
I felt worthless, inadequate, desperate, very close to disintegrating completely. ‘What should I do? Tell me what to do.’
He took a deep breath and blew the air from his mouth with a high-pitched whistle. ‘Just shut up, leave the talking to me, and maybe I can rescue the situation despite your best efforts to ruin things. Do you think you can do that much for me?’
‘Whatever you say. I’ll do whatever you say.’
‘That’s good, Cynthia, that’s the response I was looking for. Maybe, just maybe, I can hold things together.’
And that’s how it continued, day after day, week after week, month after miserable month. My self-worth diminished still further and the few crumbs of praise he occasionally threw my way became shining treasures that illuminated my increasingly dismal existence. ‘Please don’t let them take my baby. Please, Doctor, don’t let them take my baby.’
‘You’re not coping very well, are you, my dear? I’ll do what I can, of course, but no promises. I’m not a miracle worker. Just keep a low profile. It might be sufficient to persuade the authorities to back off.’
‘Is there anything at all I can do?’
He frowned and shook his head slowly. ‘Just shut the fuck up, Cynthia. Just shut your stupid face, take your medication as and when instructed and leave the thinking to me. There’s a good girl. If you can manage that, I may be able to think of something before it’s too late.’
I held my head in my hands and wept. ‘Thank you. Thank you so very much.’
29
I read somewhere in what feels like another life that celebrated British premier Winston Churchill sometimes referred to his intermittent periods of debilitating depression as the ‘Black Dog’. I get it, I really do. An insightful observation by an extremely insightful man. It describes my melancholy mood perfectly.
Almost a month has passed since Mum’s impromptu conversation with DI Gravel, three weeks since the police officer’s visit and departing words of encouragement. Four weeks of getting my hopes up, four weeks of denying reality, and nothing, no news, no messages from Mum or the girls, no phone calls from my depressingly ineffectual solicitor. Why did I let myself hope again? Why kid myself? What a stupid girl! What on earth was I thinking?
And now that same black dog hovers over me, inches from my face, stalking, snarling, seeping negativity into every kink and crook of my delicate soul. I’m trying to fight it. I’m trying to get back on an even keel, but it isn’t easy. It seems he’s a determined beast, and I’d strangle the fucking thing if I could. I’d put my hands around its throat and squeeze, tighter and tighter, until it faded away into the distance and my mood finally lifted. Mrs Martin suggested a doctor, there was talk of antidepressants, talk of psychiatric intervention, but I didn’t react well. Psychiatry’s the last thing I want or need, however despairing I feel inside from time to time. I like to think she understood when I explained my position and she thought about it for a minute or two. She certainly didn’t argue the point with any vehemence. It’s obvious really.
Instead, she made me a cup of ‘calming camomile tea’, placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder and smiled sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry, Cynthia, I wasn’t thinking clearly. It’s been a difficult week for me personally. More tablets are the last thing you need. I’m here for you. We’re going to get through this together. I want you to meditate daily, whenever you get the opportunity. And I want you to keep writing, because you’re doing brilliantly. Do you think you can do that for me?’
I forced a quickly vanishing smile. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, what happened?’
‘We’re here to focus on your issues, not mine.’
Another slap down reminder that we’re not friends. I never did find out what was happening in her life. Why on earth did she mention it in the first place?
‘Cynthia?’
‘The writing’s going reasonably well.’
‘That’s good, that’s a positive, but from what I’ve seen, it’s a lot better than just reasonably well.’
I knew what she was trying to achieve. I realised she was attempting to raise my despondent mood, but I wasn’t totally convinced.
‘And what about the meditation?’
I realised she meant well, but co
me on. ‘Have you tried meditating in this place?’
‘What about the last thing at night, before you go to sleep?’
‘Have you ever been here late at night? That’s a rhetorical question, by the way. It’s noisier than in the daytime.’
She nodded, acknowledging my angst. ‘Look Cynthia, if there are developments in your case, that’s brilliant, I dearly hope it’s true, but as you know the legal wheels turn extremely slowly. It could be months before you hear anything at all. There’s little purpose in torturing yourself with what ifs.’ She paused, patted my knee gently and continued. ‘If not, if nothing’s changed, you haven’t lost anything. At least you’re doing something constructive with your time here. There are the English classes and there’s your journal. And I like to think you value our time together. All will pass, given time.’
Can talking really help, even with a trained therapist? Does it serve as a viable alternative to the aforementioned chemical lobotomy chosen by numerous other residents of prison world? Well, I think the answer is, yes. Not a resounding yes shouted from the hilltops, but a yes nonetheless. I do feel a little better after our session together. The black dog isn’t dead, but he’s definitely wounded. Mrs Martin dented his ardour and forced him back a few inches from my face. That’s more than I expected. Kudos to her. Another three cheers for Mrs Martin. I’m less depressed than I was earlier in the day and very grateful for that.
30
On a typically wet and windy Welsh Saturday autumnal morning, about four weeks prior to my due date, Dr Galbraith sat me down at the kitchen table shortly after enjoying his extensive breakfast, and opened a cardboard file on the table in front of him.
‘Can I get you another coffee, Doctor?’
He’d given up telling me to call him David by that point, and I don’t think he ever really wanted me to anyway, now that I look back on it. He revelled in his status and the power it gave him. Dr Galbraith suited him just fine.