by John Nicholl
‘As I said, I believe we have grounds to refer your case to the Criminal Division of the Court of Appeal. It’s a lengthy process, but the sooner we start, the quicker you may be out of here.’
‘You think there’s a real chance I’ll be released?’ Please say yes, please say yes.
He paused and adjusted his paisley tie, collecting his thoughts before responding, ‘Look, Cynthia, the new evidence is a significant breakthrough, there’s no denying that, but there are no guarantees. As you know, courts can be notoriously unpredictable. I need to do the groundwork in consultation with Mr Brown, make the relevant application and see how things progress from there.’
‘So they could decide to overturn my conviction?’ This was getting more exciting by the minute.
‘Slow down, there are various possibilities.’
I was afraid to ask my next question for fear of him saying something I didn’t want to hear, but I formed my hands into tight fists and asked it anyway, ‘Can you spell them out for me?’
‘I don’t think it’s likely, but they could decide to dismiss the appeal.’
‘And?’
‘They could allow the appeal and direct that you’re acquitted on the basis of the new evidence. They could allow the appeal, and substitute your murder conviction for a lesser charge open to the trial jury at the time of your trial. Or they could allow the appeal and direct that there is a retrial.’
Why are such things always so frigging complicated? ‘What do you think is the most likely option?’
He checked his watch again, pushed back his chair and stood to leave. ‘Either reducing your conviction from murder to manslaughter or a retrial. But, I’ll be able to give you a better idea once the barrister’s had a chance to review the papers.’
My eyes lit up as I felt the adrenaline surging through my system. ‘Can you put a figure on it?’
‘If I were a betting man, I’d say seventy-five to eighty per cent in your favour. But as I said, there are no guarantees. I’ve got to make a move. I’ll drop you a line as soon as I get the chance.’
I loosened my hands and relaxed back in my seat. Things were looking up at last.
44
I got up at precisely 5:30 a.m. as per usual on the morning after the doctor’s arrest, and hurried down to the kitchen on autopilot, after a brief bathroom visit, to prepare his breakfast in line with his exact requirements. I rushed around in a whirl of frantic activity, checking that everything was ready, everything in its place, everything at the correct distance, when it suddenly dawned on me… I was alone in the house and there was absolutely nothing I needed to do. He wouldn’t be coming down the stairs, he wouldn’t suddenly appear with his criticisms, complaints and threats, or worse, and I felt grateful for the brief reprieve. He’d be back of course, I couldn’t let my standards slip. Everything had to be perfect for his eventual return, but I could make the most of my free time and enjoy a quick cup of tea before getting on with the housework and trying to forget that my girls were not with me as they should be.
I became increasingly anxious as the hours ticked by, fearing that every car, every sound and every shadow signalled Dr Galbraith’s imminent return to the house, full of recriminations and spewing hate. I watched and waited, hiding behind the banality of familiar household tasks until the phone rang out loudly in the hall at just after 12:00 p.m., causing a lump in my throat and a knot in my stomach that twisted and ached with ever-increasing force as I tried to decide what to do. Should I answer? It could be the social worker my mum mentioned. I should answer, of course I should, it could be news of my girls. But hold on, what if it was the doctor? What if it was him? Don’t be him, please don’t be him.
I rushed in the direction of the phone and clutched at the receiver for fear of the caller bringing their call to an end before I had the opportunity to answer. I held the phone up to my ear with one hand, wondering if I was doing the right thing, whilst clutching the small hall sidetable with my free hand, fearing my trembling legs may give way at any moment. Please don’t be him, please don’t be him.
I steadied myself and whispered, ‘Hello.’
‘Mrs Galbraith, is that you?’
I recognised DI Gravel’s voice as soon as I heard it, but I couldn’t find the confidence to speak.
‘It’s Detective Inspector Gravel, we met at your home the other morning.’
He knew it was me. There was no hiding in silence. And it could be news of Elizabeth and Sarah. I had to say something. Come on, Cynthia, say something, ‘I remember.’ Pathetic, I know, but it was the best I could do.
‘I’m not in the habit of doing this, but the circumstances are exceptional.’
Doing what? What on earth was he talking about? I tightened my grip on the phone, willing myself to speak again, ‘Does my husband know you’re calling?’ I was very much hoping the answer was no. He wouldn’t like it. He wouldn’t like it at all.
‘No, he doesn’t, and that’s a good thing. He’s just finished in court. He’s facing some extremely serious charges. But, for some inexplicable reason he was given bail.’
‘Bail?’ I knew exactly what bail meant, but I didn’t want to believe he’d be coming home anytime now. Oh my God, he was coming home.
‘Please listen to me very carefully. He’s been released and there’s fuck all I can do about it. You haven’t got much time. He’s a very dangerous man. He’s been charged with some truly horrendous crimes against children. You need to get out of there before it’s too late. Why not go to your parents’ place? Your daughters are already there. You need to…’
I didn’t hear the rest of DI Gravel’s seemingly heartfelt plea. I decided I’d heard enough and put down the phone, determined to face reality, however difficult, however traumatic, however onerous. I think the inspector’s call proved a watershed moment for me. A wakeup call that forced me to consider whether the missing boy was a victim of my husband’s violence as I was, and still in my home. It was a distinct possibility, and I had to know. This time I had to know the truth. There’d be no more denial. Be brave, Cynthia. Please be brave.
I slumped at the kitchen table with my head in my hands and stared at the Welsh oak dresser for at least five minutes or more before eventually building up sufficient courage to act. I’d been passive for too long. Much too long. The worm had turned.
Even then I considered ignoring my newly found inclination to act, but that small voice inside my head became louder and insistently urged me on. Why on earth had it remained silent for so long?
I rose to my feet, slowly approached the dresser one cautious step at a time and urgently searched in the left-hand drawer with trembling fingers. Where was the key? Where on earth was the key? It had to be there somewhere. Yes, there it was, there it was. Get a move on, Cynthia, get a move on. I had to act quickly before he returned to the house and silenced that small voice forever.
I placed my shoulder against the side of the dresser, using all my meagre weight and strength to gradually push it aside. Come on, Cynthia, you can do it, push harder girl, just push harder.
And then it moved, inch by reluctant inch it moved, suddenly without warning. I stood facing the partially unencumbered clandestine door, sweating profusely, panting hard and willing myself to move. And then I stepped forward, spurred on by that same small voice and bold images of the young boy and his desperate father flashing repeatedly behind my eyes like a cinematic film. I gripped the door handle tightly in my right hand and slowly turned it. You can do it, Cynthia. Come on, you can do it.
I stared down at twelve cold grey concrete steps and towards a second white-painted door beyond them. Why another door? Why did he need a second door? What was it hiding? I could still run, couldn’t I? Of course I could, it was still an option. It wasn’t too late. But what if the boy was down there and needed my help? No, not this time, there’d be no running this time. You can do it, Cynthia, come on girl, you can do it. Be brave, down you go.
I took my first te
ntative step, fearing I may lose control of my bladder at any second and flood the steps with yellow liquid. I paused on the second step for a second or two, breathing deeply, panting, contemplating retreat despite my newfound determination, but then I rushed quickly to the bottom, two or three steps at a time, without allowing myself sufficient time to think of the danger and potentially change my mind.
Come on, Cynthia, open the door. You can do it, open the door. I held the key to the lock, dropped it to the floor, bent down, picked it up and tried again. My hands were shaking. It wouldn’t open. No wonder it wouldn’t open. They were shaking too much.
I tried again, holding the key to the lock with one hand whilst steadying it with the other. A part of me wanted it to stay locked forever, but it didn’t, oh my God it didn’t. There was a loud metallic clunk that made me jump as I finally turned the key in the lock. That’s it, that’s it! I’d done it. It was unlocked. Come on, push it open. What are you waiting for? Maybe there’s nothing to see. Push the confounded thing open.
I threw the key to the floor and pushed the door inwards, slowly, inch by cautious inch, before peering into the darkness with nervous eyes. It was pitch-dark, far too dark to see anything at all until my eyes adapted to the gloom. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe I should turn and run before switching on the light. No, not this time, there’d be no running this time.
I placed my hand through the doorframe and groped for a light switch. Yes, there it was, there it was, you can do it, flick the switch. Be brave! You can do it, flick the switch.
I finally turned on the light after two fumbled attempts and took a single step backwards as a blindingly bright fluorescent light burst into life and flooded the room. I shut my eyes tightly, shielding them from the intense electric glare, and then took two small steps forward and slowly opened them, squinting into a large glaringly white space.
At first I didn’t see the naked young boy hanging from the bloody black steel shackles secured to the wall to the side of the door, or the video equipment, or the black leather bondage hoods, or the razor-sharp scalpels and car battery and other instruments of torture, or the rusty metal meat hook fixed to the ceiling above a stainless steel drain and sloping tiled floor. On first impressions, it was a strange, cold, clinical space, and despite the putrid smell of human waste, I felt strangely reassured by the room’s initial scientific, lab-like appearance. It was all white tiles, every conceivable surface covered in polished white titles stained with blood and gore. Like an operating theatre. A lot like an operating theatre. That’s what I told myself, but I was clutching at straws, desperate to deny the horrendous reality unfolding before me. Desperate to close my eyes and escape the truth. That’s the only explanation I can come up with for my ridiculous thoughts. I was clutching at straws. Desperately clutching at straws. Maybe people were wrong after all, maybe the doctor was misunderstood rather than criminal, maybe the cellar was something to do with his work, just as he insisted. I wanted it to be true. I so wanted it to be true.
I took another step forward with a newfound confidence born of determined denial, and slowly scanned the room with rapidly blinking eyes. When I first saw that poor emaciated young boy for the first time, I just stood and stared, desperately wanting to believe that the horror before me was a product of my vivid imagination rather than grim unrelenting reality. I walked towards him, lifted a hand to his freckled face and touched him gently on his right cheek. I felt his warmth with my fingertips and sighed. He was real. There was no room for denial. He was definitely real. This wasn’t work. It wasn’t science. This was why men joined the vile bastard in the cellar from time to time. This was why they sometimes brought young boys with them. That’s why I’d been ordered to stay away and keep my mouth tightly shut until they left. It all seemed so blatantly obvious, so clear. Why hadn’t I seen it before? Had I subconsciously chosen not to see it? The doctor was a monster. They were all monsters. There was no denying the awfulness of what they’d done.
I placed the palm of my right hand ever so gently on the boy’s bare chest and held it there for a few seconds, desperate to confirm that the warmth I’d felt in his face indicated life, rather than further self-deception on my part. Yes, there was a heartbeat, a faint but definitive heartbeat. Thank God, he was alive. The boy was definitely alive.
I struggled to free him from his metal shackles in a hormone-fuelled frenzy, until my painted nails were broken and my fingertips bled. But my efforts were hopeless. I’d never felt so useless. Stupid girl, stupid girl! I could hear him saying it.
I slumped at the boy’s feet in a pool of intermingling body fluids and wept uncontrollably. No amount of endeavour on my part would suffice, however hard I tried. And even if I did finally manage to get him down from the wall, which appeared a lost cause, there was no way I’d be able to carry him to the door, let alone drag him up the concrete steps to the kitchen. I just didn’t have the physical strength. Do something, Cynthia, don’t just sit there, do something.
I lifted myself to my feet, oblivious to the stench. He needed help. I needed help. I had to get to the phone before that evil bastard returned to the house. It was my only chance. It was the boy’s only chance. Come on, Cynthia, run, run as fast as you can.
I turned away from the boy and rushed towards the steps without looking back. Never looking back. Why hadn’t I told the inspector what I knew? Why on earth hadn’t I told him of my suspicions? Stupid girl! I should have told him. It seemed so obvious now. Why didn’t I tell him when I had the opportunity? I heard the doctor’s mocking voice in my head, louder, louder and louder, until it threatened to overwhelm me completely. Stupid girl, stupid girl! Why can’t you ever get anything right? Just ignore him, Cynthia, he’s a devil, a vile freak of nature. Ignore everything he says. Just ignore everything he says.
I slipped on the final step and stumbled into the kitchen, but stopped suddenly and listened, desperately hoping I was mistaken. The key in the lock, the front door opening, the door slamming shut, the heavy footsteps on the hall tiles. He was back. Oh no, he was back. Where could I run to? Where could I hide? What could I say to placate him? Hold it together, Cynthia, hold it together. Now was not the time to panic.
I took repeated urgent gulps of stale air and pictured the poor emaciated young boy hanging from the bloody black steel shackles in that terrible place, the hell within a hell Galbraith had created. I decided at that instant that there’d be no retreat. If I was going to die, I’d die fighting. If the boy were to die, it wouldn’t be for want of effort on my part. Be brave, Cynthia, he’ll be here at any second. Please be brave.
I listened as the monster’s footsteps got closer. And then he appeared, tensing and relaxing his powerful muscles, loosening his broad shoulders, and forming his hands into the weapons that were entirely familiar to me. He stared at me from just inside the door, then at the displaced dresser, and then at me again. Be brave, Cynthia. The boy’s relying on you, please be brave.
He walked towards me, yelling louder and louder, until I thought the room itself may be shaking. He looked incredulous, shocked, filled with incessant rage. ‘What the hell have you done, you sanctimonious bitch?’ I hate that word, I so hate that word.
I willed myself to move, and edged slowly along the worktop, inch by inch, inch by cautious inch. Come on, Cynthia, nearly there, nearly there. You can do it, look him in the eye, don’t show your fear.
And then I moved quickly and grasped a nine-inch filleting knife from a knife block on the shiny black granite work surface I’d polished a thousand times in a hopeless attempt to please him. Hold it tightly, Cynthia, ever so tightly. It’s your only hope. Don’t drop it, please don’t drop it.
I couldn’t let him reach the steps. I had to impede his progress in any way I could. It was my only hope. It was the boy’s only hope. Come on, be brave, you can do it.
I manoeuvred past the dresser in a cautious sideways motion whilst holding the knife out in front of me with both hands clutch
ed tightly around its metal shaft. That’s it, Cynthia, keep going, one more step, one more step, you can do it.
The doctor narrowed his eyes and growled like the beast he was as he rushed towards me, striking the left side of my head with a powerful blow, as I stumbled backwards and thrust at him ineffectually with the blade.
I lost my footing and hit the doorframe hard, before falling forwards and slumping to the floor, shaken, trembling, absolutely terrified but no less determined. Don’t give up Cynthia, the boy’s relying on you. Your daughters need you. Fight for your life.
I felt physically sick as the doctor approached me, raised his leg high behind him, and kicked me forcibly about six inches below my left armpit, before stepping over me and striding towards the first of the cellar steps.
I’d never felt such pain and I’d never felt such fear, but the small but determined voice in my head urged me on. I gasped for breath, my ribs screaming, as I lifted my bruised and broken body onto all fours. Come on, Cynthia, it’s now or never.
The room was swimming in blurred focus as I stared at the doctor’s broad back and crawled forwards as quickly as I could until I reached him. Faster, Cynthia, you can do it, faster, faster.
I lifted my arm stiffly, wincing with pain as I plunged the knife deep into the back of his left thigh with as much force as I could muster, jolting my wrist violently when the steel tip struck the bone. The doctor screamed, hurt but far from beaten. He kicked out with his uninjured leg, landing a painful blow on the very top of my head with the heel of his shoe, as I grabbed at his legs in a determined but ineffective attempt to further impede his progress.
I cried out, stunned, dazed, the room a myriad tiny stars, but I didn’t let go. As he shook me off and raised his foot to stamp down on my head, I grabbed the cloth of his trousers, extended my free arm and plunged the blade deep into his thigh for a second time. I knew it was do or die. I knew there was nowhere to run. It was fight or flight, and flight wasn’t an option.