Blink of an Eye (2013)

by Staincliffe, Cath

  ‘What if they think she’s faking it, the jury?’ I said. ‘If she just doesn’t say anything, won’t it look bad?’ Naomi’s amnesia might be seen as very convenient. A deeper, more elaborate version of the replies used by defendants when they don’t want to admit culpability or incriminate themselves. Did you attack first? Can’t remember. Did you use a knife? Can’t remember. Did you shake your child? Can’t remember.

  ‘The judge must instruct them that nothing adverse can be inferred from her not taking the stand,’ Don said.

  But they’re only human – they’re bound to think less of her, surely? I thought.

  Don went on, ‘As for the amnesia, we will get expert testimony to speak about this as a medical condition.’

  ‘We know she’s not making it up,’ Phil said. ‘We just have to make it clear to them that she’s honest.’

  ‘If they don’t hear from her, how can they see what sort of person she is?’ I asked.

  Don nodded. ‘We’ll be calling witnesses to testify to Naomi’s good character, her previous good record and so on. People who will describe her as a diligent driver, a responsible citizen.’

  Naomi shuffled at this, a little awkwardly.

  Naomi

  ‘Alex said I was okay to drive.’ I am still muddled, finding it hard to keep up with the discussion.

  ‘Well, there are two possibilities,’ Mum says. ‘Either you managed to act like you were sober and Alex never gave it a second thought, or . . .’ She hesitated.

  ‘Or what?’ I say.

  ‘Or he got in the car knowing you’d been drinking and took a chance, and then he lied about it.’

  ‘Why would he lie?’ I say.

  ‘To protect you, hoping no one would know you’d been drinking, that you’d not actually be over the limit.’

  ‘Or to protect himself,’ Dad says. ‘Passengers can be charged for that, can’t they?’ He looks at Don.

  ‘Yes, he could have been prosecuted if he knowingly got in the car with a drunk driver,’ Don says.

  ‘He wouldn’t have done that,’ I say. ‘He wouldn’t risk it, not when he’s going into the law.’

  ‘So you put on a good act, then,’ Mum says.

  A wave of anger pours through me, anger at myself. ‘Why can’t I remember?’ I hit the table and put my head in my hands. Why did I do it? ‘I wish . . .’ Oh God. There are too many things to wish for. A whole world of them. ‘Will you ask him?’ I say to Don. ‘Is that part of what you’ll be doing?’

  ‘Yes, if not before the trial then once he’s on the witness stand. Because if he knew you were drunk, then he is partly culpable: why didn’t he dissuade you from driving? Did he actively encourage you? At the committal hearing we’ll get the whole case file from the prosecution, so at that stage we’ll be looking at where to direct our efforts in building a defence. There’s no point in doing anything very much until we know exactly what they’ve got both from the witnesses and from experts, forensics and so on.’

  Whether Alex knew I had been drinking or not, whether he lied to protect me or lied to protect himself for not having the sense to stop me doesn’t really matter compared to the fact that I was drunk and I was driving. Whatever Alex did or didn’t do, I’m the stupid fucker who kept on drinking and then took the wheel. How could I? How could I be so stupid? Why? We could have gone out and got drunk later if it was about celebrating his job. We could have gone to the pub, or bought something to have at home, or gone clubbing even. Why couldn’t I just wait? I am so angry at myself, and not being able to remember the horrible sequence of events, not being able to relive it, leaves me feeling helpless and half mad.

  It’s like a storm building inside my skull with nowhere for it to escape. When I finally go upstairs, I thump the bed again and again, cursing myself. Ignoring the physical pain. Full of fury and shame.

  Carmel

  I rang Suzanne and gave her a quick summary. Then tried to change the subject, invited her to tea one day to suit her. Determined to maintain some semblance of normality.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ she said. A peculiar tone in her voice.

  ‘What? What’s wrong?’ Ollie? Can’t wasn’t in her vocabulary.

  ‘Play happy families, pretend everything’s all right after what she’s done.’

  My cheeks burned in a sudden wash of resentment. ‘Nobody’s pretending anything. I’m coming over.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ she said.

  ‘Suzanne, we need to talk about this properly,’ I said firmly. ‘I won’t be long.’

  Ollie lay on a cotton baby blanket on the living room floor. Eyes alert, darting here and there, then stopping to drink in some fascinating object. She had dressed him in a navy and cream all-in-one.

  I knelt down to greet him, feeling a warmth that hadn’t been there before I laid eyes on him. He stiffened with excitement, his eyes gleaming, then waved his feet round, dancing as I made baby noises and told him what a wonderful creature he was.

  Suzanne was a little guarded, sitting at the table. When I joined her, I didn’t need to start the ball rolling. She kicked it straight at me. ‘I don’t want to see her.’

  ‘She’s your sister.’

  ‘And she’s done something unforgivable. Which she won’t even own up to.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’ My voice rose dangerously. ‘How on earth can she own up to something she can’t remember?’

  ‘Yes, that’s a great get-out, that is.’

  My look must have penetrated, because she hesitated, gave a little toss of her head, as though she was on the defensive, then said, ‘She got drunk and she killed a child. And I look at Ollie and—’

  ‘Don’t you think she’s being punished enough? She’s being taken to court, her relationship’s over, her health . . . well, God knows . . . She might end up in jail. The law is punishing her and we don’t need to.’

  ‘When I see her . . . when I look at her . . .’ Suzanne spoke very precisely, her palms together, fingers pointed at me, resting on the table, moving up and down to the rhythm of what she was saying, ‘I’m just so angry, like I want to hurt her. I don’t like being put in that position, and I won’t do it,’ she said tightly.

  ‘She’s your sister, we’re all she’s got.’

  ‘You’re all she’s got.’

  ‘Suzanne, please.’

  She stood up abruptly. ‘No,’ she said. Ollie began to whimper.

  ‘People ignore us in the street. We’ve enough enemies.’

  ‘I don’t want to see her and I don’t want her here.’

  ‘That is so hard.’ I wanted to weep. ‘Have you any idea what this will do to her?’

  ‘She should have thought of that before she drove the car.’ Suzanne crouched to pick Ollie up. ‘You can make all the excuses you like.’

  ‘And Ollie? Does she get to see her nephew in this brave new world of yours?’ I wish I hadn’t said the last part, but I was shivering with rage by then, close to losing control.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, Suzanne.’

  ‘You and Dad can always come here, if you like.’

  I knew I was going to cry then, and I didn’t want to do it in front of her, have her accuse me of emotional blackmail or whatever into the bargain. ‘Right,’ I managed, ‘I’ll go then.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said at the door, but her expression was defiant, not sorrowful.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. My throat was dry and swollen; there was terrible pressure behind my breastbone.

  I’d hoped things would improve between Suzanne and Naomi once they were grown up and independent. In fact I’d dared to believe they had, especially when Suzanne asked Naomi to be her bridesmaid and Naomi agreed.

  When they were little, I’d often pick over their antagonism and rivalry with Phil, with my mother, with Evie, with anyone who’d listen. Was it normal for siblings to be so at loggerheads? Was it because they were girls? Because they were so close in age? What were we doing wrong
? How could we reduce the animosity, the incessant squabbling and tears.

  We tried various tactics: praising good behaviour, rewarding cooperation, striving to be consistent in how we dealt with their shouting and fighting. We organized it so they could have time with us apart from each other, when they’d enjoy our undivided attention. There was no dramatic improvement.

  I could see that as the older child Suzanne was naturally jealous when Naomi came on the scene. But it seemed ridiculous that she’d let that colour the rest of her life. She clearly resented the attention Naomi got through her bad behaviour in those teenage years. But still to maintain that position seemed so churlish. Had I contributed to the dynamic? Reinforced it? Even now, in supporting Naomi as best I could, did Suzanne see that as me taking sides? She was a grown woman; surely she was mature enough to distinguish between support and approval? To understand that trying to help Naomi through the mess she was in was not acting to spite Suzanne. None of it was about Suzanne. Maybe that was the problem.

  I drove the car out of their cul-de-sac and then pulled up at the side of the next road to cry. How on earth would Naomi weather this on top of everything else? I felt so sad, deeply sad, like something had been taken from me, leaving me aching and hollow.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Naomi

  At the magistrates’ court, Don talks me through the papers, the advance information from the prosecution. I see Alex’s signature on his statement and I think how I miss him, his company and humour and waking up with him. All that love and excitement we shared, just snuffed out. But I still think I did the right thing.

  There are other statements – Suzanne’s, and ones from two other guests at the barbecue, neither of whom I know, and my prepared statement from the police station – as well as a summary of the accident with diagrams. And the blood alcohol results.

  ‘No surprises here,’ Don says, ‘so my advice remains the same: you enter a plea of not guilty. Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay.’ He gathers together the file. ‘When you go in, you should remain standing up till you’re asked to be seated.’

  I hope I don’t mess up.

  ‘The only things you’ll need to say are your name and address and date of birth. The rest, entering your plea, I’ll do as your representative. Any questions?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anything you’re not sure of you can just ask me, okay?’

  I feel dizzy waiting with Mum and Dad and Don to go in. What will happen if I keel over? My face is so hot, burning up, and my mouth is dry; even when I sip water it’s still dry, like it’s lined with chalk.

  I know that all that today is for is to send me to a higher court because the charges are too serious for the magistrates. It’s a formality but it’s still nerve-racking.

  An usher calls me in and Don shows me the way to go and Mum and Dad sit down.

  There are three magistrates, two men and a woman, and they are looking at papers, occasionally leaning over to say something to each other. Talking about me?

  In the dock, I’m still hot and my pulse feels so strong it’s almost like I’m growing and shrinking with each beat. Like Alice in Wonderland speeded up. My hearing feels muddy but I try to follow what’s going on and answer, to confirm my name and address and date of birth. My voice sounds weedy, like I’m putting it on.

  They ask Don if I’m ready to enter a plea. He tells them I am pleading not guilty.

  Then one of the magistrates says something quickly which includes the words adjourned and Crown Court, and then I can go.

  I thought the Vaseys might be there, but when I ask Don about it, he says, ‘No, they’ll almost definitely be at the trial and possibly the plea and case management hearing, but . . .’

  I’m fixed on the word trial. It’s definite now. I am to be tried, put on trial, sent for trial. Tried and found wanting. Could be months, he’s saying, six months, maybe more.

  Carmel

  The magistrates’ court might have simply been a matter of procedure, but for us it felt like a plunge deeper into the abyss. This is actually happening, I kept thinking.

  I’d been in court before, supporting clients, but now we were on the receiving end – the defendant and family. It made me feel grubby and resentful.

  Naomi went to lie down when we got home; her energy levels were very depleted and I was worried about her emotionally. She seemed to be increasingly withdrawn, as though the only way she could function was to make herself as small, as absent as possible.

  When she was a little girl, she loved to hide in small spaces, fold herself into a ball under the low table in the lounge, in the old ottoman where we kept soft toys, and whenever we got anything in a sizeable cardboard box she’d beg to keep it and clamber inside. Never a hint of claustrophobia. Hide and seek was one of her staple favourites for years. But those games had culminated in giggles and shrieks as she jumped out or was discovered.

  Now I pictured her like a wounded animal, retreating from the world, growing quieter and smaller, the flesh shrinking on her bones until she became silent and desiccated.

  I couldn’t get her to eat much. She was spending a lot of time alone and in bed and I suspected depression. I tried to get her to see the family doctor, but she wouldn’t even consider it.

  ‘I don’t want to; why should I?’

  ‘You’re struggling, Naomi, I think you’re depressed.’

  ‘I’m not depressed. What can the GP do anyway, stuff me with pills?’

  ‘If they help.’

  ‘No. I’m not going,’ she said.

  ‘Counselling, then?’

  ‘Just forget it.’

  If only she’d accept some help. Anything. And the thought came unbidden: before she goes to prison. The traitorous, appalling prospect growing ever larger.

  I heard her crying in the night. And she seemed to find it hard to summon interest in anything, even the fluffiest, least demanding magazine I brought home or the breeziest daytime TV shows.

  I began to wonder if the trauma that had prompted Naomi’s amnesia had also affected some part of the brain that influenced personality. After all, I’d seen that with my mum. The old Naomi, the slightly ditzy, funny, spontaneous girl, was now lethargic, colourless. It could be the grey fog of depression smothering her energy, but what if she never came out of it?

  There had been a reporter in court and the evening paper let the world and his wife know that Naomi Baxter (25) of Northenden, Manchester, had been charged with causing death by dangerous driving in the case of Lily Vasey.

  We got phone calls. People who weren’t close but knew us well enough to have our phone number. Friends of friends, people who come for New Year’s parties and we don’t see from one year to the next or who I’d met through the massage course. They called up, to express their shock: was it really our Naomi, was there anything they could do?

  I don’t know what was more difficult, the twittering interest of those individuals or the shattering silence of others. The Cynthia Stillers to whom we had become pariahs to be shunned.

  For a few days I fended off any queries from Naomi about seeing Suzanne, saying she had a lot on, then that Jonty was back from Aberdeen and they had plans, then that Ollie wasn’t sleeping much. Not that Naomi mentioned her sister often.

  It was during one of her visits to the hospital outpatient clinic, in the waiting area, that she interrupted me reading my book to say, ‘I texted Suzanne, she’s not replied. Is there something wrong with her phone?’

  Oh Jesus. How to answer. There was no way to tell her without it cutting her to the quick. But I couldn’t lie to her; she didn’t deserve lies.

  ‘Suzanne’s upset,’ I said, ‘about the accident, about you driving.’

  The expression on her face altered, the glower of guilt, plain as when she’d been a child caught doing something she shouldn’t.

  ‘She’s finding it hard to deal with.’

  ‘With me?’ Naomi said, her voice waver
ing.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She bit her lip, her brow creasing. ‘So she’s dumped me, has she?’

  I hesitated too long, framing the words, confirming her guess. When I began to try and explain, she just said, ‘It doesn’t matter, we were never that close anyway.’

  Writing off twenty-five years of sisterhood, of shared mealtimes and holidays, of games and outings and celebrations and squabbles. Tears and kisses and secrets.

  ‘Is that really how you feel about it?’

  ‘Don’t bother with the whole social-work bit.’ She rolled her eyes.

  ‘I’m not being a social worker, I’m your mother,’ I said.

  She left her chair then, ostensibly to get a cup of water but effectively ending the conversation.

  I put my head in my hands, closed my eyes and tried to calm my pulse. When we got home I rang the GP. Maybe Naomi was refusing to try tablets for her troubles, but I needed something otherwise I was going to fly apart. I could feel the pressure growing inside, an explosion waiting to happen, the fuse burning, crackling, fizzing along. Saw myself, arms and legs and head shattered, flung, soaring away from each other. A crash-test dummy.

  Naomi

  Suzanne never forgets and she never forgives. She’s got a big black book in her head and everyone’s slightest misdemeanour is listed in precise detail, in permanent ink. I used to wish that once, just once, she’d mess up big time. Find out what it’s really like to make a mistake, to jump the wrong way, to fail. To feel small and shabby and miserable about yourself.

  I’ve tried so hard to impress her. Slaving for my A levels and getting good grades, sticking at the degree even though it was really tough and I often wanted to give up. But the most I ever got from her was ‘Pretty good’, in this I can’t quite believe it voice, half expecting her to say that the grades were easier to get than when she sat them.

  And then I couldn’t get a job and we were back living at Mum’s and I’d nothing to show her. Only Alex. Nothing to prove that I wasn’t a slacker and a loser.