Degrees of Guilt

by H S Chandler

  ‘I didn’t stand up to you,’ Lottie replied quietly, wondering when Cameron would release her hands, realising she was hoping he wouldn’t any time soon.

  ‘Yes, you did. You weren’t stroppy about it either, and the next day you tackled me head on about it, with real self-respect. So think about it. Who in your life is making you feel less than you are?’

  The shop doorbell – a sweet old-fashioned touch – jingled. Lottie pulled her hands back instinctively, looking up at the newcomer, doing a double-take.

  ‘We should go,’ she said quietly, bending down to pick up her bag from the floor.

  ‘Hey, sorry, if I was out of line tell me. I just don’t like seeing you upset. You deserve more than you’re getting from life at the moment,’ Cameron said.

  ‘No, no, you were being lovely,’ she rushed. ‘It’s the woman who just came in. I’m sure I saw her in the court before. I’m worried she might be a journalist.’

  Cameron took a quick look. ‘She doesn’t look like a journalist,’ he smiled. ‘I don’t recognise her, but we should get going anyway. Mustn’t get told off for being late again. Maybe we should stagger our arrivals so no one figures out we’ve been on a breakfast date.’

  That word again. Lottie avoided his eyes, waving at the waitress for the bill.

  ‘Give me a moment, I’ve only got my credit card. I didn’t have time to stop at the cashpoint this morning,’ Cameron said, reaching into his pocket for his wallet.

  ‘It’s okay, I’ve got cash,’ Lottie said. ‘We really ought to get out of here. I’m certain I recognise her. Of all the cafés in the city, she had to walk in here,’ she murmured, flicking her eyes over the bill as it arrived and leaving a twenty on the table. ‘Come on.’ She hustled out with Cameron behind her, striding past the shops towards the nearest exit. ‘Don’t you think that’s weird, her choosing the same place as us to eat this morning?’ she asked over her shoulder to Cameron. ‘Who comes to the Cabot Centre this early on a week day?’

  ‘Hey, Lottie stop.’ He put a gentle hand on her shoulder until she came to a halt. ‘Who knows, maybe she did wander into the courtroom at some point, but I didn’t see her. Everyone looks the same to me wearing sunglasses. I certainly don’t think she was spying on us,’ he smiled.

  ‘How can you be sure?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘Because we weren’t doing anything. What’s to see? Two people who are on a jury together getting an early morning coffee on their way to court. We didn’t talk about the case, so we’ve done nothing wrong. What is it you’re really worried about?’

  Lottie blushed, no hiding it. She felt as if they were doing something wrong because she’d lied to her husband about her reason for heading into the city early, having made the arrangements from Zain’s work celebration, of all places. Cameron hadn’t done anything wrong, but she had definitely crossed a line.

  ‘I think I just have hangover hypersensitivity. It always takes me two or three days to recover properly,’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘I probably didn’t help, holding your hands in public. I didn’t even think about it. Sorry. You’re married and that was too much. I won’t do it again.’

  ‘I wasn’t complaining. For the record, I really appreciated what you were saying,’ she said. ‘We should get to court now.’ She began walking again, this time at a more measured pace than before.

  ‘Really? So I can hold your hand again sometime?’ he laughed.

  ‘Now you really are being inappropriate,’ she said. ‘Don’t push your luck.’ She laughed back, wishing the thought of him touching her weren’t quite so thrilling. Wishing she didn’t want him to quite as badly as she did.

  ‘You’ll be missing out if you say no,’ he grinned. ‘I’m something of an expert with my hands.’

  ‘Not one more word,’ Lottie said, trying to keep a straight face.

  ‘It’s worth being in trouble with you just to see you laugh,’ he said. ‘But fine, I’ll stop. For now.’

  They crossed the road together at a jog, with Lottie grateful for the distraction of the traffic, pushing her guilt aside. It felt good to be laughing again. It felt great, in fact, for the first time in ages, just to be alive.

  13

  Day Five in Court

  Maria Bloxham’s face in the court toilets’ mirror was white with a hint of avocado. She had once painted her own downstairs toilet walls exactly that shade. Her skin colour was understandable. Regular meals were a thing of the past. The legal proceedings acted as a natural appetite suppressant. None of it was conducive to looking or feeling healthy. The press were starting to take more of an interest in the case with every passing day, and they had taken to gathering at the court doors to snap photos of her walking in each morning. It made her feel naked. Not just naked, if she was brutally honest. It made her feel violated. They yelled questions at her, knowing she couldn’t and wouldn’t answer. Now the protestors were also a regular event at the court doors morning and afternoon, baying for blood. She’d taken away their precious wildlife crusader. He would never write another magazine article about green energy, or have his photo taken as he posed thigh deep in a river, checking fish stocks. There would be no more fan mail for her to answer on his behalf, no more fêtes for him to open, no more guest lectures at universities. Her husband had earned an absolute fortune and never given a single penny of it to the charities he spoke so highly of. It was all sitting in some savings account somewhere – half hers, her lawyers had told her – just as long as she wasn’t found guilty.

  Think about the money, she told herself. Think about a future. She splashed cold water over her face. Today the prosecution’s psychiatrist was due to give evidence. In his appointment with her, he had spent his time issuing false reassurances, befriending then prying, making soft accusations with false smiles. Maria had closed off from every insipid attempt at cajoling a confession from her. The results had not been good. She took a deep breath and prepared to spend another day watching her future unfold as she perspired in her glass box.

  Professor Jasper Worth was still smiling when he took the oath and regaled the court with his qualifications and experience. He was a global expert in criminal psychiatry, apparently, who had been involved in some of Europe’s most well-known and bloody cases. Imogen Pascal was almost curtsying by the time he’d finished.

  ‘Is it right that you met with the defendant to assess her mental state, Professor Worth?’ Miss Pascal asked.

  ‘I did. That meeting took place some weeks after she was arrested,’ Worth replied. He swiped his forehead with the back of his hand, the heat in the room assuming almost tangible weight. ‘I had been given access to the case papers including the forensic evidence, and also to Maria Bloxham’s medical records,’ the professor said. ‘Mrs Bloxham came to our suite of offices. It is designed to be a comfortable space where patients can feel relaxed and at ease. Given how little Mrs Bloxham disclosed during our conversation, I would say that our approach did not work.’

  ‘Could you take us through the detail of your consultation with her please, Professor,’ Miss Pascal said. Her voice was sugary sweet. Maria hated it.

  ‘Indeed. I began by explaining my role, then I asked Mrs Bloxham to give me her version of events of the day when the police were called to her property. She was unwilling to share this,’ he said.

  ‘Did Mrs Bloxham provide you with any information at all about how she came to leave her husband so badly injured?’ Miss Pascal asked.

  ‘I asked questions designed to engage her in a discussion, using non-threatening subjects such as her family and childhood. She was monosyllabic answering those, so I moved on to general life-preference questions to start a more natural conversation.’

  ‘Life-preference questions?’ Pascal asked. In fact, the prosecutor understood the psychiatrist quite clearly, Maria thought. This was a rehearsed script. Perhaps not every question and every answer, but they knew exactly what they were going to cover during his evidence and what info
rmation he was going to convey to the court. James Newell had warned her that the morning might seem nothing short of theatrical. It was exactly that. Professor Worth was a different man to the person she had encountered during their ‘session’ as he’d called it. Maria had had little choice as to whether or not she went. It wouldn’t look good if she refused, her lawyers had warned. It was imperative that the jury sympathise with her. And yet as soon as Maria had settled into the comfortable, over-sized chair in Professor Worth’s office, as soon as he had opened his well-educated but condescending mouth, the only face she had been able to see was Edward’s. She had felt like a child once more, like a silly infant whose opinions were obviously pointless and inevitably wrong, only this time she had seen red during the questioning. For almost the first time, she had given her anger words.

  It was bad timing, she accepted that. Perhaps Professor Worth hadn’t deserved it, although she couldn’t silence the internal voice telling her that actually he might be the sort of man that needed answering back occasionally. But all in all, it was an inopportune moment for her to have chosen to refuse to be downtrodden any longer.

  ‘Conversation starters,’ Professor Worth explained in the jury’s direction, ‘relatively inconsequential questions, about the weather, favourite foods, reading preferences, travel experiences. The subjects that allow most adults to sustain a dialogue that is soothing and where there can be no perception of a right or wrong answer.’

  ‘What did you establish from the defendant in response to those questions?’ Miss Pascal asked.

  ‘When I asked her what hobbies she enjoyed, she replied gardening. When I asked what books she liked, she did not respond. Likewise when I asked her favourite season, and so on. I did however observe that she was becoming increasingly stressed during the process of being asked those questions. Her hands were closing around the arms of the chair, her knuckles whitening. She was exerting substantial force.’

  ‘How did you deal with that, Professor?’ Miss Pascal crooned.

  ‘I asked if she would like me to undertake some relaxation therapy with her and I also checked whether or not she was suffering from any form of pre-menstrual tension or post-menstrual stress,’ he replied. ‘That may sound very personal, but with female subjects it is only fair to establish that they do not have temporary chemical or biological factors which might affect them on that particular day, and which I should take into account when formulating my report on their mental state for the court.’

  ‘May I ask if the defendant responded to that question?’ Miss Pascal asked.

  ‘She did respond, in fact. Mrs Bloxham looked me directly in the eyes for the first time during our session together, and told me – I quote – to go fuck myself.’

  The shock displayed on several of the jurors’ faces was rather comical, Maria thought. How many times had each one of them heard that phrase before? How many times had they used it, or at the very least thought it? They could read it, hear it on the television, see it graffitied on walls. Yet here they were, confounded by a forty-year-old woman using it against a professional, whilst sitting in a leather chair, in a slick office? Surely the sky was about to fall in.

  One of the jurors, a young woman, notable for her looks, turned around in her seat, gazing in Maria’s direction. They locked eyes. Maria knew she should look away – her barrister wouldn’t appreciate her being so bold – but what she saw on the woman’s face was genuine appraisal. Not judgment or disgust, more puzzlement and interest. Maria wanted to smile but kept her face blank and neutral. There was a chasm between them that couldn’t be overcome with normal social gestures. The woman, and the eleven seated with her, would decide her fate.

  Letting her eyes sink slowly towards the floor, Maria returned her attention to the man in the witness box, hoping he would be finished soon, as weary of him now as the first time she’d met him.

  She raised her eyebrows and allowed herself a brief shake of her head at the ridiculousness of it all, her nose letting loose a drip of blood, the heat trapped within the dock too much for her body to handle. The prison guards at her sides had already stripped off their jackets and removed their ties, sweat stains marking their armpits. Maria put one hand to her face, dragging the back of her wrist along her upper lip and staring at the bright streak as she pulled it away.

  Her blood. Edward had hated it. At first he’d refused to acknowledge or speak about it. Then as the months of their marriage had banded together to become years, he had insisted on regimented diarisation so he could anticipate when she would be menstruating. One rainy February morning, she had walked into their bedroom to find him clearing the en suite cupboard of tampons.

  ‘Edward, what’s happening?’

  ‘I’ve chosen a more appropriate method of sanitary protection for you,’ he’d said.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Maria had protested. ‘I’ve always used those. It’s what I’m happy with.’

  ‘I’ve done some research,’ he’d said, stripping off the plastic gloves with which he’d been handling the items. ‘With internal vaginal products there’s a risk of toxic shock syndrome. It can be life-threatening. You probably haven’t heard of it.’

  ‘I have, actually,’ Maria said softly, ‘but it’s very rare and there are clear symptoms. I think I’d know if there was a problem.’

  ‘Napkins are cheaper, too,’ Edward continued, as if she hadn’t uttered a word.

  ‘But you’re wasting money by throwing away what I’ve already bought,’ Maria said, her voice firmer, sharper.

  ‘Is that an excuse?’ Edward asked. ‘It sounds like an excuse for wanting to insert those nasty capsules into yourself each month. Do you like the way they feel inside you? Is that why you’re arguing with me?’

  Maria had blushed with painful ferocity.

  ‘Of course not, why would you think that? It’s just easier. I know it might seem strange for you, as a man. I can see how it might be an odd concept,’ she had murmured, trying to soothe him.

  ‘No, no,’ Edward had said. ‘It’s not hard for me to imagine. My intellect allows me to perform that very easy task. In fact, it’s all too easy to conjure in my imagination. Five days each month where you stuff those awful things up inside you …’

  ‘Edward please stop, you’re being vile,’ she’d said.

  ‘I’m vile?’ He’d paused, laughed, stepped into her face, ‘I’m the vile one? It’s a simple request, Maria. After all, I’m the one who pays for all this. I buy it, have it delivered to the door so you don’t have to bother to so much as get to the shops. Let’s be rational about it, shall we? There are new products in your cupboard. You will get used to them in time, and you’ll have the added benefit of knowing I find them tolerable. I have no desire to argue with you. It’s not like you to be so difficult. Presumably that revolting time of the month is upon us again.’

  Maria had bitten her tongue. Edward wasn’t going to back down. Continuing to argue was, she knew, the least sensible option.

  ‘All right,’ she’d said.

  He had merely picked up his bin bag containing her tampons and walked out into the bedroom.

  ‘Oh, and it might be best during your monthly for you to sleep in the spare room. That concession on my part is for your comfort. I recognise that your temperature goes up at that time, and I think it best if you have your own space. You sweat and leave the sheets sticky.’ He had left.

  Maria had waited until she heard Edward was downstairs then checked what he had left her. It occurred to her, for the first time, that whenever he bought her anything, he left it on the very bottom shelf of her cabinet shoved to the back. Maria didn’t know why it had taken her so long to figure out why. Perhaps in haste, she’d assumed previously. Perhaps because he didn’t know how she liked to organise her things. But Edward never did anything carelessly. When he bought something for her – deodorant, toothpaste, soap – she had to kneel down to reach it. Through that simple action she was made humble, grateful, had active
ly to acknowledge his generosity on her knees.

  There they were, the packages so large it was impossible to miss them. The sort of sanitary napkins she remembered from her school days, when girls taken unawares had to go to the sick bay and ask the nurse for assistance. About an inch thick and approaching half a foot long, she knew they were not only the cheapest product he could have found, they were also the most obvious. Any hope of wearing trousers with them was laughable. Not that she went out anywhere anyway, but those things were the final nail in the coffin. They would bang against her legs as she walked, she’d thought. And wasn’t that what he wanted? For her to be aware every second of her period that she was outcast, that she was disgusting to him.

  Maria went to close the vanity cupboard door, noticing the tiny cardboard pack balanced on top of the sanitary napkins. She reached a hand in slowly and drew the packet out. Razor blades. Five of them, kept safe in a small plastic case. Maria fought the urge to open them and run her finger tip along to test their sharpness and feel the sting of the cold steel. Was he taunting her, or rewarding her for good behaviour, she had wondered, walking back into their bedroom and staring at their one framed wedding photo that sat on Edward’s bedside table. Hard to believe she had ever been so hopeful, or so naive. Maria had balanced the razor blades on her lap as she’d sat on the bed contemplating spending the remainder of her years living with a man who dictated what sanitary protection she could wear.

  ‘Go fuck yourself,’ she’d thought, staring at her husband in the photograph. She remembered glancing at the doorway to the hall, suddenly convinced she would find Edward standing there, somehow able to hear what she had said in her mind.

  It had become her silent mantra. When she awoke and saw that photograph first thing in the morning. When he’d asked her to leave their bed so that he didn’t have to sleep next to a menstruating woman. When he’d refreshed her supplies of sanitary towels, each time shoving them to the bottom to get her – and keep her – on her knees. Go fuck yourself, she’d thought, every single time. But she hadn’t left him. She had nowhere to go and no means to support herself. Then there were the marks on her legs. Edward would declare her to be at serious risk from self-harming. If she dared to leave, he had promised her institutionalisation. Maria had been left in no doubt that he meant it.