Degrees of Guilt

by H S Chandler

  Imogen Pascal waited for the jury to recover from the shock of hearing what the defendant had said to the psychiatrist. ‘What happened after that?’ she asked Professor Worth.

  ‘I asked her why she was so angry,’ he said.

  ‘What was her reply?’ the prosecutor continued, teasing the story out.

  ‘She kicked away the coffee table in front of her – just a few inches but it was a deliberate action, picked up her handbag, and stormed out,’ Professor Worth said, raising his nose a couple of inches on his final words, signalling the dramatic end to his story.

  ‘So presumably you were unable to reach any conclusions as to Mrs Bloxham’s mental state,’ Imogen Pascal said.

  You bitch, Maria thought. You know he has. You’ve read his report, multiple times. The jury, though, has to have its pound of flesh delivered on a legal silver platter. Timing really was everything.

  ‘Not so, in fact,’ Professor Worth replied. ‘A trained professional can read a remarkable amount in a short period of time with a patient. My assessment of the defendant is as follows.’

  There was a fractional movement, a transition, as every single body in the courtroom – save only for James Newell and Maria – leaned forward in their seat. What was the secret of her madness? They were all desperate to know.

  ‘There is no evidence of a psychiatric illness. Mrs Bloxham was in control of herself at the time of the offence, as she was in my office until she lost her temper. At the point when she became furious with me, she was actually baring her teeth. There is no history of mental illness in her medical notes. Some teenage self-harm, but no report of that continuing after the age of eighteen. It’s a phase many young people go through. It can be a cry for attention and is rarely serious. Often when the teenager goes to university, gets their first job or a steady partner, the self-harm stops immediately.’

  ‘So that self-harm from nearly twenty years ago has no relevance now, that’s your assessment?’ Miss Pascal reiterated.

  ‘None at all. In fact, Mrs Bloxham has not had cause to attend her doctor for several years. She is physically healthy, of a good weight, and I observed the muscle tone of her arms and lower legs to be good, which is consistent with what she told me about enjoying gardening. She is competent, and her intellect is within normal parameters,’ Professor Worth said.

  ‘So as far as you were able to observe, did the defendant display any symptoms of a mental illness that might mean she was not responsible for her actions when she attempted to kill her husband?’ Miss Pascal asked.

  ‘Other than a woman who can turn from reasonable and self-possessed one moment, to flying off the handle the next. A woman who, I believe, does not like being questioned, perhaps especially by a man. No defensive wounds were reported to the police, and when she was given a chance to explain her version of events, she chose to remain silent. The police interview is blank,’ the professor said.

  ‘Blank?’ Imogen Pascal asked, the tiniest fragment of carefully choreographed faux shock in her voice.

  ‘Blank on her part. She was questioned but offered no explanation, no answers, no expression of remorse. Also, perhaps more telling, no tears, no questions, no fear. A long, self-controlled blank. It is my opinion that Maria Bloxham is not mentally ill. She is, I believe, responsible for the injury to her husband, in both legal and moral terms.’

  Imogen Pascal nodded reverently at the professor, swept her gown to one side, and sat down. James Newell stood up, his eyes focused on his notebook.

  ‘Moral terms, Professor?’ he asked, so quietly that even the judge had to lean in to catch his words.

  ‘I meant only that …’ Professor Worth blustered.

  ‘How many years have you been a qualified psychiatrist?’ Newell asked him.

  ‘Twenty-two,’ Worth bristled in reply.

  ‘How many court appearances in your professional capacity in that time?’ Newell continued.

  ‘Too numerous to count. Certainly hundreds,’ Worth said.

  ‘And at what stage did this courtroom convict people on the basis of your moral judgment?’ Newell asked. His voice was raised. Maria looked up. She had spent several hours with James Newell, not only at the court but in conference in his legal chambers. He’d never raised his voice before.

  ‘I wasn’t implying that this was a forum for morally based decision making. Only that Maria Bloxham was able to tell right from wrong at the time of the offence,’ Professor Worth said. He had taken a half-step back in the jury box, and was fiddling with the notes on the desk in front of him. Imogen Pascal’s cooing and coddling suddenly seemed an age ago.

  ‘You believe she was able to tell right from wrong at the time of the alleged offence? But you weren’t there, Dr Worth. Your interview with Maria Bloxham ended before she recounted those events to you, so unless you have some sort of psychic ability we don’t know about, I’m not sure how you’ve reached that conclusion.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Worth muttered, glancing to the judge.

  ‘As is diagnosing someone’s mental state from a single interview after reading a few statements,’ Newell responded. ‘Do you believe it’s possible for a person to be under so much stress that they effectively break, driven to using extreme violence, even when they’re not suffering a specific psychiatric illness?’

  ‘Yes,’ Worth said, ‘but I’d expect some evidence of that.’

  ‘And because Maria Bloxham lived in a nice house and never troubled her doctor, you’ve decided that cannot be the case?’ Newell asked.

  ‘I made my decision based on the problem she has controlling her anger, as I witnessed first hand,’ Worth said.

  ‘Have you considered that what you see as a non-threatening environment might not be perceived the same way by the people you examine?’

  ‘These are procedures developed from years of professional work, and I don’t appreciate having my standards questioned …’

  ‘Spare us the righteous indignation, doctor, there’s too much at stake for that,’ Newell said, hands on his hips, his gown spreading out behind him like voluminous black wings. To Maria’s delight, it looked as if he might suddenly fly away.

  ‘I object to the tone my learned friend is taking with this witness, Your Honour,’ Imogen Pascal interjected.

  ‘Your witness can look after himself,’ James Newell replied.

  ‘I think that’s enough for one day,’ the judge said, setting her glasses on the desk. ‘Apparently the heat is getting to us all. Perhaps tomorrow we will return with cooler heads and more civil tongues. I’m adjourning until 10.30 a.m.’

  The tea and coffee in the jury room remained untouched. The Tabitha gang – seven of them now – were whispering in one corner. Cameron was leaning to mutter into Jack’s ear. Pan was on his laptop already, as if the trial was merely a minor distraction in his busy working day. Lottie’s head was full. She was too hot. Her feet were swelling in her sandals.

  ‘I thought that professor man was quite clever, didn’t you?’ Jennifer asked as Lottie poured herself a glass of tepid water. ‘He seemed to be pretty clear on the defendant’s personality.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Lottie replied blandly, avoiding another confrontation. The truth was that she hadn’t particularly liked the psychiatrist. He’d reminded her of that generation of GPs she used to see as a young child. White, middle-aged, supercilious males, ever so slightly sneering.

  ‘Are you all right? You look a bit off colour. Probably the heat. I keep meaning to ask if we can have a couple of fans in here to keep the air moving around,’ Jen said, looking around the room as if the fans were magically going to appear.

  ‘Good idea,’ Lottie said. ‘Actually, I think I do need to sit down. Excuse me.’ She slipped away, finding her bag and fanning herself with a deserted newspaper, hoping Jennifer wouldn’t follow her. She knew she wasn’t being kind – Jen was making an effort – but Lottie wanted to make conversation with someone whose life was entirely different to her own. />
  Taking out her phone, she considered who to text first – Zain to say she would be on her way home soon, which might do something to repair the bad atmosphere between them, or the childminder to see if she could pick Daniyal up in time for a trip to the park before tea.

  ‘Sick of me yet or are you free for the afternoon, given they’ve let us have an early day?’ Cameron asked quietly.

  ‘We had breakfast together three hours ago,’ Lottie said, slipping the mobile back into her pocket. ‘I’m not sure we’ve got much left to talk about.’

  ‘No talking then,’ he said. ‘How about a drink somewhere? I know a great pub on the coast. Breeze in your hair, sun in your face. No more talking about blood and death.’

  She checked her watch to buy thinking time. An afternoon in a pub garden, or extra time at home doing what she usually did? The decision wasn’t as hard as it should have been. Over the course of the morning, the answer to the question Cameron had posed in the café had repeated through her head. Who was responsible for making her feel small? Zain. Not deliberately or consciously, but there it was. She had a right to be happy and appreciated, and she wasn’t going to pass up any opportunity she had to feel those things again.

  ‘I’ll have to get home at normal time,’ Lottie replied.

  ‘Suits me. I’m catching up with Jack for a drink tonight. Meet me in the multi-storey car park, second floor, row A,’ he said.

  Lottie grinned as he walked out. Cameron made her feel better about herself. He never talked down to her, and he was easy company. Why shouldn’t she go for a drink with him? As long as they didn’t talk about the case, they were doing nothing wrong. It wasn’t as if she was going to let things go any further than simple friendship. She knew where to draw the line.

  14

  They drove west towards Portishead, then south down the coast, the sun enticing hoards of visitors to the sand. Ice-cream vans, bucket-and-spade vendors and unofficial cafés littered the entrances to the car parks, colouring the landscape in every shade of plastic imaginable.

  ‘I love Kilkenny Bay,’ Cameron said, lowering his window and allowing his right elbow to hang out, catching the breeze. That’s why it was more tanned than his left arm, Lottie realised, wondering when she had first noticed the difference. ‘I used to come out here all the time when I was a teenager. We’d wait until the tourists had given up for the day, bring some beers, light a fire on the beach.’

  ‘Sounds idyllic. Where are we going?’ Lottie asked, pulling her hair back from her face as the incoming breeze whipped it back and forth.

  ‘Right here,’ Cameron said, pulling off the road into a car park and pointing up to an old windmill. ‘It’s been converted into a pub. Follow me.’ They walked round to the back of the building where it overlooked the sea. Part of the structure had been modernised with a curved glass façade. ‘You get us a table on the decking and I’ll get the drinks.’

  Lottie watched him go, enjoying the way his T-shirt stretched across the top of his shoulders, trying not to let her gaze meander down the length of his body, and failing. Once he’d disappeared inside, she found a table and stared out across the waves. It felt good to be outside without worrying about watching a roving toddler. She could listen to the waves instead of responding to constant demands. Tipping her head back and closing her eyes, she let the sun bake her skin.

  ‘You belong in the sunshine,’ Cameron said quietly, brushing a strand of hair from across her cheek as he sat down. He poured tonic into gin and ice and handed it to her. ‘This okay?’

  ‘You’re a bad influence. I can’t remember the last time I drank in the middle of the day. If I start giggling, you’ll have to throw some cold water over me,’ she smiled.

  ‘That would be my absolute pleasure,’ he grinned, raising his glass to hers. ‘Cheers. Here’s to meeting you. How can I regret being called for jury service now?’

  ‘You mean it’s not enough that you’re serving the community, sacrificing your time for the greater good?’ She tilted her head, knowing the sunlight was catching her face and showing off her smooth, newly browned skin.

  ‘That too, of course, but it might not have been quite the same if I’d ended up sitting next to Tabitha,’ he said, stretching his arms above his head, tautening the muscles in his upper arms and chest.

  ‘You mean you’re not tempted by the thought of whispering the sorts of comments into Tabitha’s ear you do into mine?’ Lottie caught a drip of water from the outside of her glass and licked it from the end of her finger. A little light-hearted flirting was okay, she told herself. Nothing serious. No one was going to get hurt by a bit of banter.

  ‘I’m not sure Tabitha smells quite as good as you, but I’m willing to give it a go if you think it’d loosen her up a bit,’ he replied.

  ‘Please, stop!’ Lottie said. ‘There are some things I don’t want in my imagination.’

  ‘Come on, it’s a great idea. Or would you be jealous?’

  ‘Maybe I’d be relieved,’ she raised her eyebrows, turning her wedding band slowly on her finger and rubbing at a smudge on the gold. ‘No more tutting and sighing without you next to me. I might actually be able to concentrate for a few minutes at a time.’

  ‘You know what you do with your hands is a huge giveaway about what’s on your mind,’ Cameron said, nodding towards her fingers.

  Lottie stopped fiddling and looked up at him. ‘How so?’

  ‘Give me your right hand,’ he said, holding out his left, palm upwards on the table.

  ‘Is this some sort of trick?’

  ‘No, I work with my hands all day. I understand how important touch is. Come on, a little trust.’ He pushed his hand an inch further towards hers.

  ‘Fine,’ Lottie said, placing hers palm up on top of Cameron’s.

  ‘Our hands are one of the most demonstrative parts of our body. They’re a defence mechanism, our first point of contact and the things we use to incite a sexual reaction either in ourselves or in other people,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I’m not sure where this is going,’ Lottie said. ‘Is there a punch line?’

  ‘No, no, this is real.’ He turned her hand on its side and reached out his own to shake hers. ‘We have all sorts of rules about touching each other with our hands that completely change the meaning of what we’re doing, and yet it’s still the same five fingers in play. You meet a stranger, or your boss, the first thing you do is reach out a hand to shake. You don’t think about it. It’s not personal, in fact if you don’t shake hands you might be considered rude.’

  ‘Go on,’ Lottie said, picking up her glass with her free hand and taking a sip of gin.

  ‘We can hold a friend’s hand without it meaning anything, because we regulate the pressure of our fingertips.’ He wrapped his fingers around hers to make the point. ‘But if we use our fingers differently, hold hands in a different way, the meaning and the sensation becomes something else. Intimate, intense.’ He turned her hand so that his palm was flat against the back of her hand and slowly eased his fingertips between each of her fingers, pushing all the way through until he could close his fist around hers. Lottie’s stomach registered the shift in tension, forcing her to take a sudden breath in. ‘It’s to do with the act of opening up a part of someone else’s body, forcing a sort of submission.’ She knew he could see the effect he had on her. Flexing her fingers she tried to release her hand, but he kept hold, turning her hand palm up again in his own. ‘We use our fingertips to give pleasure. A single touch can affect our whole body.’ He ran his nails in a circle around her palm, issuing a shock of sensation up her arm and down through her core, then he trailed his fingers up the soft inner flesh of her arm to her elbow. Lottie put down her glass, laying her free hand over his to stop the caress.

  ‘I get it,’ she said, extracting her hand and wrapping it around her glass to cool it down. ‘I still don’t see what the relevance is to me.’

  ‘Our hands are show our mood. We bite our nails when we�
�re nervous, tap our fingers when we’re impatient, and fiddle with things when we’re stressed. Like your wedding ring.’

  ‘Maybe the band’s just too tight in this heat,’ Lottie challenged him.

  He didn’t take the bait. ‘Do you know you frown whenever you touch it?’ he asked, his voice little more than a whisper.

  ‘You’re overthinking it,’ Lottie replied, wondering if he was right, wanting to touch the ring immediately but too self-conscious to do so. The idea that she was so transparent was embarrassing, and she really should have argued with him, but that was just going to invite further scrutiny of her marriage. She opted for diffusion instead. ‘It was a good excuse to hold my hand, though, right? How long had you been planning that?’

  He laughed, all smiles, the seriousness gone, letting the moment drift away on the light wind blowing off the sea. ‘You got me,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to try something more subtle next time. I hope you don’t mind.’ He pulled his T-shirt over his head and threw it onto the table. ‘It’s baking out here.’ Lying down along the bench, he revealed tanned skin and muscles that swelled and stretched with every movement. Lottie managed not to stare for about sixty seconds before giving in. If Cameron was relaxed enough to hold her hand and stroke her arm, surely she was free to stare at his body.

  ‘So come on, as you’re obviously showing it off, do you work out or is the body just from clean living and a physical job?’ she asked.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘I don’t not like it,’ she smiled.

  ‘Then it doesn’t matter whether I go to the gym or not,’ he said.

  ‘Do you ever give a straight answer to a question?’ Lottie asked, lying back on her own bench and stretching out.