No Further Questions

by Gillian McAllister

  ‘Yes’, Harriet said. My eyes pool with tears. How can I not know whether a mark had always been on my own daughter? I have been through my hundreds of photographs of her, over and over, hoping to find one with the answer. But I never do.

  ‘The bleeding in the lungs and the blood spots around the mouth, nose and on the retinas could all be caused by accidental smothering.’

  ‘Yes. And how might Layla have been accidentally smothered?’

  ‘She might have rolled over. Eight weeks is early, but not unheard of. The defendant could have remembered incorrectly, and could have placed her face down, misremembered. Perhaps.’

  ‘And the haemorrhages?’

  ‘Could have been caused by accidental smothering but could also have been there from birth.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘During a prolonged and difficult labour – or one where the baby’s head does not easily fit through the birth canal, or the baby is large – the blood vessels in the eyes can rupture.’

  ‘So those symptoms may have been there since birth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And would they look like the retinal haemorrhages we have seen on Layla’s scans?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Harriet pauses. She looks down at her papers, then up at Jada, then at the jury.

  ‘Please can the members of the jury turn to page eighteen of their folders,’ Harriet says. ‘The pathologist’s photographs of Layla’s retinas, taken with a magnifying camera through the pupil.’

  Jada reaches for a folder, too, and holds up a photograph. It looks like a sun, or a ball of lava. ‘Full retinal haemorrhages would have blood across this entire orange area,’ she says. The eyes have thin, red cobwebs over them, interspersed, in the centre, with fat, sprawling drops. ‘Layla’s are only in the centre, here,’ she says, pointing to one of the blobs.

  ‘What would you conclude might cause retinal haemorrhages like this?’

  ‘Many things. Birth trauma. Accidental smothering. Crying violently. CPR, for example. CPR performed by the frightened defendant. Shaking, to wake the baby up.’

  ‘Thank you. Lots of explanations. None as far-fetched as abuse.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And, finally: do you agree with the pathologist’s time of death as between eight and nine thirty – nine forty at the absolute latest?’

  ‘Yes. I agree there could be no way Layla would have been alive after nine forty.’

  ‘Thank you, Ms Browne,’ Harriet says. ‘That will be all from me.’

  That’s it? That’s it?

  I sit very still, hoping for more.

  Where is the counter-evidence? The moment of truth?

  Ellen looks completely cool as she stands up. She stands silently for a moment or two, one arm across her body, left hand cupping her right elbow, right hand up to her face. Her head is tilted thoughtfully.

  ‘Right,’ Ellen says, sounding exasperated. ‘At no point has the defendant, the victim’s mother, or anyone who had care of Layla said that she was accidentally smothered. Becky had sole care of Layla at the agreed time of death – between eight and nine thirty that evening. She would have known, and indeed would have admitted, that it was accidental, if it was. If it was accidental, the baby would have been discovered having rolled over, or caught in her blankets. The defendant’s own account is that Layla wasn’t even in bed at that time.’

  Harriet stands, but Ellen gets there first. ‘I will withdraw that commentary,’ she says. Then, looking at the witness, ‘So your evidence that Layla’s injuries might have come from an accident are irrelevant, because that isn’t the evidence we have.’

  ‘That we know of.’

  ‘You say these injuries would present themselves in a case of accidental smothering. Would they all? Even the bruised gums?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘All the time? Every single time?’

  ‘Not every single time, no.’

  I find myself looking across at Becky, wondering what she thinks about all of this. If she did it, if she didn’t … because if she didn’t do it, all of this – this conjecture – it’s pointless, isn’t it? An expert saying one thing, the next saying another … she might be sitting there, knowing that she didn’t do it. How strange that would be.

  ‘Retinal haemorrhages – how often do they last eight weeks from birth?’

  ‘It is possible that they do.’

  ‘Is it likely?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Is it rare?’

  ‘It is quite rare for them to last eight weeks.’

  ‘Right.’ Ellen sighs, as though she is dealing with an idiot, a criminal. ‘So your hypothesis is that Layla did not die because of homicidal smothering. She died of accidental smothering, or of something benign and undetectable, and the findings of haemorrhages were incidental to this? Or maybe that she rolled over prodigiously early, for the first time, that night – and nobody saw? And she was found on her back, by the defendant’s own testimony?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘It is possible.’

  ‘You say CPR or shaking to wake a baby can cause retinal haemorrhages.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So your position is that the injuries might have been caused after Layla’s death, after she was found dead in her cot?’

  ‘Yes, they could have been.’

  ‘Are the other injuries consistent with taking place after death?’

  Jada looks at her feet. ‘Well …’

  ‘Because the body behaves differently before and after death, does it not? The blood stops flowing, for example?’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘So the quality of the injuries – do they look to you like they occurred before or after death, in terms of inflammatory reactions?’

  ‘Before. But it is possible that—’

  ‘Right. Thank you.’ Ellen leaves a meaningful pause. ‘Nothing further.’ She heaves a sigh. She sounds exhausted, baffled, confused. Just confused by this expert, and all of her unlikely, ludicrous evidence.

  And she’s not the only one.

  So that is that. I sneak a look across the public gallery, at Scott. He was right. There is no defence. There are no facts. They have bent each beam of truth, refracted it naturally away from Becky, but it is a construct. The truth of it is that one beam – abuse, a spotlight explaining every single injury – fits. This defence – that one symptom was caused by one unlikely event, another by another – seems unnatural. Precarious. Like it could tumble down at any moment.

  The conviction I felt in Becky’s front garden has disappeared. This isn’t a murder investigation, and I am no sleuth. It’s just a slow unravelling of a tragedy, a tragedy my sister caused. It must be.

  The truth is, there is no truth. We will never know.

  Conviction or acquittal. I am never going to know.

  That is the truth of it.

  57

  Becky

  7.50 p.m., Thursday 26 October

  ‘You left her?’ he says. He’s holding her close to him. Her mouth is right by his ear. The noise must be unreal.

  ‘Only for five minutes,’ I say. I wave the bottles at him, both held in my right hand. ‘Calpol.’

  ‘Oh,’ Marc says.

  Credit to him, he doesn’t labour the point. I shouldn’t have left her, obviously. But he knows, more than most, the stress of it.

  ‘You sounded like you could do with a hand anyway … and I wanted to talk to you,’ he says.

  ‘Okay,’ I say dully.

  ‘What’s going on, Sam?’ He rises, going to stand by the mirror over the mantelpiece. ‘Who’s that?’ he says to Layla, pointing to her reflection.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say sullenly. I’m not sure he hears me over the crying. ‘It’s just …’ I say, looking at my husband in the mirror.

  His smell lingers in the living room. Not aftershave, not deodorant, not washing powder. New carpets, that’s what he’s always sme
lt of. And I have always loved it.

  ‘This arrangement,’ he says. ‘It can’t be long-term, can it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, over her screams.

  Marc sits down again with Layla. ‘It’s mad,’ he says.

  ‘It’s mad how incompetent I am,’ I say. To my surprise, my voice cracks, expanding around a lump in my throat. ‘Mad,’ I say.

  Marc doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me. Blue eyes open wide, so trustworthy. I could tell him anything.

  ‘Look at their life,’ I say.

  I gesture and Marc passes Layla to me. She quietens, still crying, but more of a low, discontented grizzle. I lay her down in my lap and her fists close around my fingers. Her little warm hands.

  ‘Martha and Scott’s?’

  ‘Yes. Look at it. They’re running a charity. He earns a shitload with his computer stuff. It’s perfect, isn’t it? Their perfect flat, their perfect, charitable endeavours, their perfectly planned baby.’

  ‘Is it?’ Marc says. He rubs a hand thoughtfully over his chin.

  This is what I’ve always loved about him. He considers my opinions. He doesn’t dismiss them, as Martha and Scott do. Bloody Becky, they think, exchanging a wry glance. But Marc never does. Never would.

  ‘And then look at me!’ I say, sounding hysterical, even to myself. ‘Failed at design school. Failed at set-dressing. Failed at marriage,’ I say, catching his eye.

  ‘I failed at that, too,’ he says softly, sadly. ‘Not to mention the baby making.’

  I take a deep breath. And suddenly, here I am. After years of avoidance, of pride, of defiance, here I am, ready. And I know it’s not just the wine talking. It is me. ‘I’m sorry, Marc,’ I say. ‘I should never have given up on us. I should never have slept with somebody else. It was … God, it was beyond stupid.’

  ‘It was,’ he says. ‘It was.’

  ‘I regret it every day. I regret this nannying every day,’ I say, looking at Layla, ‘and I regret that.’

  ‘Well, at least you’ve admitted it,’ he says, a small smile on his face.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, Sams. I think sometimes you’re so prickly, worrying about what people think of you, that you never truly say how you feel. You think they’ll judge you.’

  ‘But they do.’

  ‘So what?’ he says, looking at me. ‘So what.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to him. But I’m not done yet. The weeks of pent-up thoughts are racing out, across the living room, to my ex-husband. ‘And now this. I’m a failed nanny, too. I was never a good mother,’ I say thickly, my voice sounding coated. ‘It’s just that Xander was easy.’

  ‘No,’ Marc says, standing up and coming to sit next to me on the chair. He sits on the arm, his hand dangling casually behind my back. I can feel the warmth of it. My entire mind is focused on it. ‘No way. Remember when Xander had winter vomiting? And then teething right after?’

  ‘Vaguely,’ I say. I think it was the only time I’d ever been seriously sleep deprived. ‘In the spring,’ I say. I only remember that because I ate an entire Easter cake, in bed, at 4.00 a.m.

  ‘He was sick for three nights straight,’ Marc says. ‘No sleep. I had a big job on and you just did it all, Sammy. Cleaning up the sick. Changing the beds. Comforting him. And then the teething. I got home one night and your eyes were just black with how tired you were. But there you were, rubbing Bonjela on to his gums even though it was late.’

  I remember that night. He sent me off for a bath. I fell asleep and woke in the tepid water. He dried me off, in the bedroom, and I fell asleep in the towel.

  ‘You just did it all,’ he says again. ‘You can do anything you put your mind to.’

  ‘You remember all that?’

  ‘I miss it,’ he says. ‘I’ve missed it so much. I have Xander half the time, since we split. But I miss it. The other parent.’ His eyes meet mine. ‘You.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss me,’ I say.

  I have never once considered how hard it must have been for him. I slept with somebody else and, out of respect for himself, he had to move out. But I’d never once thought I had consigned him to co-parenting, to McDonald’s trips alone with his son, to lonely evenings and solo school runs. How selfish I am.

  ‘Sam, listen. You got pregnant at nineteen and you coped with it. You gave up your career for Xander. You found a job that let you work around him. You never resented it, even though you weren’t doing what you wanted. And as for us …’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I say. I look up at him, and his arm shifts, finally connecting with my shoulders. I lean into it. I can’t help but do anything else. ‘What about us?’

  ‘You ditched your arse of a husband. As you rightly should.’

  ‘I slept with somebody else. Somebody I didn’t love. What an idiot,’ I say forlornly.

  ‘With good reason,’ Marc says with a sigh.

  His other hand reaches down to rub Layla’s stomach. She’s still grumbling, but also watching us, her navy eyes catching the lamplight.

  ‘Not really,’ I say. ‘You were a bit … we were withdrawn and lazy. That’s all. The usual.’

  ‘It wasn’t usual,’ he says. ‘It wasn’t laziness.’

  ‘No?’

  He sighs, then says nothing, looking across the living room in silence.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘Do you remember my mumps?’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  How we had laughed at his moon-face. Martha had said it was cruel, and we had just laughed even more.

  ‘When Xander was two.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘Well, that’s why,’ Marc says simply.

  I’m still looking up at him. His expression is unreadable.

  ‘When we started trying again … when it took ages, I saw the doctor. I didn’t want to, but Dad said I should. So I did. And that’s … I’m the reason. The mumps. I couldn’t give you a baby because … I can’t,’ he says. ‘That’s why.’

  I look down at Layla, then up at him again. His eyes are wet. I don’t think I have ever seen him cry.

  ‘Oh,’ I whisper.

  ‘So,’ he says, dragging the back of his hand underneath his eyes, ‘I withdrew. I just couldn’t handle it. I developed this dickhead persona. Shouting at Xander, at you. Acting macho because—’

  ‘Marc,’ I say.

  ‘I know. I know I should’ve told you. You could’ve left. Had a baby with someone else. Or at least stopped hoping your period wouldn’t come.’

  I swallow hard, remembering those months – those years – of bathroom tears. Of checking my boobs so often that I convinced myself they were sore, a phantom pregnancy symptom created by checking for one. Of pregnancy tests done anyway, in hope, and searching for lines that weren’t there.

  But then I think of Marc. Ill with mumps. Rendered infertile. Being told by a doctor and acting normally that night – whenever it was – around us. Not feeling like he could complete his family, because of something that had happened to him. Mumps. So quotidian. So unfair.

  ‘Marc,’ I say again.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sam. I should’ve said. Instead, I went the other way. Those stupid FutureLearn courses. I felt like if I filled my head with other stuff, with distractions, then maybe it wouldn’t matter. God, what a twat. It’s no wonder you slept with somebody else. I don’t blame you.’

  ‘God,’ I say, trying to take it all in. Trying to work out whether it’s a betrayal or a welcome confession. I scout around, searching, but I find no resentment. I find only one thing: sympathy. And regret. ‘You poor thing,’ I say. I reach up for his hand and hold it.

  He starts to cry properly, fully. ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too … I’m sorry we didn’t find a way through.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t surprised, though. When you slept with someone else. I know how many nights you wanted to … and I just rolled away from you. I just
couldn’t. I felt faulty.’

  ‘You’re not faulty,’ I say, leaning against his body. ‘You’re never faulty, to me.’

  ‘That’s why I was so nasty, anyway. Being a man, I suppose.’

  ‘You weren’t nasty. You were just a bit – hey. You had a lot going on.’

  ‘I was trying to assert my masculinity. With tellings-off. With temper.’

  I breathe in his new-carpet smell and say nothing as he shakes beside me. I rhythmically stroke the rough skin on the back of his hand, letting him cry. ‘That’s why you were nice, when we split up,’ I say. ‘That’s why you’ve always been so nice to me.’

  ‘It was like a pressure cooker. And then when I moved out, I felt like … I felt like me again. I wasn’t going to make any babies, and nobody was expecting me to. And we just reverted, didn’t we? I didn’t imagine it, did I?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘We did. We did just go back to the way it was. The way we were.’

  ‘And now …’ he says.

  He shifts his weight, and I move over, and suddenly we’re both sitting, squeezed in too tight, in the armchair together.

  ‘Not sure this is big enough for my arse and yours,’ Marc says.

  I can’t help but let out a laugh. That humour of his. So base. I have always loved it.

  ‘And now what?’ I say.

  Layla starts crying again and I try my best not to feel irritated. Marc looks at me.

  ‘She’s loud, isn’t she?’ he says. ‘No wonder you’ve been going bonkers.’

  ‘She’s so loud,’ I say.

  ‘You need to quit this job,’ he says carefully.

  ‘I know. I do know that. I can’t do it any more. I feel so – God. I feel so mad. I forgot Xander the other day. I left him at the school gates again, because Martha was late, and I didn’t have a phone.’

  ‘Oh, Sam. We can’t let that happen. Their needs can’t trump our little family’s. And you’re not mad.’

  ‘I am. I feel angry at her,’ I say. ‘I feel angry at Layla.’

  ‘I see,’ he says. ‘I see.’

  He’s nodding, thinking. Wondering what to do, I suppose.