by Ruth Dugdall
“I shouldn’t have been prosecuted either! You’ve just described the situation between Smith and myself… ”
“Why do you call him that,” she frowns at her jotter, reads her notes, “when his surname was Jenkins?”
“It was what he wanted me to call him – but you interrupted. We may not have been married, but we were in love. It was euthanasia. The term derives from the Latin. It means an easy death. And last June that is what I gave him, just by being with him when he overdosed.”
“But he wasn’t unwell,” she clarifies. “That’s what makes this case different. As well as the way he died. That’s why you were prosecuted.”
“He may not have been ill but there are more reasons to wish to leave this earth than physical suffering. You must try to think more creatively, Miss Austin.” Her hand tightens on her pen. I’ve said too much but I can’t stop. “You said there were other considerations in deciding a sentence. What might those be?”
“Well, your needs for one. It’s routine to consider if specialist treatment or therapy is required as part of any sentence. If any issues are pertinent, such as alcohol or drug misuse, any past trauma that may require counselling, anger management, sex offender therapy, anything like that.”
“Well, none of those apply.” Surely she can see that? “I rarely drink and don’t touch drugs. And I’m no sex offender.” She remains maddeningly silent, watching me carefully.
“Any mental health needs will also be considered, in conjunction with the psychiatric assessment ordered by the court. It’ll be completed by Dr Gregg, who’ll decide if you require treatment after he visits you. And if the judge feels you need a custodial sentence, his report may send you to a secure hospital rather than prison.” My hand stills on my cup, the only warmth as my body turns cold. Prison? “It may be possible to consider a community order, which could include a variety of conditions. I’ll go through my proposal with you before the sentence date, when the report is finished. But in order to write it, Alice, I need to ask you some questions.”
How can she carry on as if she hasn’t said that word? I can’t go to prison. Something hot rises in my chest and I want to shout, ‘How dare you suggest such a thing? I’ve done nothing wrong!’
“Alice?”
I fight my anger down. “More questions. I had enough of those from the police. And during the court hearing.” I can’t even pretend a smile now.
“I know that. I appreciate that you’ve said a lot already, but not to me. And I’m not here to interrogate you. You’ve already been convicted, and the fact that you pleaded guilty will go in your favour. The question now is how you should be sentenced. I want to know more about why David Jenkins killed himself in your home. How did it come to that? And I need to know more about you, Alice. Mariani’s an unusual name.”
“It’s Italian.” I stand, remove the cups and turn my back.
“Is that where your parents are from?”
“No. They’re Suffolk natives. But that’s not who gave me my name. Their surname is Dunn. It was mine, too, until I turned sixteen.”
“So you changed it?”
Is this what I have to do to be free? Purge my soul to a stranger? “That’s right. Wouldn’t you, with an ugly surname like that? I changed it to my mother’s surname. My mother had a beautiful name. Matilde Mariani. Taking her name seemed important at the time. I was going through that predictable teenage thing of rejecting those who love you. I know it hurt my adoptive parents, even if they pretended to understand. Now I think it was irrelevant, what was I trying to prove? Changing my name wasn’t going to change the past.”
“But you say it was important to you at the time. Was it a search for identity?”
“Nothing so meaningful, I’m sure. I was barely more than a baby when I was adopted, just a child. It’s so long ago, it feels unreal. It’s like a story I made up.”
I look into the garden, now in darkness. She nods, an acknowledgment that settles in the space between us.
As a lecturer I’m used to speaking to an audience, and I pull my shoulders back. I mustn’t show my fear. “What do you want me to tell you?”
She thinks, looks at her notes. “Can I ask you about your adoption?”
“Is it relevant? What can my being adopted have to do with Smith’s suicide?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”
“That’s very cryptic. You’re asking me to bare my soul on the basis of a possible connection?”
“Everything is connected,” she says, evenly. “The difficult bit is working out how. An adoption is a major event. It must have been traumatic for you.”
“Not really. I was so young. I was adopted by a couple who wanted me. As long as you’re wanted, what difference can genetics make?”
Cate Austin leans back. She puts down her pen, and holds her hands in her lap. “I think we both know it isn’t as simple as that. It seems to me, Alice, that you have a choice. We will have a handful of meetings, at the end of which I will file a report with the court. Now, I’m the one that writes that report but the content, the conclusion, is down to you. So you can talk to me, and I realise this will not be easy, but you must trust the criminal justice system to be a fair process, and in the end the sentence will be one that helps you.” She pauses, takes a breath. “Or you can refuse to cooperate. That’s your choice. But remember when I come to recommend a sentence you will have forced my hand. And I hate recommending prison, especially for a woman, Alice. I really do.”
Neat anger prickles the back of my neck, and my hands are cold. She is threatening me. I look at the clock on the wall. “I’m afraid, Miss Austin, that I’m expecting someone to arrive very shortly. If you’ll excuse me, I need to start getting ready.”
She twists her mouth, and her hands rise to the table, to her pen. She had hoped her little speech would have me opening up like a Russian doll. “This feels like a bad point to stop,” she says, looking down at her jotter and I see a sentence, a question mark at the end. The tip of her biro draws a star next to it.
“What were you going to ask me?”
“I was going to ask about your situation now. If there’s another man in your life?”
I can feel my head start to ache. I stretch my feet into my slippers, and stand. “I think I’ve said enough for our first meeting. I’d like you to leave now.”
She hesitates, and then gathers her things. “Okay, Alice, I’ll go. But I want you to think about what I’ve said. And I’d like to see you tomorrow. I want you to come to the probation office.”
As I show her the door all I can think is that I must avoid prison at any cost.
Six
There are things that I will tell only you. You have chosen to listen, and in return I shall be honest. But I won’t tell Cate Austin. If she knew that I have a lover, how could that benefit me? It will be our secret. My body is tourniquet tight, muscles quivering from work, the weight of my recent lover along my thigh and chest. My breath rapid while the evidence of lust spills from me onto the sofa. I luxuriate in the peace delivered only after orgasm. My thoughts, usually scratching tumble-weed, unravel and stretch flat. It’s what sex can give, like no other fix.
My lover is not Smith, who arrived on a train. Smith is dead: he died last June. This is another lover, a friend from long ago, someone who has known me since I was a child. Lee always returns. It was a long absence this time, all last year while I was with Smith. But this evening, after Cate Austin had gone, Lee came back to me. A few days ago there was an airmail letter to explain; a holiday, back in the UK, only for a few weeks. I’m always grateful to see Lee. I stroke the shorn head, animal-soft, heavy on my shoulder. Before the heat has cooled between us Lee pulls away, and disappears up the stairs to piss in the toilet upstairs, the noise audible above my head. I remember why Smith came to me. We wanted to avoid this anti-climax and we succeeded. I don’t move, refuse to let the spell be broken. I admire my body, one hand caressing my flat stomach. I’m a released
trap, a catch undone. I’m all damp velvet and warm leather.
Then Lee appears, ridiculous in my tiny bathrobe, “Can I get you anything?”
“Water,” I say, licking my dry lips. “And the packet of paracetamol from my bag.” Even though I’ve given up coffee the headaches keep coming.
The pipes sing as the tap is turned and I hear humming from some faraway place. I’m still deep in my void.
Lee brings the water and I spill some on my chest as I take the heavy glass. I see those brown eyes, so recently heavy with lust, scan the discarded newspaper on the floor, wondering where I keep the remote control for the TV. If I were alone I would lie still for a long time, to keep the spell unbroken. There’s only one sure way to hold the magic, maintain the high: death.
I have trouble sleeping, always have, so whilst my lover dreams in my bed I potter about the house in my dressing gown, silk sticking to my thigh, checking my collection of cacti, watching the misty dawning of light. It’s cold, even for January, and there’s frost sparkling on the tops of cars like glitter. When the dawn is fully broken and I’ve watched several neighbours de-ice their cars and drive off to work, I return to the bedroom. It’s gone nine, but I no longer have anywhere to go. The only work I have to do at the university is to mark a pile of essays on Keats, written by first years. An undemanding task, so I can afford to go back to bed.
Lee breathes heavy with hidden visions and has overslept for the planned morning swim. I don’t concern myself with this, it’s not my business. I’m a lover, not a wife. I peel off my dressing gown like a shed skin and drop it to the floor, place my feet on Lee’s ankles, my knees sliding behind the curve of legs, and allow the heat to warm me. The room smells of the morning after sex. A salty, unclean potion that tastes better fresh. Putting an arm over Lee, I match my breath, trick my body into relaxing and hope my mind will follow.
As I curl behind the sleeping body, feeling the force of life, I think: I won’t tell Cate Austin your name. I’ll keep you out of this. After all, this return is only for a brief time, and it can’t make any difference. Lee is a friend, my best friend. Dependable and loyal. But never my true love, like Smith. This brief time is just a distraction, a respite. That’s all it can be when the future is unknown.
I wait for sleep.
When we wake I find myself teasing Lee, as I’ve always done over the years. It’s been so long since our last time together, so I reach, touch, need to be certain that the return is real. “Why do you have to have your hair so short?” I demand, feeling the dark bristles, the bony scalp underneath, “You’re like a hedgehog.”
“It’s just a military cut, Alice. Not everyone has it so short, but I like it.”
I like it too but don’t say this. Lee moves around my kitchen, opens the fridge, and grabs a mug from the cupboard. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you.”
“You want a drink?”
“No.” I wait until finally Lee sits down, eating a thickly buttered piece of toast. “So tell me about Germany.”
“Why would you want to know about Germany?” Lee smirks at me and I think: it’s true, I’ve never shown much interest before. But this posting is further away, and for longer. Lee left just a year ago. Last January was also the time when I saw Smith’s advert. As one lover abandoned me, another arrived. Fate works like that.
“So you aren’t married, then?”
Lee swigs tea, then looks at me, a moment too long. “I think you and I both know that’s not possible.”
I feel blood in my cheeks, but carry on making light of the intensity in the moment, “Oh, I don’t know. I’d have thought you could have found a nice Fraulein to keep you entertained. And I could see you being attracted to the German spirit. You always did like to be dominated.” It’s supposed to be a joke but Lee isn’t smiling. I change the subject, “How long are you here for?”
“A few weeks. I’ve been building up a lot of leave. There was a month-long exercise recently, and they asked for volunteers. Most of the lads weren’t interested, and those with families or wives didn’t want to leave the base. But me, I’m easy. So I built up a fair bit of extra hours. I reckon I’ll stay for three weeks, at least.”
The tricky moment is gone, as Lee and I play this easy, teasing game as we always have. It’s good for us to be together. Three weeks, though short, is more than enough time. In less than that I’ll be sentenced. I can’t think beyond that. If only I could tell Lee about the court case. If only I could be certain that Lee would understand. But I don’t have faith. I don’t believe that any love could forgive such an infidelity. So I’ll keep quiet, and tell only you.
Later, I’ll set off to visit Cate Austin at her office but for now I want to busy myself with other thoughts. Lee was always able to distract me, and I return to one of my favourite topics: “Do you still enjoy the military, then? All those rules, all that order?”
“Yes.” There’s a wicked twinkle in those brown eyes, “Being bossed around was something you taught me to enjoy.”
“I never would have guessed it, though,” I muse, not for the first time, “You going away, I mean. I always thought you’d just get a job around here. I never thought of you joining the RAF. I never even knew you wanted to fly.”
“I don’t fly. I fix things.”
“You always did want to fix things.”
Lee wants to fix me, so very much. So much it hurt sometimes. But I resist. You can’t fix someone who doesn’t want help.
Lee isn’t like me, never was. Leaving school at sixteen was a thing I never even considered, but for Lee it was a given. The teachers never rated Lee as a success, but they were wrong. Taking a job as a lifeguard at the local swimming baths may not have been the most auspicious start, but joining the RAF two years later has led to the perfect career. A Survival Equipment Fitter may not sound very glamorous, mainly fixing punctures in life rafts and folding away parachutes correctly, but Lee saves lives. Fixing a life preserver stops a pilot drowning. Getting that parachute to open correctly is vital.
Lee always was methodical, always was a rescuer. If only I wanted to be saved.
Seven
Notes following interview with Alice Mariani. NB: I have requested the Crown Prosecution summary of evidence, which is yet to arrive. Alice was with David Jenkins when he took a fatal overdose. She pleaded guilty to Assisting Suicide, a crime that can attract up to fourteen years in prison. In interview, she shows no remorse for this act, principally because she believes it is a morally defensible decision as ‘everyone has the right to choose to live or die.’
No indication that DJ was ill or in pain. No debts. So why did he want to die? Alice asserts that assisting with DJ’s suicide was a victimless crime and that they were in love. She was adopted when she was four-years-old. Has this any significance??
Cate stopped typing. Alice said she was adopted by a couple who wanted her. Had they provided Alice with the love and stability she needed? Dorothy on reception rang through.
“Cate, your client’s arrived.”
“Thanks, Dot.”
“She’s a bit edgy, and she’s attracting some unwelcome attention.”
“I’ll be right down.”
*
The probation office is a ghastly place. Stale air and fag ends, even the plastic chairs are filthy. She had no right asking me to come here. Worse, a man in a baseball hat with rotten teeth keeps trying to talk to me.
Cate Austin appears at the internal entrance, and opens a gateway. I’m tempted to run away into the street, but instead I follow her through without touching the door frame. Who knows what germs linger here? When we reach her office I take the seat and try to compose myself after this assault on my senses. “Please may I have a glass of water?”
She hesitates and I gather from this that she isn’t supposed to leave me in her office. I’m affronted that she has to think about it, as if I’m a criminal. Like that lowlife in the waiting room. Eventually, she goes and I’m alone in her room
. There’s a photo of a young girl on the desk, next to the computer. A pretty girl on a swing, legs in the air. How conventional. The computer screen is still on and I lean forward to read.
She returns quickly, and I have to move back into the chair, avoiding her assessing eye, and pretend to notice the photo on the desk for the first time.
“Is that your daughter?”
“Yes.”
She takes her seat, touches the picture and moves it slightly away from my gaze.
“How old is she?” I’ve never been good at guessing the ages of children, it’s not a skill that interests me.
