The Kindest Thing

by Cath Staincliffe

  ‘You have heard experts give opposing views of Ms Shelley’s state of mind. This court now entrusts you with the duty of considering all the evidence and deciding who to believe. And I must remind you that if there is any doubt in your minds then you must find her not guilty of murder. Thank you.’

  There is no knowing how long they will take. The hours drip by as I sit in the court cell but I would stop time. Because when they call me again my fate will be sealed.

  Neil is with me now, his long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, his black hair tangled. He is reading. He looks up when he feels my eyes upon him and his own green eyes meet my gaze. They are merry and mischievous. He sets his book down, his movements fluid, and reaches over, cups his hand around the back of my neck.

  ‘Deborah.’ Three syllables savoured.

  He bends to kiss me. His lips are smooth and warm, his tongue gentle, and I kiss him back, soft at first then harder.

  We are floating, a long way from the shore. The water is balmy. I can taste the salt and smell the brine on the warm breath of the wind.

  We swim on together; we will always be together. The sun is high. It glances off the water, fracturing into a million diamonds.

  Neil holds my hand, palm to palm, his slim fingers entwined with mine.

  Deborah.

  Three syllables.

  They call me back.

  The jury have their verdict.

  My jaw is rigid, my guts churning, my ears buzzing as I enter the dock. My breath is erratic and I’m aware that people can hear the stutter of it and see me fight to control my facial muscles, my movements spastic. I am so cold. I think my teeth must shatter, my skin harden and crack.

  I want to be strong, for Adam, for Sophie and Jane, but it is beyond me.

  They have chosen PA as the forewoman. I am surprised: she seems so young, with her neat ponytail and her tidy clothes. Is she a teacher, has she demonstrated some sort of leadership that influenced them to pick her? She’s shown little emotion during the trial – I’ve had no sense of empathy from her.

  ‘Have you reached a verdict?’the court clerk asks her.

  ‘Yes, we have.’

  ‘Is that a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On the charge of murder how do you find the defendant? Guilty or not guilty?’

  I cannot hear, the buzzing in my head swells, I gulp to try and clear my ears. Dizziness spins me round, bubbles in my blood. I am choking.

  I see Adam leap to his feet, and Jane. Sophie blanches, clutching at Veronica, who falls forward a little as though someone has punctured her, and Michael’s hand sweeps his face but his expression is relief, I think, not dismay.

  Paralysed, petrified, I watch these motions, unable to translate. Sound is muted, stretched. I am very far away, shrinking, disappearing.

  Then I catch the words. ‘Not guilty.’

  Tears spill down my face and I gasp and cry out, a great howl of release.

  There’s a pause and people sit again. I am huffing and puffing, the handkerchief that I’ve used already a wet ball.

  ‘And on the charge of manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility, how do you find the defendant, guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘Guilty.’

  The judge thanks the jury for their service. Hilda and Flo look pleased with themselves. Dolly is crying and the Prof puffs out his cheeks and messes with his glasses.

  Ms Gleason’s eyes are shining and she is beaming at me.

  Someone at the side, a reporter I think, dashes out. I will be on the teatime news.

  In Styal, Prison Officer Clarkson is in the house office. She asks me how I’ve got on, and congratulates me on the verdict. I am drained, punch-drunk with relief. Upstairs is quiet. The shower is empty, still steamy from the last occupant. I stand under the jets and savour the warm spray on my eyelids and lips, turn and let it pour through my hair, drumming on my shoulders and down my spine. Sluicing away the grit and grime and sweat of the long day.

  I put on my pyjamas and dressing-gown, go to get a cup of tea.

  The women from my house are crowded into the kitchen. They let out a cheer when I come in.

  ‘We made you a cake,’ says Patsy.

  They’re nudging each other and grinning, banter slipping back and forth. On the table is a glistening chocolate cake. I can’t speak.

  ‘Put the kettle on,’ someone yells, ‘she’s gasping. Aren’t yer, Mercy?’

  I smile and nod, then sit at the table while mugs of tea are made and the cake carefully divided.

  ‘Did yer faint?’ Patsy asks. ‘I got a not guilty time before last, nearly keeled over.’

  I lick the sweet, dark crumbs from my fingertips. ‘Nearly,’ I admit.

  I will be back to Minshull Street for sentencing in two weeks’ time. The women speculate as to how long I will get. Estimates range from a suspended sentence to five years. But it is much more likely to be the former, as I was not responsible for my actions. And I will be free.

  They swap war stories, verdicts and surprises, reversals of fortune. Their voices blur and swell, salted with laughter. I let it all wash around me. I feel a rush of love for these women with their chaotic, fractured lives, the grim burdens they bear and their sparky, bloody-minded, frail resilience.

  It is almost seven thirty and PO Clarkson comes to remind us she needs to lock up soon.

  Patsy and I clear the plates as the others drift away with words of congratulation and jokes; the atmosphere in the house is warm with good humour.

  ‘So the jury believed yer?’ Patsy says quietly. ‘That you were off yer head when you did it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But yer weren’t really, were yer?’

  I freeze, my hand on the cupboard door. A prickle of fear needles through me. Will she tell? Could they try me again? My mind soars back to that summer afternoon. I look her in the eyes and I trust her.

  ‘No, I wasn’t.’ I was in a hard place.

  She wipes the sink. ‘You were just being kind, really. Anyone’d do the same, if they really loved someone. It shouldn’t be counted like murder.’

  She is right.

  I leave my curtains open and watch the tree. A pitch silhouette against the luminous sky. The moon is almost full and hangs fat and low, blue-white like milk. I long to be home, to be gone from here. Home, where I will roam the house and garden, drink in the sight and smell of my son, begin to find a way to bring my fine fierce daughter home.

  I peel back the sheet and mattress cover. Take a black felt pen. Add my own mark: Deborah Shelley and Neil Draper. Our names will always be linked. Not just in private but in the public domain: on search engines and in legal casebooks, in people’s memories. The dying man and the wife acquitted of his murder, her reason lost. The ill-starred lovers.

  But I am not going to climb on any more pyres for you, Neil, not hurl myself from a tower or slip my neck in a noose. What you have put me through has been more than enough for a lifetime. You will have to wait for me. I will rewrite our ending. We will be Baucis and Philemon, beloved wife and husband, who give shelter, food and wine to the incognito Zeus when others shun him. Rewarded, we are led from disaster and granted a wish – to stay together for the rest of our lives, to die together. And then we become two trees, an oak and a lime, side by side, our roots tangled in the earth, our branches intertwined, our leaves kissing in the wind. For ever.

  Discussion Points

  (1) Did you have a view on assisted suicide before reading The Kindest Thing? Has reading the book changed your opinion at all? Did Neil have a ‘good death’?

  (2) Deborah describes herself as a ‘back-chatting bitch’. Is this a fair description? What did you think of her as a character? Did her personality affect your ability to empathise with her situation? Which other characters did you like most, and why?

  (3) Adam and Sophie have very different responses to Neil’s death. Why do you think Sophie testifies
against her mother?

  (4) Prison life and the workings of the criminal justice system are described in some detail. Did this interest you? Were you surprised by anything?

  (5) Sex scenes are notoriously difficult to write. How do you think the author acquitted herself with the scenes in the book? Did they bring anything to the story?

  (6) While waiting for her trial, Deborah learns the secret behind her father’s death. In turn, she and Neil kept their plans secret from Adam and Sophie. Should parents keep secrets from their children? Do secrets protect us or are they ultimately destructive?

  (7) The narrative switches between the stages of the trial and Deborah’s past life. Was this way of telling the story satisfying? Did you ever get confused? The author also switches between present and past tenses for the different sections. Apart from differentiating the time period does the use of different tenses add anything to the flavour of the prose?

  (8) Mental health is one of the themes running through the novel. Did you find the depiction of Adam’s problems and of Deborah’s grief and her anxiety realistic?

  (9) Deborah insists on sharing domestic chores and childcare equally in the marriage. The arrangement apparently works. Why do you think it works? Do you find this believable?

  (10) Deborah’s relationship with her own mother is very difficult. In what ways does this influence her own attitudes and behaviour as a mother? Do you consider Deborah and Neil to be good parents? If not, why not?

  (11) How did you feel when you finished the book? Do you think the jury were right? Were there any memorable scenes or images that have stayed with you?