The Trials of Sally Dunning and a Clerical Murder

by Miller Caldwell

  ‘Lizzie, let me stop you there. I want you to concentrate on what happened. Tell me what happened immediately before the Police arrived.’

  ‘Oh yes. Well, I had an accident, you know. But the police did not come for at least another eight minutes, I think it.....’

  ‘Lizzie take a breath. Yes, I mean take a breath, a deep breath. Now stand up, I’ll show you.’

  Tony stood in front of Lizzie and closed his eyes.

  ‘Now you close yours too.’

  ‘Oh don’t do anything I won’t like,’ she intoned.

  ‘Quiet Lizzie, concentrate. Now a deep breath. Fill your lungs and hold it......hold it...now breathe out. Now again, a deep breath.....’

  Every time Lizzie pursed her lips ready to let out another uncontrollable outburst, Tony silenced her with his ram-rod index finger. The exercise went on for about another two minutes. A short interval for most events but it had a calming effect on Lizzie and Tony too.

  ‘Now sit down. I want you to tell me how the accident occurred and nothing else, at this moment in time. Only the accident. Understand?’

  Lizzie nodded briefly, then continued to take a deep breath, held it in, then exploded it out. ‘Shall I start to tell you now?’

  ‘Yes. Now Lizzie. Take your time and tell me only about the accident.’

  ‘Well, it was Easter. You know, the day Christ was hung on the cross then rose to the heavens?’

  Tony gave a nodding approval but kept his thoughts to himself. Was this the start of another outburst?

  ‘In the past, we walked around town holding the wooden cross we made. But I felt we were not converting as many as we should so I suggested we had a larger cross and if someone could donate a van, then we’d be able to tour the town with the cross on the back of the vehicle. Be seen by more people that way, not so? Getting the message across, that’s what I was doing.’

  Tony followed her narrative like a shadow reluctant to be following her laboured progress. But he persisted and just nodded. He was following.

  ‘So I got to drive a blue van with the cross secured upright in the back of the van. But oh dear, I’m afraid that’s what led to the accident.’

  ‘An accident? So it wasn’t a deliberate act? One that led you to a Court appearance?’

  ‘I’ve not told you yet. Oh yes, it was really serious you know. I’ve never been in a situation like this before. I have always trusted God to keep me on the straight and narrow.’

  ‘I see,’ said Tony glancing at his wrist watch.

  ‘Yes, it was quite silly of me. I did not remember how low the bridge was. I heard a snapping crack and slowed down immediately of course. Too quickly in fact. That’s when the following car bumped into me. It was my fault I know but unfortunately the cross snapped and it broke the other driver’s windscreen.’

  ‘How injured was he?’

  ‘Oh, not at all. But I had to reprimand him, quite severely.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes. His mouth should have been washed out with soap there and then. His language was quite unforgiveable, certainly not Christian. I had to tell him, you know. We can’t encourage such foul mouthed swearing, can we now? It’s such a bad influence on the young.’

  Tony’s eyes narrowed and stared at Lizzie. ‘I must say I’d have some sympathy for a driver who has to brake suddenly and have his windscreen penetrated by a wooden cross,’ suggested Tony. ‘If it were me in the following car I’d let out a few expletives too. The driver must have been in a state of shock.’

  Lizzie pooh-poohed his suggestion. ‘He couldn’t have been in shock. Otherwise he wouldn’t have sworn so much. I really had to show him that God was loving and caring for him in his misfortune as well as mine.’

  Then Lizzie stopped talking. And neither did Tony talk. It seemed he was playing a game to see how long it would take before the verbal deluge continued. Yet the silence continued. Lizzie looked down at her feet avoiding eye contact. Tony saw her machine gun eye blinking. Inevitably it was Lizzie who cracked first.

  ‘So what will you tell the Court?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet Lizzie. Tell me, have you been given any medication from your GP?’

  ‘Well, there was some ibu..ibule...something when I had a pain in my leg.’

  ‘Ibuleve?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one,’ Lizzie laughed. ‘I believe, yes I believe, do you?’

  Tony’s lips parted slightly in recognition of her manic humour. He was not going to be drawn in to her evangelical world. ‘I mean any regular medication?’

  ‘Lamotrigine, I take that morning and night. My GP gave me that a few days ago. 250 mg in the morning and 200 mg at night.’

  ‘Good, that’s right.’

  ‘Yes, I take Vitamin F every day too.’

  ‘Vitamin F? There’s no such thing.’

  ‘Oh yes Doctor, Vitamin F is essential. For the believer, it is at the very heart of the matter. Vitamin F for Faith.’

  ‘I see. So how long have you been an evangelical Christian?’

  ‘Since the day I was born. Some forty two years ago.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe. Presumably your parents are Christians?’

  ‘Of course. My father is now in the realms of Glory while my mother is a hand servant here on earth just as I am. She’s in her late seventies. Not so active physically but mentally she’s right at His side. A faithful servant, if ever there was one.’

  ‘Being evangelical, does that make you excitable, I mean are you always full of the Spirit?’

  Lizzie’s face was suddenly vacant. Gone was the certainty with which she proudly wore her faith on her face.

  ‘No, not always. Some days I don’t leave the house. I get exhausted. I just stay in bed and speak to Ginge and he comes to sleep on my bed.’

  ‘Ginge?’

  ‘My cat, well obvious isn’t it, my ginger cat.’

  Tony could have kicked himself. It was so bloody obvious she would have a cat. Dogs respond; cats ignore.

  ‘And how long do these quiet days last for?’

  ‘Sometimes as much as a week.’

  ‘And would you say you are happier when these quiet days are gone?’

  ‘Oh yes. Then I get so much more done.’

  ‘Is there a regular pattern of feeling down, then high?’

  ‘I’m never high as you say. I’m not on drugs. Good heavens no, I don’t smoke either. My body is a temple of God’s creation. It is as pure as I can make it.’

  ‘I didn’t mean drugs. Moods if I can call them that. Do they come and go?

  ‘Ummm not exactly. I can go for long periods when all is calm. But then I realise I’m heading up or down as the moment takes me.’

  Tony paused to take a breath before continuing.

  ‘And today how do you feel?’

  ‘Well I’d say returning to normal. Wouldn’t you? Of course normal is hard to describe but normal, yes I’d say a sort of normal. Not a sort of normal. No, just normal.’ She stood up briefly then sat down again. She got up once more and walked over to the window while washing her hands in thin air.

  ‘Lizzie, you are here because I have a report to make to the court. That must have caused you some trepidation.’

  ‘Yes of course. Surely for everyone who has to go through this process. It is the uncertainty of waiting to see if its prison, a fine or goodness knows what.’

  Tony opened a new file on his computer and typed Lizzie into his list of clients. As he continued to type he informed her of her illness.

  ‘As your GP has rightly prescribed, you are suffering from what we call a Bi-Polar condition Lizzie. I suspect your general practitioner told you that.’

  ‘Bi-Polar? Something to do with the North Pole? I’ve never been north of Aberdeen. The only Polars I’ve seen are in the zoo.’
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  Tony smiled. ‘You know that’s possibly the best way to describe it. You travel from the North Pole to the South Pole with a few rests in between. You are high up north with no brakes to slow you down and then you have no more petrol in the tank and you are frozen on the South Pole. That’s what we call Bi-Polar. But the treatment will help.’

  ‘You mean, I am ill?’

  ‘It’s not an uncommon phenomenon. You might know others who have this but you don’t recognise it. What the medication will do is reduce the highs and inhibit the lows. Make sure you always take your prescribed 250 mg of Lamotrigine tablets; one in the morning and one 50 mg at night.’

  ‘Will this be in my Court report?’

  ‘Yes, because your state of mind is part of my report to the Court.’

  ‘Hmmm I see. Do you think it will help me to avoid prison?’

  ‘I hope so. As you are a first time offender, that will count in your favour but it was your fault the man’s car was damaged so I suspect the court will fine you but I’m out of my depth here. I presume you have a good solicitor to represent you?’

  ‘I’ve an exceptionally good solicitor, one of the very best, yes I’d say the most educated and charming lawyer there is around,’ she said smiling from ear to ear.

  ‘He gets a copy of my report too. Let me know who he is.’

  ‘Glad to.’

  You rate him very highly, don’t you?’ asked Tony feeling more relaxed as the session came towards its end.

  ‘Oh yes, of course I do. He’s a born again Christian too.’

  Tony had noted three of his last five referrals came from the clerical or faith community. It was a committed outlook each had. It was a dynamic he felt required special attention and he would have to put his mind to its influences. He was in unchartered territory.

  4

  A Flat Note

  Ivan Ross was out of tune. Something was holding him back and it showed in his clarinet playing for the local town’s symphony orchestra. His was a very exacting instrument. His fingers and his tongue had to be in unison to craft the perfect note but his posture was that of a soggy scone. His glissando was straying beyond its comfort zone.

  Ricky, the orchestra leader, felt it uncomfortable to enquire, yet he saw the elephant in the room. So too did the symphony conductor who took the bull by the horns to break the impasse.

  ‘Ivan dear, what’s the matter,’ she asked laying her hand on his forearm.

  Ivan looked up but his eyes could not engage Ruth Hollings. She was perhaps not the right person to hear his anguish.

  ‘Just need a break,’ he whispered to resolve her question.

  ‘Okay. Let me fix it.’

  So Ruth suggested Ivan have a two week break in the summer. No music practice. The next public concert was two months away. She suggested a break at his sister’s home on the Yorkshire coast. It seemed the appropriate solution for him, with bracing sea waves, seagulls gliding and shrieking their news. Ruth conjured the idyll in her own mind. The thoughts, however, were not transferrable. Ivan considered the proposal with the appetite of a well fed alley cat. He would not move. There was no way he would go out of his way.

  ‘Perhaps you should see your GP,’ said Ruth with concern.

  Ivan put down his clarinet on the wooden floor. He stood up, placed his foot on the instrument, bent down and pulled at the instrument hard. In seconds the instrument’s reed, metal finger holes, pads and the bell were damaged beyond repair. It was distorted, rendered completely unplayable. He picked the remains up and threw it against the hall wall and stormed out of the door.

  There was a moment of silence from the open-mouthed musicians.

  ‘My, that’s not like him,’ was all Ruth could say to the symphony members. They all had that same thought, in much stronger terms.

  Tony received Ivan’s referral from his GP three days later.

  The quiet morning announced it was Sunday. Those who attended church were seated in their pews, standing or kneeling as convention required for prayer. It was time for Tony Scriven to reverse out of his garage and honour his more active membership.

  The Golf Club had few cars in the car park and that did not auger well. Tony sauntered round the clubhouse and encountered the chalked board. The course was waterlogged. Unplayable until advised otherwise. Of course it was unplayable. He recalled the last thirty five hours of lashing rain assaulting his surgery windows since Friday morning. He recalled the dashes he made to his car at the end of the working day and the early switching on of room lights under the oppressive clouds.

  He took the boundary path along the first tee and let his thoughts roam as his feet crunched the twigs beneath his weight.

  Tony’s freedom on the course meant so much to him. A selfish streak had grown within his independence. His new home was minimal, denuded of the clutter marriage had entrapped him by over seventeen years. There was none to share and appreciate his abode and that situation showed no signs of improving. Of course it couldn’t without an effort on his part.

  He progressed down the tee, counting the divots while his trousers attracted burrs like a magnet. Then his thoughts turned to his recent cleric clients.

  Never before had he had a spate of clergy come to his attention. He may have had a handful of school teachers and council workers bending under the pressures of punishing government cuts, but clerics! No not even one.

  Was not the clergy the backbone of the community serving the rites of passage? Christenings where sprinkled water disturbed silent babes, where the sanctified water hushed the screams of other babies being christened.

  It brought back some memories for him. The sherry and christening cake to follow amid well-dressed aunts and uncles, parents and siblings. Clerics with their partners regularly attended such happy occasions. Cake too at the weddings bringing couples together with a spiritual blessing and to top it off, at the close of life, a reassuring funeral was the cleric’s remit. There was much to do each week for every cleric and the ringing telephone would announce great joy or deep sadness. It was a life or death occupation and that made it a respected profession. But it seemed that the mental health of these figures in society was coming to the fore and not before time he thought. His caseload certainly reflected their sudden appearance. Mental health conditions were ubiquitous and the isolation of clerics in their communities seemed to contribute to the malaise of their ministries.

  Tony began to wonder if his diagnoses would benefit from a stronger personal faith. Other medics had strong beliefs but his religious experiences to date drained through a sieve. He could not grasp the tenants of faith enough to ground anchors. It was easier for him to say he was agnostic or ......sometimes... he was an atheist. He was not sure. He looked in his Google box on his phone to clarify what he really was. Yes, he was agnostic. He was sceptical too. It was part of his medical training. He could see God as a concept but could see him no other way. Yet atheism went too far for him. An outright rejection of a god seemed wrong.

  There were so many cultures all over the world that accepted what we term God that it did not feel right to be an atheist and reject that very same concept.

  He stopped. He looked up at the alto-cumulus sky. He had no idea how it had all come to be in the first place and did not spend time on the thought but somehow this diverse group of clerics challenged him. Could they co-operate? Would they participate? Would it lead to conflict or cohesion? Could it change his perspective?

  Such a diverse group of clergy, he recalled. A musical Methodist, presumably so, for Wesley had given Methodists those triumphant and well-loved hymns. Lizzie Taylor the bi-polar evangelical would be a challenge, especially for the Imam, for Farook would have a place in mind for women and an excited female Christian might be too much for him to stomach. Tony decided on a plan as he turned to return up the side of the fairway to his car.

  On his r
eturn to work on Monday he sent out letters to the clerics inviting them to a group meeting to assist in their therapy. He made two provisions. Firstly if they attended it would be at their own free will. Secondly he told them that all had their faith.

  The telephone rang. Tony lifted it from its cradle.

  ‘Hello Dr Scriven speaking.’

  Tony turned a new sheet over and started to write on his lined pad.

  ‘And where is he now.......in the hospital? I’ll be over in five minutes. Ward 3 you said?’

  Tony read the case notes as he walked to the ward. The patient was found in St. Mary’s Church in a broom cupboard. Found by the church cleaner. Found with a razor blade and some blood stains on his shirt.

  There, sitting in a well-lit rest room was Ivan. Tony approached him and shook his hand.

  ‘There’s a smaller room behind you. Shall we go there?’

  Ivan rose and followed through the door to find a stark room with only two chairs and a table.

  ‘Perhaps I can order two teas?’

  Ivan nodded and Tony phoned reception.

  ‘So tell me about what happened?’

  Ivan sat down and undid his jersey’s central three buttons. ‘There was a scene at the Symphony. I am the lead clarinettist.’

  Tony nodded gently encouraging the story to emerge. Another musician, he thought.

  ‘I lost it. Something snapped. I broke my instrument and stormed out in front of them all.’

  The knock on the door stopped his initial flow.

  A nurse entered with a flask of hot water, a bowl of tea bags and a small Nescafe jar. Tony lifted a tea bag and held it suspended to see which drink Ivan would prefer. Ivan tapped the coffee jar with his index finger.

  ‘St Mary’s Church? Tell me,’ asked Tony measuring the coffee. ‘How did that come about?’

  ‘The next day after the orchestra scene I went to Boots and bought some razor blades. I wanted to be alone and I saw St Mary’s on the opposite side of the road was open. I went in and no one was around. So I walked around and found the broom cupboard by chance and sat in there. It was claustrophobic.