by H S Chandler
‘Don’t start again. There’s an overkill point at which I simply won’t believe a word you say.’ Lottie shook her head and pointed at her watch. ‘How come you’re so much perkier than yesterday?’ she asked as he finally got to his feet.
Lottie jumped as Cameron grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards him. A cyclist raced past her, scraping her back painfully with his handle bar, but Cameron had rescued her from the worst of it. Stepping away, she distanced herself from Cameron’s chest, hoping she didn’t look too much like a blushing schoolgirl, and trying to ignore how solid Cameron’s torso was.
‘Thank you.’ She rubbed her back.
‘That’s all right. Bloody idiot trying to beat the traffic by using the pavement. Are you hurt? Do you want me to take a look?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m fine, really.’ She began to walk back towards Small Street, doing her best to appear more composed than she felt. ‘You were about to say …’ she prompted.
‘Right, yesterday. The whole jury service thing threw me. It’s tough being self-employed. I’m losing work because of this case but I realised last night there’s nothing I can do, so I might as well make the best of it. Got to treat it like an enforced holiday.’
Side by side, they left Quay Street and turned towards the Crown Court.
‘Does it bother you, everything we’re going to be shown and told? What are we supposed to do if there are words we don’t understand or it doesn’t make sense?’ Lottie murmured, taking her bag off her shoulder and preparing to hand it to the security guard for checking.
‘Are you kidding?’ Cameron grinned.
‘Don’t laugh at me. It’s fine for you. You obviously don’t get nervous about anything,’ she frowned.
‘I wasn’t laughing at you,’ he said quietly as they left security behind and made their way towards the jury rooms. ‘But you’re being ridiculous. You think anyone in that jury room is smarter than you? They’re not. You’ve seen through all of them already. We’re here to judge the defendant as ordinary members of the public, and while I don’t think you’re ordinary at all, just what part of that are you not qualified for?’
‘Thank you,’ she muttered softly as they plunged into the semi darkness of the jury corridor. Those few words of support were all she’d needed. Such a shame her husband hadn’t been able to say them, and how kind of Cameron Ellis, in spite of his obvious faults.
He opened the jury room door and stepped back to let her enter first. The chatter faded into silence. Lottie steeled herself against appearing either guilty or embarrassed. She should be able to go for coffee with a member of the opposite sex without anyone reading more into it. Surely.
Tabitha had a larger crowd around her today. Her usual crew of Gregory, Agnes and Samuel had been swelled with the addition of Andy Leith and Bill Caldwell.
‘Good morning,’ Tabitha said. ‘Thank you for getting here on time, Mr Ellis.’ Cameron managed to smile and not bite back, for which Lottie was grateful. ‘However, we are concerned about jurors meeting outside of this room. It might give the wrong impression. You know we’re forbidden to discuss the case unless directed to when we’re all together.’
Lottie looked at Gregory who had the decency to appear embarrassed about having tattled.
‘It was just coffee,’ Cameron said. ‘I was rude to Lottie yesterday and making up for it this morning.’
‘I see,’ Tabitha said. ‘I think we can accept that. In future, though, perhaps we should all agree not to meet privately. The temptation to pass the odd comment about the case would be too strong for most of us.’
Cameron winked at Lottie as he passed her to put his newspaper down. Lottie caught Just-Jennifer staring openly at Cameron’s backside as he sat. Perhaps all that boring housework had left her Jennifer, like Lottie herself, yearning for distractions. Easy to understand why she was captivated. Cameron was wearing sufficiently tight jeans that little was left to the imagination. Flashing him a brief smile in response to the wink, Lottie focused her attention to her mobile.
‘Morning,’ Jack the student said, joining them at the coffee table. ‘You two caused quite the stir. Lucky for you Tabitha hadn’t called the jury police in yet.’
Her Honour Judge Downey settled the courtroom into silence and asked the prosecution to begin presenting their evidence. Imogen Pascal got to her feet. Her face, Lottie noted, was make-up-free today. It made her look stark. No frills.
‘Your Honour, the prosecution calls its first witness. Dr Edward Bloxham.’
James Newel, the defence barrister, got to his feet immediately. ‘Your Honour, the description of Dr Bloxham’s injuries can be read to the jury. There’s no need for him to be brought into the courtroom.’
‘Dr Bloxham is being brought in whilst the medical evidence relating to his injuries is read out, to assist the jury who will be able to see the extent of his injury for themselves,’ Imogen Pascal responded.
Newell flexed his jaw. ‘There are photographs of the injuries. This is an emotive and dramatic overstepping, and frankly a rather cheap move,’ he said to the judge.
Imogen Pascal got to her feet. ‘My learned friend, Mr Newell, needs to watch his language. This is neither cheap nor any sort of move. I won’t be spoken to like that.’
‘Could you please both remember where you are? I appreciate that we’re all hot and uncomfortable, but normal courtroom courtesy still applies. Mr Newell, the physical trauma Dr Bloxham suffered is a key factor in this case.’ The judge dabbed her forehead delicately with a handkerchief. ‘I cannot direct the prosecution how to present their case. Dr Bloxham may be brought in, Miss Pascal, but only while you are presenting the evidence that relates to his altered physical condition.’
‘I’m obliged, Your Honour.’ Imogen Pascal inclined her head.
The courtroom door opened. There was a pause before a wheelchair arrived, pushed by a uniformed nurse. Lottie couldn’t help but stare, much as she wanted to look away. She felt a shameful wave of nausea, wishing her reaction wasn’t so unkind. No human being should ever feel that others couldn’t tolerate the sight of them. The chair was pushed to a halt below the witness box where the jury could see Edward Bloxham clearly. There were audible intakes of breath from around her. Lottie pushed her nails into her palms to keep from making such a noise herself.
It was a wonder that Edward Bloxham had survived the attack. One side of his head was caved in. You could fit half an orange into the dip in his skull. Below the area where the blow had been struck, his eye had dropped and his mouth was turned down. Slumped over in his chair, there was no hiding the fact that he was drooling and that his hands were shaking uncontrollably on his lap. Eventually Lottie looked away, finding that many of the heads in the jury row below her had turned their attention to the back of the room. Maria Bloxham wasn’t looking at her husband. Instead, she was staring towards the courtroom egress. Perhaps, Lottie thought, the defendant recognised that the egress to the outside world might soon be closed to her forever. Whatever she was thinking, Mrs Bloxham was good at hiding it, or perhaps she naturally had a cold personality. Had that made it easier when she’d tried to kill him, Lottie wondered, looking back at Edward Bloxham.
Miss Pascal picked up a sheet of paper from her file and began to read.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’m going to read you a statement. The defence does not dispute the facts contained in it. It is from a consultant neurologist, Dr Manse, from the Bristol Brain Centre at Southmead Hospital. It states as follows: Edward Bloxham suffered a blow to the head causing severe haemorrhaging and loss of tissue to the parietal lobe. This is the area of the brain at the rear of the skull and processes sensory information, as well as interpreting visual information and performing language and mathematical functions. These functions are now severely impaired. In addition, his vision has been substantially reduced and he has been rendered incapable of speech. Other vital organ functions have not been affected, although there has been reduced respon
se to brain stimuli testing. He will not recover to any greater extent than he already has.’
Lottie looked back at Edward Bloxham. She would sooner have died than be left in such a state. Anyone would.
Miss Pascal continued. ‘The damage from bleeding within the brain has left Dr Bloxham unable to walk or control his arms. He will require twenty-four hour nursing care. His muscles will gradually atrophy until he is bedridden. As a result of Dr Bloxham’s inability to communicate since the injury, it is not possible to form a concrete view as to his level of consciousness. He may be in pain and aware of his injuries, without the ability to express that distress or discomfort.’
Imogen Pascal put down the statement she had finished reading. ‘The usher is handing out a bundle of photographs which you may refer to when considering the evidence in this case.’ Along the row of jurors came the blue bundles. Lottie took hers and put it straight down on the desk unopened. ‘They do not, I’m afraid, quite do justice to the extent of the injuries. Bearing that in mind, Your Honour,’ she directed to the judge, ‘I would like the jury to come into the main area of the courtroom to inspect Dr Bloxham’s injuries themselves.’
‘Oh my God,’ Jack the student muttered. ‘Please say they’re not serious.’
Lottie felt the same. It was one thing looking from a distance and hearing the statement read out. It was another thing entirely, inspecting the damage up close and personal.
‘It’s an unusual request, Miss Pascal,’ the judge said.
‘The photos don’t show the full 360 degree effect of the injury,’ Miss Pascal responded. ‘This is the only way for the jury to get the whole picture, and it speaks for itself in terms of the force and direction of the blow.’
The judge nodded and a court usher motioned for the jurors to circle around Edward Bloxham. Tabitha went first, moving slowly across the courtroom, all eyes on her. Credit to her, Lottie thought, for keeping such a neutral face as everyone waited for her to react. Only when she neared Dr Bloxham did she crack, her mouth a little ‘o’ of shock as she inspected the damage. Gregory followed, head bent, clutching a handkerchief. The heat wasn’t making the morning easier for any of them. Next up was Jen, biting her bottom lip and looking shaky. After that went Pan, head up, direct, then the line moved fluidly. Only Garth Finuchin, the tough man bedecked with tattoos, spent what seemed like an indecent amount of time staring at the injuries, circling the wheelchair clockwise then anticlockwise, leaning over to get every perspective. Lottie felt nauseous at the poor man being displayed as if it were some Victorian sideshow. A whole section of his skull was caved in. His hair had begun to regrow in tufts, and one ear stuck out at a bizarre angle from below the missing bone and flesh. Tabitha was clutching her chest as she retook her seat, and Jennifer was openly crying. Garth was staring with open hatred at Maria Bloxham. Lottie caught Jack wiping his face with his sleeve and wondered if he was perspiring or crying. Her own hands were shaking as she retook her seat.
As the nurse wheeled Edward Bloxham out of the courtroom, Lottie stared at the floor where his chair had been. There was a patch of saliva where he’d sat as they had paraded around him. How terrible, Lottie thought, to be left in such an inhuman state. She’d wanted to try to the case fairly, to hear all the evidence before deciding it, but there were some things that defied explanation. Whatever Maria Bloxham had to say for herself, it would be a poor excuse for leaving another human to rot away in such a living hell. Hard to imagine that a decent person was capable of such evil. Reserving judgment was all well and good, but she couldn’t deny her feelings. What Dr Bloxham had been subjected to was savage. Despicable. It was all but impossible to imagine what he could possibly have done to justify such an assault.
Lottie glanced back at the defendant. She caught the tiny smile before Mrs Bloxham could cover it. It could have been a grimace, Lottie knew that was what many people would have seen, but to her it had looked like satisfaction. As the expression had flashed across the defendant’s face, her shoulders had dropped and her chin had lifted fractionally. It was more than just pleasure. Something closer to triumph. She hadn’t just disabled Dr Bloxham. His wife had condemned him to a lifetime trapped inside a body filled with pain, humiliation and misery. All that without reducing the number of years he might live. It spoke of either an uncontrollable hatred, or plain evil.
9
Ruth Adcock had kept notes of every call she’d ever taken in her capacity as a counsellor. They were a point of reference for future contacts. It also provided a good sounding board for assessing the advice given. Occasionally things went wrong and callers took a more dramatic and permanent way out, appearing in news reports or obituaries with the label ‘deceased’. Those were the records Ruth spent the most time re-reading, wondering if there was more she could have said or done, if different words could have prevented the tragedy. The truth was that many suicides were not preventable. It didn’t make the reading of her call logs any easier, though. Then there were some calls she remembered second by second, word by word, for no identifiable reason. They just stuck. That was exactly how it had been the first time Maria called. She replayed the exchange in her mind, as she had a thousand times before.
The phone rang. Ruth noted the time and date of the call in her records before answering. 12.15 p.m., 4 August 2013.
‘My name is Ruth,’ she said into the electronic void. ‘I’m here for you. Take your time. This is a safe space. You don’t have to give your name, or any details at all.’ She paused, leaving the caller to find whatever words they could. Eventually, hearing nothing, Ruth began to speak again. ‘This is hard, I know. Reaching out feels like climbing a mountain. We just need to make contact. One noise, something so I know you’re still there. It doesn’t matter what it is.’
The sound came hard and fast. The caller was retching, the phone clattering as it dropped from their fingers. Ruth waited patiently. Minutes later the phone was retrieved and a croaky voice sounded a million miles away.
‘Hello,’ the voice whispered.
‘It’s all right,’ Ruth replied. ‘I’m still here. I’ll be here whenever you need me.’
That’s when the sobbing began, wringing the oxygen from the air. For all her training, Ruth struggled with others’ pain, with treating rather than consuming it. Counsellors should empathise rather than sympathise, that was the rule. Good luck with that, she’d always thought privately.
As the sobs faded into hitched breaths, Ruth spoke again. ‘Why don’t you tell me your name?’ she’d asked. ‘Not a surname, keep your details secure. Just a first name, or any name you want me to call you. I’ll be able to remember you, and I’ll think about you. I promise.’
‘Maria,’ she said. ‘I have to go now.’
‘Just one more minute,’ Ruth said. ‘You don’t even have to talk. Go if you’re in immediate danger of course, but otherwise let me tell you a bit more about the phone line. It’s confidential and aimed at victims of abuse, but we talk to anyone who needs us. When you phone you’ll either speak with me, Gemma or Ellen.’ She paused. A muffled sniffle came from the other end of the line. ‘You can just call us and talk, or we can recommend other places where you can get help in person. There are doctors who will see you without asking your name if you need that, or shelters if you have to get away from a situation urgently.’
‘Can’t,’ Maria said. The sobbing had stopped. What was left was a voice completely detached from emotion. Privately, Ruth thought she preferred the sobbing.
‘Do you have children?’ Ruth asked. She wanted to keep the woman on the line. If she couldn’t find some means of connecting, Maria might never phone back. And she needed to, Ruth thought. Some people’s silence screamed of loneliness. ‘I don’t, but I’ve always wanted them.’ There was no reply, but Maria hadn’t hung up. That was good. ‘I’m not married, though. Everyone assumes you are, or thinks you should be, when you have children, especially at my age. Are you married, Maria?’ A noise came from the other end of
the line that sounded confirmatory. Ruth noted that there was probably a husband involved. ‘I’ve never been very good at relationships myself, but I think it’s better to be alone than in a bad relationship. I really believe that. Does that make sense to you?’
‘I have to hang up,’ Maria said. Ruth knew she was losing her.
‘All right. Just one last thing. We don’t have enough resources to cover the lines at night, but there’s someone here seven days a week, from 9 a.m. until 9 p.m. Please phone back. I’d like to think that we can help you, Maria,’ Ruth said.
‘I left it too late,’ Maria muttered. The phone line beeped in place of a goodbye.
Ruth sipped a cup of jasmine tea as she made her notes of the call, staring as she often did at the photograph of her older sister when a new caller made contact. Gail had been twenty-six when she’d begun a relationship with Rory, a teacher, who was two years her senior. Eighteen months later, desperately in love, she’d married him. Ruth was in the final year of her post-graduate degree when the news came that Gail was in hospital. There had been a fall, a head injury, her mother wasn’t clear on the details.
The hospital visit was tense, Rory being less than welcoming, as machines had blipped the seconds away and helped Gail to breathe. It was a junior doctor who’d taken their parents aside and asked if they were aware of other recent fractures not explained in Gail’s medical notes. Ruth recalled her parents’ bewilderment, absolutely genuine. They had no idea how Gail could have suffered a broken wrist, cracked ribs, three fractured toes, and never have mentioned the injuries. Ruth knew. She knew the second she burst into Gail’s room and asked Rory about the injuries. He’d looked away before answering, gruff with her, dismissive. Her parents hadn’t believed it when Ruth shared her theory. Gail loved her husband. He was a teacher, of all things. Why would he have hurt their daughter? None of it made sense. All of it too awful to contemplate. Ruth waited patiently for her sister to recover consciousness so she could explain the injuries herself. She never did. Rory disappeared under a cloud of suspicion but nothing could be proved. And Ruth’s life had changed forever. Not because of Gail’s death specifically, not even because her sister had found herself in a violent relationship. But because she’d never told them. Not her mother, or father, or sister. She hadn’t come to them for help when she’d need it most. Gail had never told a single soul.
