by H S Chandler
‘Not phones, just one phone,’ Maria said. ‘I never had the courage to make any calls. There was no credit on the phone when it was found.’
‘But your story seems to change whenever a question is asked. Why is that?’
‘Nothing’s the way you’re making it sound,’ Maria said, forcing herself to look Imogen Pascal in the eyes.
‘Or perhaps you’re lying,’ Imogen Pascal countered.
James Newell stood up. ‘Miss Pascal needs to limit herself to questions. My client is not here to be engaged in an argument.’
‘Quite so,’ the judge agreed. ‘Move your questioning along, Miss Pascal.’
‘Let’s move to the crux of the matter then, shall we? Are you claiming that you struck your husband a blow intended to kill him, in self-defence?’ Miss Pascal asked, sliding off her glasses dramatically as she completed her question, then tossing them onto the desk and leaning back against her seat, arms folded.
‘I am,’ Maria replied simply.
‘You actually believed that you were sufficiently under his power that he could have persuaded you to cut yourself so seriously that you would have died?’
‘I did. I still do,’ Maria said, knowing it sounded far-fetched, steeling herself against the barrage of questions that would follow.
‘But you weren’t locked in the house. You spent each day in your garden, so you could get in and out of the back door. When the police arrived at the scene, you’d opened the front door. How is it possible that attempting to kill a man was a safer option than simply walking out? You said yourself, he never hit you. He never laid a finger on you. Why not just leave?’
Maria sighed. It was a reasonable question. It was, in fact, the same question she’d asked herself month after month and year after year of a marriage that had chipped away at her soul until there was practically nothing left.
‘I had no one else. Nowhere to go. No money. No job. To start with, that was a good enough reason for staying, back when things weren’t so bad …’ Maria began.
‘So you were just using your husband for what you could get out of him at that stage?’ Pascal interjected.
‘I’m sure that’s the way you want to present it to the jury,’ Maria snapped. James Newell raised his palm a few inches off the desk, nothing dramatic, but it was the signal they’d agreed that she had to calm herself down. Maria took a breath. ‘I was a lost young woman, quite naive, and I was scared. Later on, when things became unbearable, I did try to leave.’
‘Try to leave? Is he supposed to take responsibility for all your failings? You’re an educated woman. You speak well, and you clearly understand these proceedings. You’ve told the court you were in employment during your early marriage, so you could have got a job and supported yourself. You weren’t entirely dependent on your husband, although perhaps you chose to be.’
‘I didn’t choose any of it! Not one single day. Choice is about knowledge and free will,’ Maria shouted.
‘But Mrs Bloxham, there’s no evidence of any of this. No proof of a single word of it. Not one witness is here to tell the court about Dr Bloxham’s alleged bad treatment of you. How and why is the jury supposed to believe you?’
The jurors were staring at her. And the judge. Maria turned slightly to see if Ruth was nearby, instead meeting the sea of journalists’ eyes. They were waiting for an answer, only there wasn’t one. There just wasn’t.
‘I don’t know,’ Maria muttered. ‘I just …’ Her voice trailed off.
Imogen Pascal let the silence hang for thirty seconds before continuing. ‘All right. Well, you’ve already stated that Dr Bloxham never laid a finger on you, so you acknowledge he never physically prevented you from leaving, in which case I can move on.’
‘He threatened to have me committed to a mental hospital,’ Maria blurted, desperate not to lose the argument entirely. ‘And there was the sex.’
‘Which you accepted you consented to. How much did you stand to inherit in terms of marital assets if Dr Bloxham died?’ Imogen Pascal continued.
‘Actually Miss Pascal, I think the jury should hear what the defendant has to say about the alleged threat to have her committed,’ the judge intervened.
Miss Pascal nodded at Maria. ‘You were saying?’
‘We’d been married about five years when I first told Edward how unhappy I was and that I was leaving. He said everything I knew he would, so I was ready for it – how I wouldn’t cope on my own, how he wouldn’t support me financially – I told him I didn’t care and that I’d made my mind up. He got cross, more angry than I’d ever seen him before. I went upstairs to pack a bag and he came after me. He said that if I ever left him, he would have me committed. He said he’d accuse me of attacking him and say I was a serious suicide risk. He even … he pulled up my skirt and pointed at the scars on my thighs. I had a history of cutting that was detailed on my early medical records, so he knew he could prove long-term self-harm to a psychiatrist if he had to, and the scars by that time were fresh and so much worse. As bad as living in a house with Edward was, at least I had relative freedom. I wasn’t being drugged or locked in one small room every day. It’s what I’ve always been most scared of, people thinking I was a danger to myself because of the cutting. He knew that, and I knew he wasn’t making hollow threats. He’d sooner have seen me institutionalised for life than let me leave him. He repeated the same threat regularly during the remainder of our marriage, whenever he sensed that I was rebelling against his control. That’s why I stayed.’
James Newell smiled at her kindly, gently, from his position nearer the jury. Maria looked along their row, knowing she needed to be brave enough to make eye contact to have any hope of them believing her. Not all, but a few of them met her eyes: the two younger males, and two of the females. It was a tiny victory, but a victory nonetheless.
‘I was asking you before how much you stood to gain if Dr Bloxham died,’ Pascal continued as if she had never been interrupted. ‘Are you able to put a figure on it?’
‘I never even considered it,’ Maria said. ‘I have no idea what my husband has in terms of assets apart from the house, and I don’t know if there is a mortgage on that or not. I hadn’t dealt with finances for two decades. I hardly ever left the house.’
‘But you stood to inherit substantially in excess of one million pounds,’ Imogen Pascal said. ‘It’s ridiculous to say you had no idea how wealthy Dr Bloxham was.’
‘I never dealt with the money. I didn’t see one bank statement. How was I supposed to know how much money he had?’
‘You’ve already told us how. You knew he was constantly in work. He was at pains to tell you about his book deals and television appearances, articles in magazines. You knew all about the planning applications he consulted on and his university lecturing. Your evidence on that has been most compelling. Are you about to say you thought he did all that for free?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ Maria replied, her cheeks flushing.
‘So he was being paid well and you didn’t live a lavish lifestyle. Were there expensive holidays?’
‘There were no holidays at all,’ Maria growled.
‘And only one car to run. No children. No other obvious expenses. Frankly it’s preposterous to suggest you didn’t realise there were savings,’ Miss Pascal continued.
‘I didn’t say there weren’t any, I just didn’t know exactly how much …’
‘You’ve told us Dr Bloxham was careful with money though. Liked to save rather than spend, that’s the impression we’ve got. Right?’
‘Um, yes,’ Maria said. She felt faint. This wasn’t how she’d imagined it going.
‘So you were living in a beautiful house, with low expenses, and your husband had a good income and liked saving. You knew the two of you were well off, didn’t you? That sort of money is a pretty good motive for attempting to kill someone, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘It wasn’t my motive,’ Maria replied plainly.
‘Really?
You see, you’ve had the benefit of years to plan this. You’ve clearly built up a certain amount of resentment towards Dr Bloxham, perhaps disappointment at how little you’ve done with your life …’
‘He took my life away from me. I didn’t resent him, I hated him. He belittled me and threatened to have me locked up,’ Maria countered.
‘Yes, you hated him, and you’re a woman with a temper, aren’t you? You don’t like to answer questions, you don’t like to be challenged. Your behaviour with the psychiatrist is clear evidence of just how reactive you are.’
‘That was his fault. He was goading me. He wanted me to talk about the most intimate parts of my life, to draw up a report for your benefit. I agreed to talk to him and he was vile!’ Maria knew she was raising her voice, but there seemed to be nothing she could do about it.
‘So you swore at him and walked out. Forgive me, Mrs Bloxham, but the woman who was able to stand up to a highly qualified professional with no difficulty at all seems to be a far cry from the poor, pathetic, emotionally abused victim you’re choosing to pretend to be in court today!’
Newell was on his feet before Maria could respond. ‘Miss Pascal is going to have to apologise for that,’ he said.
‘I’m not apologising for cross-examining effectively,’ Imogen Pascal bit back.
‘Cross-examination comprises asking relevant questions, not being abusive and insulting. Let’s try and comply with at least a few rules, shall we?’ Newell said.
‘It’s all right,’ Maria said.
‘Just wait a moment please, Ms Bloxham,’ the judge said, raising a silencing finger in her direction.
Maria looked from judge to prosecutor to defence as they continued to argue, bemusement on the jurors’ faces, whispers from the public gallery. Stepping down from the witness box while the prison guard was distracted by the contretemps, moving to the side where the jury could see her, and keeping her back to the public and press benches, she raised her skirt until it was just a couple of inches below the line of her underwear.
James Newell noticed first, the argument dying on his lips.
‘Maria,’ he said, dispensing with formalities and using her first name.
‘Ms Bloxham,’ the judge peered over the edge of her bench. ‘You must retake your place immed …’ The prison guard finally caught up and reached out to take hold of Maria’s arm, pulling her back towards the witness box. ‘Let her go,’ Judge Downey instructed. ‘Can all members of the jury see this clearly?’
One by one, the twelve of them nodded.
Maria held her skirt up long enough to make sure no one would forget the mess that was her thighs. The skin was discoloured from white through pinks and angry reds to browns where the scar tissue was harshest. The texture was thick impasto oil-painting brushstrokes that raised right off her legs. In some places the scars had failed to knit together fully, leaving jagged red seams like lava flow. The judge let the jury take their time before coughing politely and speaking again. ‘For the court record, Ms Bloxham is showing the court the substantial scarring between her knees and the fronts of her thighs on both legs. I hope both counsel will agree it can be described as extensive.’ Newell and Pascal both nodded. ‘Thank you. You may go back into the witness box now.’ Maria did as she was told. ‘Miss Pascal, continue cross-examination.’
‘Ms Bloxham,’ Imogen Pascal used her preferred title, presumably not daring to anger the judge again so soon. ‘Why did you not give this explanation to the police as soon as you were arrested? They have no record of you pointing out the damage to your thighs.’
‘I couldn’t cope at that stage. I was in shock over what I’d done, and I was still concerned that I might be declared a danger to myself and locked up. Edward had spent so many years convincing me that was what would happen, it took a long time for me to have any faith in myself.’
‘Isn’t the truth that he was deeply concerned about you, and trying to protect you from being committed to a mental hospital?’
‘No!’ Maria shouted.
‘Didn’t he oversee your self-harming as a gesture of kindness, to make sure you never took it too far?’
‘What? How can you say that?’ Maria slammed the desk.
‘And all the time you were planning and plotting to kill him. You just waited for that one perfect moment when he turned his back, then you struck,’ Pascal continued.
‘That’s not true,’ she hissed.
‘And the real victim here is Dr Bloxham, not just for the crater you put in his skull, but for having years of generosity and care repaid with a bloodbath and endless lies.’
‘I told you what it was like, what I went through! How would you have felt, trapped inside that house, abused, treated like a slave …’
‘And you had a much earlier opportunity to explain your version of events when you saw the psychiatrist. He could then have evaluated what you had to say. You still chose silence over explanation.’
‘Professor Worth didn’t want to be persuaded. I knew as soon as I met him that whatever I said, he was going to conclude that either I was mentally ill or just plain dangerous. I assumed I’d just be giving him more reasons to say I should be locked up,’ Maria said, her own anger deflated by the looks on the jurors’ faces, which even now were slack with shock at what she’d shown them.
‘But Dr Bloxham never held the blade, never made a cut. He never forced you to cut yourself or threatened you if you did not. That’s right isn’t it?’
‘It was more complex than that. He used psychology as a weapon,’ Maria replied, feeling naked and vulnerable once more.
‘So you could have thrown the razor blades out of the window, or even, and think about this a moment, or even just said, “No, I’m not going to cut myself any more.” That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘I was desperate, and I guess addicted by then, and so unhappy that it was my only escape. He knew I’d never say no to him,’ Maria muttered.
‘Ah, so that’s the truth of it. It was easier to bludgeon your husband to death, or so you intended, than to deal with your own addiction. You intended to kill him, you did your utmost to kill him, all because you enjoyed self-harming too much to exercise the mental strength to stop. Isn’t that the reality of it?’
‘The reality?’ Maria blurted. ‘My reality was cleaning and cooking and sitting alone while he relaxed in the only room in the house where there was noise and colour and light. No friends, no colleagues, no neighbours. Gates that bastard had built to lock the world out and to keep me in. My reality was living every day with a man who expected adulation on tap. I answered his fan mail, for God’s sake! I spent half my life on my knees cleaning fireplaces because he preferred open fires. Do you think he ever said thank you? Do you think he ever made me a cup of tea? Every single day was the same. Prioritise Edward, don’t annoy him, think of ways to please him. Don’t be offended when he called me his lapdog. Don’t answer back when he told me my cooking was shit. Persuade myself that him checking my dusting was actually him being interested in my life. Why the hell should anyone, anyone in the fucking world, have to live like that? It’s like I’ve just woken up from the coma I’ve been in half my life!’ she shouted. ‘You want me to tell you I’m sorry? That hitting Edward was a mistake. Well, I’m not and it wasn’t!’ Maria slammed her fist into the witness stand, sending the booklet of photos flying, and upending the glass. ‘The truth, in case you’re actually interested, is that I hated him. The only reason I’m here is because I finally gave as good as I got.’
Imogen Pascal put down her pen, closed her notebook and smiled warmly at the judge. ‘No further cross-examination,’ she said. ‘But I am applying to recall the prosecution psychiatrist, Professor Worth. Given the details now revealed by the defendant which she chose not to share with our expert, it seems only right that the jury hears a professional assessment on how they relate to the case. We won’t be able to get him here tomorrow, so I have to ask for an adjournment for a day, but he’s available t
he day after that.’
‘It’s a reasonable request. Adjournment granted. Have Professor Worth here at 10 a.m. the next day. Counsels’ speeches to follow thereafter,’ Judge Downey decided. ‘The jury may leave the courtroom now.’
They filed out with much shaking of heads and muttering as Maria watched, rueing her final words, knowing she had played straight into the prosecution’s hands. Perhaps it was natural justice. She had to pay some price for what she’d done. Until now she’d maintained a little hope that the penalty wouldn’t be quite so great.
23
Lottie awoke still seeing the scarring on Maria Bloxham’s thighs, terrified in that befuddling fusion of dreams that her own body was equally scarred. She scrabbled beneath the sheets, running her hands across her still smooth skin before coming to her senses and sitting up. Zain was zipping up his case.
‘You all right?’ he asked, slipping his wallet into his jacket.
‘Bad dream,’ Lottie panted, rubbing her eyes. ‘You should have woken me. I’d have made you breakfast.’
‘That’s all right, I’ll stop and get some on the road. It’s a good job they’ve given you a day off. Jury service is obviously exhausting you,’ he smiled.
‘More than you know,’ Lottie said. ‘When are you back?’
‘Tomorrow evening. Call the mobile if you need me,’ he said. ‘I should go.’ He left without kissing her goodbye and Lottie was glad. She could hardly bear to let him touch her these days, torn between guilt and longing for Cameron, and the desire to escape the trappings of domesticity. A night without Zain was exactly what she needed to clear her head and decide what she really wanted.
‘Mummy, can I have chocolate for breakfast as daddy’s gone?’ Daniyal grinned from the doorway.
She opened her arms to him and he ran for the hug. ‘Well, now,’ she said, mussing his hair, ‘I think maybe a little bit of chocolate if you promise to eat a bowl of fresh fruit. How does that sound?’ He grinned and raced off to the kitchen. ‘Quickly though, we’ve got to be at your childminder’s in an hour,’ she shouted as he disappeared. It was bad of her, she thought, sending Danny to childcare when she wasn’t in court, but they’d been given too little notice for her to cancel. At this stage she’d have to pay for him anyway, and the truth was that she was looking forward to having a day to herself. It was such a rare treat. She had nothing planned other than a hot bath, maybe a movie in bed, and no housework at all.
