The Man Behind Closed Doors

by Maria Frankland

  The door slammed as she retreated into the kitchen.

  Paul slid into a laying position, the coldness of the tiles slightly helping the dizziness to subside. He closed his eyes to quell the spinning and was aware of Emily at his side and the dog licking his head.

  The doorbell was being rung continually. He squinted in the haze, relieved to notice a pair of eyes observing him through the letterbox. Then Michelle’s footsteps clattered past him.

  “I don’t know who’s called you, but you’re not needed.” Her voice was steady as she spoke to the police in the porch way. “Everything’s fine here.”

  “If that’s the case, can you tell me why there’s a gentleman laid on your floor with a head injury?”

  The door was pushed open and the owner of the eyes crouched down beside Paul. “Is there anyone else in the house?” he asked gently.

  “My daughter. And the dog.” Paul weakly pointed upwards to where Emily and the dog were, having now run upstairs and concealed themselves behind the upstairs bannister.

  “He fell,” muttered Michelle.

  “Is this true?” Paul assumed the words were being directed towards him. He feebly pointed towards the plant, still with its roots intact, that had struck him. Once upon a time he would have covered for her. But not anymore.

  “We’re going to need another unit here.” One of the officers spoke into his radio. “And an ambulance. Domestic incident. Man, with head injuries. There’s a young girl present. We’re going to take the woman in for questioning.”

  “You’re going to arrest me?” Her voice was a squeak.

  “You can’t expect to clonk your fella around the head and carry on enjoying the afternoon sun.” He unclipped a set of handcuffs from his belt. “Name?” he demanded.

  “Michelle Jackson.”

  “Michelle Jackson. I am arresting you on suspicion of causing actual bodily harm. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something which you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  “You don’t need to put those on me surely.” She gasped in response to the rattle of the handcuffs.

  “Is there anyone who can have your little girl?” The policeman looked at Michelle.

  “David,” murmured Paul, from the floor. “My brother.”

  “Do you have a number for him?” Michelle hesitated, then perhaps realising there was no alternative, she reeled off David’s address.

  Still handcuffed, she was escorted down their drive to the waiting police car. This would give them all something to talk about, Paul thought as he listened to the approach of a siren.

  “Right mate. I want you to keep still. We’re going to look at your head. Hopefully you’ll be back home before you know it.” Two paramedics; a man and a woman crouched at either side of him.

  “I’m OK, honestly. I’m a bit better, I think.” Paul tried to sit up. “I don’t need to go to hospital.”

  “You’re concussed, and it looks like you’re going to need stitches.” One of the paramedics guided him back into a laying position. “We’re going to lift you up onto the stretcher. Don’t worry about your house. Or your daughter. The police are going to take care of her.”

  “You’ll take her to my brother’s?” he weakly called up to the female officer who was sat beside Emily at the top of the stairs. Carla squatted beside them, her head in Emily’s lap.

  “Is that OK with you?” The woman had an arm around Emily’s shoulders.

  She nodded in response, not taking her eyes off Paul.

  “Come on then poppet.” She hauled Emily to her feet. “Do you want to take your doggy with you?”

  “I want to go with my daddy.” She had hold of Carla’s collar. “Can I?”

  “But you’d be bored at the hospital. And you can’t take your dog there. Dogs aren’t allowed in hospitals.” She patted Carla’s head. “As soon as your daddy has been patched up, you can come back here and look after him.”

  “OK then.” The officer held her hand as she trailed down the steps. “I’ll see you soon Daddy.” Paul sensed a teary kiss on the side of his cheek. “I’ll look after Carla and the ambulance people will look after you.”

  “We need to take an X-ray. It’s important, Paul, that you try to keep your eyes open.” The nurse leaned over and peered into his face. “You can’t go to sleep. Not with concussion.”

  “That’s easier said than done when you’re laid on a trolley in a warm waiting room!” Paul rubbed at his eyes, trying to keep them from closing. “And that light’s bright.”

  “There’s two people in front of you.” The nurse shone a torch into his eyes. “It won’t be much longer. Is there anyone you want us to ring?”

  “My work colleague Alana,” Paul said immediately. “Alana Noakes. I don’t know her number, my phone, well, it’s … I know her address. I can’t imagine I’ll be able to go to work tomorrow. I need to let her know.”

  “The lady on the front desk will look it up.” The nurse scribbled onto the back of his notepad.

  “Thanks.”

  “How did this happen?” The X-ray technician was moving bits of machinery around him. He felt strangely cosseted as he lay, with things whirring and flashing around his head.

  “Oh, a bit of a fall.” He flinched at his own words. He had never been any good at lying.

  “Had you been drinking?”

  “One or two.” His cheeks burned.

  “You’re definitely going to need stitches. I’ll pass the X-ray pictures back up to triage as soon as the doctor’s seen them.” She ripped the Velcro open that was holding his protective radiation vest in place. “You could be in for a bit of a wait though.”

  “It’s fine. My head’s throbbing, I don’t feel like doing anything else apart from lying still!” Paul put his hand up to his head and realised the wound was still bleeding.

  He closed his eyes as he was wheeled out of the darkness into a lighter, more airy waiting area. The disinfectant smell merged with illness reminded him of the time they had attended casualty when Emily had reacted to her injections as a toddler.

  “Remember not to go to sleep Paul,” said a nurse.

  “Do you think I could have some painkillers?” Paul tried to open his eyes.

  “Oh my God! Look at the state of you!” Loud footsteps came dashing over to his trolley.

  He grimaced in pain as he tried to turn his head towards the source of the familiar voice.

  “Alana, you soon got here!”

  “Is this your wife?” The nurse smiled at her.

  “No, my friend.” He stretched his arm out towards her. “She’ll be telling me off for spoiling her Sunday. You didn’t need to come here. I only wanted to send you a message about not coming to work tomorrow. I’ve no phone at the moment.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! I wanted to come.” Alana grabbed Paul’s hand whilst staring at his head. “What’s happened? Please don’t tell me this is down to Michelle.”

  Paul turned away, not up to facing another lecture on how he should leave his wife. He wanted to pull his hand away, it felt strange.

  “How did it happen? Was Emily there?”

  “David’s looking after her. At least I hope he is. You’ll have to check for me. The police were taking her there.”

  “The police? Oh my God! What happened?”

  “I went out for a few pints, and a bite to eat with Nick. I stayed out for longer than I should and turned my phone…”

  “That doesn’t give her the right to do this to you!” Several people stared at them.

  “Keep your voice down! My head’s killing!”

  “Sorry.”

  “I don’t know what Emily saw.” Paul tried to shield his eyes from the overhead fluorescent light with his hand. “But she saw me like this. And that’s bad enough.”

  “What did she hit you with?”

  “A plant pot. Shows what a hard head I have!” Pau
l smiled, then immediately winced at the pain it caused him. “It smashed the pot to smithereens!”

  Alana didn’t smile. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “That’s a first.”

  “This is serious Paul.” Alana let go of his hand, stepped away from the trolley and tugged a stool towards her to sit beside him. “Where is she now?”

  “The police took her. She was arrested.” A twinge of guilt clutched at him.

  “Well that’s something at least. I hope you’re not planning to forgive her.”

  “I don’t know,” he sighed wearily.

  “You know I’d help you look for somewhere else to live.”

  Paul sighed. “I can’t deal with all that right now.”

  Simon looks at his notes, then at Nurse Fraser. “You looked after Paul Jackson during the night of Sunday May 6th after he had sustained a head injury at his home?”

  “That’s right. It was decided he’d be kept in overnight, for observation. It’d been a particularly nasty injury with some swelling.” Matthew Fraser indicates the site of the injury on his own head. “It had required eight stitches.”

  Paul inadvertently raises his hand to rub at the site of his healing scar. He has been told that eventually it will fade away to nothing. If only other scenarios were so straightforward.

  “Did Paul tell you how he’d come to receive the injury?” Simon continues.

  “Not directly. I understand his wife had admitted it to the police in interview though. And one of my colleagues heard Paul talking about the incident with his visitor whilst he lay on the trolley, waiting to be admitted.”

  “I myself, took a phone call from the police the next morning before I went off duty. They said they were letting Mrs Jackson go because Paul wouldn’t press charges. I was disappointed at the time, but I understood.” He looked up at Paul. “It takes courage for anyone, man or woman, to progress a complaint about their spouse through the courts. I talked to him about it whilst I was checking his blood pressure. I told him he wouldn’t be given a choice in the future.

  To be frank though, I personally cannot see why she wasn’t prosecuted, with or without Paul’s say-so. I said this to the police on the phone.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “If it had happened the other way around, I’m sure it would have been different. If it had been him who’d done it to her, I mean.”

  Paul can remember him clearly now. He is a small yet stocky man with a gentle voice and on the night it all happened, he made Paul feel less ashamed.

  “Is domestic abuse something you come across frequently in your line of work?”

  “I’ve recently attended some training. Usually men are the perpetrators, but they are coming forward as victims of it more now.”

  “Why do you think this is?” Simon tips his head to one side as he waits for a response.

  “Your honour,” Margaret calls as she rises to her feet, “the evidence being put forward by the witness would be expected from a psychologist, not a nurse.”

  “I disagree,” says Judge Lakin. “Mr Fraser is a front-line nurse and his views are perfectly valid, as you just heard, he has specialist training in this area - please continue.”

  “I’m not sure why this is.” Nurse Fraser clears his throat. “Maybe it’s to do with women drinking more alcohol. Or the fact that nowadays, women are often more financially independent. Overall, as I learned in my training, all domestic abuse is to do with power and control no matter who it is. From what I’ve heard so far, it sounds as though Mrs Jackson had incredibly low self-esteem. I know this to be common in perpetrators of domestic abuse, whether they are male or female. One thing I’ve come across in my job though, is that men are far less likely to speak out about it. They somehow see themselves as weak, and a failure if they do.”

  “In your opinion, did Paul tick the boxes of being this type of domestic abuse victim?”

  “You mean someone who would be afraid to speak out?”

  Simon nods.

  “Definitely. I could sense how embarrassed he was. He accepted the helpline numbers I offered him, although I had an inkling he would never use them. As healthcare professionals, we’re limited to what we can and can’t do and what we can say. For instance, we can’t be seen to be offering opinion. I wanted to advise him that these sorts of situations usually deteriorate rather than improve.” He shrugged. “But obviously, I had to keep quiet.”

  “Thank you, Nurse Fraser. I have no further questions.”

  “Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve been called as a witness,” Margaret says as she stands. “I would say your testimony is based on general knowledge about domestic abuse, not precise information on the case. We are trying to decide whether Paul Jackson is guilty or not guilty of the murder of Michelle Jackson.” Her voice becomes icier. “In fact, I could have looked up most of what you have said on the internet.”

  Nurse Fraser remains silent.

  Sarcastic cow, Paul thinks to himself.

  “Your honour,” her gown swishes as she turns to the front bench. “I have no questions for this witness. None, whatsoever.”

  “One further question, your honour,” Simon gets back up.

  “Go on,” says Judge Lakin.

  Simon and Nurse Fraser face each other. “As my colleague has stated, you clearly have a sound knowledge in the matter of domestic abuse.”

  “Yes.”

  “Obviously the situation we are discussing here is of a reverse domestic abuse scenario, one of a male victim, rather than the societal norm of the female.” He sweeps his gaze over the courtroom. “I would like you to clearly state, yes or no, whether in your professional opinion based on what you saw of Paul on the night he was in your care, whether he was the victim of domestic abuse in this relationship.”

  “Yes. Most definitely,” Nurse Fraser replies.

  “No further questions.”

  “We’ll break for lunch for one hour, fifteen minutes,” orders Judge Lakin. “Please arrive back punctually at two fifteen.”

  “Court dismissed,” echoes the usher.

  Chapter Forty One

  Alana strides towards the exit. “I need some air.” She says to no one in particular.

  She’s dreading going home later. Her marriage has been under sufferance for a while anyway but all this – well, it is blowing them completely apart. See what happens, she tells herself. Stay calm. If Paul is acquitted then, who knows? Either way, she isn’t going to stay with Lee. Sometimes you must go after what you want. No matter what, or who is in the way.

  At times, she has been gob smacked with how Michelle treated Paul. He is different to Lee; sensitive and fun-loving instead of angry and jealous. She has often mused that Michelle and Lee would be better suited. They certainly wouldn’t have spoilt a pair. But Michelle burst into Paul’s life, filling a void that Alana herself should have filled. She can recall her anger at the news that he was going to attempt a holiday with her.

  “We’ve decided to have a week away.” Paul had appeared in the reception area at work. “Try and put things behind us.”

  Alana stopped typing. “A holiday. After all that’s happened? Are you mad?”

  Bloody hell! It was always two steps forward, three steps back.

  He grinned. “Possibly. Though it’s probably what we all need.” He leafed through the papers in his pigeon hole. “It might do us some good.”

  “Well I’m shocked you’ve forgiven her so easily.” Alana swung her chair around to face him. “I mean, look at the state of your head.” She tried to keep the fury out of her voice. She couldn’t bear the prospect of not seeing him for a week. Or two. Whilst he played at happy families. With her.

  “I know. It’s not exactly colour coordinated is it?” He touched his head. “I mean, who’d use bright blue stitches?”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Alana wanted to shout at him. “What if she does something like this again? And if you’re miles away from home, there’ll be none of us around to supp
ort you.”

  “I don’t think she will.” He continued shuffling through his papers. “She was locked up nearly all night. It gave her a lot of time to think. I don’t believe she would risk being banged up again. She is sorry.”

  “I’m sure she is.” Alana pursed her lips as she stacked files. “For now. Until the next time.” What was it going to take for him to leave her? She wanted to shake some sense into him.

  “Ah that’s the one.” He grabbed a brown envelope.

  “Is that the-?” She leaned forward in her chair.

  He nodded. “I daren’t open it. What if it says I’m not her dad?”

  “It won’t say that.” Although it flashed through her mind that the wrong result might prevent them from going on holiday. She raised her arm towards him. “Do you want me to open it for you?”

  He passed her the envelope.

  She took a post knife from a drawer and sliced it open at the edge. She glanced at Paul, ever so slightly relishing this moment of ‘power’ over him.

  “Right.” She cleared her throat and smoothed the page out in front of her. “There’s a load of numbers and percentages and things. I can’t make head nor tail of that lot. Anyway, the important bit. Listen while I read it out.” She glanced at Paul who looked terrified. “Conclusion: The probability of Mr Paul Jackson being the biological father of Emily Jackson is…”

  “What? Come on Alana – you’re worse than an episode of Come Dancing!”

  “99.9999%. Therefore, it is practically proven Mr Paul Jackson is the biological father of Emily Jackson.”

  “Pass it here.” Paul took the page and scanned it as a big smile spread across his face.

  “What did I tell you? That should put your mind at rest.”

  “I do feel better.” He sank onto a seat, tension seemingly seeping from him like air from a punctured tyre.

  “Are you going to say anything to Michelle?” The telephone rang. Alana pressed a button that would activate the answering machine to pick up the call.