The Man Behind Closed Doors

by Maria Frankland

  “Probably not.” Paul stuffed the letter into the envelope. “Unless she mentions it again. We’re getting on better so I don’t want to rock the boat.”

  “Well,” Alana said. “I hope it stays that way for you. You don’t deserve to be bullied.” She didn’t hope that at all. Really, she hoped it grew worse and he would leave her.

  “You make me sound like a right wimp.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to. Being married is hard enough, without extra grief. Life passes too quickly for it to be spent with someone who makes you unhappy.”

  “Are you OK?” She thought he looked concerned and that warmed her. She kept wondering how much longer they could go on like this, tiptoeing around how they really felt about each other.

  “Yeah fine.” She jostled herself back to reality. Really she would have liked to have disclosed her own home life misery and how she was wasting time away with Lee when she should be with Paul. “Just wondering how the office will survive without you. When are you going anyway?”

  “This weekend. Only to the East coast. Someone who Michelle works with is renting us her cottage. It’s on a nice park with a pool and a club and everything.”

  “How long are you going to be off for?” She’d be counting the days. She hated herself for being like this. She was becoming a little obsessed with him. She could never get him out of her mind.

  “Only a week.” Paul slid the letter into his briefcase.

  Alana follows John through the revolving door of the court building, exchanging the headache-inducing strip lights for the dreary early-afternoon drizzle. She drinks in the fresh air.

  There are around ten reporters wielding cameras and television equipment coming towards them. It’s like a scene from a news channel.

  “Are they all here because of Paul?” Alana mutters as a bulb flashes in her face. She’s glad she brushed her hair and reapplied her lipstick.

  “How well do you know Paul Jackson?” a woman calls to her.

  “We’re not saying anything at the moment.” John, thankfully more accustomed to this scenario, steps in front of Alana. Cameras are flashing all around them.

  “I am acting for Mr Jackson in his trial at this court,” John announces as several microphones are thrust in front of him. “At this stage we are unable to comment on the case. The trial is proceeding, and the outcome will be announced in due course. We’ll be able to comment more fully then.”

  “I hope they throw away the key!” yells a woman from the back of the crowd. She clutches a plaque sporting the words Justice for Abused Women.

  “How can you be here, supporting him after what he’s done to his wife?” shouts another woman.

  “It wasn’t him.” Alana retorts. Shit! She shouldn’t be saying anything! John’s going to go mad. Plus, she’s drawing attention to herself.

  “What makes you so sure?” A microphone is shoved in front of her face, but she brushes it aside.

  “Do you think he killed her?” She backs away from another microphone as the words are shouted at her.

  “No comment.”

  They push their way through the crowd of reporters and supporters, ignoring pleas for information. They will be answered soon enough. The realisation makes her jittery. With ringing ears, she follows the others into a wine bar. She can’t think straight and a glass of something is what she needs. Then a hand yanks her back from the entrance.

  “What are you doing here?” she snaps at her husband.

  “I think we need to talk, don’t you?”

  Chapter Forty Two

  “We’ll hear from two more witnesses today,” says Judge Lakin. We’ll have the final one and the closing comments tomorrow. “Mr Booth, would you like to call your next witness to the stand?”

  There is a collective stretch and silent yawn in the courtroom. Simon shuffles through some papers.

  Simon stands. “I would like to call Police Constable Stuart Rayner of North Yorkshire Police to the stand.”

  The usher leads a middle-aged man with a stern expression into the witness box. He swears his oath then looks expectantly at Simon.

  “You attended at the Jackson’s home following an incident which took place on Saturday May 19th. Can you tell the court who made the call to you?”

  PC Rayner’s tall frame towers out of the witness box. “It was a silent three nines call,” he replies, placing his helmet on the ledge of the witness box. “It connected through then was cut off. It was Mr Jackson, in need of some help.” He clasps his hands next to his helmet. “It had been made from a mobile phone before being disconnected. The number was registered to 42 Bracken Bank, Osbaldwick, therefore we were in a position to be able to trace the call and respond.”

  “Who answered the door on your arrival?”

  “Mrs Jackson. She didn’t come to the door straight away. I had already seen Mr Jackson on the floor through the letterbox before she answered. When she came, she insisted no help was required. We had to push our way in.”

  “Why was Mr Jackson on the floor?”

  “He had a head wound which we subsequently found had been caused by a blow from a plant pot. This was smashed, along with a mobile phone, in the hallway.”

  “How did you know Mrs Jackson had attacked her husband?”

  “She was the only other adult in the house, to our knowledge. Neither she nor Mr Jackson gave any information that suggested otherwise. We were concerned when we discovered the presence of their daughter. I personally delivered her, with her dog, to the brother of Mr Jackson.”

  “Did Mrs Jackson admit to the assault?”

  “She did but claimed at first, that she had acted in self-defence. She was shocked at being arrested. However, once in custody she was compliant and full of remorse. We were unable to pursue the complaint without Mr Jackson’s say-so and he had informed staff at the hospital that he wanted the matter discontinued.”

  “Would you have been more inclined to prosecute, without his blessing, should circumstances have been turned around?”

  “Could you please be more specific?” Judge Lakin’s voice rings into the pause.

  “Yes.” Simon appears to think for a moment. “Would you have treated the attack more seriously, had it been a man hitting his wife around the head with a plant pot, in front of their young child?”

  “Yes, if I’m to be honest.” PC Rayner looks uncomfortable. “We’d have had him in front of a magistrate the next day. With or without the partner’s blessing.”

  Simon nods. “No further questions.”

  “PC Rayner. Did you say to my learned friend that Mrs Jackson said during interview that she was acting in self-defence?” asks Margaret.

  “Yes. We invited her to counter complain but she did not want to. There were no sign of any marks or injury on her and she was very calm,” he replies. “We took note of her initial reluctance to let us in, in order that her husband could be treated. If she had been in any way fearful of him, I’m sure she would have invited our intervention as soon as we arrived at her door.”

  “How can you be sure Mrs Jackson did not act against her husband in self-defence?”

  “I suppose I can’t be certain.” He shrugs slightly. “We weren’t there, were we?”

  “That will be all, your honour,” Margaret smiles towards Judge Lakin.

  Paul notices her line of questioning to the defence witnesses is brief, as though she is attempting to make points that will fix in the minds of the jurors.

  Dr John Sowden, Senior Psychiatrist for the North Yorkshire Mental Health Team, ascends the steps, swipes the Bible from the stand into the air, and confidently repeats his oath. He then observes Simon, with a business-like air.

  “Can you confirm to the court, the times at which you have treated Michelle Jackson?”

  “Certainly.” He hands the Bible back to the usher. “She was known to us throughout the period of her being about fourteen years-of-age to eighteen. She then came back, following referral from her GP w
hen she was twenty.” He glances down at his notes as he speaks. “She improved once she had followed a course of psychotherapy but then was re-referred to our team following the birth of her daughter.”

  “Did you treat her personally?”

  “I did. I grew to know her well. Her main problem was of self-harming. That was her ‘release;’ her way of dealing with what was troubling her.”

  “When you say self-harming, can you be more specific?”

  “Certainly.” He runs a finger down his notes. “She was first referred to our service at the age of fourteen after being admitted to A&E following an overdose of paracetamol.”

  “Were you able to ascertain whether this was a serious attempt at taking her own life? Or, as it is often described, a cry for help?”

  “I don’t see this question’s relevance,” interrupts Margaret. “We are deliberating something that took place nearly two decades ago – she was a teenager.”

  “Overruled,” Judge Lakin nods across to Dr Sowden. “Please continue.”

  Paul feels heavy as he recalls the silvery lines on her arms. It was a period of her life she hadn’t liked to talk about and now, here it was, laid bare for all the world to see. Nevertheless, it is hopefully what will save him and reunite him with his daughter.

  “Michelle admitted in therapy her actions had been, as you put it, a cry for help. It stemmed from boyfriend troubles, not uncommon at the age she was at. I was also concerned about the lacerations that appeared on her forearm which was a prolonged attempt at releasing her own deep-rooted self-hatred.” He taps the front of his forearm as he speaks.

  “She didn’t try to conceal these from you?”

  “Only at first. As is consistent with this type of self-harming, she was overwhelmingly compelled to carry out the self-mutilation and she described the sense of relief the cutting provided. As time went on, I learned of the extent of her extremely poor self-image. She didn’t care about the scarring she was causing, as she said she was ugly and unloved anyway.”

  Paul thinks back to when he had first seen her scars. Her shame had been as deeply ingrained as the cuts themselves. He had wondered why she always wanted to make love in the dark; why she would steer his hands away from her scarred skin. It had only been when she had forgotten once to lock the door as she showered, that he had seen them. He had kissed the top of her head as she explained about her previous illness. He had promised her she would never know despair like that again. But she had. And she had died in despair. And it was his fault.

  “What was causing her to do this to herself – the main catalyst?” Simon’s voice breaks into Paul’s thoughts.

  “Whilst I’m not casting aspersions, I would say the sudden abandonment of her father after her parent’s divorce was a huge factor. Michelle had spent her entire childhood, placing him on a pedestal, but for reasons perhaps only known to him, he’d always been dismissive of her. She also spoke of being bullied, both at school and by her elder brother – I think in both cases it was pretty severe bullying. She didn’t have a close bond with anybody; in fact, she seemed alone in the world at that time. Her mother was engrossed in her own troubles.”

  Paul glances at Susan. Tears are streaming down her face. Emily is not the only casualty of all this.

  “But she must have improved for you to be able to discharge her from therapy by the time she was eighteen.”

  “She had.” He smiles as he refers to his notes again. “She had a boyfriend by that time, had left school and things had settled down at home. She had begun an accountancy course at college. Her self-harming episodes were still taking place, but to a considerably lesser extent. However, I realised at the time she may represent to us if events took a turn for the worse.”

  “And they did?”

  “Yes. She was re-referred by the hospital in her mid-twenties. A boyfriend, again, had been at the root of another suicide attempt. He had a flat on the eleventh floor of a high-rise block. Unfortunately, he had chosen that location to end their relationship. It had taken a team of specially trained officers over an hour, to talk her down from the window ledge.”

  Shit! Paul thinks to himself. She’s never mentioned that one.

  “Was she still cutting herself as well?”

  “It began again around that time. It was exacerbated also by the fact that her father’s new wife had given birth to a little girl. Social media was in its infancy then, but Michelle had gone to pieces after seeing pictures of her father and the half-sister she never expected to be allowed to meet all over Facebook. We upped the interventions, settling on an anti-depressant approach combined with psychotherapy. We were seeing her weekly, sometimes more. She divulged she was running out of space to cut. Her arms were a mass of faded lines by this time. I understand she was cutting at the tops of her legs and on her stomach and breasts.”

  Paul watches the jury. They all appear to be listening intently. Several scribble on their notepads. He feels a sense of calm. This is his defence.

  “She spoke of a release of self-hatred and pent up anger taking place as the blood flowed out of her wounds. Like many self-harmers, to cut herself was something she was in control of, at a time when control was lacking elsewhere in her life.”

  “But again, this episode of self-harm was a transient one?”

  “That is correct. We were astounded with the sudden change after she began a relationship with Mr Jackson.”

  “In what way?”

  Paul notices that many people are glancing towards him and shifts uncomfortably on the hard plastic seat.

  “Overnight she stopped cutting herself. She wanted to stop the anti-depressant tablets too, obviously that was something she was strongly advised against. She discharged herself from our service, saying she was fine and had her boyfriend to look after her.”

  “She sounds like a person who needed a partner to stabilise her.”

  “Yes. I believe having a boyfriend increased her sense of self-worth. When things were going well, anyway. It seemingly ‘validated’ her.”

  “I am now,” Simon pauses, perhaps searching for the correct words, “going to move forwards to the incident we are here to decide about. Whether or not Michelle stabbed herself. We know from the witnesses we have heard from so far that the couple’s relationship was under great strain and Michelle was incredibly unhappy.

  Margaret stands. “Your honour, it is my opinion that my learned friend here is leading the witness.”

  “He’s acting for the defence,” responds Judge Lakin. Paul’s hopes rise a little. This is going well.

  “Knowing Michelle in the professional capacity in which you did, can you say whether, in your opinion, she would have been capable of fatally stabbing herself in the chest on the night of Monday June 11th?” Simon glances at Margaret, possibly expecting another objection.

  “Well,” he lifts his chin into the air and exhales loudly. “She was certainly no stranger to a knife.” Each point is made by ‘counting’ on his fingers as he speaks. “Her moods and well-being are controlled by the quality of her intimate relationships. Her marriage was obviously in trouble.”

  “Could the witness please answer the question?” Judge Lakin drums his fingers on the desktop.

  “Definitely. I’d say it was possible she killed herself.”

  Paul closes his eyes.

  Chapter Forty Three

  Paul has been awake for ages, rehearsing his answers over and over.

  “Jackson. It’s time for you to make a move. Prison van’ll be here soon.”

  Stephen stirs, and Paul sits up. He’s been going over what Simon will ask him. They have been through it all, question by question. There is an unmovable knot inside him at the thought of being questioned by Margaret.

  “Tell the truth,” John has reassured him when he has expressed his anxiety. Look her in the eye and be as brief as you can. That’s all you can do.”

  “What if she tries to trip me up?”

  “That’s her job,
unfortunately. All you can do is relax and put your faith in the jury. I’ve Googled them all and we’ve no women’s activists or anything.”

  Paul dresses quickly, taking care with his tie. It is a huge relief to shed his prison clothes and put on shirt and trousers again. It helps him to feel more ‘normal,’ although they now hang from him. A belt is necessary for his trousers, but it is pointless to ask for one. It poses a suicide risk. He shaves, then slicks back his hair with wet hands. It is badly in need of a trim and flops straight back into his eyes. He should have opted for the standard prison number two all over but he can’t bear to look like the rest of them.

  “Are you sorted?”

  He takes one last look at his reflection before directing his attention to the officer who waits at the door of the cell. “Here’s your breakfast pack. You’ve got about ten minutes.”

  “This might be the last time you wake up in here mate.” Stephen claps him on the back on his way into the loo. That’s all Paul needs, listening to him taking a dump whilst he eats. Like he doesn’t feel bad enough. He stares into space, whilst trying to force his breakfast down. His insides churn with each spoonful yet he knows he needs every ounce of energy to survive the day. This is the big one. It is possible by the end of this day, he might know his fate. He hardly dares to believe that he might be reunited with Emily in a matter of hours.

  “How are you feeling?” Stephen calls from behind the wall.

  “Sick,” replies Paul.

  “Well I hope I don’t ever see you again.” The toilet flushes. “In the best possible way, of course.”

  Still nauseous with nerves, he is grateful for the forward-facing seating position in his cubicle within the prison van. He tries to take his mind back again to ‘the night’ but as always, only finds a darkened blur. He probably needs therapy, not cross examination, to sort it all out.