He watches fields and trees speed by as the journey progresses. Scenery he has always taken for granted but never will again. If he is to be set free, he will never take anything for granted. He aches to be amongst normality, to have his freedom back and to be able to walk in the park, with Carla and Emily beside him. He wants his life back, although it will never be the same.
Paul notices many members of the jury nod and smile at each other upon being seated this morning. This must be the norm after several days of being thrown together. Hopefully their unity will be carried forth into the verdict. He needs to ask John what will happen if they don’t agree. He can’t go through this again.
Everyone else takes their positions. Paul notes, with an element of misplaced humour, people in the public gallery, even the media, have resumed the same seating positions as in previous days.
“You’re up soon. Are you ready for it?”
Paul rises from his seat in response to John who he spots ascending the steps towards him.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“This is what we’ve been waiting for. Remember what we’ve discussed.”
“Will do.” He sniffs.
“You’ll be fine.” John slaps Paul’s shoulder and makes his way back down.
“All rise.”
The reassembled court stands whilst Judge Lakin re-takes his position. The usher stands up.
“You may all sit.”
It feels like they have been there for two months. David gives Paul a brief thumbs up. Alana, beside him, looks lost in thought. The usual quiet seeps through the courtroom as the clerk clears his throat and addresses Simon.
“Would the defence barrister like to call the next witness to the stand?”
“Thank you. I would like to call on Barry Aitkin, Specialist Forensic Biologist.”
A weathered man, with thin grey hair and a large moustache steps up and swears his oath.
“Mr Aitkin, you attended the scene which had been preserved for your inspection at Springfield Holiday Park on Sunday June 10th?”
“That is correct.”
“There is a copy of your report within the bundle of evidence as well as a series of photographs which I would like to draw the attention of the court to.”
“Yes.”
“Can you confirm whether, in your opinion, the blood stains found on the clothing removed from the defendant could have been caused by him personally inflicting the wounding blow with the weapon we have seen exhibited?”
“No. As I’ve said in my report, I would have expected there to be evidence of upward splattering on the defendant’s clothing and skin or even secondary spattering if he had been in the vicinity of an attack however, there was nothing to suggest that. There is no denying that his clothing and skin were heavily stained with Mrs Jackson’s blood, but that could have been as a result of him assisting in the aftermath of whatever happened.”
“So, to clarify, you are saying that the forensic evidence of blood splattering, suggests that Mr Jackson did not stab his wife?”
“Yes. That is what I am saying?”
“Thank you.”
Simon sits, smiling and Margaret stands.
“Mr Aitkin. You have admitted that Mr Jackson was heavily stained in the blood of his wife, Michelle Jackson?”
“That is correct.”
“Then I fail to see, how you can say with such a degree of certainty that he couldn’t have inflicted the injury on her. How do you know that he didn’t jump out of the way for example?”
“That would be impossible.” Despite the circumstances, the hint of a smile seems to cross his lips. “Mark my words, blood spurts out of a person faster than someone else can move.”
“But you cannot affirm with any degree of certainty that Mr Jackson might not have got changed or washed prior to the arrival of the emergency services.”
“Believe me, the SOCOs would have found any discarded pieces of clothing or traces of blood in a sink. They are extremely thorough.”
“I am not disputing that. But perhaps our defendant could have been just as thorough when covering his tracks.”
Simon stands. “Your honour. Surely we are not going to allow the prosecution barrister to argue with the evidence of an expert witness?”
“Sustained.”
Paul is feeling less nervous now. Margaret has been clutching at straws.
“No further questions,” she says.
“Paul Alan Jackson, please stand and take the Bible in front of you, into your right hand and repeat the words from the card into the microphone.”
“I swear by almighty God that I shall tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
“Thank you. Please remain standing.”
“Paul,” Simon begins. “We’ve heard several witness accounts of incidents between you and your wife in the latter part of your relationship. Can you, in your own words, describe what married life was like for you?”
“Yes.” He glances around the courtroom, not quite trusting the sound of his own voice. “Michelle was a beautiful, loving woman who gave me a great gift; our daughter.” He falters as he speaks towards the microphone, recoiling as he hears it echo back at him through the surrounding speakers. He’s always hated the sound of his voice when it’s amplified or recorded. He notices David and Alana whispering to each other. What are they whispering about? It throws him a little off track. He fights to focus. “Erm … Michelle was always intense, about me and her, I mean. In the beginning, though, I found it flattering, to be truthful.”
A sudden memory catches him unawares of how she had always wanted to hold his hand, even when he was driving. Whenever he needed to change gear or turn a corner, he would have to keep letting her hand go. He had always liked that. Well, up until the last year anyway. They had been immersed in each other, once. That was partly what had kept them together. He had always been trying to recapture that initial magic they’d had. At the time, he had never felt anything like it.
“For the benefit of the court,” Simon steps closer to Paul. “Can you say what you mean by intense?”
“Yes. Before we had Emily, she wanted to spend every moment with me. She hated us being apart and preferred us to do things on our own; she often said we didn’t need anyone else. She used to try and persuade me to ring in sick at work, so we didn’t have to be separated.”
For a moment he recalls how she had loved dancing and could dance all evening whereas he would be on and off the floor for a rest; till she beckoned him back over every time he flopped onto a chair.
He can visualise her face during the slow songs at the end of the night. In their happier days, he used to refer to this period of the evening as the erection section. He had fancied her back then. Watched by the wallflowers as she called them, they would be inseparable on the dance floor. God, what’s he playing at? He’s not in the dock to reminisce about the old days. He literally must fight for his life.
“How did that change as time moved on?” Simon cuts into his thoughts.
Paul hesitates. “Maybe if I’d been a little firmer right away and insisted we did some stuff on our own, things wouldn’t have become so bad. Whilst she was expecting Emily, she became clingy. Afterwards it grew. She was possessive and jealous and didn’t trust me, although I’d never personally given her cause for this. I wondered, like her mum had, whether she had post-natal depression.”
“Have you ever had an extra marital relationship?”
“Absolutely not.” Though he knew this question was coming, it still annoys him.
“Can you say why your wife didn’t trust you?”
“It stemmed back to when she was younger. She’d been abandoned by her father at an age when she needed him. She’d been let down by previous boyfriends as well. Knowing all this made me better equipped to tolerate her insecurity. I hoped, as time went on, she’d realise she could trust me.”
“How did getting married nearly a year ago change things?”
“So how did you deal with the situation?”
“I’d try to reassure her. All the time. But sometimes that just sent her into a rage. I once went with her to the doctors. She needed anti-depressants or counselling or something to improve her self-esteem.” He brings his hands up and clasps them in front of him.
“You mentioned rage. How did that manifest itself?”
“I’ve always been embarrassed to talk about it. You’d think, a tall, well-built bloke like myself, well I used to be well-built until all this.” He laughs, nervously. “Well, you’d think I would have been able to stop her from scratching or slapping me.”
“How often was that sort of thing happening?”
“It was becoming more regular. It was as though she couldn’t express herself verbally; she had to fly at me or throw something at me.”
“Did you ever tell anyone about what was going on?”
“Of course not! I’m a bloke. I don’t think anyone would have believed me! Or they’d have thought I’d gone soft!”
Someone had once said that. “Call yourself a bloke!” a voice had sneered outside a club one evening. Michelle had been drunk and had gone berserk when she had seen him speaking to an old female college acquaintance. Her slaps had done the talking, undeterred by the gathering onlookers. No one had tried to intervene.
“Let’s move forward to the night of Monday June 11th. Please describe in your own words exactly what happened. Your honour, you have the statement which will collaborate with Mr Jackson’s testimony.”
This is it. Paul has been through this time and time before in his head. “I’d spent the morning with Emily at the beach. We’d tried to include Michelle, but she hadn’t wanted to come. However, we’d come back and had a drink with her early in the afternoon. Emily was bored so I’d taken her off to the amusements. Michelle hadn’t wanted to come. By the time we returned from the seafront, she was having a sleep. I decided to leave her be and got on with the meal we’d planned. I’d bought a few bits and pieces whilst I was out with Emily.”
“Michelle. Are you here?” He remembers how he had tentatively pushed open the cottage door. “Ssssh,” he had said to Emily, after looking in the bedroom. “Mummy’s asleep. Go and play outside.”
Whilst he stabbed at baking potatoes, Emily tore around with Carla and her ball. Paul then relaxed on the steps of the cottage, listening to seagulls and Emily’s laughter whilst sipping a beer.
The sound instantly took him back to camping holidays he’d enjoyed as a kid. He and David would hurtle around whilst his dad presided over the barbecue. Yet it was his mother who did most of the work, shopping, slicing, seasoning, marinating and par-cooking; but she always allowed his dad to take the glory. He’d been lucky with his upbringing and wanted the same for Emily. His parents would have adored Emily and probably made all the difference with Michelle too. If only they’d lived.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” Michelle’s voice behind him made him jump. “How long have you been back? Don’t you want to spend any time with me today?”
“Which question shall I answer first?” Paul laughed as he swivelled his body around on the cottage steps.
“White or red?” she called from the kitchen. His heart plummeted as he heard the rattle of the fridge door being opened.
He quickly went inside. “Michelle, why don’t you eat something instead? You’ll feel better for it tomorrow. I’m gonna put the steak on soon.”
“I’m only having one glass. Stop acting like you’re my father. We’re on holiday.” She held a glass towards him.
“Alright, I’ll have one with you.” The vinegary red wine made him shudder as he took a sip. He’d never been a fan of wine.
“Isn’t it pretty Mummy; the sky’s gone pink.” Emily said later. Michelle was still drinking. The sun was slipping behind the hills.
“Mmm,” agreed Michelle.
Paul put his arm around her shivering shoulders. The simplicity of observing a sunset with his daughter and wife would always stay with him.
“I think you should be off to bed.” Michelle drew Emily in for a hug. “You look tired out. You’ve had a busy day.”
Emily stretched as she stood up. “Will you tuck me in Daddy?”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.” His eyes were fixed on the sunset and he tried not to focus on the fact that Michelle had not been part of Emily’s ‘busy’ day.
“And will you tuck me in Mummy?” Emily said with a yawn.
“Shortly.” Michelle had finished the bottle of wine and was opening another.
“Are we going to eat something soon?” Paul looked at her. “The potatoes should be done now.”
“Soon. After we’ve settled Emily. And you’ve given me a good seeing to.” She was slurring her words.
“Not when you’re tipsy already. You need to eat.”
“You’re turning me down?” Her eyes flashed angrily at him. “Again?”
“I’ll be back in a minute.” He brushed past her. “I’ll check on Emily.” Call yourself a man, flashed into his mind again. Most men were open all hours when it came to sex. He used to be. But the prospect of his drunk wife didn’t turn him on one bit.
Emily lay in the slim bed with her hair fanned out on her pillow. “Night Daddy,” she muttered, clutching her bear. “Is Mummy coming too?”
“She’ll be along soon.” He patted Carla who was sprawled out on the adjacent bed. His heart sank as he heard the tinkle of a bottle connecting with a glass and the glugging of more wine being tipped out. He felt like wrenching it from her and tipping it down the sink.
“Right that’s it,” he asserted as he strode back into the kitchen. “I’m not taking no for an answer! You’re going to eat something.”
He piled salad onto the chopping board. Cucumber. Tomatoes. Lettuce. He launched himself into slicing up tomatoes.
Michelle propped herself upon the counter. He could sense the force of her condescending gaze.
“I don’t do it for you anymore, do I?”
“Not when you’re drunk.” It was true.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” She banged her hand on the worktop. “You can’t even look at me! Have you got someone else?”
“Michelle. Enough. Leave it out. We’re supposed to be on holiday.” He threw lettuce leaves into the colander. “You’re ruining it.”
“I think Alana’s the reason you don’t want anything to do with me!” Michelle stormed towards him. “You can’t keep one woman satisfied, let alone two!”
“Stop it Michelle.” He took a step back which was about as far as he could go in the tiny kitchen.
“I think it’s about time you were honest with me.”
“Michelle, for God’s sake.” He tried to turn back to face the chopping board.
But she’d grabbed his shoulder and her wine-laced fumes were in his face. “A little late for that, don’t you think? Is that why you don’t want sex with me anymore? ‘Cos of Alana?”
“I don’t want sex with you anymore because of you!”
“You bastard!”
“And then what happened?” Simon rests his hands on the bench.
“In that split second, rightly or wrongly…” Paul’s voice wobbles. “I took off. I needed to escape. She was winding herself up and the drink wasn’t helping. I thought some space between us might diffuse things.”
“And then what happened?” Simon asks.
“I walked around for about ten minutes. Then I went to the club and had a pint. I thought I had given her long enough to calm down. Nothing could have prepared me for …” He stops, the remainder of his sentence hanging in the air.
“In your own words, Paul, please tell the court what happened when you returned to the cot
tage.”
“Michelle was just laid there.” The courtroom is a sea of faces. He’s not looking at anyone. He can see her again. He’s back reliving it. “There was blood all over the place. She’d stabbed herself with the knife I’d left out.”
“What makes you say she’d stabbed herself?” Simon asks. This is it. The crux of it all. Yet still a shadowy blur to him.
“Because I’d let her sink that low, then I’d left her on her own. It was my fault!” His voice cracks. “I left the knife there for God’s sake! She’d a history of self-harming and I walked out, leaving her drunk and angry, with a knife in front of her!”
“Did you see her stab herself?”
“No.”
“Did you stab your wife Paul?”
“No, I did not. I would never have harmed a hair on her head. Despite everything.” He’s surprised to notice tears dripping from the edge of his jaw onto his trousers. He did not realise he was crying.
“What happened next?”
“I was in shock, panicking. I checked her pulse. She was alive. I didn’t think she’d die. She was so young. She had her whole life in front of her.” Paul wipes at his eyes. “And I’d left Emily in the cottage with her!”
“I have no further questions, your honour.” Simon turns towards Judge Lakin. “Can I request a short recess before my client is cross-examined by the prosecution?”
“Five minutes,” agrees the judge. “In view of the short timescale though, the court must remain seated.”
A whisper echoes. John makes his way towards Paul.
The Man Behind Closed Doors Page 24
