about liver cancer any more.’
Giggling, I held out my own glass. ‘Silver lining.’
He poured and began to speak. ‘When things get bad, I want to be here. Not some hospice or hospital.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, without hesitation.
He sought my eyes. ‘Deborah, if I wanted to choose when it happened, if I needed help . . .’
There was a spurt of fear in my stomach. His words sobered me up but I pretended to be pissed still, hiding my panic and slurring my words. ‘I’m sure the doctors’ll sort you
out. They do that nowadays.’
He wouldn’t let me go, his eyes clamped on my face. ‘I’m not asking them,’ he insisted.
I was scared, scared by what he was asking and by my own cowardice. I wanted to say no. My first instinct was to say no. I closed my eyes, tilted my head back to escape his scrutiny. When I
recovered and opened my eyes he was looking down at the coffee-table, his fingers tracing a line with the spilled drops of wine.
After a while we resumed drinking, sifting through the photos, but the wine tasted acidic, our recollections were superficial, going no deeper than the obvious anodyne memories: Adam loved that
trike, the time Sophie ate the sand.
That night I woke in the early hours, shaky and hung-over and feeling dirty.
Back then, I thought he’d taken my silence as refusal. That the question wouldn’t arise again. Whenever I allowed myself to envisage the outcome of his illness, the inevitable,
unstoppable end, dread reared inside me. Not just the dread of losing him, of bereavement, but the dread that he would ask me again. If I refused, what would that say about my love for him, my
compassion? That I wasn’t prepared to stand by him and let him control the event? And if I agreed, what would it mean? How would I weather the reality of killing him? How would I bear
breaking that taboo?
It was another six months before we spoke again about the manner of his dying.
‘Call PC Stenner.’
My neck prickles and I sense a frisson of interest from the jurors: a policeman – maybe now we’ll get to something juicy. He comes in, wearing his uniform, and is sworn in. His
blocky head and wide jaw are as I recall. He has an angry rash on his neck.
‘PC Stenner, please take us through your notes from the fifteenth of June, when you attended 14, Elmfield Drive.’
‘Yes. I had a report of a sudden death. An ambulance was attending and I was in the vicinity. On reaching the premises, I found the ambulance service already in attendance. I spoke with
Mrs Deborah Shelley, who reported that her husband had been terminally ill and she had been unable to rouse him that afternoon. She also stated that it had been only a matter of time.’
‘What did you think she meant by this?’
‘That he could die at any time, that it was expected.’
‘At that point did you make any further enquiries?’
‘No.’
‘Can you recall for the jury Ms Shelley’s demeanour at that time?’
‘She was quite calm.’
‘Thank you, PC Stenner.’
Mr Latimer gets to his feet. Some of the members in the jury box rearrange their positions. Are you sitting comfortably?
‘PC Stenner. Did you meet anyone else at the house that afternoon?’
PC Stenner looks blank. I wonder if his mind is working furiously or whether you get what’s on the tin. ‘The daughter.’ He’s got there at last.
‘Yes. And can you describe her demeanour for the court?’
The constable hesitates. He knew they’d want the low-down on me but he hasn’t done his homework on Sophie. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘R-really.’ There’s a hint of Mr Latimer’s stammer but then he gets going. ‘You recall clearly the demeanour of Deborah Shelley but have no recollection whatsoever
of the demeanour of her daughter, Sophie?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘I suggest to you that the reason you cannot recall Sophie’s demeanour is that there was nothing remarkable about it.’
‘I don’t recall.’
‘I suggest, like her
Giggling, I held out my own glass. ‘Silver lining.’
He poured and began to speak. ‘When things get bad, I want to be here. Not some hospice or hospital.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, without hesitation.
He sought my eyes. ‘Deborah, if I wanted to choose when it happened, if I needed help . . .’
There was a spurt of fear in my stomach. His words sobered me up but I pretended to be pissed still, hiding my panic and slurring my words. ‘I’m sure the doctors’ll sort you
out. They do that nowadays.’
He wouldn’t let me go, his eyes clamped on my face. ‘I’m not asking them,’ he insisted.
I was scared, scared by what he was asking and by my own cowardice. I wanted to say no. My first instinct was to say no. I closed my eyes, tilted my head back to escape his scrutiny. When I
recovered and opened my eyes he was looking down at the coffee-table, his fingers tracing a line with the spilled drops of wine.
After a while we resumed drinking, sifting through the photos, but the wine tasted acidic, our recollections were superficial, going no deeper than the obvious anodyne memories: Adam loved that
trike, the time Sophie ate the sand.
That night I woke in the early hours, shaky and hung-over and feeling dirty.
Back then, I thought he’d taken my silence as refusal. That the question wouldn’t arise again. Whenever I allowed myself to envisage the outcome of his illness, the inevitable,
unstoppable end, dread reared inside me. Not just the dread of losing him, of bereavement, but the dread that he would ask me again. If I refused, what would that say about my love for him, my
compassion? That I wasn’t prepared to stand by him and let him control the event? And if I agreed, what would it mean? How would I weather the reality of killing him? How would I bear
breaking that taboo?
It was another six months before we spoke again about the manner of his dying.
‘Call PC Stenner.’
My neck prickles and I sense a frisson of interest from the jurors: a policeman – maybe now we’ll get to something juicy. He comes in, wearing his uniform, and is sworn in. His
blocky head and wide jaw are as I recall. He has an angry rash on his neck.
‘PC Stenner, please take us through your notes from the fifteenth of June, when you attended 14, Elmfield Drive.’
‘Yes. I had a report of a sudden death. An ambulance was attending and I was in the vicinity. On reaching the premises, I found the ambulance service already in attendance. I spoke with
Mrs Deborah Shelley, who reported that her husband had been terminally ill and she had been unable to rouse him that afternoon. She also stated that it had been only a matter of time.’
‘What did you think she meant by this?’
‘That he could die at any time, that it was expected.’
‘At that point did you make any further enquiries?’
‘No.’
‘Can you recall for the jury Ms Shelley’s demeanour at that time?’
‘She was quite calm.’
‘Thank you, PC Stenner.’
Mr Latimer gets to his feet. Some of the members in the jury box rearrange their positions. Are you sitting comfortably?
‘PC Stenner. Did you meet anyone else at the house that afternoon?’
PC Stenner looks blank. I wonder if his mind is working furiously or whether you get what’s on the tin. ‘The daughter.’ He’s got there at last.
‘Yes. And can you describe her demeanour for the court?’
The constable hesitates. He knew they’d want the low-down on me but he hasn’t done his homework on Sophie. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘R-really.’ There’s a hint of Mr Latimer’s stammer but then he gets going. ‘You recall clearly the demeanour of Deborah Shelley but have no recollection whatsoever
of the demeanour of her daughter, Sophie?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘I suggest to you that the reason you cannot recall Sophie’s demeanour is that there was nothing remarkable about it.’
‘I don’t recall.’
‘I suggest, like her
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