‘Don’t call me Maggie!’
‘You don’t like it?’
‘It makes me want to puke. It’s my mother’s name for me.’
‘The one on your birth certificate.’
I’m still hovering in the doorway, unsure of what to do.
‘Are you taking your medication?’ he asks.
‘No. It poisons my mind.’
‘I’m trying to make you better.’
‘Is that why you zapped my brain?’
Dr Coyle opens his palms. ‘You were given electroconvulsive therapy. You gave us permission.’
‘I was tricked.’
‘You were depressed. Suicidal.’
‘You made me that way,’ says Tempe, wrung out with self-pity. ‘You were trying to control me – tell me what to think and do – but I’m happy now.’
‘Why are you happy?’
‘I have friends.’ She looks at me hopefully.
‘What else makes you happy?’
It’s a simple enough question, but almost impossible to answer. Happiness isn’t objective or measurable and cannot be plotted on a scale or a graph.
Tempe has taken a seat, perching on the edge of an armchair with her eyes closed. She is breathing in short gulps, as though fighting pain. I feel like a voyeur who is intruding on her grief, but at the same time, I want to stay and learn more. I notice the fine hairs on her arms, the scrap of dried skin on the edge of her foot, the loose weave of her jumper, the smudge of misapplied mascara. Everything about her seems clearer now: the troubled girl who became a troubled woman. No longer a figment, but still a mystery.
Tempe’s eyes flash open and she reaches out towards me. ‘Whatever he’s told you, it’s not true – not any more. I’m better now.’
She starts to cry. Genuine tears. I ask Coyle if I can talk to him for a moment in private. He follows me to the kitchen.
‘I’m concerned about what happens next,’ I whisper.
Coyle glances through the open door. ‘I can’t make her come back to Belfast with me, and I don’t have enough information to have her sectioned under the Mental Health Act, but if she were to return as a voluntary patient, I could make sure she was safe.’
‘What do you mean “safe”？’
‘In a secure environment. Close to her family.’
‘You talked about medication. What was she taking?’
‘A regime of neuroleptics.’
‘What is that in layman’s terms?’
‘Risperidone is an antipsychotic.’
He must recognise the look on my face.
‘She is more likely to harm herself than anyone else. The medication controls her obsessive behaviour and stops any negative thought loops.’
‘I think she’s become fixated on me.’
Coyle doesn’t answer immediately. ‘Clearly, you’re a stronger personality than Mallory Hopper.’
You hardly know me.
‘What if I walk away?’
There is a beat of silence. The tip of Coyle’s tongue emerges to wet his lips.
‘Maggie could find someone else to rescue, or she could try to win you back.’
44
Willesden Crown Court is a squat red-brick building in Acton Lane in the shadows of a Catholic church that is far grander and more imposing than the humble courthouse, which begs the question, what judgement should people fear most – the earthly or the heavenly? Metal shutters protect the twin front doors, flanking a life-sized coat of arms with an English lion and Scottish unicorn who are supporting a quartered shield. Below is the motto: Dieu et mon Droit （God and my Right）。
People are milling on the paved forecourt, waiting for their cases to be called. This is where divorces and child custody applications are decided; marriages ended, possessions divided and lives uncoupled. The end of the line. All change.
Alison Goodall is waiting for me, looking anxiously up and down the street, as though afraid that I’ve changed my mind and decided not to come. I don’t want to be here, but she begged and I promised. She is applying for a Domestic Abuse Prevention Notice, which would prohibit Goodall having any contact with her or the children for twenty-eight days. The police should have done this for her, but Alison has had to make a private application.
As I draw nearer, I realise that her mother has come along with her. Jenny looks even more birdlike and nervous than usual, holding her handbag against her chest, as though expecting a bag-snatcher to accost her.
Alison smiles in relief.
‘Where is your lawyer?’ I ask.
‘I couldn’t find one. I mean, I tried. I called a dozen of them. When I told them the details, they said I should find someone else, but they were all—’
‘Busy?’
She recognises my sarcasm and nods.
‘One of them told me that I didn’t need a lawyer.’
‘You don’t,’ I say, ‘but it would have been helpful.’
‘Can you represent me?’
‘I shouldn’t even be here. Your husband blames me for this.’ I wave my hand towards the courthouse, as though I’m responsible for this whole pageant.
Deep into August, the day is bright and cloudless with that slight haze that blurs anything distant. I’m scanning the crowd, looking for Goodall.
‘Will he come?’ she asks.
‘Most likely, yes.’
‘What do I say?’
‘You tell the judge what happened and that you need a protection order.’
At that moment, I spot Goodall standing beneath a tree on the far side of the road. He is dressed in a charcoal grey suit, white shirt and a blue tie. He has a lawyer with him and the two of them are laughing like old friends.
A court usher calls Alison’s case number. For a moment, she looks panic-stricken. I take her arm and we walk into the building together. I give her last-minute instructions. ‘Stay polite and calm. Speak in a loud voice. Don’t interrupt. If you want to say something, raise your hand.’
The courtroom is empty except for the judge and her clerk. Alison is told to take a seat at the bar table. I sit in the public gallery, only a few rows behind her. Jenny chooses to sit apart from me.
Goodall enters and I can feel his eyes upon me, on my skin, inside my head. When I risk a glance in his direction, he has a strange smile on his face. It’s like watching a cobra uncoil, and begin to sway.
The judge, a woman in her sixties, is a tall spare figure with fine features, and an explosion of ash-coloured hair. Her dark eyes are magnified behind black-framed glasses that slide up and down her nose when she nods her head.
‘Are you represented here today?’ she asks Alison.
‘No, Your Honour, Your Worship, My Lordship …’
The judge smiles. ‘I’m Justice Rees. You can call me your honour.’
‘My mother is here, your honour, as well as a friend.’
Goodall makes a mocking sound, which the judge doesn’t seem to hear.
Judge Rees glances at her paperwork. ‘You’re making a private application for a DAP notice. Why aren’t the police seeking the order?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Alison. ‘I asked them to—’
Goodall’s lawyer is still standing. ‘If your honour pleases, my name is Bernard Dardenne, I represent Mr Goodall. This matter should never have been listed. It is a vexatious application designed to deny my client access to his children.’