Unforgotten (3 page)

So here they were, four years down the line, starting the last week of the hearing that would decide whether Tom was entitled to the full eight hundred and ninety thousand pounds he was claiming for injury and loss of earnings following the car accident and tragic death of his daughter. Passing through the second set of doors, the courtroom hush closed softly around them, barely disturbed by the voice of Edward Bavistock QC, leading counsel for the defendants – nominally the estate of the eighty-year-old farmer, but effectively his insurers – who admitted negligence but were contesting both the timing and extent of Tom’s psychological injuries.

The court wasn’t crowded. As always in such cases, the judge sat alone without a jury, while the two legal teams barely filled the first two tiers of benched seats. In the third row was one man Hugh hadn’t seen before, but going by Tom’s lack of reaction it obviously wasn’t Price. They slid into the bench beside Isabel, who shot Hugh a relieved smile. The judge registered their arrival with a mild glance before returning his attention to Bavistock, who was making some kind of procedural
application. Before Hugh had time to grasp what it was about, the matter was decided and the first witness called.

Dr Ainsley looked every inch the eminent consultant psychiatrist. His finely drawn features, thick silver hair, well-cut grey suit and bow tie, slim pair of reading glasses which he perched on the end of his nose to read the oath, proclaimed distinction and authority.

Desmond Riley stood up. ‘Dr Ainsley, you will find your witness statement on page fifteen in the bundle in front of you.’ A pause while Ainsley found his place. ‘However, as some months have passed since you made your statement, I would like to ask you a few questions about the intervening period.’

Hugh noticed with relief that Tom seemed to have given up on the idea of writing Desmond a note. Having pulled a pad and pen out of his rucksack and written the date in large block capitals, he put the pad on the table in front of him and sat back in his seat, a fist pressed against his mouth, watching Ainsley.

‘Dr Ainsley,’ Desmond said, ‘you made your statement on the seventeenth of June of this year. In it you said you had last examined Mr Deacon one week beforehand, namely on the tenth. Have you seen Mr Deacon since that date?’

‘I have. On the ninth of October.’

‘That is . . . three weeks ago?’

‘Yes.’

‘As a result of that consultation have you had any reason to alter your opinion of Mr Deacon’s condition?’

‘No.’

‘Would you summarise your diagnosis for the court, please?’

‘In my opinion Tom Deacon is suffering from PTSD – post-traumatic stress disorder.’

‘And has the seriousness of his condition changed, in your opinion?’

‘No. I would say it has remained the same.’

‘Which is?’

‘Severe.’

‘And his symptoms – are they the same?’

‘Essentially, yes. I found he was still suffering vivid flashbacks of his daughter’s death, sometimes as often as once an hour, as well as debilitating panic attacks, insomnia, nightmares, acute anxiety, headaches and a fear of strangers which amounted to paranoia.’

‘And during this period had any of these symptoms altered in severity?’

‘Well, some had got a bit worse – the flashbacks, for example, while some had improved a little – the insomnia. But fluctuating symptoms are to be expected in this sort of case.’

‘And these symptoms had persisted despite continued medication?’

‘Correct.’

Desmond turned the pages of his notes. ‘Dr Ainsley, in your statement you say that Mr Deacon didn’t appear to have suffered any adverse effects from his army service. Would you say that is still the case?’

‘Yes.’

‘No indication that he contracted any sort of stress-related illness as a result of his service?’

‘None.’

‘How have you come to that opinion?’

‘For one thing, Mr Deacon himself doesn’t see his army service as a problem. He never even thinks about the Bosnian War until something reminds him – a news item, or a film. Or when he hears a sudden noise – a firework or a motorbike backfiring. For another thing, he shows no signs of anxiety or distress or memory-avoidance when asked about it.’

‘Is it possible that his experiences in the conflict could be having a subconscious effect on him?’

‘You mean, in a damaging sense?’

‘Yes.’

‘I would say, unlikely. No, in my judgement Tom Deacon
seems to have dealt with his war experiences in a mature, healthy way.’

At Hugh’s side Tom gave an emphatic nod.

‘And the trauma of watching his daughter die – that couldn’t have activated a long-delayed traumatic response to his war experiences?’

‘Extremely unlikely, in my opinion. Because, as I’ve said, there’s no indication of any trauma from that time.’

Desmond found another place in his notes, whose edges supported a rainbow of Post-it stickers. ‘Dr Ainsley, in the period between June and October did your prognosis of Mr Deacon’s condition change at all?’

‘No.’

‘So the outlook remains poor?’

‘Well, he made some progress after he first came to me, of course, when I recommended he undergo cognitive behavioural therapy with Dr Jack Munro. But since then there’s been little discernible improvement in my opinion. And, as things stand at the moment, I can’t see the prospect of any more, no.’

‘When you say there was some initial progress – this would be between three and four years ago?’

‘Yes.’

‘And could you indicate the degree of improvement? Was it small? Moderate? How would you rate it?’

‘I would say the improvement was significant. But not enough to make him anything like a well man. We were of course starting from a low base, after Mr Deacon had suffered a severe breakdown with suicidal tendencies.’

The judge, who was writing steadily, murmured without looking up, ‘Mr Riley, surely this period is covered by the witness statement?’

‘My Lord,’ Desmond conceded with a nod. ‘So, Dr Ainsley . . . you say you can’t see any prospect of improvement? Has your opinion changed since June?’

‘My opinion hasn’t changed, no. I can’t see any chance of improvement while Mr Deacon’s life remains as it is now,
basically in ruins, without anything to occupy his mind, living on benefits in a damp cottage. It gives him no chance at all.’

‘What
would
give him a chance in your opinion?’

‘Two things. Firstly, a conclusion to this case, which should give him some degree of closure. Secondly, practical changes. If he could have a proper workshop to do his woodwork, a decent place to live, and some freedom from financial worries, then – well, I can’t make any firm predictions, I can only say that such changes would offer the best environment for, if not improvement, then at least stability. It would make his condition more bearable.’

Bavistock clambered to his feet. ‘My Lord, surely this is speculation, and therefore beyond the bounds of medical opinion.’

The judge flexed his eyebrows. ‘I’m not sure I follow, Mr Bavistock. I think the medical profession can be allowed to speculate on the outcome of its treatments and interventions.’

‘With respect, my Lord, Dr Ainsley is commenting on a change of lifestyle not a medical treatment.’

‘I would have thought that a change of lifestyle would constitute a treatment, Mr Bavistock, especially in the field of psychiatry.’ The judge turned to Ainsley. ‘Would that be correct, Dr Ainsley? You might, on occasion, advise a change of lifestyle as a form of treatment?’

‘Very much so, your lordship.’

The judge cast Bavistock an eloquent look.

‘As your lordship pleases.’ Bavistock sank back into his seat.

Tom, his head low, slid Hugh a look of avid satisfaction, as if they had just won a significant point instead of a routine legal challenge.

Desmond resumed, ‘Dr Ainsley, you have stated that you think it highly unlikely that Tom Deacon will ever be able to hold down a job again. Has your opinion in that regard altered at all?’

‘No, it hasn’t.’

‘And if his circumstances were to change in the way you recommend, would that improve his prospects of finding work?’

‘At best he might be able to make a few pieces of furniture, but only at his own pace in his own time. In my opinion, he’ll never be able to hold down a full-time job again.’

‘You also stated that you think he’ll never be able to lead anything approaching a full life. Is that still the case?’

‘Yes.’

‘He will always be prone to flashbacks and panic attacks?’

‘Correct.’

‘He will always need treatment?’

‘Yes. But medication can only achieve so much. It can only dull the patient’s symptoms to a limited extent. And of course the amount of medication has to be balanced against the patient’s ability to function. There’s no point in making the patient so drowsy that his remaining quality of life is impaired.’

‘Thank you, Dr Ainsley.’

As Desmond dropped down into his seat, Tom put his mouth to Hugh’s ear and hissed, ‘Is that all?’

Hugh nodded, and Tom’s expression dipped in frustration. For him, the written statements which the court used as its main source of evidence were a poor substitute for evidence delivered in person from the witness box.

Bavistock stood up and began to go through Ainsley’s statement point by point, starting with Ainsley’s qualifications, career, and experience, dwelling for some time on the fact that he now spent a significant amount of time lecturing and appearing as an expert witness.

‘So, you do very little clinical work as such, Dr Ainsley?’

‘I try to see long-standing patients whenever I can.’

‘But new patients – you simply assess them? You don’t treat them?’

‘New patients, yes.’

‘And you assess them for medico-forensic purposes, as an expert witness?’

‘Not always. Sometimes I’m simply called in to give a second opinion.’

‘Perhaps I could rephrase it then – the majority of your work is medico-forensic?’

‘Correct.’

‘Now, there are different descriptions of post-traumatic stress disorder in current use, are there not? Perhaps you could take us through them?’

As Ainsley launched into a detailed explanation, Tom sank lower in his seat and finding a pencil began to sketch on his pad. He drew quickly and confidently. Looking across, Hugh saw a desk taking shape, traditional in design, with pedestals and drawers, shown corner on, with the effortless perspective of a true draughtsman, and was reminded of a summer day some three years ago when Tom had drawn something similar at the lunch table at Meadowcroft. It was shortly after Tom’s wife had left him, and thus a time of particular concern for his well-being. It had been Lizzie’s idea to invite him for Sunday lunch. Tom bicycled over, arriving an hour early, so Hugh suggested a walk. Tom had only one walking speed, which was fast. Spurning the footpaths as too crowded, though there was only a single dog-walker visible in the far distance, Tom struck out across country, leading the way over fences, ditches and boggy pastures, Hugh following as best he could, breathlessly, with the occasional unscheduled halt to extricate himself from barbed wire. After half an hour at the same furious speed Hugh pleaded an arthritic knee and they returned at an easier pace, though Tom had a job keeping to it, often surging ahead without thinking, slowing with an effort. They talked about serious walking, which for Tom was hill walking, the steeper the better, while Hugh told of his early childhood in Llandeilo, close to the Black Mountains, with his schoolteacher parents and two sisters, and moving to Swansea when he was ten, where he had missed the mountains, the sight of them, and the summer walks. Tom preferred winter walks, he said; not so many people and less chance of getting overheated. Then,
darting Hugh a faint smile, he declared, ‘It was you being Welsh that swung it.’

‘What?’

‘When I came to see you that first time. You keeping your accent, not having ditched it for something snotty. I thought you’d probably be okay.’

Hugh laughed, wondering at the slender thread by which the decision had hung. ‘It’s a poor Welshman who ditches his accent.’

‘That’s what I mean.’

They had drinks on the terrace. Tom downed his first beer at the same rate he did his walking, seriously fast, but the alcohol did little to lift his mood, which had plunged for no apparent reason, leaving him morose and uncommunicative. Even Lizzie, who had a rare talent for drawing people out, struggled to get more than two words out of him. Nor did the appearance of Lou, in all her freshness and serenity, rouse him; if anything he seemed to retreat further into his shell. It was Charlie of all people who saved the day. Charlie had got home at ten to four that morning; Hugh knew to the minute because he’d heard the voices, the slam of a car door, and had fretted miserably over who was driving and how stoned or otherwise off their heads they’d been. Now, having slept through the best part of the day, Charlie had dragged himself out of bed at the third time of asking and arrived at the lunch table pale, unkempt, eyes screwed up against the light. Perhaps Tom recognised a fellow traveller, perhaps he sympathised all too readily when the crash of a pan lid caused Charlie to flinch, but after a while the two of them exchanged a few words, and when Hugh next broke off from his conversation with Lou and Lizzie it was to hear them discussing cabinet-making, how much more it was than mere carpentry, how much artistry was involved, and how there was a big demand for bespoke pieces if you could only break into the market. Producing a notepad from his pocket Tom sketched out a couple of designs for tables and chairs, drawing quickly, skilfully, while Charlie made
appreciative noises. Hearing him say, ‘Hey, that’s cool,’ Hugh felt a pang, not just for the paucity of Charlie’s vocabulary – everything was cool when it wasn’t a drag – but for the transience of his enthusiasms, which, with the notable exception of dope, came and went with bewildering speed.

After Tom left, Lizzie said, ‘He looks like he’s on the edge.’

‘Yes.’

‘What support is he getting?’

‘As much as humanly possible. But short of hiring someone to watch over him . . .’ And for a split second, in a confusing flight of fancy, Hugh might have been talking about Charlie instead of Tom Deacon.