The witness

The clock flashed 3 am. I wrestled a losing battle with sleep, finally relenting at 5 am to make coffee. Four hours later the adrenaline surged through me at the same speed as the train to Dublin.  When the detective served me with the papers to go to court, I had decided not to read my statement until just before the trial. I gave a statement to a detective two years earlier. I reread the same line in my statement for a fourth time. I saw him stab her three times. I remember walking past the shop in the Market Cross shopping centre where she worked. I looked into the shop where she worked as I walked passed it. She was alone and closing up as it was late, and all the other shops had closed. I remember hearing her screams about five seconds later. I turned around a scruffily dressed man in black with unkempt hair was pulling her on the ground. Clear memories of her screams which intensified when she saw as he pulled her outside the shop. Memories of shock and horror on her face as she raised her bloody hand, the screams got louder.  I described the murder weapon. Any memories I had of those fatal 30 seconds of her life could not be resurrected, there was no memory of the stabbing, but I had clearly described it the following day.

Thoughts rushed through my mind of his plea that I heard on the radio, ‘Not Guilty on grounds of reasonable insanity.’ Did that mean he would be out after five or six years? Was I the only witness? Maybe someone else can read my statement for me in court. What if he gets off on a suspended sentence, and he comes after me, or my family?

The train stopped for commuters, the seats filled as we neared Dublin. I hoped someone didn’t sit beside me as I was in no mood for conversation. I thought of her picture in the paper. He flaming red hair and her beautiful smile. A young woman in her prime. I thought, why? It could have been my daughter murdered by a crazed man. People said he screamed,  “You took my blood,” as he stabbed her.

The train arrived at Heuston at 10 am sharp. I walked with the commuters along the platform towards the exit, stopping at Butlers Coffee kiosk. I needed a large, strong coffee.

 The case wasn’t due to start until 11. On the short walk to the Criminal Courts, I wondered would her family be there? Young men wearing jumpers and tracksuits bottoms ran past me going in the same direction. Smoking, talking on mobile phones, some I suspect were sobering up from the previous night's feast of alcohol and drugs.  I stopped at the bottom steps outside the large glass building. The Criminal Courts, which I saw many times on the news. Outside the doors more groups of men smoked, a few wore more suitable attire for their day in court. I guessed many were court veterans. This was a routine activity to break the monotony of unemployment. I joined the queue of people going inside and put my bag on the conveyor belt of the x-ray machine. No liquids. No sharp objects. Take off your belts. I felt like handing the security guard my passport, but I wasn’t going on holiday.

The large reception area was a hive of activity. Garda, men and women in black capes conversed as they looked at files, anxious groups looking for their relevant room. People looked at the computer on the wall to see which courtroom they had to go to.

Shane Smyth - FL 4 - Court 13.

I felt sick even though I hadn’t eaten since the day before. This was when the situation became starkly real. I took a deep breath taking the elevator to the fourth floor. A Garda sat at a mobile x-ray machine outside the courtroom beside number 13 to search people as they entered.

A few people sat outside courtroom 13. More people arrived. Nobody talked to each other. A group of Garda stood around the railing reading their statements, I assumed they assisted the search for him, or maybe they helped the girl in her dying moments. The detectives arrived with boxes. One briefed a few of us.

. We entered a windowless room. The eight rows of seats quickly filled.  The witnesses were assigned a group of seats to the right of the room; still nobody spoke to each other.  Everybody rose when the judge entered, she took her place high up at the front overlooking the room. She introduced the jury and opening statements were read. The Public Prosecutor dressed in a black cape wore a white wig introduced himself. It was like court scenes I had seen on television. The difference was, I was here. I felt the air become tense. Everybody looked to the left. Nobody spoke they just looked at the man as he sat behind perspex glass. The accused. He was clean in his crisp white shirt with his hair tied back in a pony tail and had put on weight. Also, he had grown a bushy beard.

The prosecutor began to speak. He said, ‘The plea means the accused is not guilty of murder, but he is insane and will be placed in the Central Mental Hospital for life. That is if the jury agrees that he is not guilty.’ He told us several people will speak during the case, two psychiatrists, a doctor and several Garda. Witnesses first. I knew I would not be cross-examined because of the plea, all I had to say what was in my statement.

The accused sat looking  straight ahead rocking back and forth.

The first witness was called to the witness box. The Market Cross Shopping Centre security guard. He had thrown the accused out of the centre earlier that evening. The prosecutor read his statement and asked him a few questions.

Someone called my name. I hoped my legs would keep steady, my heart rate increased.  I walked past the accused in his box as I caught his eye. He stared threateningly at me, but I knew I was safe. In the witness box took the oath.  

The prosecutor introduced me. He read my statement stopping every few sentences asking me, ‘Did I agree?’

I said, I agreed with what he said.

The judge leaned forward asked me, ‘Would you mind speaking a little louder?’

A jug of water was in front of me. My mouth was parched, my lips chapped, but I didn’t want to stop for a drink to interrupt the flow of questions. Even though they weren’t really questions, just someone reading my statement. I quivered when he read the description of the stabbing.

He read my description of the knife. A foot long wooden handled knife. I couldn’t picture it, but I remembered describing it to the detective who came to my house the day after the murder.

I heard someone say, ‘Have we the knife?’

 ‘Yes.’

‘Would you show it to the witness?’

A man came towards me carrying something wrapped in plastic. He stopped in front of me. A wooden knife with a wooden handle. He pushed it towards me.

The prosecutor said, ‘Is this the knife?’

I stared at the knife, I didn’t speak again he asked me, ‘Is this the knife?.

I said, ‘Yes.’

I was free to go.

.

Doctors Surgery reflections

 I try to make a difference to people's lives.  It’s sad to see people crying uncontrollably, collapsing in each other's arms, but plenty of people collapse in relief. I felt as alive as the crisp blue morning, the frost was nearly gone, the budding trees alive. I am here. I got here with hard work, with tears and sleepless nights, but I am here. I can change people's lives with my hands, and with my words, and it's usually for the better.
The electric doors whooshed open as I neared the entrance, but it wasn’t for me. The fast clicking of trolley wheels behind me only meant one thing. Two paramedics rushed past me, the blood on their blue uniforms like large patches of death. A young nurse ran past me. Running to the main desk I already had my denim jacket off and threw it along with my lucky but worn duffel bag on the counter for Derrick, he knew what to do he, was our fall guy.
The paramedic holding the drip gave the vital signs to the doctor, ‘BP falling; large knife would to the abdomen, heart rate weak.’
The female paramedic pushing the trolley with one hand and the other holding a small girl saying calmly, ‘It’ll be all right; it'll be fine.’ But the words didn’t slow the girl's tears. I knew they were false words. Blood seeped fast out of the dressing. Three nurses in white uniforms were already covered in blood, blood everywhere. The floor was the same colour of death now. 
‘Ok, people we're in trauma 1.’ Mrs. Smith was now in control. She was good. Everyone listened to her. Her sleek black hair matched her dark eyes. She glistened. She thrived in these situations. 
I continued to listen, to wait for my orders. I was less than a month; this was my first real emergency. The adrenaline rushed through my veins. I could feel, it. What did my lecturer say, Breath, breath and continue breathing.

The smell of whisky wobbled over to me. The stink of years of streets shouted to no one, in particular, over the heads of all the other drunks in the room, ‘I’ve been waiting two hours.’
‘Paddy, it's not a good time, ‘ Paddy only wanted warmth and tea. Frank, the only male muse in the emergency department, patted his shoulder, ‘Go on Paddy sit down.’ He put him in between a mother nursing a crying child and a poker-faced man. We were always told to keep the drunks apart in the waiting room.

‘Sarah,’ my name shouted from behind the double doors. I immediately ran towards the voice into the trauma room. The swing doors opened as I rushed in, three other trolleys with doctors and nurses busy around each one doing what they were trained to do. The bright lights and the chaos around, was I suppose, more controlled. 
‘Stand there,’ Mrs. Smith pointed at the spot near the beeping ECG; the printout was erratic, tachycardiac.
‘Ok tell me what happened. Quick she is gone into VF, get the paddles. Stand back. Clear.’
The paramedic still holding the crimson red bandage from the woman's abdomen said, ‘ Her daughter phoned 999,’ she nodded to the little girl standing alone under the sterile dispenser on the wall. Her eyes red sore, and one of her pigtails had come loose and some of her hair had stuck to the congealed collection of snot on her upper lip; the Philtrum, pleased with myself, I could think under pressure. 
‘She said a man stuck a knife in her mother's tummy. He and the knife were gone when we arrived, so I don’t know, she didn’t say anything else. The police are there now.’
Mrs. Smith pulled back the bandage carefully, ‘Sarah come over here.’ 
This was the moment I was waiting for. I was ready. I stepped forward, breathing in, waiting for my instructions. 
‘Take the daughter to the vending machine, and try to find out what happened.’
At the other side of the room, it went quiet. The machine stopped beeping. I heard the soft wail of death. 
‘Come on we’ll go to the relative's room, come on luv.’ 
‘Noo,’ the wife or girlfriend screamed, thumping the nurse who had her arms around her.
‘Sarah,’ 
I jumped bringing me back to the situation we were dealing with.
‘Take her out - now.’
One of the doctors was sticking a tube down the girl's mothers throat.
I grabbed the little girl's hand. It was cold. She wouldn’t move as I tugged her hand to move with me, wide-eyed staring at her mother.
‘Come on, we’ll get chocolate.’ I dragged her; she was heavy for such a little thing. I was going to ask her was she okay? She was holding her abdomen as well but there was no blood, and her face showed no pain. However, it could be shock.
As the wail from the other side of the room intensified, I looked back the frenzy around the little girl's mother was so controlled. I wasn’t ready yet. 
‘Out Sarah.’
I checked my pockets for money. Derrick stood talking to another porter near the vending machine at the entrance of the ED, ‘Derrick, do you have some money? For chocolate, for.. ‘ I got down on my hunkers taking the hands, rubbing her fingers softly, ‘Whats, your name sweetie.’ She didn’t answer, just stared ahead. This is harder than I thought it would be.
A tap on my shoulder, Derrick gave me a 2 euro coin. I nodded thanks to him, talking quietly to the girl, ‘I know you're frightened, but your mum will be all right. Do you want some hot chocolate?’ I continued, ‘My granny thought it was a cure for every situation in life, emotional or physical. She would give you the chocolate and wrap you in a blanket and her arms, saying, “Drink this. Everything will be all right."'
I looked at the trauma room. The doors closed, but I saw silhouettes feverishly doing their job saving her mums live. 
‘Come on sweetie.’ She didn’t resist as I pulled her towards the drink's machine.
I got steaming chocolate, sitting down on the plastic seats behind us. I put my arm around her just like my granny did. ‘Whats your name, ‘ She didn’t answer; I coaxed her to take a sip. The tears flowed. She put took another sip. ‘That’s ok take your time.’
‘Jane.’
‘Jane your mum will be fine.’ Pausing I said gently,’ What happened?’ She said nothing, well what would you expect her to say anything? 
She whispered something. I had to move into close to her to hear.
‘Mammies friend did it. He is horrible, he’s smelly and mean; he took my sweets.’
‘That’s awful,’
What a horrible thing for a child to see, hugging her tight. I soothed her with words and rubbing her arms just like granny. She jumped up screaming in front of me, shouting something, I couldn’t understand her. I felt a hot liquid on my neck, a sharp pain. I pulled my hand from my neck the liquid on my hot it was red. I fell, now I could hear her, ‘He stuck it in just like that.’
I saw lights, heard voices. I was on the ground. I saw Derrick holding a struggling Jane, blood dripping from a long kitchen knife she held limply with her hand. Mrs. Smith kneeling beside me, she was saying something soothing.
Now I lie here the machines beeping all day long. Bright lights above me, the white tiles on the roof, I counted all the little indentations, 1,000,564. The said I’d live, but Janes's mammy didn’t. I saw the news; the boyfriend was never found. She never had a boyfriend, only the girl's fingerprints on the knife. 
I’ll never speak, or move. They told me a blood clot caused a stroke - just like granny.