The Grass is Darker

By Cheryl Joyce

Liverpool-born Danielle Doyle, is a high-flying career woman struggling to adjust to her new life as a mother to baby Archie. She would rather be delivering a presentation to the members of the board, than talking to the other parents down at the local playgroup. This was one of the reasons why she had put off having her first child with childhood sweetheart and husband Jay, until she was in her mid-thirties.

Exhausted from battling with herself, for not having the same feelings for Archie as she believes a mother should, Danielle is set to give up on life, truly believing that Jay and Archie, would be better off without her. Jay refuses to give up on her though, and urges her to change the way she feels about her life. She decides to return to a place where she actually feels good about herself, convinced it will save her.

On her first day back at work, Danielle is introduced to Tristam and feels an immediate attraction to the young, well-groomed Director, but so do half the women in the office, and of course - she’s married, so she dismisses it. After being given work which fails to motivate her, Danielle starts to do what Danielle does best, and not only attracts a potential lucrative account, but also the attention of Tristam.

When Danielle meets up with Tristam in London and unwittingly dazzles him with her innovative business proposal, things soon get out of hand after a drunken confession, leads to a night that will change her life forever.

The Grass is Darker is the ‘exciting, dramatic and sexy’ debut novel, from Cheryl Joyce.

With enough tension to exhaust your emotions, and characters with enough flaws and virtues to make you desperate for a resolution. Get ready for an emotional roller coaster of extreme highs vs. extreme lows, and find out if the grass really is greener on the other side.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cheryl Joyce
• Release date: Jul 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311782823

Cheryl Joyce

I gained a 2.1 BA Hons Degree in Imaginative Writing from Liverpool John Moores University in 2002, when I was twenty-two years old. But at that stage of my life, I did not have the discipline to write, or the appreciation for the world around me that I do now at age thirty-six. Instead I chose to follow a different career path, working as a Procurement Manager, where I have gained many relevant writing skills such as, having great attention to detail and the ability to write commercially. As well as needing to be engaging and thought-provoking, I believe good writing should be accessible so it can be read by and understood by people of all backgrounds, and I believe this constitutes my writing style which hopefully my first novel, The Grass is Darker, demonstrates.I’m afraid I don’t have any accolades or titles to add to this CV, but I look forward to looking back on this first biographical note in ten years’ time and comparing it to the list of ten best-selling titles I am going to write! The Grass is Darker is my first novel, and I am also working on a spin off novel which will be all about Tristam. My head is full of ideas for other novels I can’t wait to write more in the near future.

Book preview

Chapter One – The Grass is Darker

I felt like I’d just closed my eyes when he disturbed me from yet another night of broken sleep. It was still dark when I opened my eyes, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t morning - I despised the winter months.

He tried to slide his arm beneath my head in order to get closer to me. I sighed and pushed my head deeper into the pillow. It failed to deter him. I let him have his way, figuring it would be the quickest way to get back to sleep, but I knew he only had one thing on his mind when he started to push my pyjama bottoms down over my hips.

‘No, I need sleep!’ I groaned. ‘Can’t we just cuddle?’

‘Just let me put it in for a minute,’ he whispered into my ear.

My body prickled in response.

‘I’m too tired,’ I said, my eyes rolling to the back of my head.

‘You don’t have to do anything; I’ll do all the work.’

‘But I do,’ I argued, as just the thought kept my body in a state of paralysis. ‘What time is it?’ I asked with a sigh.

‘Five-thirty.’

‘It’s too early.’

‘Please,’ he pleaded

I should have just told him ‘no’, but I didn’t want to disappoint him. I was his wife, after all.

I let out a huff, which apparently gave him the green light to remove his boxers and climb on top of me.

‘Lell?’ he said as I braced myself. He was the only one who called me Lell to shorten my name – Danielle - most people called me Dan, but he said it sounded like I was a man.

‘What?’ I snapped.

‘I love you.’

I stilled.

‘I love you too,’ I said, trying to fill the void with words.

He leaned in to kiss me but I showed him my neck, self-conscious about my morning breath. He obliged me and began planting soft kisses onto my neck. I squirmed under his duress.

As he continued his lovemaking, I tried my utmost to relax. Every part of me was tingling, but not in an erotic sense. I was uncomfortable, agitated and my muscles were straining. I was on edge, like the feeling you get in anticipation of being tickled, but I was far from laughing.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, as my arms instinctively moved to protect my body.

‘I don’t want to wake Archie,’ I said, subtly trying to convey that I didn’t want to be doing this.

‘We won’t,’ he said.

‘Haven’t you got to leave for work soon?’ I tried again.

‘We’ve got plenty of time.’

Becoming increasingly anxious and feeling like I was being somewhat molested – what was wrong with me? I wanted it over with as quickly as possible. I began to move the way he wanted me to, made the noises he wanted to hear and he promptly pushed harder, faster, until he stiffened and shuddered.

He fell back onto the bed, drained and content. I got out of bed and headed straight to the bathroom to clean myself up.

I cringed when I saw my reflection in the mirror. You could write an obituary in the lines across my forehead, fatigue filling the bags under my eyes. It felt like my whole face was sinking and it was impossible to raise a smile.

I returned to the bed with a tissue for my husband, who was sleeping soundly. I huffed and climbed back into bed, having to sleep on his side, as he had rolled onto mine. As I settled back under the sheets, I heard Archie murmuring in his cot on the monitor.

‘Jay, can you go this time?’ I said to my now-satisfied husband and poked him.

‘I will now,’ he snorted, not attempting to move.

I threw the quilts off and climbed out of bed in dramatic fashion.

‘I’m getting up now,’ he said, clambering to his feet

‘No, I am!’

Archie was in his cot, wearing a sleep pod, white vest and mitts. He was puckering his lips, elongating his neck and searching for the smell of my milk. I glanced at the clock and saw it had just turned six. I sighed; his last feed was just two hours ago. I picked him up and put him across my arm, then relaxed into my feeding chair next to his cot and felt the gentle tugging sensation on my nipple as he latched on.

The early morning light crept through the blackout blind covering his bedroom window. The blind glittered as the force of billions of speckles of light broke through the cotton barrier.

I closed my eyes, making a mental note of the things I had to do today: put washing on, iron Archie’s sleep suits, clean house, take Archie to playgroup, nip the shops, make dinner, and I began to lose interest as the list of mundane activities scrolled through my mind. When had my life become this uninteresting and conventional?

Archie fell asleep using my nipple as a teether. I hooked my finger under his top lip and he released me.

I slowly placed him back in his cot, making sure his feet were touching the base and his head was upright, and then crept out of his room, careful not to step on any of the creaky floorboards. I knew where most of the hotspots were. Irritatingly, I always found a new one.

While waiting for the kettle to boil to make myself a much-needed cup of coffee, I gazed out into the garden.

We lived in a two-bedroom house, on a new housing estate, of a small town on the outskirts of Liverpool.

We had intended it to be a starter home as we’d wanted to move on to bigger and better things, but when the house prices fell, so did we, into negative equity.

We had a long, narrow stretch of lawn that backed onto a railway line, seldom used. Just the one passenger train passed at eight minutes past the hour and the occasional freight train sporadically throughout the day.

The garden was neat but empty; neither Jay nor I had green fingers. There were a couple of rows of grey stone flags as you stepped off the patio into the garden, with weeds growing between the cracks.

We maintained the lawn and painted the surrounding fences, but that was the extent of our landscaping efforts.

The rising sun spilled light over the top of the garden fence, and I noticed a dividing line down the centre of the lawn with contrasting shades of green on either side. The grass was greener on one side; the other looked dull and patchy in comparison.

I didn’t know why but it reminded me of what I used to be; bright, healthy, well groomed, and what I’d become: a shade of my former self.

Jay wrapped his arms around me and I jolted.

When I instinctively pulled away, he asked, ‘Are you OK?’

All I could think about was the smell of concrete and dust on his work clothes.

‘Yes, fine. Would you like something for breakfast?’ I deflected. I picked up a dishcloth, and began to aimlessly wipe the bare kitchen worktops.

He ordered a bacon butty to go - our morning session must have made him late.

‘What you up to today?’ he asked, as I was preparing his sandwich.

‘Oh, you know, the usual…’

I was about to ask him if he needed anything from the shops, when I saw him playing on his iPhone. No doubt looking to see the morning’s transfer news, or flicking through the tweets of the various footballers, golfers and cyclists he followed on Twitter.

Whatever it was, it was bound to be much more interesting than anything I had to say, so I returned to the grill and concentrated on getting the perfect crisp on the bacon.

I wrapped his sandwich in cling film and handed it to him.

He took it and kissed me on the cheek.

‘Ta, love, see you later.’

He grabbed his keys and phone off the kitchen counter and headed for the door. I watched him leave and cringed, as he slammed the door carelessly when he left.

I stood in the hallway, gazing at the front door, as if waiting for him to return and whisk me off on some romantic getaway – perhaps a surprise skiing trip, or a city break. The things we used to do with relative ease before we’d become parents.

Heck, I would even go for an impromptu trip over the water: take the ferry across the Mersey, and walk hand in hand along the promenade. Anywhere other than the confines of the house and the prospect of my mundane Monday routine.

The house was silent, but its emptiness was deafening. Although Archie was sleeping soundly in his cot upstairs, all I felt was completely and utterly alone. Detached from the world and imprisoned in my own home.

Everyone around me was living busy, fruitful lives and there was me - staring at the door.

Startled by the unexpected drop of letters falling from the letterbox, I watched as a blurry red figure hovered through the bevelled glass slats of the front door, then in the blink of an eye, I was back to being alone again.

I picked the letters up off the floor and began sifting through the mix of bills and bank statements until I came across my wage slip. I tore into it and my eyes jumped to the net pay £488.17. It was a stark contrast to what I previously earned. Up until now, I was the breadwinner. While Jay’s wages had remained reliable yet stagnant over the years working in the construction industry, I’d had three promotions at the top buying agency, Procurement Solutions, which was why I had put off having a baby until my mid-thirties.

Jay, and in particular, my mother-in-law Carole, had been on my back for years to start a family. Jay was an only child, like me, hence Carole’s desperation. As the years had gone by, I had watched her disappointment with every new baby announcement that came through the family or social network. When we had finally told Carole I was pregnant, you would think she had won the lottery; she was so excited. She congratulated Jay’s dad first, on the fact they were going to be grandparents, before eventually hugging me, kissing Jay and jumping around, clapping with giddy excitement. I did think at that moment that Carole was more excited than I was.

I wished I could have spoken to my own mum about my impending motherhood, but she had died of cancer when I was twelve years old.

Despite Jay’s assurances that I was going to be a great mum, I wasn’t sure I was the ‘motherly’ type. Not that I could do anything about it at that point.

Jay had been ecstatic. He’d relished the nights we spent putting the nursery furniture together or debating baby names. I wanted a pretty, English-rose name like Evelyn, or Eliza, but Jay did not attempt to sugar coat what he thought about the names I liked.

After much argument, we’d settled on Evie-Rose for our little girl and had a choice between Archie and Ethan for a boy. I told Jay if it was a boy he could name the baby.

Archie was born at 8:02 p.m. in the midst of an Indian summer heat wave at the back end of September. In my exhausted, post opiate state, I called out, Is it over? Then passed out before the doctor could tell me I’d had a boy.

It was several minutes before I woke to see the baby swaddled in an off-white, hospital branded blanket in Jay’s secure arms. A tiny hand clutched his index finger and he looked elated. A tear escaped his eye as he saw me come round.

I’m so proud of you, Lell, he whispered.

What is it? I asked tentatively.

It’s a boy, Jay said proudly.

I couldn’t help the momentary look of fear, which he must have seen, as he brought our son over to meet his mother for the first time.

I didn’t know if I’d over-dramatized this moment in my mind, but the reality was different. When I held my baby boy in my arms, it felt surreal. I was numb.

Chapter Two – The Grass is Darker 

A gentle quake jarred the house, and it made me realise the time. It was 9.08 a.m. Playgroup started at 9.30 a.m. Where had the past few hours gone?

I rushed to my wardrobe. Most of the things in there needed ironing, and I didn’t have time. I hastily grabbed a pair of black leggings and an oversized grey jumper dress.

The dress was creased but I chose it anyway.

I put on some basic underwear: a pair of full briefs to cover my postpartum stomach and a nursing bra. Not a set, which I remembered used to bother me, but now I just thought - sod it.

I dressed quickly and slipped my feet into a pair of black ballet pumps, then sprayed some dry shampoo into my unwashed hair. I tied it roughly into a top knot and pulled down some loose strands in order to hide the bald patches that had recently formed on my hairline since having Archie.

I checked myself over in the mirror, and cringed at the sight of my pale face and swollen eyes. I contemplated putting on a little make-up, but once again the term, sod it, came to mind.

I hurriedly brushed my teeth and returned to Archie’s room.

I took one of the unworn outfits from his wardrobe, removed the tags and laid the clothes out on his changing table. I hesitated before picking Archie up. His eyes were flickering as though he was possessed. Did I forget to wind him earlier? I felt a sadness I couldn’t fathom whenever I looked at him. Perhaps it was because he had me for a mother.

Archie was disturbed as I dressed him and began mooching for my milk. I was already late for playgroup and still had to pack Archie’s bag and find my car keys.

I sighed at Archie’s poor timing and opened the clasp on my bra. It turned out Archie wasn’t hungry, as he fell back asleep in my arms. I huffed and carried him downstairs, then placed him in his car seat. I fixed my top, grabbed my things and scampered out the door.

I arrived at the playgroup over half an hour late. One of the play leaders, a woman in her late forties, with bright red, spiky hair, carrying a clipboard, greeted me with a wide smile. She had a sticky label on her uniform that read ‘Angie’ with a smiley face in place of the dot above the ‘I’.

‘Hi! Have you been here before?’ I cringed at her high-pitched tone.

‘Yes,’ I said with a huff. I wanted to get through the door and put down the heavy load I was carrying, and then I would speak to her - if I had to.

She must have noticed my mood, as she didn’t make eye contact with me and stepped aside. I chose a seat under a window to rest the car seat on for a moment while I rolled up my sleeves and pulled down my dress.

As I was fixing myself, Angie took it upon herself to lift the car seat down onto the floor.

‘Let’s put you down here, little man, just in case. We don’t want any accidents now, do we?’ Angie said in a mocking tone.

I turned and scowled at her.

‘I just put him there for a minute while I fixed myself. The car seat doesn’t have legs; he wasn’t going anywhere.’

Angie handed me the signing in sheet on the clipboard and I saw her chirpy smile shake.

I got the feeling she wanted to get away from me as quickly as possible - I didn’t blame her.

I scanned through the list and found mine and Archie’s names, ticked the box under today’s date and handed it back to her.

She glanced down at the board and as she turned to walk away she said, ‘Have fun, Lindsey and Mikey.’

‘Er, no! It’s Danielle and Archie,’ I chided.

Was she purposefully trying to piss me off or did she need even thicker glasses?

She glanced at the clipboard again. ‘Oh yes, sorry,’ she sang and then tottered off. I rolled my eyes; was her job that hard?

I bent down to take Archie out of his car seat; he must have woken up amidst all the kerfuffle. His eyes lit up when he saw me and he gave me a wide smile. I wished I could respond just as brightly, but all I could manage was a weak smile.

I picked him up, wondering what to do next. I looked around the room at the mothers, grandmothers, child minders and foster carers gloating about their enriched lives over tea and toast with lemon curd, whilst their children entertained themselves running in and out of the play areas. I quashed a rebellious tear as I made my way over to the baby corner.

Two twenty-something mothers were engrossed in conversation. They didn’t acknowledge me when I placed Archie on the soft play mat beside their babies. One was a boy, approximately six months, as he sat upright. The other was a girl, propped up next to him and sucking on a teether.

I turned back to Archie, who had rolled onto his tummy. He lifted his head and motioned his legs and arms as if he were treading water. He reminded me of a sea turtle.

‘How cute!’ one of the mothers exclaimed when she noticed Archie’s body surfing.

‘He’s adorable!’ the other piped up. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Archie,’ I said shyly.

They smiled a huge, beaming smile at him and cooed over him. I looked at them enviously.

 ‘How old is he?’ the first mum asked, as though she felt obliged to include me.

‘He’s four months,’ I answered.

‘Is he your first?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s the spitting image of you, isn’t he?’ she said encouragingly.

I continued to smile and nod - was the inquisition over yet?

‘Is he good?’ she continued to push.

‘He’s…quiet,’ I said.

 She nodded, waiting.

‘He only really cries when he wants feeding,’ I added.

 ‘Sophia used to be like that.’ She picked her baby up, parading her like a doll.

‘What milk are you using? Have you tried hungry baby formula? I do find it sustains her a lot longer’.

‘I’m breast-feeding, so he’s on demand, but he tends to want feeding every two hours or so.’

They looked at me as though I were an alien.

‘I tried that when Mikey was born, but my milk didn’t come through,’ the other mum said with a shrug. (She must have been the Lindsey I’d been mistaken for earlier).

‘Sophia didn’t want to do it.’ The first mum nodded in agreement. ‘She preferred the bottle. I felt guilty over it in the beginning, but as long as she’s getting milk, that’s the most important thing, and there are some great brands to choose from nowadays that probably have even higher levels of nutrition in them,’ she reasoned.

I didn’t offer a counter argument; I had no energy to get into a debate about it. Besides, she seemed to have reconciled herself and I didn’t want to unearth any insecurities she may still hold.

I hadn’t planned to breastfeed Archie; even though it was drummed into me by every health professional along the way, that breast was best! I just said I would try it and he took to it straight away.

The midwife told me I was a natural - I didn’t feel it.

The session finished with a group rendition of an ‘I love you’ song. Angie overdid it, exaggerating every move and pulling irritating faces as she sang.

‘See you next week!’ she chirped cheerfully as we were leaving.

The two young mothers said a polite goodbye to me on the way out and I awkwardly waved my hand from under the heavy load I was carrying.

Archie was asleep again. I contemplated waking him for his 11 a.m. feed, but thought I could make it to the shops and feed him there instead.

He woke just as I got onto the motorway. His cry was like nails scraping across a chalkboard. I cursed my decision not to feed Archie when I knew he was due.

I reached boiling point all too quickly and turned the radio on full blast in an attempt to drown out the crying, and vile accusations in my head.

Tears cascaded down my face, blurring the stretch of road ahead of me. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turned white, as I battled the urge to plough the car into the central reservation, in an attempt to stop the torture.

I swerved when I realised the car had veered across two lanes, and then checked my rear view mirror to see if anyone was within distance. It was a good job today was a workday and the motorway was quiet.

I wiped my face with my sleeve and took deep breaths to compose myself, then turned the radio off. Archie’s cry had become almost a whisper. Then I felt it - the sickly feeling in the pit of my stomach. It abolished any sense of reason. I was a terrible mother.

I parked in the first space I could see, which was about a hundred yards from the entrance to the superstore, and hastily undid my seatbelt.

I climbed into the back and took Archie out of his car seat. His crying began to ease in my arms.

I dragged my top down and opened the clasp on my nursing bra. Archie struggled to latch on as his nose was congested and his body twitched in the aftermath of his distress.

I put my hand on his cheek reassuringly and he eventually found my nipple.

‘I’m sorry, Archie. Mummy’s so sorry,’ I whispered, as my tears dripped onto his head.

I was in a daze walking down the aisles of the supermarket. I couldn’t remember what I needed, so I just grabbed essential items off the shelves: milk, bread and yoghurt, (things I knew Jay would eat). I was so tired and struggled to motivate myself.

Reaching to grab some cheese from the top shelf, I squinted and wobbled on my feet. I grabbed the trolley and waited a moment for the sharp pain to pass.

The pain came again and I saw flickers of light glitter and dissolve around me. I squeezed my eyes shut and counted to ten, but only made it to two before another wave of agonising pain hit.

I shook my head then immediately regretted it, as the movement sent the pain spiralling. I unclipped Archie’s car seat and took him out of the trolley, abandoning my shopping as I stumbled back to the car, wondering how I would be able to drive.

I made it home in one piece despite the head stomping migraine I had. Archie was asleep, so I took him upstairs and placed him in his cot.

He looked content; as if he had complete and utter faith that his needs would be met. I looked at him in sympathy.

The white light pouring through the window radiated around Archie like a protective shield. I stared at him despairingly. I loved him so dearly, yet I felt so sad.

My face hardened like cement, its weight pulling my head down. The motion triggered the migraine and my head throbbed as though there was a drummers’ march on the inside.

I ran downstairs to the obscure cupboard next to the boiler, where I kept the paracetamol. I poured a glass of water and took two tablets. The throbbing grew stronger, as though a crowd of people had joined the march and they were starting to riot.

I took two more tablets, and ran the cold tap, splashing water onto my face.

The riot turned violent and the people were now smashing shop windows, looting and setting fire to the streets. I took another tablet, and then another and another, desperate to pacify the violence.

I hastily took the bottle of pills and emptied its contents onto my hand. I couldn’t take the pain any longer. I was exhausted and once again thought - sod it. I swallowed back the remaining pills with a large gulp and waited for the ceasefire.

A deafening tone broke my concentration, and blackness crept into my vision like a vignette frame. When the nausea immediately followed, I knew I was about to pass out.

In a blind panic, I tried to fight the unconsciousness trying to claim me, but I couldn’t.

I gave in, blissfully letting my eyes roll to the back of my head, but before my knees could buckle, an involuntary reflux sprayed from my mouth.

I staggered and gripped the sides of the sink as the room spun around me. My legs were unsteady, like I was standing on a raft about to ride the rapids.

I tried to focus my eyes on a single object, and chose the kitchen clock hanging on the wall. The minute hand appeared to be flickering between three and five minutes past the hour, and then a sharp abdominal pain creased me.

‘Argh!’ I felt a burning sensation, as though my body was blistering on the inside.

I scrambled for the back door, furiously opened it and darted out into the garden.

For a brief moment as the cold air hit, I felt like someone had thrown a bucket of water over me to extinguish the flames, but all too soon the excruciating pain was back.

Faintly, but distinctly, I could hear Archie’s cry.

‘I’m sorry!’ I shouted. ‘I’m so sorry Archie.’

As the floor beneath me began to vibrate, I dashed for the back gate, stumbling as if the surface was cracking under each step. I couldn’t hear Archie’s cry anymore; I was too far gone.

I clawed at the locks and crawled up the embankment. I had only seconds and it would be over.

I wiped the tears streaming down my face, before laying down between the tracks as the train approached at high speed.

I could vaguely hear someone yelling in the background, but the sound of the approaching train overpowered everything.

I closed my eyes and felt my body lift off the ground, and then I was flying.

Chapter Three - The Grass is Darker

A soft voice echoed in the darkness.

‘Lell, can you hear me?’

 There was only one person who called me Lell - Jay? What was he doing here? Where was I, anyway?

‘Lell, it’s OK. Babe, please open your eyes.’

Open my eyes? I thought I was dead.

My eyelids were heavy, reluctant to let in the light. Pain rippled through my body. I felt like a bus, or indeed, a train had hit me.

How did I survive the impact? What condition was I in?

Multiple scenarios ran through my mind: what if I was paralysed and needed to spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair, or what if I was in some sort of vegetative state where I was conscious of what was going on, but unable to interact with anyone?

An unfamiliar voice pulled my attention.

‘Mrs Doyle, can you hear me? You’re in the hospital. You’re OK. Your husband is here with you.’

I was immobilised, trying to process the information through the cloudy haze in my head.

The negative thoughts and emotions came flooding back and I searched for a coherent thought.

I was overwhelmed with grief at not losing my life - yet another thing I had failed to do right!

‘She’s disorientated, give her time,’ the voice said as though I couldn’t hear.

‘I’ll be back to check on her shortly. She’ll be feeling groggy when she comes round and there may be more vomiting. Be prepared.’

At that moment, I realised I had a foul taste in my mouth and the damp smell of puke wet the dry air.

I cautiously opened my eyes.

‘Jay?’ My voice came out croaky.

 He jumped to attention. ‘Lell! Thank God! You scared the shit out of me!’

‘What happened?’

‘You…took too many tablets.’

His voice was trembling.

‘The doctor said another hour and they wouldn’t have been able to treat you.’

‘But I thought the train would have…’ My voice trailed off as I shuddered at the memory of the train speeding towards me.

‘I got home early,’ he said, and after a beat, he continued.

‘I saw you open the back gate so I ran out after you, and you were lying between the tracks. I managed to lift you up just before the train hit us both.’

I sensed the raw pain he was experiencing, recalling such a horrific event.

What? He saved me. I was dumbfounded. I could have killed him too, then Archie would have been an orphan and it would have been all my fault.

‘It’s my fault!’ he protested as if offering to take my place, as the judge brought down the gavel, sentencing me to life imprisonment.

‘I knew you hadn’t been yourself lately, I should have done something…said something…but