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Death on the doorstep

A quick fag outside led my Brian into a deadly row with neighbours...


Published by: Laura Hinton and Marcello Mego
Published on: 23 February 2012

Birds chirped merrily in the aviary outside as I wandered into the kitchen. Peering out of the window, I saw my hubby Brian, 47, was feeding his feathered friends again.
He was chattering away to his pal Dave, 49, too. They were both bird-obsessed, bless them. I'd often hear them swapping breeding tips.
Brian had all sorts out there in the aviary - goldfinches, canaries, redpolls... you name it, he'd got them. He took it seriously too, was even a member of the British Bird Council.
Ooh, actually it was a good job Dave was here - I needed a quiet word about mine and Brian's silver wedding anniversary.
It was less than two months away and I wanted Dave's advice because I was thinking of getting my hubby a surprise ticket to a Leeds United match.
Brian was a massive Leeds fan - when he wasn't pottering about in the aviary, he was watching his beloved team on the box.
He really deserved a treat as well, something to help him forget about everything for a while...
He'd been diagnosed with Huntington's disease - the hereditary disorder of the central nervous system - seven years before. He'd been depressed ever since, and refused to talk about it, or make plans for the future. ‘I don't want you to have to nurse me,' was all he'd say.
Like I minded. Besides, he was doing so well still, even though his speech had deteriorated a little and he'd lost some movement in his arms, meaning he'd had to quit his job in agriculture.
As far as I was concerned, the future looked rosy. I mean how many couples these days can say they've been happily married for 25 years?
There was a little cough beside me, the kind that says ‘excuse me, can I have your attention please?' Ah yes, the workman was here to do up the kitchen, I'd totally forgotten about him. ‘We'll be tiling in here today,' he said.
‘Great!' I smiled back at him. ‘I'm off to work now, so won't be in your way.'
By the time I got back home later, he'd gone. ‘You can't go in the kitchen for a while,' Brian said, handing me a cuppa. ‘The tiles need time to set in place.'
‘No worries,' I yawned. ‘I'm shattered anyway. Might go to bed soon!'
By 9.30pm, I was snuggling under the covers. ‘Sweet dreams, love,' Brian called up. ‘I'll just have a fag, then I'll be with you.'
I heard him open the front door. What was he doing that for? Then I remembered. The tiles were still setting so he couldn't smoke out the back - I'd quit fags a year ago, and he didn't smoke inside the house any more. That was my Brian, so considerate.
Just as I was dozing off, I heard raised voices. For a minute, I thought I was dreaming... but then I recognised Brian. Another bloke then shouted something, sounded like ‘don't you start on my mum' or something like that.
‘What's going on?' I muttered, jumping out of bed and pulling on my dressing gown. It sounded like a right old row outside.
We'd never had problems with the neighbours before... well, me and Joyce Dear, who lived opposite, had a bit of history.
Many moons ago, I'd dated a fella who'd ended up becoming her partner. Bit awkward, but we just ignored each other, kept ourselves to ourselves.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I saw the front door was wide open. A crowd of about 10 men had gathered at the end of the garden path, shouting and pushing, while half the neighbours looked on.
I dashed outside, barefoot. ‘What are you doing...?' Then I saw my husband, bent over, right near the gate. He looked like he'd been winded, or punched.
‘Brian?' I gasped, running forward as his knees gave way. ‘Someone call an ambulance!'
He was grimacing in pain. Wrapping his arm over my shoulders, I tried to take his weight. Stumbled towards the house as one of the young lads ran off. I turned to look - just as the streetlight glinted on something in his hands. A knife... Panic exploded. Suddenly, Brian collapsed on me inside the door. ‘Meg, Meg, Meg,' he muttered.
‘I'm here, love,' I cried. Then I saw it - thick, dark blood seeping through the back of his jacket. I ripped it off. Two massive knife wounds in his back, blood gushing from them. He'd been stabbed...
I turned Brian on his side. Oh God, his eyes were clouding over, rolling back in his head. ‘No you don't,' I screeched. ‘You're not leaving me, Brian!'
What could I do? How could I keep him alive? Minutes blurred as I fought for him. Next thing I knew, big strong arms pulled me back. Someone else was there now. A paramedic. ‘Wait in the kitchen,' he urged, ushering me away.
Shaking, I stood in the kitchen. I shouldn't be here, Brian said the tiles need settling, I thought. Daft of me. Then it hit me. If Brian had been able to smoke out back as usual, this wouldn't have happened. Wrong place, wrong time.
A policeman walked in, where had he appeared from? Nothing made sense. He shook his head - and I knew. Knew, but refused to believe. ‘No,' I gasped.
‘I'm so sorry,' he said, sympathetically. ‘They couldn't save him.'
I shut down. Physically, emotionally... I couldn't function. People spoke to me, but only odd snatches seemed to sink in. ‘The house is a crime scene...stay somewhere else...'
Luckily, Dave took me in. My clothes magically appeared, thanks to a police liaison officer, and cups of tea came by the gallon. But I just stared into space for hours, days, weeks.
Sometimes Dave would talk to me about the investigation, that someone had been arrested. He couldn't get through my bubble of grief, though. Fact was, I didn't care who'd killed Brian and why. All I cared about was that he'd gone. He'd been terminally ill, but I'd assumed we had years left...
Two months on, I was still numb at Kirkcaldy crematorium. There were hundreds of mourners, and my heart swelled - Brian had been so loved.
Listening to all their kind words, my head swam with memories of our time together. I could have filled scrapbook after scrapbook with them all.
My mind drifted back... It felt like a lifetime ago that we'd first met. I'd actually been living with - and engaged to - another man at the time, and Brian had been our lodger! He was 10 years younger than me, but I'd known straight away that we were better suited.
‘We've got loads in common, me and you,' he'd laughed when I'd shown him the ducks, chicken and goat that I'd kept in the garden.
‘Really?!' I'd giggled.
‘Well, I like birds,' he'd smiled. ‘So we both love animals!'
Our fate had been sealed from there on. So, I finished with my fiance straight away and, just six weeks later, Brian had proposed. ‘So are we getting married then?' he'd asked, matter of fact.
‘There's never any romance with you, is there?!' I'd laughed.
There had been, though, especially in the beginning. We'd actually slept in a tent in my brother's garden for seven weeks before we could get a house together. That had been such a giggly, fun time, snuggling up under the stars every night before our wedding in June 1984.
There was to be no giggling or romance now, though. I'd lost all that when a knife had been plunged into my husband.
As the brutal reality hit home once more, I suddenly realised everyone was standing up to leave the cremation. Following them out, Three Little Birds, a song by Bob Marley, played in the background. It was one of Brian's favourite tunes.
‘It's our 25th wedding anniversary next month on June 9,' I whispered, suddenly very angry that I'd lost him. ‘We should be toasting each other.' Instead, I was saying a devastating goodbye.
The anger burned through my bubble. Awful as it was, I had to start dealing with reality. So afterwards, I sat down with Dave and made myself listen...
‘Sonny, one of Joyce's sons, was arrested the day after Brian was stabbed,' he explained. ‘Joyce was drunk after attending a family funeral. She'd got mouthy with some of the neighbours, saw Brian and started shouting...'
‘Then Sonny and his mates intervened,' I butted in, remembering what he'd told me before. ‘And Sonny went back to the house and got a carving knife.'
I shuddered. Surely this was a story I was reciting from a horror film, not my own life. Sonny was only 18. What would have possessed him?!
Was this tied in with the bad feeling between me and Joyce? If only there'd been none, maybe she wouldn't have started shouting at Brian that night. If only I hadn't given up smoking, Brian wouldn't have insisted on smoking outside. If only Brian had gone out back as normal for his fag. If only...
As much as I tortured myself, I couldn't change the past. Brian had been killed - and now I had to face moving back to the place where it had happened. I'd have to live in the same cul-de-sac as the family of the man who'd done it.
A few days later, I steeled myself. Opened the door, took one step in, then looked down. This was it, the spot where my husband died.
Stumbling into the kitchen, I saw one of Brian's bird books laying on the side. Tears slid down my cheeks. He'd sat there engrossed in that book for hours!
In our bedroom were his Leeds United scarves. ‘You didn't even know the surprise I was planning,' I sobbed. ‘Why did this have to happen?'
For the next few months, I barely left the house, scared of who I'd bump into. The curtains stayed drawn as I mourned.
Finally, a year on, the murder trial began at the High Court in Dundee. I couldn't face going, though - worried that if I knew too much about that night, it might blot out my happy memories of my gentle man.
But Dave and members of Brian's family gave me the snippets of information I needed. Sonny had stabbed Brian several times in the back so hard, he'd severed his spinal cord. My poor husband hadn't stood a chance.
‘He was defenceless,' I sobbed. ‘He was suffering from a terminal wasting disease, and wouldn't have harmed a fly!'
‘Sonny's trying to get off with manslaughter, claiming he struck Brian to defend his mum,' Dave told me. ‘I think the jury will see through it, though.'
I hoped so, too. Even though Sonny claimed he'd acted in panic, he'd been cool-headed enough to wash the knife and drop it in a nearby street afterwards.
After two hours of deliberations the jury found Sonny Dear, 18, guilty of murder. He'll now serve a minimum of 16 years in prison before becoming eligible for release. I was relieved, but it doesn't bring my husband back. Despite his illness, who knows how many happy years Brian and me could have had together if this hadn't happened?
Since the sentencing in June last year, I've just lived my life day-by-day. I'm scared to go out, and only leave the house with my new Jack Russell Gipsy, who's become such a wonderful companion. I haven't seen Joyce but, if I do, I'll keep my head down and stay dignified.
I could move away, I suppose, but I'd be leaving years of happy memories behind. I can't abandon them. When I gaze out of the kitchen window, I see Brian's aviary still standing there. It's empty now, Dave took the birds as I'd never be able to look after them properly. And the roof blew off in the high winds of spring.
But it doesn't matter. If I concentrate, I can still imagine Brian standing out there, happy in his favourite place. Clear as day, I hear the twitter of the birds as he natters away to his pal... and that's how I want to remember him.

Meg Johnstone, 60, Glenrothes, Fife