My Policeman (34 page)

‘There’s an awful lot of detail for a fantasy.’

‘Mr Hazlewood is a very imaginative man.’

‘Why, I wonder, would he imagine his male lover to be engaged to a schoolteacher?’

No response.

‘Mrs Burgess, I don’t want to embarrass you, but I must put it to you that Patrick Hazlewood was having an indecent relationship with your husband.’

Her eyes dropped and her voice became very faint. ‘No,’ she said.

‘Do you deny that the accused is a homosexual?’

‘I – don’t know.’

She was still standing tall. But I could see her gloves trembling. I thought of how she’d walked down North Street with Tom on the day we’d first met. Her pride and assurance emanating with every step she took. And I wanted to give those qualities back to her. Her husband she could never have, and I was glad of it. But I’d no desire to see her like this.

Jones the bichon bitch would not give up, however. ‘I have to ask you again, Mrs Burgess. Is Patrick Hazlewood the kind of man who would commit acts of gross indecency?’

Silence.

‘Please answer the question, Mrs Burgess,’ the judge interrupted.

There was a very long pause before she looked straight at me and said, ‘No.’

‘No further questions,’ said Jones.

But Marion was still talking. ‘He was very good with the children. He was wonderful with them, in fact.’

I nodded at her. She gave a small nod back.

It was a swift, unsentimental and wholly civilised exchange.

After that, all I could think was: what will happen to Tom? What will they do to him now? And how can he ever forgive my stupidity?

But my policeman was not mentioned again, despite his name being on the tip of my tongue during the rest of the trial, and ever since.

On our last day in Venice, we went to the tiny island of Torcello to see the mosaics. Tom was quiet on the boat, but I imagined he was lost, like me, in the sight of the city disappearing behind us. One is never sure, in Venice, what is reality and what reflection, and when seen from the back of a vaporetto, the whole place looks like a mirage, floating in an impossible mist. The silence of Torcello was a shock after the continuous clanging of bells, coffee cups and tour guides that is San Marco. Neither of us spoke as we entered the basilica. Had I overdone it on the culture front? I wondered. Would Tom rather have spent the afternoon drinking Bellinis in Harry’s Bar? We looked at the glittering reds and golds of the Last Judgement. Those doomed to hell were pushed down by devil’s spears. Some were consumed by flames, some by wild beasts. The most unlucky did the job themselves, eating their own hands, finger by finger.

Tom stood there for a long time, looking at the awful corner into which the sinners had been shoved. Still he said not one word. I felt myself begin to panic at the thought of going back to England. At the thought of being apart. At
the
thought of sharing him. I found myself clasping his arm, searching his face, saying his name. ‘We can’t go back,’ I said.

He patted my hand. Smiled a rather cool, amused smile. ‘Patrick,’ he said. ‘You’re being ridiculous.’

‘Don’t make me go back.’

He sighed. ‘We have to go back.’

‘Why?’

He looked to the ceiling. ‘You know why.’

‘Tell me. I seem to have forgotten. Other people do this. Other people live in Europe, together. They leave, they have happy lives …’

‘You have a good job in England. So do I. I can’t speak Italian. We both have friends, family … We can’t live here.’

He sounded so calm, so conclusive. My comfort, still, is that he did not mention her. Not once did he say,
Because I’m a married man
.

A letter from Mother.

My dear Tricky
,

I have come to a decision. When you are released, I want you to come and live here with me. It will be like old times. Only better, because your father won’t be here. You can have EVERY freedom you desire. I ask only for your company at mealtimes, and for a glass or two after that. As for what the neighbours think – hang them, I say
.

Forgive the ramblings of an old lady
.

Your ever-loving

Mother

PS I hope you know I would visit were it not for doctor’s orders. But it is NOTHING for you to worry about
.

The terrifying thing is, at the moment this seems like a very good offer.

Marion came to visit today.

I’d spent all night wondering whether to stand her up. Let her come and wait, gloves trembling, perfectly set hair beginning to dampen with sweat. Let her wait with the painted wives of con men, the screaming children of cosh boys, the disappointed mothers of the sexually perverse. And let her be the one who has to turn and leave, her presence rejected.

But in the morning, I knew I would do nothing of the sort.

Burkitt took me to the visiting room at three. I’d made no effort to look decent. In fact, I shaved particularly badly that morning and was glad of my cuts and grazes. Some rather pathetic wish to shock her, I suppose. Perhaps I even wanted to gain her sympathy.

As soon as I saw her – she was alone, face lined with fear – disappointment flooded me.
Where is he?
I wanted to scream.
Why isn’t he here, instead of you? Where’s my darling?

‘Hello, Patrick,’ she said.

‘Marion.’

I sat on the metal chair opposite her. The visiting room – small, fairly bright, but just as cold as the rest of this place – smelled of Harpic and stale milk. There were four other visits going on, Burkitt watching over each. Marion stared at me very intently, her eyes unblinking, and I realised she was trying to focus exclusively on the spectacle of Patrick Hazlewood, prisoner, rather than watching the scene unfolding next to us, where man and wife were desperately grappling at each other’s knees beneath the table. In a strange attempt to
afford
us privacy, a radio tuned to some inane quiz show on the Light Programme played at mid-volume.
Fingers on buzzers, please … Here’s your starter question
…

Marion removed her gloves and placed them on the table. Her fingernails were painted a lurid orange, which surprised me. And now that I really looked at her, I could tell she was wearing much more make-up than was usual, too. Her eyelids were covered with some shiny substance. Her lips were a plasticky-looking shade of pink. Unlike me, she’d obviously made quite an effort. But the overall effect wasn’t much superior to that which the Scrubs queens manage. And all they have is flour paste and poster paint.

She folded the sleeves of her mustard-coloured cardigan back and patted her collar down. Her face was pale and composed but a red rash spattered her throat. ‘It’s good to see you,’ she said.

Just from the way she’d arranged her features – in a look of distant, respectful sympathy – I knew she’d no message from Tom. The woman had nothing for me at all. Rather, I realised, it was she who wanted something from me.

‘I don’t know how to begin,’ she said.

I offered no assistance.

‘I can’t tell you how awful I feel about what’s happened.’ She swallowed. ‘It was a complete miscarriage of justice. Coleman should be in here, not you.’

I nodded.

‘It’s a scandal, Patrick.’

‘I know that,’ I burst out. ‘I’ve already received a letter from the museum, relieving me of my duties. And one from my landlord, letting me know my flat has been rented to a very nice family from Shoreham. Only my mother swears she’s not ashamed of me. Isn’t that funny?’

‘I didn’t mean … I meant it’s a scandal that you should be in here …’

‘But I am a homosexual, Marion.’

She stared at the table.

‘And I wanted to have sex with Coleman. He looked rather pathetic in the courtroom, but I can assure you on the night we met he was anything but. Even if we never actually managed to perform the act itself, the intention was there. That’s enough, in the eyes of the law, to condemn a man. I was
importuning
.’ She was still looking at the table, but I was in full flow. ‘It’s grossly unfair, but that’s how it is. I believe there are committees, petitions, lobbyists and the like who are trying to get the law changed. But in the British mind, intimacy between two men is right up there with GBH, armed robbery and serious fraud.’

Marion rearranged her gloves. Looked around the room. Then said, ‘Are they treating you all right?’

‘It’s a bit like public school. And a lot like the army. Why did you come?’

She looked startled. ‘I – don’t know.’

There was a long pause. Eventually she tried: ‘How’s the food?’

‘Marion. For God’s sake tell me about Tom. How is he?’

‘He’s – all right.’

I waited. Imagined grabbing her shoulders and shaking the words out of her.

‘He’s left the force.’

‘Why?’

She looked at me as if I should know the answer without her having to spell it out.

‘I hope there wasn’t too much trouble,’ I mumbled.

‘He refused to discuss it. He just said he left before he was pushed.’

I nodded. ‘What will he do now?’

‘Security guard. At Allan West’s. It’s not as much money, but
I’m
still working …’ She broke off. Studied her orange nails. ‘He doesn’t know I’m here,’ she said.

‘Oh?’

A brittle laugh, a lift of the chin, a flash of that metallic eye shadow. ‘About time I had my own secrets, isn’t it?’

I said nothing.

She waved a hand in the air as if wiping away what she’d said. Apologised. ‘I didn’t come here to – go over what’s past.’

‘Past?’

‘Between you and Tom.’

‘One more minute,’ barked Burkitt.

Marion picked up her gloves and started fiddling with her handbag, gabbling something about coming again next month.

‘Don’t,’ I said, grabbing her wrist. ‘Ask Tom to come instead.’

She looked at my fingers on her skin. ‘You’re hurting me.’

Burkitt stepped forward. ‘No physical contact, Hazlewood.’

I removed my hand and she stood, dusting off her skirt.

‘I have to see him, Marion,’ I said. ‘Please ask him.’

She looked down at me, and I was surprised to see she was blinking back tears. ‘I’ll ask. But he won’t come,’ she said. ‘You must see that he can’t. I’m sorry.’

Bert says: Talk, then.

We’re in the Old Rec after supper. Some men are managing to play a limp game of table tennis, despite the freezing conditions. Others, like me and Bert, are leaning on the wall furthest from the stinking lavatory, talking. Most are hunched over with cold, clutching their capes around themselves or blowing futilely on chilblained fingers. Davies told me recently that
the
best way to deal with chilblains is to wrap them in a piss-soaked rag. I’ve yet to try this myself. The Light Programme blares from the set in the corner. Usually these sessions where I entertain Bert with my wit, erudition and knowledge are the highlight of my day. But today I don’t feel like telling him about the plot of
Othello
, the Battle of Hastings (about which I know very little but have, on previous occasions, managed almost to re-enact for Bert, such was my enthusiasm), the works of Rembrandt or even Italian cuisine (Bert loves to hear about my trips to Firenze, and almost drooled when I described to him the joys of tagliatelle with hare sauce). I don’t feel like saying anything at all. Because all I can think about is Tom. Tom, who will not be coming to visit.

‘Talk, then,’ Bert says. ‘What are you waiting for?’

There’s an edge to his voice. It’s a reminder of who this man is: the tobacco baron. The unofficial leader of D Hall. This man always gets what he wants. He knows nothing else.

‘Have you heard of Thomas Burgess?’ I ask. ‘The policeman from Brighton?’

‘Nah. Why would I?’

‘His is a very interesting story.’

‘I know enough about the filth already. What about a bit more on Shakespeare? The tragedies. I love tragedies.’

‘Oh, this is a tragedy. One of the best.’

He looks dubious but says, ‘Go on, then. Surprise me.’

I draw a deep breath. ‘Thomas – Tom to his friends – was a policeman with a problem.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘He wasn’t a bad policeman. He turned up on time, did his job to the best of his abilities, tried to be fair.’

‘Don’t sound like any copper I know.’

‘That’s because he wasn’t like any other copper. He
was
interested in the arts, in books and music. He wasn’t an intellectual – his education meant he couldn’t be that – but he was intelligent.’

‘Like me.’

I ignore this. ‘And he was very handsome. He looked like one of the Greek statues in the British Museum. He loved to swim in the sea. His body was strong and lithe. His hair was golden and curled.’

‘Sounds like a bloody queer.’

A few other men have gathered around to listen. ‘That’s what he was,’ I say, keeping my voice even. ‘That was Tom’s problem.’

Bert shakes his head. ‘Fucking filth. I don’t think I want to hear no more, Hazlewood.’

‘It was his problem, but it was also his joy,’ I continue. ‘Because he met a man, an older man, whom he liked very much. This older man took Tom to the theatre, to art galleries and the opera, and opened up an entirely new world to him.’

The muscles in Bert’s face have stopped moving. His eyes flicker.

‘Tom liked to listen to this man talk, just as you like to listen to me. He took a wife, but that meant nothing. He continued to see the older man as much as he could. Because Tom and the older man loved each other very much.’

Bert comes up close to me. ‘Why don’t we change the fucking subject, mate.’

But I don’t stop talking. I can’t stop. ‘They loved each other. But the man was sent to prison on a trumped-up charge because he’d been careless. Tom’s pride and his fear stopped him from ever seeing the man again. Despite this, the man went on loving him. He will always love him.’

All the time I talk, more men gather round, summoned by
Bert’s
silent rage. And I know they’ll have made sure the screw is looking the other way whilst Bert punches me quietly in the stomach until I fall to the floor. I’m talking all the time, even as the punches take the air from my body. He’ll always love him, I say. Over and over. Then Bert’s kicking me in the chest and someone else is kicking me in the back and I cover my face with my fists but it does no good because the blows keep coming. And still I’m getting the words out. He’ll always love him. And I remember the time Tom came to the flat and was so angry with me for lying to him about the portrait and I imagine it’s him kicking me again and again and again and I keep whispering his name until I no longer feel anything at all.