Shadow Play (21 page)

One more try as she got up and put the mugs in the pristine sink.

‘Have you told Michael anything about this?'

Another mug crashing against the first, both of them standing, which made it easier.

‘No. I sort of tried, last Friday, when I thought I saw my dad – I'm always seeing my dad, but then I thought, I've only just started with Michael, I can't, can I? Not about knives and all. Couldn't blame him, could you? Him being a copper and all.'

‘Oh, I don't know. I'd say, just take a deep breath, you know, before you jump in the deep end. Got my car outside.'

 

B
eyond the door, Rose thought, what an ugly, battered, old car with a twisted bumper, a few dents and winter filth an inch thick from the frost turned mud. Someone had written on the boot, ‘Also available in red'. Rose saw this and another of her perceptions about the lifestyles of lawyers hit the pavement.

‘Oh, something I ought to mention,' said Helen airily, fumbling with her car keys, using them on the door like a knuckle duster. ‘There's a rumour about someone stealing files from the office. Probably nothing, but some people are having their jobs rejigged in a Redwood efficiency drive until they find out a bit more about it. So you're on court duties, with me, like it or not. OK?' The door yanked open as if it was yawning.

‘Do you know,' said Rose, looking at the litter on the inside of the car with fascination, ‘I didn't know Michael was working on Saturday. I thought he had a day off.'

‘Listen,' said Helen, lurching them down the road, ‘let me tell you something important. If you're going to hang round with a copper, get a copy of his duty roster. You've got to know when they're working. Otherwise, there's no controlling them at all.'

Rose thought, Miss W. looks like a funny monkey with a grin like that.

 

O
h Lord, make us not afraid of the dark.

 

T
he rain came down on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday morning, driven by a buffeting wind, obliterating any view. The two days went by in a fight with the elements. There was a train strike.

Logo lay in bed halfway through the week, thinking idly about which of his half-clean clothes he should wear today. The texture of the sheets on which he lay reminded him of his own neglect since his feet lay in gritty socks on a gritty patch of sheet. He had never been so lazy in the days of Mrs Logo's sloppy dominance, but the abandonment by women had come to equal dirt and somehow, in the last three weeks, he was even dirtier. The Bible, through which he flipped for something bo do with his cold hands as well as to search for passages to soothe his soul, was symptomatic of the change. The pages were as rippled as the surface of a pond and still smelt of stale whisky.

Deuteronomy, chapter twenty-two, verse twenty-three. ‘If a damsel that is a virgin be betrothed … and a man find her in the city and lie with her; Then ye shall bring them both out into the gate of the city, and ye shall stone them with stones that they die … the damsel because she
cried
not …'

He flipped back through the wavy pages, some of them stuck, so that he could read one side but not the verses which followed, which suited him fine. It was the words he wanted, not the sense. Leviticus, chapter eighteen. ‘The nakedness of thy father's wife thou shalt not uncover: she is thy mother … The nakedness of thy sister, the daughter of thy father or daughter of thy mother, or of thy daughter's daughter, even their nakedness thou shalt not uncover, for their nakedness is thine own …'

No mention of a man's daughter, or not as such. Maybe that was over the page. Logo laughed and twiddled his toes inside his socks. Then back again to Deuteronomy. ‘If a man find a damsel that is a virgin, which is not betrothed, and lay hold on her, and lie with her, and they be found: Then the man that lay with her shall give unto the damsel's father fifty shekels of silver.'

He sniggered.
If
they be found … that was what it was worth. Logo swung out of bed and attempted to sing. The damage to his vocal cords did not prevent sound but there was still a temporary dearth of music from that source. While shaving, he looked at his face in the mirror with grim satisfaction and smiled at it. The left profile was the best to present to the magistrates this morning; it was every colour of the rainbow, ranging from a sick yellow to a violent indigo, one malevolent-looking eye half open.

‘“And I will set my face against you, they that hate you shall reign over you: and you shall flee when none pursueth you,”' he murmured to his mirror where the specks of toothpaste, soap, and hair all but obscured his own image and hid the grubbiness of a once white shirt collar. He shaved in part, leaving patches of beard to add to the effect.

 

A
grave had been dug in the graveyard yesterday. Ask not for whom the bell tolls. The diggers had waved Logo away but he lingered, looking at the fog while they ignored him but allowed him to eavesdrop. One of them was saying how the dead woman was from Legard Street. The detail lodged in Logo's mind as he waved to their broad backs and passed that other grave which he saluted in acknowledgement. The knowledge remained with him now as he picked up his bail notice, left the house quietly and took the bus to court. He didn't want Margaret ever since she'd shouted: she had joined the enemy.

The court foyer was full, but then it always was. Dense with smoke under the no smoking signs, floor pitted, plastic chairs full of draped backs in attitudes of nonchalance or anxiety. Many sat with their families, drooping under the pressure of the nearest and dearest before whom it was so hard to tell the truth because of what they would think. Logo was an old hand, absorbed in one amused glance the nagging and the embarrassment, the loneliness and the boasting. He always stood himself; no other position enabled him to watch the human tide of misery, fear, jubilation, bravado and sick jokes, twisting to observe each innuendo from his slouched superiority. People were uncomfortable with those who would not sit.

Out of the comer of his eye, he saw Helen West, hidden behind paper, nursing an armful of files which she held against one hip curved to meet the load, swaying along like an elegant but listing ship and reminding him of a mother with a child which had grown too large to carry. As he saw her he remembered to avoid the challenge of the eyes, ducked his head right down to waist level and began a close examination of the fingers on one hand while the other covered his face. Looking up through his spread fingers, he continued to watch as she stopped at the door of court three, readjusting her burden, and although he knew he would not be facing a trial today, only a remand on further bail for a trial time to be fixed, and although he knew for once he was innocent of his trumped-up charge, he was unaccountably afraid. Last time he had seen her, she had been running scared, driving her car like a dodgem at a fairground, now she had eyes like melting ice. He kept his own skulking against the wall for cover, waiting for the bellow of his name.

After an hour of waiting, in which he recited in whispers the Bible passages which came to memory, plus the hymns he knew he could not sing, the fat usher, in a gown which reached the ground, called for him. He smiled at her, but she flounced away and let the swing-door flap back against him and his bruises even as he followed her bottom into the fray.

Somehow the lights in court were loud; stepping into the dock was like going on a stage where the footlights dazzled. All those present, clerk, magistrates, lawyers, shuffled paper for what seemed an eternity, only a few seconds, he realised later, seconds that seemed to last for an hour each. He could not assume an act, for once; he could not even look around and assess the weaknesses in his audience, gauge when to burst into song. Behind him was the public gallery, full of idlers looking for a thrill, curious witnesses, people sheltering from the cold, families. None of them was looking out for him: they never were until he entertained them, but all of a sudden, he had no energy for that, no inclination to play the holy fool. Then he saw Helen West's melting eyes upon him, saw the shock, the passing sensation of fear, and then the terrible pity. She was staring at his colours, this woman whom he had loathed through three trials: looking at him without fear or alarm, but with that dreadful, debilitating concern which was worst of all. The clerk yawned, spoke.

‘Charged, assaulting a police officer, 31 Jan.' A mumbled formula of words followed. ‘Do you plead guilty or not guilty?'

‘Not guilty,' he croaked.

The clerk leafed through her diary, a large volume, held so close the pages crept up against her face. ‘Remanded to 14 Feb,' she uttered. ‘On bail? Valentine's Day,' she sighed with a highly audible breath.

Logo's eyes, shielded for the last hour, began to function again. Saw first but not last, Helen West. ‘Wait a minute,' she was saying. ‘Can we put this one back? He's charged with assaulting the police what, four days ago? No, five. I'd quite like some information on his injuries,' she turned, apparently panicking in her concern, to the girl who sat behind her. Logo could hear: the magistrates could not.

‘This isn't right,' she said, pushing one piece of paper in the direction of the girl. ‘This statement of facts doesn't mention injuries. Can you get me his custody record? I need to know how he came by that face.' Helen turned back to the clerk. ‘Could we make a few further enquiries, please? Maybe Mr Logo could see the duty solicitor.'

‘Sit at the back, would you, Mr Logo?'

He moved as the girl behind Helen West moved. An angular child with slicked-back hair he had noticed from his vantage point, before she ran from the court with the speed of a frightened cat. Logo knew her at once. He reached a hand towards her as she passed: they almost brushed each other, as close as a shadow, breathing in each other's faces. He sat silently behind the dock, looked at the scuff marks in the wood, filled with incredible jubilation. God was good to him: what was lost was now found. Found on Friday night; seen through a window, a dazzling vision of beauty viewed by the beast pawing at the glass. Seen now, sensed, smelt, dragged within inches by the hand of God. Logo did not resent his bruises, no longer minded that searing look of pity from Helen West, the look which deprived him of any power he would ever have to make her afraid again. Logo had just seen his daughter, heard her gasp and watched her run. Enid, named after the rose, making his thin blood race and his heart pound, the same ache of desire gnawing in his groin, the same fury, the same hatred. His daughter. He sat unsteadily, weak with joy.

 

T
he court scene broke into fragments. Ten minutes, please. Footsteps went by him in the direction of both doors; one downstairs to the cells, the other to the foyer, led by the big-bottomed usher, a crowd in search of coffee, cigarettes, clients. Logo stayed as he was, dreaming. Gradually, sounds of a muted conversation from behind the cell door, penetrated into his dreaming.

‘What's the point of putting it off? You say the arresting officer had no injuries … I
know
this man hasn't got the habit of violence, never has … and he looks like a punching bag, so who assaulted who? No-one's even saying he fell over. No, I'm not going to run a case we can't win. OK, fine.'

Footsteps back inside. A slight smell of perfume. Helen West's cool voice.

‘Mr Logo?'

As if she didn't know who he was.

‘We'll be offering no evidence, this time.'

‘That's good of you,' he mumbled, the emphasis of his irony lost in the croak. ‘I came off worst, I can tell you.'

‘Yes,' she said quietly. ‘I think you did. Do you want to see a solicitor?'

‘No.' Humbly. ‘Will you tell me something, though?'

She paused, for once anxious to please.

‘Does that girl, the one behind you in court, work with you?'

‘Yes,' said Helen, surprised. ‘In our office. Why?'

‘Nothing.'

She did not stand close, he noticed. Either the unwashed hair on his head or the livid face deterred her, but he could smell the pity in the same way he could smell her cleanliness, and only the pity stank. He kept his head down: the footsteps went away and he heard the shuffling of paper, the hum of the air-conditioning and the people coming back. All of them but Eenie. His case dismissed, Logo did not linger in the foyer with the dead coffee cups and the overflowing fag ends. There was no point. He would never find her there.

Out in the fog he would find her. Vengeance is mine, says the Lord. Are you guilty or not, my child? Yes, you are the guilty one.

 

‘R
ose! What happened to you? Why didn't you come back for the rest of the list? How do you think you're going to learn anything?' Helen West was extremely angry, but since she was also irritated with the nerves which arrived as soon as she doubted her own impetuous wisdom, the anger lacked force. In particular, fury against individuals could not be sustained for long, any more than she could sustain sulking. So what? Rose had been sent on an errand, had looked at her as if she had been mad to issue that particular order, had gone from the court, done the necessary in fetching the policeman responsible in double-quick time, and then disappeared. Did it matter? No, not really. Before that, she had been a perfect mother's little helper, interested and industrious, a luxury, if a mite hyperactive this morning. What infuriated Helen at the moment was not so much Rose's disappearance from half-past eleven in the morning until one, but her own reactions and abreactions to Logo. How could she ever have found him sinister? Seeing that messed-up face, and succumbing against all the odds, to that little cancer of pity she thought had died. All these times, knowing he was bad and dying to get him, only to throw in the towel at the first sign of blood. He'd be grinning and singing all the way home and she would be in trouble. Rose was shifty, staring at the wall, her skin whiter than the scuffed paint.