The Book of Evidence (28 page)

The guard knocked, on the door and wanted to know was I done. He helped me to my feet again and walked me slowly back along the corridor. Always the same, he said, in a chatty tone, stuff comes up that you think you never ate. Hogg was standing at the window with his hands in his pockets, looking out at the yard. He glanced at me over his 196
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shoulder. Better n o w ? he said. Inspector Haslet sat in front of the desk, w e a r i n g a f a r a w a y f r o w n and d r u m m i n g his fingers on a j u m b l e of papers. He indicated the chair beside him. I sat d o w n gingerly. W h e n he turned sideways to face me o u r knees w e r e almost touching. He studied a far corner of the ceiling. "Well, he said, do y o u w a n t to talk to m e ? O h , I did, 1 did, I w a n t e d to talk and talk, to confide in h i m , to p o u r out all my p o o r secrets. B u t what could I say? W h a t secrets? T h e bald g u a r d w a s at his typewriter again, blunt fingers poised o v e r the keys, his eyes fixed on my lips in lively expectation. H o g g t o o was waiting, standing by the w i n d o w and j i n g l i n g the coins in his trouser pocket. I w o u l d not h a v e cared w h a t I said to them, they m e a n t n o t h i n g to m e . T h e inspector was a different matter. H e kept r e m i n d i n g m e o f s o m e o n e I m i g h t have k n o w n a t school, o n e o f those m o d e s t , inarticulate heroes w h o w e r e n o t only g o o d at sport but at maths as well, yet w h o s h r u g g e d o f f praise, m a d e shy by their o w n success and popularity. I had not the heart to confess to h i m that there w a s n o t h i n g to confess, that there had been no plan w o r t h y of the n a m e , that I h a d acted a l m o s t w i t h o u t thinking from the start. So I m a d e up a r i g m a r o l e a b o u t h a v i n g intended to m a k e the r o b b e r y s e e m the w o r k of terrorists, and a lot of other stuff that f am a s h a m e d to repeat here. A n d then the girl, 1 said, the w o m a n — for a second I c o u l d not think of her n a m e ! — and then
Josie
, I said, had ruined everything by trying to s t o p me taking the picture, by attacking m e , by threatening to to to — I ran o u t of w o r d s , and sat and peered at h i m helplessly, w r i n g i n g my hands. I so m u c h w a n t e d h i m to believe m e . At that m o m e n t his credence seemed to me a l m o s t as desirable as forgiveness. T h e r e w a s a silence. He w a s still considering the c o m e r of the ceiling. He m i g h t not h a v e been listening to me at all. Jesus, H o g g said 197
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quietly, with no particular emphasis, and the guard behind the desk cleared his throat, Then Haslet stood up, wincing a little and flexing one knee, and ambled out of the room, and shut the door softly behind him. I could hear him walk away along the corridor at the same leisurely pacc.

There were voices faintly, his and others. H o g g was looking at mc over his shoulder in disgust. You're a right joker, aren't you, he said. I thought of answering him, but dccided on prudencc instead. Time passed. Someone laughed in a nearby room. A motorcycle started up in the yard. I studied a yellowed notice on the wall dealing with the threat of rabies. I smiled, Mad-dog Montgomery, capturcd at last.

Inspector Haslet came back then, and held open the door and ushered in a large, red-faced, sweating man in a striped shirt, and another, younger, dangerous-looking fellow, one of Hogg's breed. They gathered round and looked at me, leaning forward intently, breathing, their hands flat on the *

desk. I told my story again, trying to remember the details so as not to contradict myself. It sounded even more improbable this time. When I finished there was another silence. I was becoming accustomed already to these interrogative and, as it seemed to me, deeply sceptical pauses. The red-faced man, a person of large authority, I surmised, appeared to be in a rage which he was controlling only with great difficulty. His name will be —

Barker. He looked at me hard for a long moment. C o m e on, Freddie, he said, why did you kill her? I stared back at him. I did not like his contemptuously familiar tone —

Freddie
, indeed! — but decided to let it go. I recognised in him one of my own kind, the big, short-tempered, heavy-breathing people of this world. And anyway, I was getting tired of all this. I killed her because I could, I said, what more can I say? We were all startled by that, I as much as 198
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they. T h e younger one, Hickey — no, K i c k h a m , gave a sort of laugh. He had a thin, piping, almost musical voice that was peculiarly at odds with his menacing look and manner.

What9s~his~name, he said, he's a queer, is he? I looked at him helplessly. I did not k n o w what he was talking about.

Pardon? I said. French, he said impatiently, is he a fairy? I laughed, 1 could not help it. I did not k n o w whether it was more comic or preposterous, the idea of Charlie prancing into Wally'*s and pinching the bottoms of his boys. (It appears that Wally's creature, Sonny of the emerald hues, had been telling scurrilous lies about poor Charlie's predilections. Truly, what a wicked world this is.) Oh no, I said, no — he has an occasional w o m a n . It was just nervousness and surprise that m a d e me say it, I had not meant to attempt a j o k e . No one laughed. T h e y all just went on looking at me, while the silence tightened and tightened like something being screwed shut, and then, as if at a signal, they turned on their heels and trooped out and the d o o r slammed behind them, and I was left: alone with the elderly guard, w h o smiled his sweet smile at me and shrugged. I told h i m I was feeling nauseous again, and he went o f f and fetched me a m u g of sticky-sweet tea and a l u m p of bread. W h y is it that tea, just the look of it, always makes me feel miserable, like an abandoned w a i f ?

A n d h o w lost and lonely everything seemed, this stale r o o m , and the v a g u e noises of people elsewhere g o i n g about their lives, and the sunlight in the yard, that same thick steady light that shines across the years out of farthest childhood. All the euphoria I had felt earlier was gone n o w .

Haslet returned, alone this time, and sat d o w n beside me at the desk as before. He had r e m o v e d his jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves. His hair was tousled. He looked m o r e boyish than ever. He too had a m u g of tea, the m u g 199
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l o o k i n g e n o r m o u s in that small, white hand. I had an i m a g e of h i m as a child, out on s o m e b o g in the wastes of the midlands, stacking turf with his da: quake of water in the cuttings, smell of s m o k e and roasting spuds, and the fiat distances the colour of a hare's pelt, and then the e n o r m o u s , vertical sky stacked with luminous bundles of cloud.

N o w , he said, let's start again.

We went on for hours. I w a s almost h a p p y , sitting there with him, p o u r i n g out my life-story, as the shafts of sunlight in the w i n d o w s lengthened and the day waned.

He was infinitely patient. T h e r e seemed to be nothing, no detail, h o w e v e r minute or enigmatic, that did not interest him. N o , that's not quite it. It was as if he w e r e not really interested at all. He greeted everything, every strand and knot of my story, with the s a m e passive air of toleration and that same, faint, b e m u s e d little smile. I told h i m about k n o w i n g A n n a Behrens, and about her father, about his d i a m o n d mines and his companies and his priceless art collection. I watched h i m carefully, trying to j u d g e h o w m u c h of this was n e w to him, but it w a s no g o o d , he g a v e nothing a w a y . "Yet he must have spoken to them, must have taken statements and all the rest of it. Surely they w o u l d have told h i m about me, surely they were not protecting me still. He rubbed his cheek, and gazed again into the corner of the ceiling. Self-made m a n , is he, he said, this Behrens? Oh Inspector, I said, aren't we all? At that he g a v e me a peculiar look, and stood up. I noticed again that brief g r i m a c e of pain. B a d knee. Footballer.

S u n d a y afternoons, the shouts muffled in grey air, the flat thud of leather on leather. N o w what, I said, what happens n o w ? I did not w a n t h i m to leave me yet. W h a t w o u l d I do when the darkness came? He said I should g i v e the g u a r d my solicitor's n a m e , so he could be told I was here. I 200
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nodded. I had no solicitor, of course, bet I felt I could not say so — everything was so relaxed and c h u m m y , and I did not want to create any awkwardnesses. Anyway, I was fully intending to conduct my o w n defence, and already saw myself making brilliant and impassioned speeches from the dock. Is there anything else I should do, I said, frowning up at him seriously, is there anyone else I should tell? (Oh, I was so good, so compliant, what a w a r m thrill of agreeableeess 1 felt, deferring like this to this g o o d chap!) He gave me that peculiar look again, there was irritation and impatience in it, but a certain ironic amusement too, and even a hint of complicity. What you can do, he said, is get your story straight, without the frills and fancy bits.

What do you mean, I 'said, what do you mean? I was dismayed. B o b Cherry had suddenly turned harsh, had almost for a m o m e n t become Mr Quelch. Y o u k n o w very well what 1 mean, he said. Then he went off, and H o g g came back, and he and the elderly guard — oh, call him something, for God's sake — he and Cunningham, old Cunningham the desk sergeant* took me d o w n to the cells.

Am I still handcuffed?

I do not k n o w w h y I say they took m e
down
(well, I do, of course) for we simply walked a little way along a corridor, past the lavatory, and through a steel gate. I confess I felt a qualm of fear, but that was quickly replaced by surprise: it was all just as I expected! There really are bars, there really is a bucket, and a pallet with a striped, lumpy mattress, and graffiti on the scarred walls. There was even a stubbled old-timer, standing white-knuckled at the door of his cell* w h o peered out at me in wordless, angry derision. I was given a piece of soap and a tiny towel and three pieces of shiny toilet-paper. In return I surrendered my belt and shoelaces. I saw at once the
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importance of this ritual. C o w e r i n g there, with the tongues of my shoes hanging out, clutching in one hand the waistband of my trousers and holding in the other, for all to see, the fundamental aids to my most private functions, I was no longer wholly human. I hasten to say this seemed to me quite proper, to be, indeed, a kind of setting to rights, an official and outward definition of what had been the case, in my case, all along. I had achieved my apotheosis. Even old C u n n i n g h a m , even Sergeant H o g g seemed to recognise it, for they treated me n o w , brusquely, with a sort of truculent, abstracted regard, as if they were not my jailers, but my keepers, rather. I might have been a sick old toothless lion. H o g g put his hands in his pockets and went o f f whistling. I sat d o w n on the side of the cot. T i m e passed. It was very quiet. T h e old b o y in the other cell asked me my name. I did not answer him.

Well fuck you, then, he said. D u s k came on. I have always loved that hour of the day, when that soft, muslin light seeps u p w a r d , as if out of the earth itself, and everything seems to g r o w thoughtful and turn away. It was almost dark when Sergeant H o g g came back, and handed me a g r u b b y sheet of foolscap. He had been eating chips, 1 could smell them on his breath. I peered in bafflement at the ill-typed page. That's your confession, H o g g said. Feel like

- signing it? T h e lag next d o o r cackled grimly. W h a t are you talking about? I said. These are not my words. He shrugged, and belched into his fist. Suit yourself, he said, you'll be g o i n g d o w n for life anyway. Then he went o f f O h , well-named C u n n i n g h a m ! S e h i n d the mask of the bald old codger a fiendish artist had been at w o r k , the kind of artist 1 could never be, direct yet subtle, a master of the spare style, of the art that conceals art. 1 marvelled at h o w he had turned everything to his purpose, mis-spellings,
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c l u m s y syntax,, e v e n the atrocious typing„ S u c h humility, s u c h deference, such ruthless s u p p r e s s i o n o f the e g o f o r the sake of the text. He h a d taken my story^ w i t h all its

— w h a t w a s it H a s l e t said? — w i t h all its frills and fancy bits, a n d p a r e d it d o w n to stark essentials. It w a s an account of my c r i m e 1 hardly recognised^ a n d yet I believed it. He h a d m a d e a m u r d e r e r of m e . 1 w o u l d h a v e s i g n e d it there a n d then, b u t I h a d n o t h i n g to w r i t e with. I even searched my clothing for s o m e t h i n g sharp, a pin or s o m e t h i n g , w i t h w h i c h t o stick m y s e l f , a n d scrawl m y signature i n M o o d .

B u t w h a t matter, i t did n o t require m y e n d o r s e m e n t .

Reverently I f o l d e d the p a g e in f o u r a n d placed, it under the mattress at the end w h e r e my head w o u l d be. T h e n I u n -