The Red Judge (18 page)

‘My son's a man of standing, looked up to by everybody and generous to a fault. All he asked for out of life was to have a son to carry on the family name. And this is what he got! This ungrateful boy who couldn't even do his sums, and got expelled from his old school, and ran amok around the town and continually brought shame on the family name. And
he's
the one to carry it on. The only boy amongst the lot of us –
God help us all!
'

She stopped. My aunts wilted visibly, as if this failure to produce a son was all their fault. But it was at me that my Grandmother Fitztalbot was looking, not them. For a moment, I thought that she was going to lay into me personally, but then – as if she'd said more than enough already – she stomped back to her table, sweeping past the others with such force that tablecloths shot off and glasses and candlesticks went flying in every direction.

For a moment, there was chaos in the court, everybody scrambling to pick things up. But then the red judge called for order, clapping his white-gloved hands and declaring that he had an important piece of evidence to bring before the court. His voice, as he made this announcement, was so grave that the atmosphere immediately changed.

The whole room fell silent. Then the red judge clapped his hands again, and a reel of film flickered into life on the wall above the dais. For some reason, it ran backwards rather than forwards, so that the first thing we saw was my shocked and terrified figure shooting backwards up the drive of Clockvine House. Then we saw Gilda Katterfelto lying in the snow, covered in blood. Then we saw her rising like the dead in resurrection and something big and black flying off her head and hurtling back through the air until it came into contact with my hand.

We saw my arm draw back, and the thing was a mallet. Then we saw it fly back to its hook on the wall and me backing towards it. Then, finally, we saw my face in close-up, all twisted and contorted. But we never found out why, because that was where the reel ended.

For a moment there was silence in the court. Then a woman rose slowly to her feet. I'd noticed her earlier, sitting at a table set for two, apart from everybody else. Now she took off her mask, and I saw that she was my mother. Her cheeks flamed with the embarrassment of having borne a son like me. I tried to catch her eye, but she looked away from me. I don't think I ever saw her looking more beautiful. Her hair was perfect, and so was her dress, as if she'd spent hours getting ready for the occasion.

My Fitztalbot father rose to his feet as well, lending his support by holding her hand. ‘No one will ever know how I have suffered,' she said in a low voice, ‘and what it's cost me to bring my son into the Fitztalbot family. If I'd only left him with his grandmother in Wales, perhaps things might have worked out differently. But I wanted the best for him, and for his sister too. I wanted to give them every opportunity. And Cary was a good girl – everybody loved her, right from the start. But Zachary ...'

She broke off, unable to carry on. Immediately my Fitztalbot father took over, ready with the words that she couldn't bring herself to say.

‘Zachary was ungrateful,' he said. ‘He never took the opportunities that we offered him. We sent him to the best schools, but he didn't even try. All he ever did was pay us back with bad behaviour. And now he's gone too far. We've had enough of him. We're overwhelmed with shame. There's nothing we can say in his defence. He's a hopeless case, but we're not to blame. He's not our fault. We did our best. We wash our hands of him.
He's no son of ours
.'

All round the room, you could have heard a pin
drop. Then the red judge rose to his feet, and every eye turned back to him. You could feel the atmosphere in the room becoming colder. Men reached for their jackets and women for their stoles. My mother sat down, and so did my Fitztalbot father. The case was closed – and I was done for.

‘Zachary Fitztalbot,' the red judge said, looking down at me with twin fires in his eyes, burning for retribution. ‘This court has heard the case against you, weighed the evidence and heard the testimonies of all the witnesses. It is now my judgement that, for bullying your cousins, for bringing dishonour to the Fitztalbot family name, for ingratitude, for insolence, for throwing your father's generosity back in his face, for bringing grief to your mother and causing her to suffer, and – most of all –
for the murder of Gilda Katterfelto
, I sentence you to …'

I waited for it. ‘
Death. I sentence you to death
.' That's what my punishment would be. No other sentence would do here in the court of this judge with whom I'd struck a deal already, promising him my life. I held my breath. Prayed for deliverance, but knew there was no hope for me.

But I was wrong! In the furthest corner of the room, the shadows began to shift again and, suddenly, another figure emerged. It came striding across the floor, pushing aside the
C
ŵ
n y Wbir
as if they were nothing but a minor hindrance. Everybody stared, including me, as an old woman in a shabby skirt and apron, her pockets full of clothes' pegs, headed for the dais. For a moment, it looked as if the court was being gatecrashed. But it was obvious the moment the woman stepped into the light, without a mask to hide
behind, that she had the right to be here.

For she was my other grandmother.

Grace!

.

Every New Year's Eve since, I've always remembered it. Wherever I am and whatever I'm doing, it always comes back to me. Sometimes I don't even have to know it's New Year's Eve and it still comes back. The whole thing's burned on my brain – the people half-risen in their seats and the expression on the red judge's face as Grace came towards him like a soul-survivor walking upon water.

She walked as if she had no fears. Nothing in this court could touch her. She wasn't even frightened of the
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ŵ
n y Wbir
. The red judge's legendary dogs – there to do their master's will and keep his court in order, yet they backed away as if nothing had prepared them for this furious woman.

Nor, it seemed, had it prepared their master. The closer Grace got, the more the red judge seemed to lose his grip. I don't know how she did it but, by the time she reached the dais, you could tell that she was the one in charge, not him.

And she knew it, too! She smiled triumphantly as
she passed me by, and I caught a whiff of whisky on her breath and sunshine in her hair. Caught the scent of life on her, as if not even death could keep her down. Perhaps the red judge caught it too. Perhaps that was why he sat down, looking small and beaten. And that was before Grace even started speaking.

‘This court's a travesty of justice!' she cried out in a ringing tone. ‘It's an insult to the law, and you, sir, are an insult to the justice system! Do you hear me? Don't just sit there looking like that. Pull yourself together. Have a bit of dignity. Stop quivering, and sit up straight! The time has come to answer for what you've done. And to answer properly – no tricks this time!'

A shiver ran round the court. The tables had been turned, and nobody could quite believe that it had happened. Grace had come back from the dead, and they couldn't believe that either. They were standing on a crossroads between life and death, but couldn't even grasp what was happening. They didn't understand.

‘Make yourself comfortable,' Grace said, looking round at them all. ‘Hold on to your masks, all you fine Fitztalbots – you'll need them to cover up your blushes. Then tell me what sort of people would bring a boy before a court like this? Would let him stand with no defence? With not a word on his behalf. Alone, and unprotected. Without a chance to speak for himself. What sort of family? Shame on you, I say!
Shame on you all!
'

Around the room, cries broke out. Words like ‘old', ‘mad' and ‘troublesome' flew everywhere, with calls to ‘stop her' and ‘do something'. But nobody could stop Grace. Not even my Fitztalbot grandmother, whose
voice rose above everybody else's.

‘
And while we are about it
…' Grace said, looking at her pointedly and shouting her down, ‘what sort of grandmother would hold it against a boy because he couldn't do his sums, or wasn't grateful enough?'

Grace's eyes were blazing by now, and her words were like a whip. My Fitztalbot grandmother flinched, as if she had been stung. So did the rest of them.

‘Before you start judging others,' Grace said, ‘you should take a look at yourselves. This trial's a sham, and you all knew it from the start. You could have refused to go along with it, but you let it happen. You could have stopped it, but you sat back and enjoyed it as if it were the entertainment at your annual Christmas party! Well, if it's entertainment that you're after,
then watch this
…'

I had never seen Grace like this before. Never so angry, or so powerful. She strode up to the red judge, whipped the cloak off his back and held it up for everyone to see. He tried to get it off her, but Grace shook the cloak in his face, driving him back.

‘You've had your turn in the limelight,' she cried out. ‘Now it's mine. Let's see what secrets you keep hidden here. What little tricks, waiting to be conjured out of thin air!'

She shook the cloak and things started falling out. First it was old pennies that had been stuck down in the lining, and then it was the lining itself, coming away in a single piece. Then a woolly mitten came flying out, followed by a matching red wool hat. Then a boot came flying out, followed by another. Then a duffle-coat came flying out – a hefty-looking duffle-coat with chunky padded lining. Then I don't exactly
know
what
happened, but suddenly it wasn't a cloak hanging between Grace's hands.

It was a boy!

All around the room, people gasped. But I gasped louder than the rest because
I knew that boy!
I'd met him once before, throwing snowballs at sheep. Now I stared at him, remembering him pointing me in the wrong direction, sending me up Plynlimon when I'd asked for the main road. He'd even laughed as I set off.

But he wasn't laughing now!
Grace was shaking him as if he was a wicked child in need of punishment. She shook so hard that the rest of his clothes fell off him, right down to his pants and socks. The room rang out with protests that it wasn't right to treat a child like that. But, before anyone could stop her, it wasn't a boy hanging between Grace's hands any more. He'd gone, shaken clean away – and someone else hung in his place.

It was the dad this time! The one who'd built that snow-castle, complete with towers and battlements, then gone indoors leaving me to freeze outside. He'd smiled as he'd closed his door – a strange smile, I'd thought at the time, but one that had filled me with black despair.

But he wasn't smiling now!
He was being shaken as if he'd known what he was doing – known the despair he'd left me in and hadn't cared. His clothes came flying off him, just like the boy's had done. Layers of coats and scarves and hats went flying in every direction until they'd finally all gone, and so had he, and the person hanging between Grace's hands was someone else.

It was the snowplough driver this time. The one who'd carried on through the forest when the
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ŵ
n y Wbir
were chasing me, disappearing from sight when he could have stopped to help me. Now Grace was shaking him as well, as if she knew that he had seen me waving and yelling. She shook and shook until everything came off him and a crow appeared instead. A huge, black crow with a crabbing voice that went through me.

Then Grace shook the crow, and feathers flew everywhere, and a cat appeared. A small, black cat, just like the one that had trapped me in the stable block at Clockvine House – the one I'd tried to kill, but had killed Gilda instead.

Then Grace shook for a last time. Fur went flying everywhere and the cat screeched and clawed and tried to get away. But Grace was too strong for it. She wouldn't let go. She shook and shook. And, when she'd finished,
Gilda
hung from her hands.

Gilda Katterfelto!

I stared at her, and Gilda stared back, her eyes as bright as emeralds. The last time I'd seen her she'd been dead, but now her cheeks were full of colour, and there wasn't a hint of scar where that flying mallet had struck her. I cried out in astonishment and, all around the room, people cried out too. They didn't understand how the Gilda on the flickering film could be this Gilda now. And I didn't either – but one thing was for certain.

I had been fooled!

Gilda glanced at me, edgy and nervous, and gave a little helpless shrug as if she didn't understand either. It was then that I snapped. I mightn't know exactly
what was going on, but I could tell she'd been a part of it all the way along. I leapt on to the dais, snatched her off Grace and started shaking her myself. I thought I'd never stop. Her green silk costume went flying one way and her cap the other. Her hair flew away, just like the cat's fur before it, and crow's feathers before that. Then the rest of her went too. I shook and shook until nothing –
nothing –
was left.

Finally my hands were empty. I held them up, and everything had gone. The cloak. The boy. The man. The snowplough driver. The crow. The cat. Gilda Katterfelto. Not a trace of any of them. I turned to Grace. I still didn't understand.

‘It's very simple,' she said. ‘Gilda wasn't real. She was an illusion. So were all the rest of them. They were pieces in a game whose purpose was to trick you and confuse you, to spur you on, string you along, outsmart and outmanoeuvre you. To see you run, and track you down and – when the fun was over and you finally became boring – do away with you.'