by Mark Lawson
She put her head against his and they rubbed them together. She thought of zoo animals. The feel of his scalp disturbed her. Although she shared Ned’s concerns about money, she had tried to persuade him to keep going to the weave place. What was happening to him was odder than watching a bloke going bald; the unravelling of the strands was a reminder that the looks she had found attractive were an act.
He moved to try to kiss her lips but she shifted to offer a cheek. A loose long strand from his new hairdo tickled her eye. She understood that he was trying to become unnoticeable but, the way it was going, he was ironically at risk of being mistaken for that landlord who was wrongly accused of killing the poor young architect.
Ned tried to push closer, but she held the distance. Impressive lower-body strength. Pilates. As they cuddle-tussled, a half-erection brushed her thigh.
‘Please, Em.’
‘I still can’t quite.’
‘I’ve said sorry in every way I …’
‘I’ll get there.’ A quick compromise kiss on his lips. Feeling the thrust of his tongue, she pulled away. ‘Trust me.’
‘Look, we don’t have to actually … will you just let me … ?’
It was almost tempting, him, unseen, devoted only to her pleasure.
‘I’d feel too mean.’ She shrugged his hands away from her shoulders. ‘It’s not that I don’t love you. But … anyway, I really need to finish Your Love Always …’
‘What?’ Not at first noticing the title, he had heard a rebuttal harsher than she meant. ‘Oh, right. I …’
Her mouth felt dry. She drank some of her night water, was tempted to empty the glass. Replacing her reading glasses, she found the abandoned paragraph.
Voice grumped by bruised refusal, he asked: ‘That’s the texts from the dead thing?’ She nodded. ‘Well, that’s a really lousy knock back. You’ve read it already.’
‘And I need to read it again. I’ve got a call booked with the author tomorrow. I think it’s between two of us now.’
He stroked her hair; she tried not to flinch. ‘Well, let me relax you before your big conversation.’
‘Ned, to convince her I’m the best representation she could have, I need to be able to recite the book line by line if necessary.’
‘Well, from what you told me in Edinburgh, there isn’t much to know. We only have Scott’s word for it that his wife even died. He’s an unreliable narrator – bet you any money.’
The verbal equivalent of knowing in slow motion that a collision is coming but being unable to brake: ‘But you haven’t got any money! Which is why I really need to sign this book.’
He made a liquid sniff that she hoped was not tears. ‘I’m sorry, Ned. I’m sorry.’
He Showed No Emotion
In court reporting, which had recently replaced the sports pages as Ned’s favourite form of journalism, it was almost always noted that the convicted had ‘shown no emotion’ at the moment of sentencing. This seemed to apply regardless of whether the charge was serial murder of children or false accounting.
The reports meant the observation as a judgement, indicating a lack of shame or moral perception. But, during his six months under suspicion, Ned had come to the conclusion that the insouciance might be pharmaceutical. His own experience of happy pills and knock-out drops was that, while efficiently removing negative thoughts, they also obliterated positive emotions. Complete loss of libido might be attributed in his case to the nature of the allegations against him, but appetite, enthusiasm, pleasure and energy were also reduced. His general mood was of dim benignity, as if he were watching things happen to someone else.
At the top end of the spectrum of offence, killers and paedophiles would almost certainly have been prescribed some kind of suppressants or anti-psychotics, and on the lower levels of criminality – the corrupt politicians, perjurious newspapermen and fiddling accountants – the accused were likely to be taking antidepressants or sleeping pills, and probably at higher doses than career criminals, who would usually have had more reason to expect investigation and incarceration. So those who showed nothing in the dock, he suspected, were not displaying signs of shamelessness but of sedation.
#nosmokewithoutfire
At first every morning – and then several times a day – Phee typed her father’s name into a search box, followed by the word rapist. To how many other daughters could this appalling task have fallen? It started after Daddy told her that he could no longer bear to check what was being said about him. So as soon as she woke up and before she tried to sleep – and at other times, some in the night, becoming overwhelmed by what might be out there without her knowing – Phee turned into a curse-nurse, taking the temperature of Ned Marriott’s notoriety.
For days and even weeks after each of the arrests, she found nothing new for twenty-four, forty-eight, seventy-two hours, which at least marked a ceasefire in the crisis, although the repeated details were always freshly distressing. In old movies, suave lawyers or tender lovers would reassure the ruined that ‘tomorrow all this stuff will be wrapping fish and chips’, but now cod suppers were rolled in bespoke waxed paper and bad news could be Googled until doomsday.
Even worse was the headline tagged 9 minutes ago or seeing Ned Marriott between the plane crashes, controversies over offensive comments and One Direction split-up rumours trending on Twitter. Usually, the trigger would be the arrest or trial of someone who had played records, read the news or forecast the weather in the ’70s. Finding the thread or hashtag, Phee scan-read the messages at speed, assessing their levels of malice and inaccuracy from certain words.
Her previous experience of debates, formal and informal, had involved the satisfaction of finding allies, her sense of identity strengthened by being in one pack against another: in Phee’s case, liberals against conservatives. Amid these word-limited opinion-formers, though, she was as uncomfortable among her backers – men who considered the concept of rape a female conspiracy, ex-husbands who went off on tangents about the general duplicity of women – as her detractors.
A report of a pre-trial hearing for a regional TV meteorologist accused of sex offences against schoolboys had led @ shepthedog, a commenter mainly on broadcasting topics, whom Phee started following when he led reckless speculation about her dad on the day the story broke, to reflect on other overshadowed screen talent.
Shep The Dog (@shepthedog) 12m @louisgatt14 U say perv presenters 70s problem but #nedmarriottarrested still on box right until nicked
History Girl (@drhlangham) @louisgatt14 I completely concur
Comedy Northerner (@davepike41) Fook me @drhlangham *completely concur* #poshtwat
Phee hoped that the contribution from the class warrior would divert the conversation but the intervention in the name of the former Blue Peter dog had already been retweeted several times and so, like a nightclub bouncer deciding the line has been crossed between fun and a fight, she went in. She had used false names at times but the responses seemed equally brutal regardless of who she was thought to be and so she no longer tried to hide the bloodline.
Ophelia (@pheemarriott) @shepthedog vital to note #nedmarriottarrested not *nicked*, not even charged and denies charges #innocenttilguilty
Shep The Dog @pheemarriott yeah yeah #nosmokewithoutfire.
Jeremy Milligan (@jsjmilligan) Worked with #nedmarriottarrested and he was a total cunt especially to women.
Ophelia (@pheemarriott) some feminist u if u use c word
Comedy Northerner @pheemarriott Ophelia!!!! Get her. #poshtwat
Ophelia @shepthedog #nosmokewithoutfire Yes smoke no fire #nedmarriottarrested is innocent and will prove it
History Girl @davepike41 Get her? #toanunnery
Shep The Dog @pheemarriott #nedmarriottarrested *raped* 2 girls
Comedy Northerner @drhlangham Eh? Eh? #toanunnery *scratches head*
Ophelia @shepthedog #nedmarriottarrested did not *rape* anyone #innocenttilguilty
Cleopatra Bones (@cjones872) @pheem
arriott but how u no? R 2 girls lieing?
Emily Spankhurst (@stopsexism) (@cjones872) she no bcos she @pheemarriott #daddysgirl
Ophelia @shepthedog @cjones872 @stopsexism point is this could happen to your father, husband, brother, son #innocenttilguilty
Comedy Northerner @pheemarriott It wont u silly cunt cos they not rapists
When that last remark had been retweeted 384 times, Phee left the conversation.
The Verdict Stage
Trying to concentrate on the Guardian, Tom was distracted from distraction by a blur of gold in the corner of the kitchen. Looking up, he saw Helen taking a bottle of champagne out of an Aldi bag.
‘Oh, fuck, I’m sorry.’
‘For what? Or alternatively what for?’
Her speech patterns reflected living with a pedant.
‘It’s these drugs I’m on.’ He scanned the squares of September on the wall calendar. They’d just done their anniversary, and the kids were all March or April birthdays, in the middle-class way, from summer holiday sex, and Hells was a Taurus. ‘What have I missed?’
‘What? Oh, no, this is to celebrate tonight.’
‘Aaaargghh!’ A not-entirely mock scream. ‘All this time, I thought I was the victim of a witch hunt and I was living with a fucking witch. Don’t hex me, Goodie Pimm.’
Though such a committed rationalist that he considered Richard Dawkins a little mystical, Tom was superstitious enough to panic at Helen’s anticipation of his acquittal, even though he was equally confident of the outcome. At the appeal hearing, Henry Gibson had seemed so wryly on-side that Tom subsequently ate and slept with intermittent normality and, for the last week, had been slicing the little white antidepressants down the middle, risking half a dose to deliver equilibrium.
They compromised by leaving the bottle on the work-top wine-rack, with an agreement that he would text her after his meeting with Special to tell her if – when – to put it in the fridge.
Tom could forgive Helen’s optimism because she had given him a tip that seemed to confirm a positive result. At her office, she had told him, employees always knew that they would be given bad news – redundancy, suspension, re-assignment – if they were invited to bring a supporter or union rep to a meeting or if, on arrival, they found an HR representative present. So, receiving an e-mail summoning him to the Director’s office to learn the ‘outcome of his hearing’, Tom had inquired by return if he should bring someone along with him and whether anyone else would be present in the room. Special’s PA responded that the Director envisages it being just the two of you. In a followup which, if he did not boycott emoticons, would have finished with a winking face, Tom mentioned that he was currently barred from entering university premises and was told that the restriction had been lifted for this encounter.
Since his collapse, Tom always allowed extra time to reach anywhere, in line with the Mindfulness guidance on identifying and avoiding pressure situations. Turning onto the roundabout by the main campus road seventy-five minutes before his appointment, he spent three quarters of an hour in an Aylesbury coffee shop with his laptop, substituting and then removing mountingly exotic verbs and adjectives in a single sentence of his Kennedy–Bush–Clinton book.
Finishing his decaf Americano, Tom resolved that when Special told him the ordeal was over, he would be gracious, with no gloating; it had clearly been necessary for the allegations to be investigated.
At the main security door in reception, he brushed his swipe card against the plastic pad with a flourish. The failure of the glass to part was the physical equivalent of a credit card being rejected in a shop.
Turning away while forcing a casual air, he looked back to the Caribbean woman desk-guard, whom he recognized and so might be able to identify him in return.
‘Oh, I think I need to get it renewed. Can I have a guest one for today?’ he asked.
‘Okay, honey. Dr Pimm, yeah?’
The now familiar moment of wondering how much someone knew.
‘Heretosee?’ The phrase employed so often that it had slurred into a single word.
‘Spe … Dr Kevan Neades.’
She filled out the visitor slip, slid it into the safety-pinned plastic holder. She had written his surname with one m.
Waiting outside the glass office, he convinced himself that the chilling indifference of Elaine was professional rather than personal, her robotic ‘you can go in now’ no clue to the result of the meeting.
Special was hunched over the desk, lips moving while rehearsing typed lines, shattering Tom’s optimism because exoneration could be ad-libbed but dismissal would be given in legally agreed words.
When the Director looked up, Tom held out his hand but the only response from Neades was a flick of the finger to tell him to sit down.
Reading upside down speak slowly at the top of the foolscap, Tom knew what to expect before the words ponderously began.
‘Thank you for attending this meeting today, Dr Pimm. I have received the report of your hearing with Professor Gibson. It has been concluded that offence was taken and hurt caused by some of your behaviours. Accordingly, the decision has been reached that your contract will be terminated forthwith on the grounds of professional misconduct. Due to the circumstances of dismissal, you will not be eligible for any severance payment but the contractual terms of your pension continue to apply and a representative of Workplace Harmony can advise you of the position in that regard.’
Heart threatening to break his rib cage, throat scorched by bile, salt water stinging his eyes, Tom arrested the retch but let the tears drop. The only reasons to suppress this response would have been pride – which he had lost – and the discomfort of his executioner. Well, let the morbidly obese Northern Irelander appreciate the consequences of his corporately self-serving actions.
‘Do you have any questions, Dr Pimm?’
Neades had squeezed a large white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and, for a moment, Tom feared that the Director would maternally proffer it. But, instead, he cacophonously blew his nose.
Struggling to speak over the tachycardial backbeat banging in his chest and temple, Tom did have a question. He was unable to match this conclusion with the wry, wise, kind presence of Henry Gibson at his appeal against defenestration. An historian describing this sequence of events would suspect an undiscovered document or a meeting in-between.
‘Is this what Professor Gibson recommended?’
Neades’ habitual swallowed fury at being challenged. A long period in which he considered whether he could get away with silence. Then: ‘The ultimate decision would not have been his.’
‘So it was yours?’
‘There would have been a range of views. Unless you have any specific questions, Dr Pimm, I think we will leave it there. A business card skimmed across the table. ‘David Wellington of WH is keeping all lines clear for your call, if you should feel in need of practical or emotional support.’
Driven not by politeness but the desire to prove Neades rude, Tom challenged Special to a final handshake, which was refused.
Because (2)
‘What do you always say about becauses?’ Ned asked Tom. ‘I was sacrificed as one of society’s apologies for not stopping that yellow-haired weirdo paedo in a Bacofoil shell suit. And you’re being ruined because the University let Professor Prick Anything get away with it for so long. Without Savile, without Allison, neither of these things would have happened.’
Report
In the taxi to Paddington Green, Ned was struck by the peculiarity of English using the word report to mean both turning up somewhere and the spreading of news. But, thankfully, today reporters seemed not to have been alerted that he was reporting to answer bail.
Claire had outlined the possibilities from their visit: ‘Bail extended – questioning on “other matters” – re-arrested and formally charged – or NFA.’
‘No fucking … ?’ he guessed. ‘No fucking what?’
‘Ha. Action. No f
urther action, actually.’
Sweat settled on his scalp and neck. ‘My students always said – say – multiple-choice papers are easier. They reckon there are always only two it could really be. Let’s hope they’re right. Any reason you put the best one last?’
‘No. It was random. Dictionary – not youthful – sense. Look, I’m not counting our chicken nuggets. But, on previous form, if it’s bad, they would have had hacks at the flat.’ His hopes rose, though only briefly. ‘Unless they’ll be at the station.’
But only two or three shivering smokers, with no cameras or shorthand pads in evidence, stood on the dirtied stone approach. With a swig of bottled water, tingling his teeth in the December chill, Ned swallowed a Diazepam.
The custody sergeant was light and smiley during the security sign-in but might either be sharing vindication with the innocent, extending sympathy to the doomed, or been a keen viewer of Hitler documentaries who was under the impression that his hero by association had come in as a victim of crime. Ned and Tom (poor Tom) had agreed that there was no point trying to guess the outcome from people’s expressions.
Despite these intentions, he found himself trying to translate the faces and handshakes of Dent and Walters and detected nothing except polite neutrality.
And then Dent said, ‘So.’ The age’s universal punctuation, preface to everything from marriage proposals to terminal news from surgeons. ‘So, how have you been, Professor Marriott?’
Ned sensed irritation from Claire. Was it dismay at the further delay or did experience lead her to infer something from these pleasant preliminaries?
‘I’m alive,’ Ned said.
