by M. J. Hyland
‘The point is this,’ he says. ‘No girl at school would so much as look at me, never mind kiss me, and they told me I looked like a rat and I grew up hard and lonely and there’s some stuff I could tell you about what happened to me that’d disgust you so bad your toes would fucking curl.’
‘What?’ I say. ‘More disgusting than these beans?'
I smile and he looks at me, happy, his eyes wet, like I’ve done him something very fine.
Back in the cell, I lie down on my cot and Stevenson comes and sits on the floor right up next to me.
I wish I had a book.
‘I did a crap yesterday that was as black as a pair of socks,’ he says. ‘And rock hard, too.’
‘Right,’ I say.
‘You get real bad constipation in the nick,’ he says.
I turn over to face the wall, put a pillow over my face, cover my body with the two grey blankets and try for sleep, but he’s too close to me, I can feel him here, too close, desperate for talk.
I turn back round, look at him.
‘It’s cold today,’ he says.
‘Yeah. It’s freezing.’
‘Your body thermostat will adjust in a few weeks. But you still feel it, especially your feet and hands.’
‘I’ve got to sleep,’ I say. ‘I’ve not slept properly for days.’
He lights a cigarette.
‘When did it happen? The murder?'
‘Saturday.’
‘I didn’t sleep for two weeks once. Nearly lost my mind.’
‘I think I’ll sleep now,’ I say. ‘That okay?’
‘'Course it is. You sleep.’
He pats my leg, gentle, like a parent, goes back to his cot. I’m surprised he doesn’t tuck me in and I wouldn’t stop him if he did.
I’m woken three times during the night. The first time when an officer opens and closes the observation panel, slams the shutter closed, crashes his keys against the metal. The second time when a prisoner shouts, ‘Who’s fucking your wife now, eh?’ And the third time I’m woken by a dream. I’m in my room at home and there are two mice under my bed. One mouse is purple, the other green. These mice are longer and fatter than the usual and I pick both up and stroke their soft backs. Then I go to the window and hang them by their tails. I want to know if they’ll die if I drop them from the second floor.
I wake before I drop them.
The blankets are on the floor.
On the way to showers, I daydream about Welkin. A mistake’s been made and he’s alive, sitting at the table under the bay window with Flindall. I look at them from the dining room door. He’s waiting to go on a picnic with Georgia and he tells me she has a ‘spare friend’ and I’m invited, but that Flindall’s not. He says Flindall’s got a job to go to. I tell Welkin I’d love to come along and then I laugh.
Johnson catches up with me and as we pass through the third gate he comes in close.
‘You need a visitor, Oxtoby. Why don’t you call somebody?'
‘I just want to see my QC and get out of here.’
‘There’s one on the way. I’ll let you know when he gets here.’
‘He’s on the way now?'
‘Not today. I don’t think today. Tomorrow, the day after. Maybe the day after that. Maybe next week. I’ll tell you when he gets here.’
The gate opens and the men ahead go through. Johnson puts his hand on my arm to stop me going forward.
‘You need to do something to pass the time.’
‘Like what?'
‘Do you read?'
‘Yeah.’
His eyes are on my crotch.
‘Borrow some books then.’
‘I’m going to.’
He moves in, puts his fat mouth against my ear.
‘I’ll sort out the apps for you.’
‘Okay.’
‘Pardon?'
‘Thanks very much,’ I say.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘That’s better.’
I take the open shower stall furthest from the door and after a few minutes I turn and see Johnson’s standing by the sink looking at me, his fat tongue resting on his bottom teeth.
He’s going to help me out and there’s nothing will stop me getting out of here.
20
After midday chow two days later, there’s a letter on my cot, first-class post, and it’s already opened and the single page is folded in half and sits on a torn envelope.
I sit at the desk to read it.
Dear Son,
This is the hardest letter a father could ever be faced with writing. There’s a lot I want to say and I don’t know how to say most of it.
Your mother’s in an awful state and I thought I should jot down a few words. You must be in a lot of pain too, just like we are. The news of what’s happened has hit us all very hard and we’re trying to find a way to understand, and a way to be compassionate to you.
I sat Russell down this morning and he said he wanted to see you, but I told him I think it would be best for now if we just got our heads round what’s happened and come and see you when we’re ready, in our own time. I’ve told him that I would write for all of us and come and see you when the time’s right.
I’m sure you’re suffering now and I don’t want this letter to make you hurt any extra, but I want to tell you that forgiveness is going to take time. At the moment it is too painful and there’s a lot of anger and hurt and I don’t think we should come into the prison. I am also asking you not to phone us. I am asking you to give us some time.
Please be patient with us and be patient with your mother too. She is in a terrible state of shock but she still loves you as your mother. Your father,
Jim
I go to my cot and lie face down and remember what my father said when I came home from university, that my brother has a knack for happiness and I don’t. I suppose he was right and I hated him then, but not as much as I hate him now.
‘You all right?’ says Stevenson.
‘Yeah.’
I read the letter again then go to the toilet, tear the paper in half, throw it in and flush it.
I go back to my cot and rub my neck.
can’t breathe.
‘You don’t look all right,’ he says.
I pull the blanket over my head.
It’s morning. The siren’s not yet gone for slop-out or showers and there’s somebody at the cell door. I jump up from the cot, my hands balled into fists. It might not be an officer, but time for a beating. It’s Johnson.
‘Get dressed,’ he says. ‘It’s time to go.’
‘Yeah?'
I think he means it’s time to walk free. Six days inside and they’ve finally worked out I shouldn’t be here.
‘Your QC’s here.’
I dress fast and nick one of Stevenson’s extra strong mints from the table.
Johnson takes me through to the admissions room. He signs me in and gets another set of keys and then we go to the corridor where the Day Ward and Fit Cell are. He opens the door to the Interview Room and we go in.
Johnson locks the door from the inside.
‘Security regulations,’ he says.
The room’s small and grey-walled and there’s a white table, four green plastic chairs, and a barred window. The wall to the right of the door is covered with Missing and Wanted posters and the Wanted are all men and the Missing are all girls, except one.
‘Sit here,’ he says. ‘We’ll wait.’
I sit facing the window and he sits next to me.
‘How are you getting on?’ he wants to know.
‘Okay,’ I say.
‘Sleeping?'
‘I keep waking up.’
‘Bad thoughts.’
‘Last night it was…’
There’s somebody out in the corridor. We both look to the door, but whoever’s out there only stops for a moment, as though to listen, then goes on walking.
Johnson’s knee rests against mine.
‘Last night?’ he says. �
��What was it last night?'
‘I woke with the same thought going over and over.’
‘What was it?'
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I kept thinking: I’m on my way out. I don’t want to be on my way out.’
‘What do you think that means?’
‘I don’t know.’
Johnson looks at his watch. ‘Your QC said he was coming before court. Must have got waylaid.’
Waylaid? I’ve got to keep the chat going.
‘Who is he?’ I say.
‘Can’t remember his name but he’s a QC and he’s appointed by the court.’
‘Is he good?'
‘Don’t know, but he’s a QC and that’s what you need.’
He puts his hand on my leg.
I stand and go to the window but I don’t know why I’ve bothered. I can’t stop him if that’s what he wants.
‘Good view?'
There’s only a view of a brick wall about ten feet away.
‘Fuck all,’ I say. ‘I can see fuck all.’
At last, a knock at the door, the sound of a key rattling on a chain.
‘Come in,’ I say.
Johnson laughs, gets up and unlocks the door.
My QC enters the room.
‘I’m Michael Perkins,’ he says, moving at speed to the table. ‘You must be Patrick Oxtoby.’
I stand and we shake hands. ‘Yeah. Thanks for coming.’
‘Let’s get started.’
Johnson moves his chair to the other end of the table and Perkins sits across from me. He’s grey-haired, somewhere in his fifties, and he has a deep dimple in his chin—the kind of bum-chin a boy at my school called Derek Blunk had. But it hardly matters what Perkins looks like. He’s taking off his dark suit jacket and I see the silk lining and I know I’m about to talk to the man who’s going to get me out of here.
‘I’m just sorry I couldn’t get here sooner,’ he says. ‘We don’t have much time.’
His words slur, too much saliva in his mouth.
‘I’m glad you could come,’ I say.
In a matter of minutes, he’ll deliver some good news.
‘My car refused to start,’ he says. ‘Seems not to like the rain.’
‘It’s raining?'
‘Yes. It was.’
‘Heavy rain?'
‘Yes.’
‘What kind of car do you drive?'
‘You’re going to be tried for murder, so we’d better get on with it.’
‘I’m not a murderer.’
‘I’m going to do my level best for you. You’ve got a clean record and your character will stand you in good stead, but this is a difficult case.’
‘I didn’t mean to kill him, so I can’t be found guilty of murder, right?'
‘Yes and no. Everything turns on your intention, what’s known as the mens rea, and the prosecution must prove beyond all reasonable doubt that you had an intention to do either grievous bodily harm or to murder.’
‘I didn’t intend either of those things, so they can’t prove I did.’
‘But the facts, as I understand them so far,’ he says, ‘point to a clear intention and we’ll have to discuss the possibility of pleading guilty to manslaughter.’
He’s supposed to fight for me, to get me freed.
‘There’s no way I’m doing that.’
‘I’d like you to think about it. The police prosecutor might agree.’
‘Who’s that?'
‘The solicitor appointed by the police to prosecute you. The Crown.’
‘What if I don’t plead guilty?'
‘You should seriously consider it, because as it stands—'
‘He must have had a pretty thin skull to die from one hit.’
‘Even if he did have what’s known in the law as an eggshell skull, it makes no difference. As far as the law’s concerned you must take your victim as you find him.’
‘I didn’t want him dead and I can tell you now that there’s no way I’m pleading guilty to anything. I don’t see how I can be convicted of murder if I didn’t want to kill him or even do serious injury. And you’re already talking like you think I’m finished.’
‘Patrick, you’re not finished and I’m going to do my best for you. But I’d strongly advise you to plead guilty to manslaughter. Of course, if you refuse, if you want to leave your fate to the jury, you’re entitled to do so.’
His double chin’s covered in short black hairs, looks like a spider’s fat gut.
‘So I don’t have to plead guilty?'
‘No. But you’re going to need a bit of good luck.’
‘So it’s down to fucking luck then?'
‘Patrick, I appreciate what you’re saying, but I want you to consider a plea. Maybe you’ll change your mind once we’ve talked about your case a little more.’
‘Sounds like you’ve already decided I’m guilty.’
‘It’s more complicated than a blunt equation of guilt or innocence,’ he says.
‘Right.’
‘Let’s get on with looking at your police statement and go over the facts. Then we can discuss our strategy.’
Johnson pulls his chair in closer to mine and Perkins empties his briefcase on the table and some of the documents fall. I help pick them up. The first page of one is headed: THE TABLE OF MAIMS. Beneath that title are these words: FINGER: £1000. LEG: £2500.
‘What’s this?’ I say.
‘You needn’t worry about that,’ he says. ‘That’s for my civil work. Nothing concerning you.’
He puts the documents away. ‘How much is a head worth?’ I say.
‘That’s funny,’ he says. ‘But you’d better keep that kind of humour under wraps during the trial.’
‘Whatever you tell me,’ I say, ‘that’s what I’ll do.’ He looks at me as though he hates me. ‘Okay,’ he says, ‘then listen closely.’
He talks in his flat, watery voice about the criminal law as it pertains to my case.
I tell him I can’t be convicted of murder. I only meant to wake the bastard up.
Perkins shakes his head, slowly, as though he enjoys the fact I’ve failed to grasp the black letter of the law then he puts his chubby hands on the table, palms up.
‘The problem here is that you applied a weapon to the victim’s skull during the dead of night while the victim slept.’
He mimes the act of a man lifting a weapon and bringing it down on another man’s head. His right hand holds the weapon, his left hand, formed into a fist, is the victim’s head.
‘But I only meant to—'
‘You went to the victim’s room in the early hours of the morning and hit him very solidly with a spanner, so you must have been thinking—'
‘An adjustable wrench,’ I say.
‘Pardon me?'
‘An adjustable wrench,’ says Johnson.
‘And when you hit him you intended to do some harm,’ says Perkins. ‘How much harm you intended to do is critical in this case and the evidence might point to a lot of harm—grievous bodily harm.’
‘But I didn’t want to kill him.’
‘It may look as though you not only had the requisite mens rea, but that you had a motive, of sorts. Not a strong one, but a motive nonetheless.’
Looks like the wrong grey man’s been sent. ‘What motive?’ I say.
‘He stole something of yours. Is that the case?’
‘Yes, but—'
‘It was a clock, if I remember correctly, and there’s at least one witness prepared to say that you were very angry about this incident, and that you were heard screaming abuse at somebody the night before the incident.’
‘I didn’t scream abuse. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Perkins makes a note on a yellow pad. ‘Perhaps we’d better return to that later.’
Johnson puts his hand near my hand, as though he means to touch me, but he doesn’t touch me and takes his hand back.
<
br /> ‘The blunt impact to the skull appears to have caused traumatic haemorrhaging,’ says Perkins, ‘which may have been made worse by the victim’s alcohol consumption.’
‘What are my chances?’
Pity me, I want to say. Help me.
‘I’d prefer not to give you a percentage. But I am very encouraged by the fact that you are of good character with no history whatsoever of violent crime.’
‘So there’s hope?'
‘Yes, there’s hope. And, next time we meet, I’ll know more.’
‘That’s good then, cos I definitely don’t have this mens rea. I had no intent to kill, so I can’t be convicted of murder.’
He takes a breath. ‘The trial should take place in the New Year. We think mid-January.’
‘But it’s only September. I can’t be kept in here that long.’
‘Sit down,’ he says.
I hadn’t known I was standing.
‘You have to remain in custody until the trial,’ he says.
‘Can’t I get out on bail?'
‘Bail’s been refused and that’s the end of the matter.’
I wipe snot away with my knuckles.
Johnson tries to find a tissue in his pocket, but he has none.
Perkins does nothing, just waits for me to clean myself up.
‘This is fucking stupid,’ I say.
Perkins looks at the door.
‘Now,’ he says, ‘I’m afraid I must ask you to go over what happened, in your own words.’
‘The same story as in my statement?'
‘Yes. I need to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.’
He pulls his sleeve back from his wrist, checks the time again.
‘And as briefly as you can, Pat. We haven’t much time.’
‘It’s Patrick,’ I say. ‘My name’s Patrick.’
And so, in five minutes flat, I tell the story from start to finish and Perkins writes it down and, as soon as I’m done, he stands, puts his jacket on.
‘That should do us for now,’ he says. ‘Shall I see myself out?'
‘I thought we were going to talk about strategy,’ I say.
‘There’s no time now. We’ll come back to that.’
I stand and Johnson stands.
‘I’ll get an officer,’ says Johnson.
Perkins holds out his hand for me to shake.
‘Thanks for being so cooperative,’ he says. ‘I promise I’ll do my best for you.’
