The Guardian of Secrets

by Jana Petken

  “Please don’t do it.” Tears fell silently down his cheeks, and his wide eyes pleaded with him to be lenient.

  Justice Henry Peak placed the black cap on his head and didn’t prolong the question of Joseph’s fate any longer. “Michael Pickens, also known as Joseph Dobbs, you have been found guilty of the crime of wilful murder. This being the case, you will now be taken from this place and will remain in custody until a time set for your execution, which will be within two weeks from today. At the appointed time, you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead.”

  He paused, allowing the courtroom to take in this information. When it had quietened down again, he said, “I find you to be a man completely devoid of conscience, an evil man who is unfit to walk this earth. You have shown no remorse towards your mother; to the family of the victim, Peter Merrill; or to this courtroom. Furthermore, this is possibly one of the vilest cases I have ever had to deal with. You will leave a repugnant taste in the mouths of all persons present at this trial. Indeed, I am sure that your notoriety will live on long after your death. May God forgive you and may he have mercy on your soul. Do you have anything to say?”

  Joseph’s hand trembled as he put it on his chest, pumping it like a heart. His tears fell, and he slumped in his seat. He tried to stand again, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. He swayed in the chair and then rocked back and forth.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please don’t do this, Judge. Mum, don’t let them do this to me. Please, Mum, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it … It was Celia. She made me do it. She drove me mad! I’m mad, Judge! I didn’t know what I was doing!”

  Justice Henry Peak addressed the policemen: “Take him down.”

  Doreen Pickens stared at her son and showed no emotion when he was taken from the dock. Each policeman held an arm when his legs gave way completely. A pool of urine was left on the floor where he’d stood, and urine dripped behind his dragged body.

  Marie watched Joseph’s pathetic figure disappear down the steep flight of stairs that led to the underground cells, and for a brief moment, she felt pity for the man who had caused havoc and destruction on all their lives. She determined now that Joseph’s downfall had been caused by the vanity and arrogance for which he was well known. Nonetheless, his death would be a waste of a young life and a great tragedy for baby Peter, who would never know his father. Joseph had always believed that he was the best of gamblers, yet he had lost everything. The judge had been right in saying that Joseph was evil, but where had that evil come from? she wondered. Did it stem from his greed and lust for power, as Mr Bats had stated, or did people like Joseph Dobbs take their evil characters from their mothers’ wombs, unable to detach from them at birth? She didn’t know, but part of her grieved for a life that might have been.

  Joseph remained in his cell in His Majesty’s Pentonville Prison for two weeks, the allotted time for sentencing to be carried out. His lawyer, Mr Burns, had tried to appeal to the court for leniency, saying that Joseph had cracked under the pressure of being married to a mentally abusive wife, and therefore couldn’t be held responsible for his actions. He also put the motion forward that the trial had been too much for Joseph, that he didn’t fully understand or know what he was saying because of the severe pain to his leg. And finally, Burns suggested that Mr Bats had been guilty of entrapment. But deaf ears met his pleas.

  Joseph couldn’t sleep. He didn’t eat and had no visitors. Day after day, he watched the sunrise and shafts of light that glinted through the small window. In the evening, he watched it set from within the small room bathed in an orange glow. He hated the nights more than anything, for that was when dark shadows hanging on the walls mocked him, when the only sound he heard was that of his own breathing, and when his imagination was so vivid that his fears became a living reality. He needed a drink. He needed one to stop his body from shaking and his gut from cramping up. He had no money to bribe the guard. Money was everything in this life; he’d always known that. He passed his time playing with a pack of cards. He pretended he was playing poker with someone, but even his passion for the game didn’t bring any comfort.

  The night before his hanging, he reflected on his short but full life. He wasn’t a bad man, he concluded. He’d been trapped by a conspiracy of rotten people and wasn’t to blame for the cruel turn of events that had led him to this. They had been his downfall, all of them. If he’d been treated better, with more respect, he would have returned the favour, but they’d looked down on him, just as his parents had, and they had made him the man he was.

  He tried to imagine what the tightening grip of the noose would feel like, and he shuddered at the very thought of it. Would it be quick? Or would he dangle there like a limp rag doll, doing a ridiculous jig until the life was sucked out of him? Would he pee his pants again as he had in the court? Would it hurt? He’d never known anyone to die at the end of a rope. No one ever talked about things like this … Would Celia and Marie Osborne be there gloating at his defeat?

  “You have a visitor, Pickens,” the guard told him, appearing at the bars. “It’s your mother.”

  “Tell her to fuck off! I don’t want to see her,” Joseph told him.

  “She’s insisting. Anyway, I thought you’d be pleased to see a friendly face since no other bugger has come to see you.”

  Joseph tucked his shirt into his trousers but then rebelled and ripped it out again. If he had a sharp object, he’d stick his mother with it. If he could squeeze the life out of her with his bare hands or spend five minutes tormenting her, he’d do it.

  “Okay, bring her in and get it over with,” he told the guard.

  Doreen Pickens stood hesitantly behind the guard and said nothing when he ushered her forward. “Seeing as how you’ve only got one more night, she can stay for a half hour. I’ll give you some privacy and come back and get you when it’s time. All right, missus, in you go.”

  Doreen Pickens lifted her gloved hand, and gestured that she understood. Then she raised her faceless body to full height, whimpering with pain, and stretched out her arms towards Joseph.

  “Why have you come here?” Joseph asked her suspiciously, dodging her arms. “Is it to gloat? I bet you’re really happy. I bet you think I deserve what’s coming to me. Well, don’t bother giving me any of your sermons. I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”

  “Michael,” Doreen Pickens said quietly before sitting down on the thin mattress. “Even after everything that’s happened, after everything you’ve done, I’m still your mother, and I still love you. You’re my only child, and I forgive you everything, as a good mother and good Christian should. I’m here to save you.”

  “Don’t give me that old rubbish! I don’t want you or your God to save me! And if you forgive me, why did you turn up at court and ruin my chances? Why didn’t you just die like you were supposed to in that fire?”

  “I just wanted to see you, to save you. I thought that maybe you would repent, show me some kindness or apologise. I didn’t want this to happen to you, but I couldn’t lie; the lawyer said that it would be worse for you if I didn’t tell the truth.”

  “If you hadn’t come, I wouldn’t be in here now, you stupid cow … You’ve killed me!”

  “No, no, please don’t say that. I had to come; I had to see you again … make things right between us. Son, please, I love you … Look.” She was fiddling with a brown paper parcel. “I baked your favourite cake. Remember, the fruit sponge that you used to like so much? I put it in your lunch box every day when you went to school, remember, son?” She lifted her veil and tried to smile.

  Joseph tried not to look at his mother’s disfigured face, but he was drawn to it. She was supposed to be a corpse. She was disgusting, he thought, shuddering with revulsion as he watched her rip off a large piece of cake with her gloved hand.

  “I don’t want it,” he said. “I want nothing from you. I wish you had died. Look at you! You’re fit for nothing but the bloody circus!”

 
“Michael,” she pleaded, her eyes filling with tears. “This is the last time we’ll ever see each other. Won’t you be civil to me? Won’t you eat with me? Please. You don’t need to talk … Just eat with me … like we used to … you, me, and Dad.”

  The sight of her ugly, distorted features was making him feel sick to his stomach, but at the same time, he also heard a whisper of guilt flit through his mind. It was his fault that she looked like she did. She’d always been ugly, but he’d played his part in making her into the monster she was now. He’d eat the cake and tell her what he thought of her, and then she’d be gone forever.

  “Right, give us a bit, then get out of here. And I don’t want to see your face tomorrow at the thing they’re going to do to me.”

  She handed him the cake, and they began to eat in silence. He swallowed the first mouthful, and its taste reminded him of the past. He was a young boy, and his mother was looking after him, caring for his every need. He suddenly remembered all the other food she used to make for him … his clean clothes ironed and placed in neat piles on the bottom of his bed … the coins she used to steal from his father in order to keep him happy on boiled sweets. If he closed his eyes, he could even allow the thought of her bathing the nasty cut he’d got when a tree branch had given way and he’d plummeted to the ground. The sweet taste of the fruit and sugared sponge melted in his mouth, and as they sat on top of the thin mattress together, he unconsciously smiled.

  “You always did make a good sponge, Mum.”

  She smiled back and looked deep into his eyes, caressing his face with her gloved hand. “I still love you, Michael.”

  He swiped her hand away as though it were a bothersome fly, remembering abruptly where he was. “Shut up! I don’t want to hear that … and don’t touch me again.”

  A mutual silence ensued then. Joseph realised that he was famished. He was going to die the next day, but he was now thinking about food. How fucked up was that? He grabbed the remainder of the cake and bit into it.

  “Mind if I finish it?” he asked his mother with his mouth full.

  Doreen Pickens smiled a wide smile, displaying the contentment of a happy mother, and then she stood up and walked hesitantly towards the bars of the cell, peering right and left through them. She stood there for a moment, listening for something. Joseph watched her, thinking that she was going to leave. She turned slowly and dropped her walking sticks to the ground.

  “Here, put these on, son,” she said, stripping off layers of clothing.

  “What?”

  “Hurry, put on my clothes. I won’t let them kill you. I told you, I’m here to save you.”

  Joseph opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He threw the cake aside and in complete silence grabbed the mountain of black garments now lying on the ground. He dressed quickly in the long skirt, blouse, jacket, coat, shawl, and gloves, balancing on his one good leg. His mother placed the hat on his head, held in place by an elastic band and black ribbon, and then took the veil and covered his face from sight. She touched his face with her disfigured and scarred hand. Joseph recoiled but then moved forward again and allowed her to stroke his cheek. She handed him the walking sticks and took a step backwards to look at him.

  “Take the sticks and stoop low – and remember to hobble like this.”

  Joseph watched, still in shock, as his mother waddled around the tiny cell like a lame duck. He couldn’t quite believe what was happening. He felt as though he were in a dream and hoped he wouldn’t wake up. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He was going to go along with the plan his crazy mother had obviously thought up weeks ago. He would hobble, just as she did. He would stoop low and be ushered out of the prison in the same way she got in. If he got out of the cell alive, he’d be saved; nothing would stop him after that. They would have to kill him on the run because there was no way he was coming back to hang.

  His mind was a jumble of thoughts. He tried to concentrate, for in the next few minutes, the guard would come, and he would have to be ready for him. “Why are you doing this?” he asked his mother when she handed him money.

  “Because you’re my boy and always will be. I love you … Now go.”

  Joseph stared at her gruesome face, and she turned from him, struggling on lame legs towards the wooden bed. Once there, she lay down, covering herself completely with the two blankets, and faced the wall. Joseph watched her for a moment and then sidled up to the bed. He uncovered her head, and she stared into his eyes with a faint smile on her lipless mouth. He stared, mesmerised at the ugliness that held his eyes. She should have died in the fire, he thought. Her face would always haunt him unless he erased it from his mind, but he would never be able to do that whilst she lived. She was an abomination, a creature that had no right to live anymore! He’d suffered enough at her hands. He bent over her and cupped her head in his gloved hands. She smiled at him again.

  “You don’t want to live like this, do you, Mum?” Her eyes widened, but she said nothing. “No, you want to go to him, don’t you, to Dad?”

  Doreen Pickens sighed and closed her eyes. Joseph tightened his grip on her head and twisted it to the side with one quick jerk. The bone snapped and her head dangled in his hands. He placed her head back on the pillow and faced it towards the wall. He’d done the old cow a favour, put her out of her misery. He looked once more at the corpse and then covered her completely with the blanket. He would never have to think about her again.

  Joseph rattled the cell’s bars with his mother’s bag, alerting the guard, who arrived a few minutes later with a half-eaten sandwich in his hand.

  “Right, missus, said your goodbyes, then?” the guard asked him.

  Joseph nodded his bowed head and then lifted it up and put a gloved finger to where his lips were under the veil. “Shh.”

  The guard looked past him at the figure on the bed. “What, did you sing your little boy to sleep, eh?” he whispered. “He’ll be sleeping the long sleep tomorrow all right … begging your pardon, missus. Sorry for your loss.”

  Joseph stooped lower and sorrowfully shook his head slowly from side to side.

  “Right then, let’s get you away.” The guard ushered him out of the cell and into the corridor. “You’ll want to get the tram at the corner, I suppose.”

  Joseph nodded again and then hobbled behind the guard through a long deserted corridor that led to the guards’ station. At the end of the corridor, the guard opened an outer door with bars. They went through it and then down two stairs, out another door, wooden this time, and into a reception area where the guards welcomed visitors.

  Joseph saw the two guards, and his heartbeat quickened. They sat behind a glass window, smoking cigarettes and laughing about something. They lifted their heads every now and again to look at him and then carried on with their amusing conversation. This was taking too long, Joseph thought, beginning to panic. He was sweating badly, and he swore to himself. The droplets of water dripping down his face were sticking to the veil, making the veil stick to his face … No wonder he was sweating. Who wouldn’t, with all these fucking layers of clothing on! He swore to himself again; what the fuck was he supposed to do now? He barely moved his head but managed to glance up with his eyes. The escort guard was writing something in a large open book that sat on the counter. Joseph tried to dry some of the sweat around his lips with his tongue and then bowed his head farther, until it sat on his chin. The guard turned at last, swept his arm towards an open door, and ushered him through it. Thank fuck for that! Joseph thought, letting out a slow and silent sigh of relief. Outside, Joseph felt the fresh air trickling his face through the veil.

  “Nearly there, missus,” the guard told him, urging him on.

  They were in the outer courtyard, but Joseph couldn’t see much more than shadows through the thick veil and sweat dripping into his eyes. As he followed the guard, he wondered how his mother had managed to get around all this time; he almost felt sorry for her.

  The walk through the c
ourtyard seemed never ending. Joseph’s heart was pounding in his chest. His leg was hurting, making him hobble in a slightly different way to his mother’s crippled but even step. His heart beat even faster. He sweated again, even though the night was cold. In front of him was the misty shadow of the main entrance and the thick high doors that led to the outside world. The guard spoke to the gatehouse watchman for a moment, and then the doors were opened.

  “You take care now, missus,” the guard told Joseph. Joseph nodded his head for the last time and walked into the night.

  “Did you see that big ugly cow?” one of the guards said later to his opposite number over a cup of tea. “That was a big bloody woman, or what was left of her. I never got a look at her face under that black mask, but I bet it was worse than old Frankenstein’s monster. Imagine living like that. I’d rather shoot myself in the mouth.”

  “From what I’ve heard, she hasn’t got one.” The other guard laughed.

  “She told me to shush my mouth when I went for her,” the escort guard put in. “Bleedin’ hell, how can Dobbs sleep the night before he’s going to die? It’s beyond me. There she was, the poor old bat, bringing him cake, and he faces the wall and falls asleep.”

  “He faced the wall and fell asleep because he couldn’t stand the sight of her, no doubt. Do you want to wake him up for the fun of it?”

  “No, let him be. I’d rather eat my sandwich in peace.”

  Joseph jumped on the first tram that came along. He sat at the back, head bowed and trying to go unnoticed by the people on the crowded seats and aisle. The sooner he got out of these clothes, the better, was his first thought. They smelled of his mother and made him feel sick. The coast … He’d head for the coast and then over to France on a boat. He looked at the money. There was quite a bit of it. His mother must have done all right for herself, he grunted with resentment. Maybe she sold the land or something. He didn’t care about that now. He was alive; that was the main thing. He’d beaten the fucking hangman’s noose and everyone else. He was alive!