Trespass

by Anthony J. Quinn

  Exasperated by a time-consuming domestic abuse case, the judge broke into a rant at the court, castigating the solicitors for their habit of adjourning hearings at any excuse, and the police for the lengthy delays in their investigations. Daly had heard it countless times before, and that morning’s slightly drunken diatribe was no different, at least outwardly, from any other. Consequently, he was not overly concerned when he took the witness stand. He had barely taken the oath when the judge indicated with a vexed wave of fingers that he should sit down.

  ‘Are you the investigating officer?’ asked the prosecuting counsel.

  ‘No, I am not,’ replied Daly, eyeing the judge.

  ‘Are you aware of the details of the investigation?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Can you connect the accused with the charges before the court?’

  ‘Yes, your worship.’

  The prosecutor rattled through the details of the case, and then a silence fell upon the room. For the last six months, Daly had taken refuge in his role as the stand-in prosecuting detective, covering for officers who were on holiday, off sick or too busy to attend court; a role that not only provided distance from the scrutiny of his colleagues and commanders, but also served to mask his sense of professional unease. He could no longer be held to account, nor did he have to defend himself and his actions, since it was the detective work of others, rather than his own, that was under scrutiny. It was a relief to watch the jostling of other egos, the careers being made or broken, but what comforted Daly most were the silences, and the repetitive quality of the court exchanges, the defending solicitors and the prosecutors eyeing each other closely, listening to what each other said. The way they nodded gravely and waited with caution for the judge to speak, standing in the same positions every morning and speaking at the same volume, as if everything was subordinated to invisible but strict stage directions.

  There were even times when Daly thought he might be able to forget the events of the previous winter, and the sense of betrayal he felt from his former colleagues, that the deaths of the rogue officers and Commander Donaldson had been a form of punishment in itself. There were glimmerings of hope sometimes in the witness stand, when he was able to relegate the details of his mother’s murder, but then the feelings of guilt would re-emerge, the self-doubts, the worry that he had not done anything, or at least not enough against the system of cover-ups and silence that had kept victims like him in the dark for so many decades.

  He scrutinized the behaviour of the defendants and their solicitors, as though it might be possible to find in their simple crimes, in the intervals of silence between their scripted monotone excuses, a trace of the crime that had tarnished his childhood. As if he expected his mother’s murderers to appear in the dock, shuffling in their turn, like ghosts in the dank light under that vaulted ceiling.

  Daly’s principal problem was that back at headquarters, he usually felt bereft, but he was unwilling or unable to reveal his grief to his colleagues, who also seemed at a loss whenever they strayed into small talk with him, unsure of the lines they were expected to recite. He had no doubt that Special Branch Detective Derek Irwin and his boss Inspector Ian Fealty found his company prickly and exasperating. After the journalist Jacqueline Pryce had published her reports on the murder triangle of the seventies, they had launched an internal investigation into his role in helping her and into the disappearance of Daniel Hegarty, a former IRA spy. They’d asked questions of Daly’s professional reliability at a time when the police force of Northern Ireland was under unprecedented scrutiny by the media and politicians. They’d even accused him of instigating political instability during a difficult period in the peace process.

  ‘What did you think you were doing, making contact with a dangerous spy?’ the new police chief, Commander Alan Sinclair, had asked him at an informal disciplinary hearing.

  ‘My job,’ was Daly’s simple reply.

  ‘Well, you can forget about leading any major investigations until this inquiry is over.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘These things can run for months.’ The sight of Daly’s pained reaction prompted a hint of sympathy from the commander. ‘Listen, Daly, it might do you good to get a break from the front line. It’s what we all need from time to time.’

  ‘True,’ Daly had replied, knowing that in his case it definitely wasn’t.

  Nevertheless, he had accepted his reassignment to court duties with equanimity. He tried to convince himself that the courtroom was not a prison, and that he was not being punished. I am a senior detective, he reminded himself as he stooped before the judge, serving up cases that were the work of other detectives, while all the time nagged by the worry that forces in Special Branch were conspiring to dismantle his career and reputation.

  His subordinated role meant that the details of the cases, even the most shocking and violent, were fixed at a remove, like half-submerged buoys in a fog-bound sea. He had no explicit connection with the investigations, or the anonymous figures of the defendants as they passed through the dock. Weeks had slipped by, and virtually nothing of note happened on the surface of his life. Deep down, however, he was lurching towards a painful transformation. During those mute, constricted hours waiting for his call to the witness stand, he came to realize that as a divorced forty-four-year-old the chances of him salvaging any sense of fulfilment in his career or troubled personal life were rapidly dwindling.

  The cases had blurred into each other that morning, Daly sitting half-numb to what was going on, time totally lost to him. On a submerged level, he felt they were all doomed, the lawyers, their clerks and the police officers, even the omniscient but tipsy judge sitting at his elevated perch, defending the indefensible, a justice system that was too weak and under-funded to deal with the countless ills of a society emerging from forty years of conflict and murder.

  The silence in the court had grown uncomfortably long, and when Daly glanced at the judge, he was surprised to meet his eyes, no longer puffy but shrewd and aggressive-looking, staring back at him. The judge addressed Daly slowly and deliberately, as if every word was a trap laid for his prey.

  ‘Have you heard what I just said, Inspector?’ His cheeks had turned a livid warning colour. ‘If you are doing this deliberately to frustrate the proceedings, then I will charge you with contempt of court.’

  The silence in the courtroom deepened as Daly straightened up and tried to recall which case the judge was dealing with. The piercing gaze directed towards him obviously constituted a professional threat, but he racked his brains, trying to think of how he might have drawn his ire.

  ‘I want us to understand each other so you must explain to me why you refuse to answer my questions,’ said the judge with an unpleasant smile.

  The prosecuting counsel leaned forward to whisper something at Daly, but the judge irritably gestured for her to be quiet. Daly was still under oath, but his mind was a blank and he had no idea what to say. To make matters worse, the defendant in the dock was a complete stranger to him. He glanced about the room, catching glances from the solicitors and their defendants. The judge kept his eyes fixed upon Daly, and though the words sounded professional and calm, Daly could sense the fury behind them.

  ‘You are not the detective in charge of this case, but you have sworn in this court that you are aware of the details.’ The judge let his words hang in the air.

  ‘Yes, your worship.’ Daly hunched his shoulders, feeling as though a protective hood had been wrenched from his head, robbing him of his invisibility. He glanced towards the exit. At the door stood a young female solicitor, gazing at him with sympathy, her shoes a bright red in the dull light of the courtroom.

  ‘What is your name, Inspector?’ snapped the judge.

  ‘Inspector Daly.’

  ‘I would like to have your full name, Inspector Daly.’

  ‘Inspector Celcius Daly.’

  ‘I want you to explain to this court, Inspector Ce
lcius Daly, why it has taken your colleagues more than six months to pass on a medical report of the victim’s injuries to the prosecution service.’

  Daly tried to keep a dignified bearing, while the judge’s cheeks glowed ever more dangerously. A solemn hush fell over the courtroom. The truth was that the investigation teams dealing with minor assault charges were often overwhelmed. It was a chaos inherited from the Troubles, when resources had been routinely directed towards foiling terrorist plots and solving sectarian murders. Even now, so much of police time was spent monitoring and obstructing the terrorist activity of dissident paramilitaries. However, Daly suspected that the judge was in no mood this morning to hear excuses.

  ‘There is no explanation, your worship.’

  The judge’s eyes darkened. ‘Meanwhile, the defendant remains in limbo while the investigating officers drag their heels.’

  Daly leaned forward, his mouth dry. The judge’s comments chimed with his own unfulfilled longings. He thought of all the victims of the Troubles who were also in limbo, waiting for the justice system to prosecute the murderers of their loved ones.

  The prosecutor began to outline possible dates for an adjournment but the judge interrupted her in a low but thunderous voice. ‘I don’t think counsel understands fully what is at stake here, so she should kindly let me finish.’

  The prosecutor sat down, blinking in distress, and the judge turned back to Daly.

  ‘Tell me, Inspector Daly, exactly what progress has been made since the last adjournment in December?’

  The unease in the room increased, the solicitors sensing Daly’s humiliation.

  ‘No progress at all, your worship,’ replied Daly.

  ‘Then either your colleagues are incompetent or they are wilfully obstructing this investigation in the hope that the defendant will remain in custody for as long as possible.’

  Daly watched the lines on the judge’s brow deepen, his anger looming towards him like a gathering storm.

  ‘What irritates me the most is that you, sir, came to court knowing in advance the dire state of this investigation, and were content to simply sit here, prepared to go through the motions without asking any meaningful questions of your colleagues.’

  Daly said nothing. He was reluctant to reply because to speak now would be akin to confessing, and he was afraid that any confession would worsen his situation and be used as evidence against him. The judge had singled him out as though his apathy were to blame for the paralysis of the entire legal system. He could feel the savagery in the judge’s stare, like that of a caged bird of prey outraged by the endless monotony of its imprisonment. The hushed courtroom no longer felt like a bunker for Daly, safe from hunting eyes. There was no dark place for him to retreat into; he could not move from the witness stand. He was frozen to the spot, transfixed by the judge’s glare. He was aware of the rows of solicitors dipping their heads in embarrassment, and the faces in the public gallery, rapt at the unfolding drama. The only one who returned his glance was the young solicitor by the door, watching him closely. He felt hollow inside. He told himself he would have a few extra glasses of whiskey that evening, perhaps even some cigarettes. He was sure there was a mouldy pack somewhere in the drawers of his furniture.

  ‘What do you think, Inspector?’ The judge was leaning far out of his seat now, clearly enraged by Daly’s lack of reply. ‘You think you can dodge my questions by your silence. Let me remind you that this is my court and you will follow my instructions. You will act professionally from now on. You will work within the code of conduct that this court sets and according to the duties that it assigns to you. We cannot afford the luxury of a character like you wandering around, holding your silence, coming and going as you please, avoiding doing anything of any real worth.’

  Daly stared fixedly ahead of him. The judge turned away from the detective and heaved a great sigh. ‘We must ask ourselves the question: What sort of justice are we delivering, ruining a man’s life, leaving him in limbo, wasting taxpayers’ money and court time, waiting month after month for vital evidence to substantiate the charges?’ The anger in his face gradually dissolved. The silent detective had been a tonic for his frustration. ‘Inform your colleagues, Inspector Celcius Daly, that if the report is not forthcoming in two weeks, I will strike off the charges and order the defendant to be released.’

  Daly nodded and left the witness stand. Any damage to his self-esteem was only temporary. Nothing serious. However, he felt tired to the core of his being, tired of the grinding slowness of the justice system, of the deadening weight of unsolved crimes, and of his own mindless role within that system. What sort of justice did people expect while the shadow of the Troubles still loomed so largely, while former paramilitaries enjoyed the highest positions in government, while the political set-up decreed that stability was more important than uncovering the truth? How could anyone believe in law and order when the authorities pretended that some victims never existed and that their ghosts did not haunt their loved ones?

  A dark cloud, outlined in edges of golden light, passed over the high windows, adding a leaden weight to the court. The solicitors began their whispering again, shuffling papers, pacing relentlessly back and forth between their clients and the prosecutors, casting half an eye up at the judge, wondering fearfully if he might pounce on them. Slowly the wheels of justice began to grind again with their rhythmic monotony.

  *

  There was still light left in the sky when Daly left the courthouse that evening. He drove to his cottage on the southern shore of Lough Neagh, his foot pressed hard against the accelerator, as if he wanted to bore the bonnet of his car into the landscape unfolding before him. The lough was invisible until he crossed a low hill and a ridge of trees, and hit a brief rain shower. When it lifted, he had entered a different landscape altogether. Ahead of him, a swathe of triangular fields and marshland sloped down to the lough shore where waves were washing up and breaking in their winter fullness. For a few moments, his over-preoccupied mind made him feel like a stranger, as though he had been away on a long journey.

  The car dipped and bounced over the uneven road, twisting through straggling gorse hedges and birch trees. He could navigate his way blindly along the roads of his childhood, orientating himself by the feel of the road alone, or the sight of the snow-dusted Sperrin Mountains in the west, and the evening stars twinkling in the sky. His body always returned home first, his thoughts and moods later, and the sight of the waves rising and falling gradually drained away the traces of his frustration and humiliation. His driving slowed and became more measured, his mind lifting, even if his suit and jacket still reeked with the odour of defeat. As he pulled up on to his little lane, he found himself looking forward to one of his few remaining consolations: the sight of his black hen roosting in the porch of his cottage.

  The creature had not laid an egg for years, and was economically worthless, but, as the sole survivor of his father’s brood, Daly was determined to keep her alive from each winter to the next. After his father’s death, he had taken indifferent care of the flock until one brutal moonless night when the foxes slunk out of the hedges and attacked the brood. To his shame, he had forgotten to close and bolt the coop door before going to bed. Ever since, the black hen had kept close to Daly’s heels, always trying to follow him indoors, flapping in his footsteps and roosting every evening in the porch, waiting for him to carry her back to the coop, which he always made sure to bolt securely. In many ways, he was glad that her old-maidenly presence had entered his life.

  She clucked at his arrival, but instead of allowing him to pick her up, she lifted her glossy wings and flew off, landing a little bit away, her beady eyes watching him. As soon as he approached, she flew off again, skimming across the dead nettles and thistles in the garden, before alighting on an abandoned wheelbarrow.

  She glanced back at Daly, waiting for him to draw near, and then she made off again. Lunging at her, he managed to grab one of her wings, but she let out a
squawk, flapping furiously, her broken feathers falling at his feet. She was quick and nimble, and struggled out of his grasp. He kicked at the weeds in frustration. It was an evening to retire to the fire and seek comfort in a bottle of whiskey, rather than chase a flustered old hen around his ruined garden. He went to the kitchen, gathered some breadcrumbs and paced after the bird, scattering the crumbs in an attempt to lure her closer.

  For half an hour, the hen kept evading his clutches, as though in the space of a day he had become a dangerous enemy. With the tactical sense of a wild creature, she beat off along barely visible tracks through weeds and blackthorns. The farm was riddled with such paths, worn out by his restless feet and the tread of wild animals, wandering as no human way should, switching back and forth across the hillside, veering through thickets that over the winter had become his favourite refuge from ill feelings. He ducked and scrambled through the thorny cover until his feet were caked in mud and his hands scratched.

  He took stock of his predicament. His father would be cross, tut-tutting at his terrible fowl keeping. Here he was, a detective confined to the smallest possible professional stage, unable to concentrate on the important details of his job, and failing to tend to his father’s legacy, this unkempt farm and its only remaining charge, a wayward hen. In future, he should tie string to the creature’s feet and allow her only the smallest possible range of flight. Why should he permit her to roam freely, when he had no freedom at all, and no choice but to sit mindlessly at court each day as he had been instructed by his commander, trapped as much by his own clumsiness as by the political forces within Special Branch?