The Fortune Men

by Nadifa Mohamed

  How much money can be traced to this man? Between fifteen and twenty pounds at the most, fifteen to twenty pounds being the amount he was seen to have in his possession at Somerton dog track, Newport, the day after the murder. Members of the jury, how did he get it? Here is one of the things which shows that Mattan is lying, surely, because the security officer at the Somerton dog track told you he saw this man coming away from the paying-out window – in his own words, ‘He seemed to have been successful.’

  On the matter of the bloodstained suede shoes, do you think, members of the jury, for one moment – you look at the photographs; look at them in all their ghastly horror – do you think that if Mattan was wearing those shoes, and he was the murderer, they would not have been far more heavily contaminated with blood? It is a matter for you, but do you not think so? See how the blood was splashed up everywhere. Do you think that this microscopic quantity on these shoes is evidence which inevitably draws you to the guilt of this man?

  The Prosecution invite you to say that something sinister is to be drawn from the fact that this coloured man, admittedly a seaman, carried a knife or razor on previous occasions. You are men and women of the world. Do you know, or do you think it unlikely, or do you think it probable, that most coloured men and seamen who live in that part of the world are not infrequently in possession of a razor? But, members of the jury, in all your experience have you ever heard of a man carrying two razors at the same time, because this razor, which was not the razor which inflicted that wound on Miss Volacki, was found in his clothes the same night by the police. Do you follow what that means? It means this, that there was a second razor in Mattan’s possession and he must have been carrying two at the same time.

  What else is there against him? First of all, there are the witnesses Madison and Monday – Madison is his landlord, who you may think is not overfond of Mattan, and who was certainly anxious to get rid of him after the call from the police, which is perhaps not altogether surprising. Madison spoke of him when he returned that night as being in a trance-like state, whereas Mr Monday, who was the other coloured man who was sharing Mr Madison’s room that evening, says that he was very sad.

  This man has been sitting behind me during this trial. I have not had an opportunity of watching him but you have done so. You may have seen his demeanour, not now when I am drawing attention to it, but at other times before I drew your attention to it, or when he was giving evidence in the witness box. In repose his face is, do you not think, a sad face, a face which shows a certain amount of sorrow, and if it is in repose for one reason or another, its natural expression is one of sadness. You may think he has a smile of a deprecating nature which he is constantly using. It may be a question of nerves. This trial, after all, must be something of a strain, must it not? But do you suppose you can connect his sadness on that night inevitably with the murder of Miss Volacki? Members of the jury, that is stretching imagination into the realms of fantasy, is it not?

  In terms of Mattan’s movements, it is nine-tenths of a mile back from Volacki’s shop to his lodgings and you may think that, whether he is childish or a semi-civilized savage or whatever he is, he is not quite such a fool that, after having committed a particularly bloody murder, he would travel on a bus where his condition would be noticed, because people have nothing to do except to look at each other in buses. He had, almost of a certainty, if he was there, to get back there wholly on his own feet, nine-tenths of a mile. If you accept the strange story of Mrs Gray, that he called at Mrs Gray’s shop on the way back to his lodgings, he would have had to walk very nearly a mile and a half because the route from Volacki’s shop back to Davis Street via 37 Bridge Street, where Mrs Gray has her second-hand clothing shop, is about 2,100 or 2,200 yards.

  Now, members of the jury, let us consider Mrs Gray’s evidence upon the background of those times. I do not know how it strikes you, members of the jury; do you think a prudent murderer goes out in a trilby hat and an umbrella, for instance? I do not know; it is perhaps just a background matter. But what do you think about those white trousers? What do you think about those white trousers? Is not that small item in itself enough to make the whole of the story look ridiculous.

  Well, members of the jury, you may take your choice. Consider the way she gave her evidence. You may think that Mr Edmund Davies was not perhaps raising his voice as loudly as I was, but nonetheless she heard him more clearly than she heard me. You may think her deafness varied according to the difficulty of the question she had to answer. It is a matter for you. A few things that you are quite certain of, members of the jury, because she told you so, is this, that she disliked Mattan because he was cheeky, and in order to account for the extraordinary clash between the timings of getting from Volacki’s shop to her shop after the murder before nine o’clock, you may think that this business of Mattan being wholly out of breath was just a bit of embellishment which was added to the rest of her evidence.

  Members of the jury, is she a satisfactory witness? Are you going to convict a dog upon her evidence, let alone a human being? You cannot, members of the jury. Was there anything which occurred between the 7th day of March when Mrs Gray says she was suspicious of Mattan and the 13th day of March when she gave her statement to the police? Yes, one thing: the publication of an evening paper upon the 10th March with front-page news about a reward of £200 for information leading to a conviction.

  Members of the jury, the Prosecution’s case is one of suspicion and suspicion only; suspicion fostered because this foolish man has told lie after lie, stupid lies. Not once, members of the jury, have I relied, in presenting the Defence case to you, upon anything he has said. I have relied only upon the witnesses whom the Prosecution called to convict him, and they prove louder than any words of his could that he is innocent of this charge, members of the jury. You cannot be in two places at once. He could not have gone all that distance and done all those things and got rid of the money, the clothes and the weapon and travelled two miles or upwards all within thirty-five minutes.

  Who, then, killed Miss Volacki? Members of the jury, there is one matter here which is still wholly unchallenged. A man came into Miss Volacki’s shop, a man who is not the prisoner Mattan, a man who had a moustache, and no one saw him go out. Was he the murderer who Miss Volacki locked in that night, as a result of which she lost her life? There, members of the jury, is the murderer, not – there – (indicating). Acquit him.

  The jury retired at 2.36 p.m. and returned into Court at 4.10 p.m.

  FOURTEEN

  Afar Iyo Toban

  THE CLERK OF THE ASSIZE: Mr Foreman of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?

  THE FOREMAN OF THE JURY: We are.

  THE CLERK: Look upon the face of the prisoner and say whether he is guilty or not guilty of murder.

  THE FOREMAN: (Turning to the prisoner) Guilty.

  THE CLERK: And that, sir, is the verdict of you all?

  THE FOREMAN: Yes, sir.

  THE CLERK: Mahmood Hussein Mattan, the jury have found you guilty of murder; have you anything to say why judgment of death should not be pronounced upon you in due form of law?

  (The prisoner does not respond.)

  THE JUDGE: (Placing the black cap on his head) Mahmood Hussein Mattan, the sentence of the Court upon you is that you be taken from this place to a lawful prison, and thence to a place of execution, and there suffer death from hanging, and that your body be interred within the precincts of the prison in which you were last confined before your execution. And may the Lord have mercy upon your soul.

  THE CHAPLAIN: Amen.

  FIFTEEN

  Shan Iyo Toban

  Mahmood had walked on his own two feet to the new cell, the condemned suite, as the warders called it. Through various locked doors, up stairs and down again, along clanking gangways and quiet corridors, the convoy, with him handcuffed and following behind the doctor, had finally reached the isolated place where Ajit Singh had last dwelled.

  Follow
ing them dumbly, his mind is still inside the court, flashes of it returning: Laura sobbing from the gallery as he descended the steps from the dock, the total numbness he felt on hearing the sentence, the curious black rag on top of the judge’s grey wig as he read it out, the pat on the shoulder from the prison officer putting the handcuffs back on his wrists. The long drive back from Swansea in the black van; the forest they passed through, dense enough to hide a runaway; old villages with their grey little churches and low-slung pubs, the red-cheeked children playing in the streets; the bright adverts for fairs and pleasure boat rides, pale skins sprawled out in Alexandra Gardens. He had watched it all impassively until they neared the docks, and he saw the metallic sea calling to him, and then they slipped straight through Bute Street, past the dead woman’s empty shop, past the lodging house where he had lived, his Annexe, his barber’s, his spice shop, his pawnshop, past a group, including Ismail, gambling on the corner of Angelina Street. Then his heart cracked.

  Mahmood is still in the suit he had worn to court; a brown pinstripe that was the least creased from the pile retrieved from the pawnshop. A warder removes his handcuffs and answers questions from the governor and doctor, while Mahmood examines his new holding pen. It is larger than the previous cell and has a table and two chairs beneath the barred and meshed window, as well as a tall cabinet against the wall opposite the bed. He approaches the bed and is set on getting into it, burrowing into it, when a warder grabs his arm and says, ‘Hold on a second, you need to get changed into your uniform first.’

  Mahmood shakes away his grip and continues silently to the bed.

  ‘Oh, here we go, he’s at it again.’ The warder exhales.

  ‘You must be firm, Collins, there cannot be chaos, especially in this part of the prison.’ The tall, white-haired governor turns back from the door to watch.

  ‘Come on, Mattan, be a good lad and get these trousers and shirt on.’

  Mahmood holds the clothing in his hands for a moment before throwing them to the ground.

  ‘I be a good lad and keep my suit on.’

  ‘Warders,’ the governor says firmly.

  The first warder grabs Mahmood’s jacket and pulls it off his shoulders. ‘Don’t make me strip you, Mattan.’

  The doctor steps back to allow two more warders to join the fray and then Mahmood is brought to his knees, quietly struggling as six hands rip off his jacket and pull the buttons off his white shirt. When one of them begins tugging at his belt and trousers, he sees a leg in front of his face and bites. ‘YOU WOULD NOT HANG A DOG ON HER EVIDENCE.’ A dog should bite. A dog that you will hang has the right to bite. He remembers the doctor complimenting him on his marvellous teeth and now they are at work, going deeper and deeper into the navy wool and thick thigh.

  The warder hits Mahmood on the temple with his truncheon and wrests his leg free. ‘He’s bit me, sir.’ He runs his hand down the dark cloth, feeling for blood.

  Mahmood laughs and pulls his torn shirt back over his chest. There are tears in his eyes.

  The governor shakes his head and gestures for the warders to step back. ‘What do you say, Doctor? What shall be done?’

  ‘My opinion is that he should be left in his own clothes for the moment. He is clearly emotionally imbalanced and there is little to be gained from pressing our authority at this stage. Collins, come with me and I’ll examine your leg.’

  ‘So be it. Allcott and Wesley, take your places and keep me informed of his behaviour.’

  They cough. They rock. They talk. They smoke. They belch and fart. They do not leave. The electric light dims in the early evening but they remain. Mahmood refuses the rations they offer and remains in bed, facing the white bricks, while his stomach mewls and pleads. The door opens at around 10 p.m. but rather than clearing out, the warders are replaced by another pair. Mahmood glances over his shoulder as they swap greetings but turns away quickly, before any of them can make eye contact with him.

  If they intended to torture him, this is the perfect way; better than any physical pain they could inflict, the loss of privacy makes Mahmood want to unpeel his skin and step out of it. He has an appointment with his bastard solicitor in the morning and he will put this at the top of the agenda. They treat him like this and there ain’t nothing stopping him from taking his own fucking life.

  He wants to kill them all: Laura’s mother with her ‘that man’, Doc Madison’s ‘hypnosis’ bull, that lying Jamaican carpenter, and that witch, May Gray, with her crooked, greedy lies. Worst of all, worst of all was that barrister. That red-faced, pot-bellied, pompous son of a bitch, going on about ‘savages’ as if he was marching through a jungle film. ‘Childish liar’, ‘foolish man’, ‘child of nature’, what make him pour all that outta his mouth? And then talk about sad eyes?

  Where is God? Where is the God he wasted all those prayers and prostrations on? The most just, the most fair, the most merciful? Why is he so silent? What kind of test is this? Will he let him be put to death by these savages, these cannibals? Who are trying to fatten him up for slaughter. That black cap, that black gown with wing-like folds, sharp grey lips like an evil bird talking. Waaq, the forgotten crow-god of the Somalis, come to life to pluck out his heart, the prayers sent to Allah sticking like arrows in his bitter, proud flesh.

  A lesson. His story will go straight to the ears of boys stepping off their first boat. Mahmood already in the past tense. A warning. Don’t marry them. Don’t live with outsiders. Don’t steal from us. Remember what happened to him? The old-timers secretly happy they can now frighten those illiterate boys with his ghost.

  ‘So, what’s left?’

  ‘We appeal, Mr Mattan.’

  ‘To who?’

  ‘To the Court of Criminal Appeal.’

  ‘And what they do?’

  ‘They can request a retrial or even quash your conviction.’

  ‘Quash? What mean quash?’

  The solicitor blinks rapidly and plays with the top of his black pen. ‘It means to overturn, reverse … take back. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes. Just speak plain English to me. I finish with this lawyer English. You know they keep two warder in my cell all day and night? The light burning all night?’

  ‘I’m afraid that is the procedure with all condemned prisoners. It is not personal and it’s not just Cardiff.’

  ‘But it drive me crazy! What do they want from me?’

  ‘It’s intended to be in your best interests, to keep you from harm.’

  ‘Harm? They want to kill me in three weeks, what harm they keep me from?’ Mahmood slaps his hand on the table, not hard, but loud enough to make the solicitor jump in his seat.

  ‘There is absolutely nothing that I can do about that, or that you can do, so it will be a more productive use of our time to plan the appeal and the limited options we have before us.’

  Mahmood shakes his head, smiles bitterly. ‘If they believe all those lies once, what stops them believing twice?’

  ‘Your case will go before the three most experienced and senior judges in the country. They cannot be compared to a jury of Swansea housewives and shopkeepers.’

  ‘You think I got a chance?’

  The solicitor pauses, looks down at his hands and then somewhere over Mahmood’s shoulder. ‘I don’t want to build up your hopes unnecessarily, the figure for successful appeals is not a great one, but it’s my legal duty to try every possibility there is … to spare your life.’

  ‘I sick of saying this, but I’m innocent. I’m innocent.’

  The solicitor nods gravely. ‘It was a most unsatisfactory outcome, Mr Mattan. The evidence against you took a serpentine path that we did not anticipate.’

  ‘That mean you did not expect so many liars?’

  ‘The Prosecution is not obliged to share their evidence with us.’

  ‘Donkey court.’ Mahmood looks the solicitor in the eye.

  ‘Well, it is far from that, Mr Mattan,’ he sighs, ‘but justice is reliant on what is
brought before the judge and jury, and the Prosecution built a strong case.’

  Mahmood scoffs. ‘A strong case? You call one person saying I was at home quarter to nine while the other says I be in her shop showing off money at same time a good case? That I turn up wearing clean white trousers after slitting a woman’s throat four times a good case? That I keep the murder razor then hide it in someone’s washing during poker game a good case? What is a bad case then, mister?’

  ‘You seem to be forgetting your own role in this debacle, Mr Mattan. I distinctly remember you answering numerous important questions with the phrases “I cannot imagine” and “it is not for me to say”. In hindsight it might have been useful for you to give clearer and more honest explanations of your movements that night,’ his eyes harden, ‘because frankly, it was your own performance in that dock that removed any doubt of your guilt from the jury. I can only speak of my own perceptions, of course, but you came across as belligerent and shifty, and you created a mess that I now have to try and rescue you from. I did not want to get involved in mutual recrimination but, Mr Mattan, you certainly do know how to raise a man’s hackles.’

  Mahmood just shakes his head again and again, looking away from the solicitor’s flushed face. Why is it that words seem to create such violence around him? What happens between his mind and mouth that betrays him so deeply? He forces himself to say the word that he hates, that empty English shield-like word, ‘Sorry.’