by Tim Parks
The Capricorn Café was on the corner of Soames and Cruft. He went upstairs and squeezed through three or four small rooms. How often in life this gesture of poking into bars, wandering between the tables had been accompanied by an intense awareness of the colour of his skin. Was he welcome? When he finally found a group of Asians in an upstairs alcove, he felt quite sure he wasn’t. I’m looking for a Korean guy called Ben, he said. I know he often drinks here. He’s the boyfriend of a girl called Minnie, Minnie Kwan. Her father has a fabric import business. There were four men and two women eating an assortment of ice-creams. Immediately they began to speak in their own language. You are Korean, Daniel asked? One of the women said, yes, yes. The man beside her cut in. We don’t know Ben. But you do know who he is? Again they spoke among themselves. You know Minnie Kwan? We don’t know, the man repeated. We can’t help.
Various calls, Hilary yawned. She was in the bathroom. Gordon Crawford said someone was saying your summing up was ‘daring’. Daniel hurried to Tom’s room, but the boy was asleep. Did he win? Yes, I think he did. Or at least scored. Oh, and Martin phoned: someone had been phoning them, wanting to speak to someone who’d made a call from their house. I don’t know. I think that’s what it was. He thought it might have been you. You’d used the phone or something and their phone had registered the number. Then Christine called to say the same thing. She thought you’d be home already. Daniel went back to the sitting room and filled a glass with ice and whisky. In the bedroom again he undressed quickly. They’re splitting up, he said. Christine’s going to buy the flat on her own. No doubt she plans to move here herself. Lying down, the two of them began to criticise their friends. They should have had children, Martin’s being a baby himself was just her excuse. A man isn’t a baby. Did Sarah phone? Daniel asked at length. No, Hilary said. Why should she? And did Max take her to the airport? Hilary laughed: It seems she told him she wouldn’t get in his car until he stopped making mistakes at the piano. He told me when he came for his lesson.
EIGHT
IT WAS IN the nineteenth century, he remembered Hilary pontificating, that composers began to allow chaos into music. Waiting for the jury to return, Daniel read how nine youths were accused of having thrown, from a bridge over the town’s fast ring road, the rock that had destroyed Elizabeth Whitaker’s life. His wife had been trying, as he recalled – but she had stopped bothering years ago – to get him to appreciate Wagner, a strange passage where the harmony disintegrates into a noisy crowd scene, then is regenerated from within the confused voices to swell out even stronger. Her teacherly tone had irritated him. The harmony swells out stronger, she said, because of the chaos. A crowd of people, Jonathan Whitaker had testified. At least a dozen. He had glimpsed them racing across the bridge as he dragged his wife from the shattered car. Unusual willingness to tackle the deeper issues, The Times said. Two passages were actually quoted. Deeply troubling in its implications, claimed a Guardian leader. Daniel put the case reports down beside the newspapers and reached for the phone.
Hello? It was her voice. Nothing unpleasant in the papers, he announced. I’m glad, she said. Jury still out? She seemed relaxed this morning. You know I was just remembering, he told her, something you once said about Wagner. Oh God, Dan! They’ve given me that stone-throwing case, he explained. The ring road thing? Yes. The story had been in the news some months before. How awful! Hilary said. And please don’t remind me of my Wagner days. Why not? She said she had read in a magazine somewhere that the embryo was going to survive. That’s why they were keeping the woman alive. What’s her name? Whitaker. Apparently an embryo can survive even when the mother is brain dead. These things turn my stomach, she said. And she said: By the way, your brother phoned. It seemed the notorious Frank Savage wanted a loan. Talk about out of the blue! Tell him no. You tell him! He’s your brother. News from Sarah? he asked. What a relief not to have her around, Hilary told him. No, she hadn’t phoned. But that was healthy, wasn’t it? Why should an eighteen-year-old call the moment she was away from home? I’ll be back a bit late this evening, he told her. Something he needed to discuss with Crawford, he said: The way the people from the CPS were behaving. You do know Tom’s demanding a game of chess, she reminded him. You know how he gets in holidays with nothing to do. I love you, Daniel told her.
He found he was on edge now waiting for the jury to return. Unless it was the business of seeing Ben in the evening. This evening he really must. Guilty of abduction, he thought, not of manslaughter. That would be the right result. He hadn’t expected this much attention. Then everybody could claim a victory. Mrs Connolly would have her conviction, the Mishras could soon return to their life, their business.
Collectively, he read, struggling to concentrate on this new case, the accused, all under 25, had named more than twenty other youths as being frequent visitors to the bridge. Five spoke of a white-haired man with a foreign accent who offered tenners to the first person to smash a windscreen. Others denied all knowledge. Someone had heard of a points system for hits and near misses. Forensic experts stated that the boot of a Ford Mondeo had been filled with whitish stones of a variety found in the Hartingdon quarry to the south of the town. A similar stone had been found smothered in blood on the floor of the Whitaker’s car. Once again there would be questions as to the mens rea, Daniel thought.
On impulse he picked up the phone again, this time to call the number his wife had just given him. You set off round the ring road, he imagined, to do a perfectly ordinary spot of shopping, the wife is pregnant, and suddenly a rock crashes into your life. Chaos. Photographs showed that the woman had lost the entire left side of her face. What harmony could swell out from that?
Saw your name in the paper, Frank said, my dear little bruv. Thought I’d call. Frank! You never told me they’d made you a judge. I told Mother, Daniel said. I imagined she’d tell you. The two brothers hadn’t spoken since the colonel’s funeral. You’ll have no problem giving me a couple of grand then, Frank decided. As always he had a pleasant, persuasive voice. Daniel had frequently argued with Mother about her willingness to finance Frank’s various schemes and addictions. What are you up to these days? he asked. Minding my own business, thank you, squire. The careless humour was carefully provoking. Are you working? Daniel asked. Working on getting these two grand, Frank laughed. Fuck off, Dan, will you lend it or not? Lend or give? Daniel asked. Where’s your sense of humour? Frank objected. Is euphemism the pinnacle of civilisation, or is it not? No, Daniel told him. No what? No, Judge Savage said. It was the same automatic voice he had used to reject Christine’s request for a kiss. Immediately he felt apologetic. Look Frank, right now we’re not in the best position . . . At the same moment Adrian put his head round the door. Verdict, he sang. The fact is, Daniel resumed, we have this . . . The line was dead.
Mr Foreman, asked the clerk of the court, have you reached verdicts on either of the two counts against either defendant on which you are all agreed?
The public, still squeezing in, were immediately hushed. The defendants stood expressionless in the dock. Even as the clerk spoke, Daniel noticed two wilfully ugly youths in the public gallery, one with a Union Jack tattooed on his neck. The usher demanded silence.
We have reached a verdict on one count, for both defendants, but not on the other. It was the pallid, elderly man, they had chosen as their foreman. No doubt retired, he was clearly enjoying the attention and spoke with exemplary gravity.
Have you reached a verdict on count one on which you are all agreed.
Yes. Manslaughter. The court held its breath.
On count one, do you find the defendant, Sunni Mishra, guilty or not guilty of manslaughter?
Not guilty.
Judge Savage didn’t move a muscle while the usher hushed two or three voices in the public gallery. The formula was repeated for the man’s wife.
At the second not-guilty, somebody rushed out, banging the door. The clerk continued: Have you reached a verdict on count two on which y
ou are all agreed? They hadn’t, despite eight hours’ deliberation. Daniel sent them out for a further two hours, while he got on with the more routine work on his list, then had them recalled. Again no verdict had been reached. Ladies and gentleman of the jury, he told them, we have now come to the point where a majority verdict would be acceptable. The public sighed. Stacey, Daniel noticed, had seemed resigned after the summing up to losing the manslaughter count. Fair enough. Abduction, after all, could hardly go any way but his. It was a mystery why Mrs Connolly cared so much.
Ladies and gentlemen, we call it a majority verdict, if ten, I repeat ten of you, are agreed, one way or another. I cannot of course, he told the foreman, ask you how you are divided over the count of abduction, in what numbers or in what way, but I must now ask you, to retire once more to see if you can return a verdict on which at least ten of you are agreed.
The foreman wore a small thin moustache, white polo neck, tweed jacket. Your honour – wisps of hair were trained across a bald head – one or two members of the jury would like to know what kind of sentence the defendants would get for abduction of a minor. Daniel responded on automatic pilot: While it is understandable that members of a jury should show an interest in the fate of the defendants, I cannot comment on the nature of any eventual sentencing. It is the jury’s duty to reach a verdict on the basis of the evidence they have heard, not to reflect on the consequences of that verdict. As he finished speaking the court usher leaned over and handed the judge a note. Your wife asks you to call home urgently. Daniel stared. From the poise of an impeccable judicial performance in a packed court, Daniel Savage suddenly felt himself sinking under a wave of nausea. He felt dizzy. Why? Why do I feel so fragile? Just because my wife says she needs to speak to me. For a moment it was almost panic. Oh this has to be settled, he told himself. This stupid business. Under the thick wig his scalp thrilled with heat. He took a sip of water, shook his head. Your honour, the foreman now turned to him. His manner was unctuous. I am not sure whether any more discussion will help. Don’t agree! one of the women behind him objected. Daniel recovered himself. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I will now ask you to retire and to seek to arrive at a majority verdict. Please do not feel under any pressure. If there is any matter on which you would like further instruction, you need only ask.
Back at his desk in chambers, Daniel listened to the ringing tone home in the flat. Urgently, she had said. Laura was off photocopying. It had been a day of phone-calls. But Hilary wasn’t answering. Then the clerk was back. She knocked on his door. Judge? He met the girl’s clear eyes. Your wife said she had to go out, but to tell you there had been a call from Italy about your daughter. Yes? She didn’t say what it was? Only to call back later. I think she said she had a lesson. Well, it couldn’t be that urgent, Daniel thought, if Hilary had gone to her lesson. For a moment he had seen himself postponing the meeting with Ben again. Having an excuse to postpone it.
In the meantime, Judge Savage started to leaf through the Whitaker papers. There were accusations made in initial interviews, then retracted. An elderly cyclist had seen a group of youths clustered at the parapet of the bridge at the exact time of the crime. A retarded boy had been arrested and had confessed to a quite unrelated, indeed unreported rape. The police were not investigating. None of the defendants denied having visited the bridge on various occasions, or even having seen stones thrown. But nobody had been directly involved. In a series of identification parades, the cyclist had picked out only two of those charged. These people are guilty in general, Daniel thought. While the person who destroyed Elizabeth Whitaker in particular was merely unlucky. Sometimes it is the merest bad luck that turns a guilty action into a major crime.
An usher came and asked if Daniel could hear an application to vacate a plea. Crawford’s case had gone on longer than expected. Judge Savage reached for his wig again. So it would be an hour and more before he spoke, not to Hilary – still out – but to Tom. And almost five-fifteen before the jury finally returned their verdict in the Mishra case.
Can you play Super Star tonight? Tom asked. He had worked out how to do the ‘incredible control’ thing, that chip shot over the keeper. Mum told me you wanted a game of chess. Oh Dad! I played Max yesterday. He must be good, Daniel said. No, I killed him. Well done! At Super Star, Dad, not chess. I kill everyone at Super Star. So what’s the point of playing me? We can play together against the computer. Japan against Nigeria’s good. What’s the story with Sarah? Daniel interrupted. Sarah? I don’t know. But Mum phoned me about her. I don’t know, Tom said. Putting the phone down, Daniel remembered Sarah’s exam results were due soon. What would that jury decide?
Have you reached a verdict – the court clerk repeated his formula – on count two on which at least ten or more of you are agreed. People were still crowding in from the corridors. The whole Indian community had mobilised. There were people from the National Front. Laura said she had seen three TV vans out on the street, a line of demonstrators. Blown up out of all proportion, Daniel thought. It was raining heavily and the summer afternoon was dark. Entering court, Judge Savage felt confident again. It always had that effect, the three knocks, the court rising to his entry. He felt strong. And he could see at once that the jury had managed to agree. There was that familiar expression of tired relief on their faces. Yes, we have. On count two do you find the defendant, Sunni Mishra, guilty or not guilty of abduction. Not guilty. The verdict was repeated for Mrs Mishra. Not guilty. There were shouts from the gallery. How could they? Daniel asked himself. How could they not find at least one parent guilty? Of abduction. At least the father. And how are you divided? the clerk asked. Your honour! The defence counsel was immediately on her feet to protest. For a moment Judge Savage was so surprised he failed to grasp the error. No breakdown question was required with a not-guilty verdict. But the foreman had already replied. Eleven to one, your honour.
He tried to call Hilary. Outside the court he was shocked by what was going on on the pavement. Do you want to speak to Max? Tom had asked. Max? Paki Child Killers read a placard. The Mishras were Indian. Hilary was still out. Max was there playing the piano. The police were temporising, keeping two groups apart. We’re All White Trash, said a banner. Somebody threw something that thudded against the wall. There was a bright light, a TV camera. Daniel had had no idea. Racist shits! Obviously these people were sufficiently well informed to know that a judge left the court from his own special side entrance. Two constables appeared and escorted Daniel under an umbrella to a car and thence round the block to where he kept his own vehicle. You never know when everyone’s going to go nuts, the driver shook his head. He seemed pleased with himself. Just two lots of crazies waiting to have a go at each other, your honour.
Twenty minutes later, Daniel climbed the stairs to the upper room of the Capricorn. It was strange that they didn’t have their own ethnic place, he thought. A Korean place. It was a good sign, perhaps. Upstairs was empty. He was calling Hilary again, from the payphone by the bathrooms, when the men came in. It seems she isn’t eating, his wife explained, and she’s been skipping all her lessons. They wanted me to phone her this evening and talk to her about it. Daniel asked why had she asked him to call urgently, then gone out like that? They were three Asian men, all in sober suits. I thought it would be better if you called her, Hilary said. You’re better with Sarah, you know. Am I? Ignoring Daniel, the men sat down at a corner table. Presumably they had nothing to do with Ben. Then he recognised the young salesman at Kwan’s warehouse. The son. Where are you now? Hilary wanted to know. Could you pick up some milk coming back? At the Polar Bear, waiting for Crawford, he said. The Paki shop should be open, she told him. They said we should call her around nine o’clock our time. Why was Kwan’s son here? he wondered. Minnie’s brother. Their point of view is, either she mucks in with the others or she should leave. Oh, and the good news, Daniel could hear the sudden lift in his wife’s voice, the good news is the builder said we can store anything we want in th
e house now. Furniture, anything. To all intents and purposes it’s finished. Just the utilities to hook up. Great, Daniel said.
He walked across the room. A dark carpet under violet light created an unreal field of colour. Oddly green. There were no windows. He had reached their table now. Fifteen minutes after the appointed time. Excuse me, he asked, is one of you Ben? As always he tried to strip the education from his voice. The result was unconvincing, brittle. Who are you? the older man asked. He was shorter than the two beside him, but had the weight and solidity of middle age. He wore glasses. Steve Johnson, Daniel said. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m late for an appointment with a guy called Ben. I’m looking for . . .
Sit down, Mr Johnson. The accent was so strong it was comic. Daniel hesitated. A group of teenagers appeared at the top of the stairs. Abruptly some music struck up, some urgent rhythm. Nothing can happen here, he told himself, in a café off the town’s high road, beside the main shopping centre. The garish furnishings were innocuous. Sit down, the man repeated.
Determinedly, he took a seat, planted his feet on the carpet and his hands on his knees, keeping a little back from the table. Mr Kwan, he said, I presume you are Mr Kwan, I’m trying to get in touch with your daughter, Minnie. The young man who served in their warehouse said something rapidly in Korean. There was a back and forth, apparently irritated. The father looked sharply at Daniel. Only four or five years between them perhaps. Why? Why do you want her? There was an ugly broadness to his face. Almost broader than it was long. A job has come up, Daniel said. Minnie asked me for help a while back, to find her a job.
