Judge Savage

by Tim Parks

  The older man didn’t appear to have understood. The music was loud. Or perhaps his English was even poorer than his accent suggested. Daniel began to repeat, but again the son he had met in the warehouse spoke in Korean. The others stared across the table. How oddly the light transformed the Asian man’s skin. And mine? Daniel wondered. Their white shirts took on a cathode glow.

  What job? It was the son addressed the question, but clearly it came from the father. A tradition, Professor Mukerjee had said, of unquestioning and immediate obedience of sons toward their fathers. That was what Minnie had fought against. It’s a good position, in an office. I’d like to discuss it with her personally. Perhaps, if you . . .

  He was interrupted by the waitress. The café was filling rapidly. Cokes, the father decided, holding up three fingers. Gin and tonic please, Daniel smiled. The girl was tiny, Indian. Yesterday it had been Christine drinking gin. So, if you could just let me know how I can contact . . .

  He stopped. Only now, as he spoke, did Judge Savage become aware that his approach had been based on the assumption that nothing was wrong, that he would check that all was okay with his ex-girlfriend, if that was the word, and then, duty done, go back to concentrating on wife and family and career. This is a formal gesture you are making, he realised. You’re not prepared for a calamity. But why, when he had made an appointment with the boyfriend, did father and two sons come to meet him? There was a pause. Perhaps he had never spoken to Ben at all. The silent son took a packet of cigarettes from his top pocket. Lighting up, he never once took his eyes off Judge Savage.

  Minnie Kwan, the warehouse son announced, has no need for work. She would never speak to a black man. She would never ask for a job. The older man leaned forward, gazing intensely: We don’t speak to blacks. Even as he said this, the tiny Indian waitress began to set the drinks on the table. The cokes gleamed black. In the gin the ice winked with violet light. Only an hour ago, I was a figure of authority, Daniel was aware, in the sane, aseptic lighting of court number three. I’ll get the tab, he said. He found his wallet. The girl smiled, a jewel sparkling in her nose. You are a pimp, Mr Johnson, the father said directly. You leave Minnie Kwan alone. Daniel had to take the glass from his lips and set it down. A pimp! His bewildered indignation was the kind a jury immediately recognises as sincere. I would hardly come to your warehouse with my wife and children if I was a pimp.

  At once he knew he shouldn’t have said this. He remembered Minnie’s shout of derision on the phone, My black pimp lover! Presumably it was the worst scenario her father could imagine, the worst possible provocation. The man was speaking grimly, in Korean, but staring straight at Daniel. There is no other reason, came the son’s translation, why a Korean girl would speak to a black man. I’m Brazilian, Daniel said. Actually, he was English. And no other job, the boy parroted, that a black man could offer than to be a prostitute. Looking from one to the other, Daniel realised they might be in good faith. They honestly couldn’t imagine that a black could offer work. They wouldn’t believe it if he explained why he was dressed in black suit and tie.

  Look, he said smilingly, let’s all go and see Minnie together. I offer her the job, in your presence, it’s a secretarial thing, not a bad position, and we can see what she thinks. This time a command from the father had the smoking son pull a mobile from his pocket. He began to speak, the others waited. Daniel sat back and drank. Was this the catarrhy voice that had passed for Ben? You mustn’t be home too late for Tom again, he told himself. The rush of alcohol was always a pleasure. And there was the phone call to Sarah of course. Then the old man cut through the monotone of his son on the mobile. In English he asked: When is the last time you see Minnie Kwan? We spoke on the phone, Daniel said cautiously. When? Look, Mr Kwan, I have to be getting on home, so why don’t we go and see her now and . . . I asked, when did you see her last? The sullen boy snapped his phone shut. He seemed to be the older. Daniel was silent. We don’t understand why you must see Minnie Kwan. We don’t understand how Minnie Kwan can know a black man.

  The three waited. Unable to tell the truth, not even sure himself now why he was here, Daniel said lightly: What if I am a policeman? What if Minnie Kwan phoned us to say she needed help. The father turned to his son for clarification. All three spoke urgently. You show some identity, the articulate one said. Where is Ben, Daniel demanded. It was Ben I had the appointment with. Show your card! The boy had remembered the right formula. That was just a joke, silly, Daniel shook his head. Of course I’m not a policeman. Let’s go and see Minnie now. Then I promise I’ll leave you all alone. The three conferred furiously. The music had grown louder. The waitress was hovering again. Daniel smiled at her, chewing his lime. I’m going to use the bathroom, he said.

  Walking between the now busy tables, Judge Savage felt he had done the right thing. The father seemed an unpleasant piece of work, but hardly the kind to have done violence to his daughter. They are just immigrants, he told himself. Imagining themselves in a hostile environment, they have paranoid ways. Minnie had perhaps been in some trouble and they were protecting her. They hadn’t had the good luck of his upbringing. On the other hand, at least they kept their children in line. All I have to do now, he decided, standing over the urinal, is get some assurance that she’s okay. But when he came out of the bathroom, the Korean men were gone. The table had already been taken by a group of young white girls.

  Daniel stood in the strange light, at once theatrical and commonplace. He felt relief more than frustration. I tried, he told himself. He shook his head. Good. He looked at his watch. It had been a strange experience. Ten past eight. Down in the street, he hurried through heavy rain to the mall, waited for the lift to the car park. No doubt the weather had broken up the demonstration, he thought. He strode between cement columns three floors up. The first blow struck him as he bent down to open the car door. Even before he fell, some sort of bag came down over his face. He was struck violently in the back. A string bit into his neck. There was no sound but his own suffocated cries. Blind on the cement between his own car and the next, he was being kicked left and right. Bright colour rushed from his spine, filling his mind with pain.

  NINE

  A JUDGE, THE Telegraph’s Saturday supplement remarked, may easily become notorious, but rarely popular. The investigator and the criminal, the editorialist went on, the prosecution and the defence were two pairs of archetypal antagonists. Their back and forth would always command centre stage, while the judge, for most of us, was no more than the astute referee who allows the story to unfold. This is not a role likely to arouse widespread excitement. All the same, as the paper was then bound to admit, when the story broke, after a night of vicious race riots, that Daniel Savage lay in coma in the local hospital, all the same, this first non-white judge on his particular court circuit, had immediately become a hero nationwide. Occupying considerably more space than these few brief reflections, a photograph of the country’s newest celebrity showed an almond-coloured man with faintly negroid features and a reassuring hint of grey in woolly hair. Not a child of empire, read an enigmatic caption.

  Meanwhile, as newspapers pontificated, the police were under some pressure to identify the judge’s assailants, the doctors to save his life. Hilary, the sick man finally whispered on the third day. Groping upward through an oppressive mental dark, he had become aware of her fingers in his. Hilary! But simultaneous with this first flicker of consciousness that would be such a relief to millions – Savage Survives, a headline would declare – came an enormous anxiety. His hand clutched hers. Take me home, he whispered, I want to go home. Hilary was thrilled. Yes, yes, she said. Yes! Her lips brushed his bandaged face – Don’t move, keep calm – she stood up to call a nurse. Nurse! The shrillness rang in his skull.

  Apparently Tom was staying with Crosby. That much he gathered. You are beside me though, he kept muttering. Yes, she said. Yes, dear. She had chosen not to tell Sarah, she explained. She had begged the organisers of their daughter’s tr
ip not to let the girl know, to keep her there in Italy till the end of the month. The last thing she needed was Sarah now. You’re awfully famous, Dan, she told him. They’re all waiting to interview you. I was afraid people would bother the poor girl.

  He barely registered the words. Or the hours and days. Bandages were removed and replaced, painfully. New tests were run. The silly child – Hilary had taken to embroidering, she sat beside his bed – claims she swallowed the top of one of my perfume bottles, six months ago. Can you imagine? Since then she’s never felt well. It’s blocked somewhere, she says.

  Daniel was lost. I like you doing embroidery, he whispered. His mind was in constant alarm with sudden pains that flashed and would fade. He shivered. Can you see, she asked? She was leaning over him. A blur. Flowers, she said. Two roses against a lattice. He couldn’t see, couldn’t think. Where did it happen? she asked. There was another operation, another morning’s unconsciousness. I don’t remember, he told her. You didn’t meet Crawford, she said. Crawford? Should I have?

  The hours passed in a slow swell of pain. He remembered, he said, leaving court, somebody had thrown something. A red point of light tortured the dark. There were riots, she told him. He winced. She told him of cars burned, hails of stones. All weekend. The TV called you the emblem of order and sanity. What happened to the stone-throwing case? he asked one early morning. She didn’t know. She’d done nothing but sit in here by his bed. It’s a mercy Sarah’s away. A relief that she doesn’t know. Nobody blames you, she said. Every day I leave the hospital there are people asking me questions, waiting to interview you. Don’t let them in, Daniel muttered.

  She sat in silence working on her embroidery. This was so unlike her. The stems go in and out of the lattice, she explained. She described it to him. I was so afraid you were going to die. Then twine together. It’s like a meditation, she said. He sensed her calmness. You’re a hero, she whispered.

  They had bandaged his eyes now. She told him: CPS have been taking some ferocious criticism, you know, in the press, for bringing the case in the first place, in such a race sensitive town. I love you, he whispered. I don’t want to talk about what happened. Crawford, she said, has no recollection of your arranging to meet in The Polar Bear. I can’t remember, he repeated. Again he made the mistake of trying to shake his head. Perhaps in a day or two, he promised a police inspector, taking the man’s hand in the darkness. His mind was racing. There were trays of medication. My teeth, he protested. Christ!

  He asked Hilary to explain about Sarah again. The bandages had been removed now. One eye could see. There was an operation to repair a kidney. Another twenty-four hours blank. Tubes in and out of his body. But he was definitely getting better. He could sit up in bed and swallow some soup. My neck! She says she swallowed the top of one of my perfume bottles by accident, his wife repeated. He could almost savour the pain now. When a wave came he knew it would ebb. Dental work next week, the doctor had said. About six months ago, Hilary went on. And that’s why she’s been acting so strangely.

  Daniel was troubled. He tried to focus. At least, Hilary said, she’s admitted that she has been acting strangely. From one eye he could see the concentrated, stern expression of his wife’s lips as she pricked her needle back and forth.

  She began to tell him about the house. The fireplace was in, the piano was in. Christine had been so sweet. No more problems with money. As soon as the water is turned on, the blokes can come to organise the garden. I don’t understand, he said. Did you actually notice a bottle with its top missing? She claims she didn’t tell me when it happened because she was afraid I would be angry about her stealing my perfume. She says she threw away the bottle so I wouldn’t notice. And that since then she’s been feeling weird – actually it was about six months ago she started getting strange, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it then she went evangelical – due to this thing blocked in her stomach. Anyway, I told the people running the school there to have her see a doctor, which she did, and of course he said it was all rubbish. A plastic bottle top would have gone straight out in the faeces. I didn’t mention your being in hospital, Hilary said, because I knew that then she would come straight home. You know how she is about you. How, Daniel asked? Protective, Hilary said. She laughed. Haven’t you ever noticed? She needs this time away, his wife insisted. It’ll do her good.

  A television camera was allowed in, briefly. Sitting up, something of the pirate with a patch over one eye, Daniel said he hoped to be back in court as soon as possible. Couple of weeks at most. Judges were overworked enough as it was without people like himself shirking. He smiled painfully. The nurse was furious about the bright lights. Although he declined to comment on the Mishra case, or the riots, or even the assault, nevertheless it seemed he had found exactly the words to gratify the public’s interest and reward their unrequested sympathy. His scarred features made all the front pages, arm half lifted in salute. England Needs You, was a tabloid view. Not allowed to watch television as yet, he heard of a possible MBE on the radio. You deserve it, Hilary said.

  Got our memory back now, have we? Inspector Mattheson asked. Daniel was profuse in his apologies. He honestly hadn’t recognised the man before. Was it you Inspector? I was completely out of it. We felt in the circumstances, the policeman said, that you might like to see someone you knew. He seems friendly, Daniel thought. The officer pulled a seat from against the wall and sat for a few seconds, breathing heavily. I want to go through everything you remember, he announced, for at least three days before the assault, okay. Everything.

  Hilary was plumping out the pillows to help her husband sit up properly. You might as well take a break, Daniel told her. She said no. She wanted to listen. Perhaps I can help, she said. They must catch these monsters. A friction of unease passed over Daniel’s nerves. I was in court most of the time, he began. He remembered some unsavoury characters in the public gallery. There was one with a Union Jack on his neck. A bull neck. Two young men covered in tattoos. They had descriptions of everyone in court, Mattheson said, and video of the people on the pavement outside. With your mug all over the telly, the policemen went on, all sorts of people came forward. In a way it’s been marvellous, Hilary agreed. Daniel shut his good eye and lay back.

  Mattheson smiled. Relax. He pulled out a handkerchief and clamped his nose. Don’t want to sneeze in here, do we? No, what I was saying was that we shouldn’t restrict ourselves to the Mishra case and the situation immediately outside court. You give me everything you can remember about those three days, or even anything strange you may have noticed in the weeks before. It was a pretty ordinary month really, Hilary said very quickly, wasn’t it Dan? Daniel knew she wouldn’t mention the embarrassing letters. Her husband was a hero attacked by racist thugs. Nor the phone-calls. There was no need to mention them. Nobody would start investigating a judge’s phone-calls, surely.

  We made a few trips out to the house, he said, to see how it was progressing. You know we’re buying a new house. We drove over to look at the fireplace, Hilary reminded him. We’ve had a period fireplace fitted. There’s a small factory in the industrial area. East India Street. Dinner afterwards at The Duck, Daniel got in quickly. You know The Duck? Then he confessed, I’m afraid I’m finding this terribly exhausting. I think they must have me on sedatives or something. We’ve plenty of time, Mattheson reassured him. Is there anywhere I can get myself a coffee? He disappeared into the corridor.

  Hilary fussed over her husband. Just tell him to go if you’ve had enough. He grimaced. She put a hand on his forehead. They seem stupid questions to me. It’s obvious who did it. I’ll manage, Daniel said, but if you want to take time out, do. If there’s some shopping or something, he offered again. She wouldn’t go. You know, thinking about Sarah, he said. Yes? It just occurred to me she must be wondering why I haven’t called her in all this time, especially with her not feeling well. I said you were hellishly busy, Hilary laughed, with one of the judges being ill.

  Mattheson came back holding a pl
astic cup. Daniel smiled wanly. How is it? he asked. They won’t let me have coffee yet. The policeman frowned. Could be worse. Or maybe not, he laughed. Well, Hilary said in a louder voice, the evening before it happened, Dan, you went to Martin and Christine’s, didn’t you? Oh right. Daniel began to explain about the money problem. The inspector nodded. You were there from when till when, he asked? You went out to dinner afterwards with Christine, Hilary said, didn’t you? She must show she was privy to her husband’s life. At The Raven, Daniel agreed. You know the place? Poor Martin’s got some odd nervous illness, Hilary explained. Mattheson said he wondered why he hadn’t seen Mr Shields in court for a long time. Such a good lawyer. We left the restaurant about ten-thirty, I suppose, Daniel said. And I imagine, the policeman began, that you drove straight home? Look, Daniel interrupted, you don’t think it could be something to do with some defendant I sent down or something. Someone with a grudge?

  The policeman sat squarely on his chair. He drained his coffee. I’m ready to consider all sorts of suggestions, he said, but seemed perplexed. Do you have anyone in mind? Hilary remarked: I’ve already told the inspector about your brother calling the very day of the attack, demanding money. Oh, but that’s silly, Daniel protested. He felt relieved. Well, he did phone, she said, he was demanding money and he certainly hasn’t called since to express his sympathy. Hilary had always been afraid of Frank, the bad apple in her husband’s family. He was up on an assault charge once wasn’t he? she justified herself. Daniel managed to laugh now: If poor Frank had the cash to pay three people to beat me up, he wouldn’t have been asking for money in the first place.