by Tim Parks
The afternoon was warm and bright, the market less busy than it would have been in the morning. Around the fruit stalls the ground was littered with boxes and rotten grapes. Halfway along the street, outside the Westward Ho, a group of youngsters were sitting round two black men tapping on drums. Arab women shifted and dawdled in their veils. The beat was soft and urgent. Tom wasn’t interested. They picked their way through. His chest bared, an old white worker sat on a low wall, a pint held between hairy nipples as he peered into the crowd. There were tunnels of shade between the stalls and a hard glitter of sunshine on awnings and windscreens.
You know, when I first came here, right after university, Judge Savage told his son, I was pretty well the only non-white around. I even remember people looking at me. Tom was unimpressed. Grudgingly he asked, So, is it better or worse now? It’s different Daniel said.
Across the crowd the rhythm of the drums came and went. Then they were passing by a store selling oriental drapes. Daniel was alert. Why had Mattheson said that about not trying to contact Minnie? Did I ever say I had any desire to see her again? He bought Tom an ice-cream, then went back and got one for himself.
My nephew! Well, would you believe it! Frank broke off a conversation with a man holding a heavy-framed mirror. Tommie boy! Tom stood sheepishly behind his ice-cream, embarrassed by this effusive uncle with a cigarette in one hand and a rag in the other. Hilary despised smokers. Tommie boy! Jesus, you are tall! The kid’s embarrassed, he said to the customer. Last two times we met was at funerals. Wasn’t it, Tom? Funny you can’t say, last twice. Now, thirty quid, take it or leave it, Reg. He raised his voice as if talking to a large crowd. Take it or leave it. I never go lower than list price or old customers would feel cheated. You among them. Three guesses where Art is, he threw in an aside to Daniel. The customer, stooped with thick glasses and thicker eyebrows, said he’d give twenty, but no more. Oh please, Reg, don’t be an arsehole! Gone to check out what’s at Mart’s place. Daniel looked up. Yep, had Madame Bovary-Shields on the blower early this morning, quite a voice, all flirts and squeals, thanked me most warmly for coming to the funeral. I thought: better send Art or I’ll have to spend all day reminiscing. Thirty, Frank repeated to his client. Not a penny less. No, not one hay-pen-ee! Reg remembers ha-pennies. Don’t you old mate? Still with an embarrassed smile, shaking his head as though in pity, Tom had started to leaf through a box of old letters on a trestle table. Oh, by the way, Reg, you’re probably wondering – Reg is an old customer, he confided – this is my brother, yes brother, Daniel. Dan, Reg, a regular customer and a hard bargainer at a stall that never bargains. Ha ha! Reg, Dan. I stick by the list price, old mate. The queen’s not for turning! He aped a female voice. Reg was grinning at Daniel in affable disbelief. Your brother? Doesn’t fackin’ well believe us, does he Dan? Frank clapped Judge Savage on the shoulders, winked, lit another cigarette. The prices are on the list over yonder, he shouted to a woman who was searching the surface of a small chest. He blew out smoke. My adopted brother – that’s better – recently separated from his legally wedded whatever and presently causing bloody havoc sleeping on the sofa of the otherwise immaculate Savage residence; but has promised to move out soon, haven’t we, Dan? Yes, in the darkest interior Madam, the gloomy sanctum, hanging from the rail. There, you’ve got it. Only staring her in the bloody boat-race, he muttered.
But now, shambling and bespectacled, shading his pale eyes from the sharp sun, Reg had begun to look perplexed. Aren’t you . . . he squinted, Sorry, haven’t I seen you somewhere.
My God! Squire, he’s recognised you! Yes, it’s Regency, love. You’re famous, Dan. Reg recognises you! The recognition scene. Yes, genuine, Madam. Can promise. Bring someone along to check it out, if you’re worried, if it’s still here when you get back that is. Three hundred is not a gift, Madam, but we have to get rich somehow. He laughed, Yes, my old black bruv, Judge Savage. Again he clapped him on the shoulder, alias Don Giovanni. Let’s get out of here, Dad, Tom whispered. Pleased to meet you, sir. Reg set the mirror down to shake hands, truly honoured to meet you, sir, I’ve seen you on the telly. And as he did so, exactly as he set the mirror down beside Frank Savage’s stall, Daniel caught a glimpse, in its old and uncertain silvering, of his daughter. Yes, as the mirror was set down he definitely caught a wobbly glimpse of Sarah’s head and shoulders, as if photographed, clumsily, from a low angle. Was it her? Already extending his hand to Reg, he swivelled, distracted, knowing he would offend, and there she was, not four yards away, picking up tiny pieces of pottery that a community of ex-addicts had moulded into caricatures of public figures. There she was! But most of all there was a big be-ringed hand gently resting on the tight butt of her jeans, a man with his firm hairy forearm clasped around her in a gesture of candid sexual possession. It was only a second, a glance, but Daniel took in, for future reflection, a solid paunch and a small blond ponytail of dirty hair.
I’m sorry, he turned back, but it’s so embarrassing, being recognised. Pleased to meet you, Reg. And don’t trust this man an inch. If you knew how we were brought up! Again he turned a second and glimpsed a scoured face. How old? But now his eye switched to check that Tom wasn’t looking. Right, I saw you on the news, Reg was saying, undeterred by the other’s distraction. He couldn’t recall why. He chattered on. Tom was still bent over the old letters. I promised the kid a computer game, his father finally said.
An hour later Judge Savage parked the car up on the hill at the bottom of the drive beneath the new house. Tom rushed off. The dog was tied to a bench that had appeared beneath the sitting room window. It yapped and strained at the leash. Hilary was crouched by a great pot of white flowers. She had scissors in her hands. All right? she enquired, without looking up. Daniel felt he might be returning as any husband after a brief outing. Did you win Tom? she called. He was gone. Three nil, Daniel grinned, he lowered his voice. He seems fine to me. Now she looked up. She frowned. Well, maybe that’s the way he wants to appear to you. Daniel shrugged his shoulders. How can I know? She was laconic: Since you don’t see him here, Dan, you can’t, can you?
The afternoon was mild and seemed beneficent. Perhaps we could have a cup of tea, he suggested. No whisky? she asked. Actually no. I’m not drinking that much. It was the truth. She had crouched down again to cut off another couple of dead flowers. Perhaps you’re happy, she said primly. Now she looked up with a more pleasant smile, pushing back hair with the back of a wrist. She went through to the kitchen and turned the tap on. I’m dying to hear the scoop on Martin, Daniel said. Behind her the window was open on their patch of lawn, the brick wall, the fields rising beyond where a distant horse lifted its head and snorted. It seemed so much more airy and attractive than it had when he had been here on his own. Tom’s terrible during the week, she said, if you want to know. He’s even given up piano. He refuses to play at all. Daniel chose not to answer.
She made the tea in silence. Then she laughed and said that the dog was driving her mad bringing in rats all the time. You wouldn’t believe it, there must be rats in the ditches beyond the close. Big brutes. You wouldn’t believe it. Every time he escapes, he comes back with one. Please, don’t ask me how I am, she said quickly when she caught some look or other in his face. She bent down to pour.
Give me the dirt on Martin then, he said brightly. He felt determined to be bright. She half smiled into her cup. Oh, better not. But why? Christine swore me to secrecy. Daniel was taken aback. Hilary, you never . . . But this is new, isn’t it, she told him. She looked up hard. We’re hardly united against the world now, are we, Dan? United against the world had been an old expression. He stared at her. She was wearing neatly creased trousers and a small white blouse that showed how solid, but not fat, her body was. Had she lost weight? Oh come on, he said. No. She was sardonic. But God, Hil . . . Anyway, she conceded, turning away for sugar, they certainly weren’t any worse than we were, now I’ve had time to think it over. He shook his head. Oh and your famous story wasn’t in the pa
pers, she said. Chloe what’s-her-name. She grimaced, Was it? No, he agreed. But I’m still waiting. It’s only twenty-four hours. Tell you what, she said jollily, the day that story’s in the papers, I’ll give you the dirt on Martin.
Tom, I’m off! he called. The boy was at his screen, his games. I’m off, Tom! You should have seen the second goal he scored. I’ve seen so many, she said. Bye Dad, the boy shouted from upstairs. Don’t come down, Daniel shouted.
They were passing through the sitting room now. How attractively she had furnished it for him when he was ill, when she sat by his bedside. How arid these paintings and embroideries had seemed when he was here alone. He lingered by the piano. She is getting nervous, he thought. He noticed her old habit of shifting her weight from foot to foot. She is waiting for me to go. But he was determined this encounter would end well. I can’t believe we can be so easy together, he said. So offhand, you mean, she corrected. No, it’s not offhand . . . It is for me, Dan. The more she resisted him, the more he knew he would insist. Only a couple of months ago, he said, not even, Hil, we were so passionate, and now . . . Oh Dan, stop it, we weren’t passionate. Passion died with us years ago. We’re too old for passion. No we’re not, he said. He thought of the man with Sarah. How old? Why am I not going to tell her? he wondered. We’re too old for passion with each other, Hilary corrected. Now you’ve been listening to Sarah, he protested. You always said she was trying to split us up. There was a brief pause. He had annoyed her. Tom tells me she’s got you to dump Max too, he said.
I beg your pardon?
You’ve dumped Max, haven’t you. It could only be because of Sarah. You adored the boy. No, I did . . . but Hilary Savage burst out laughing. She was shaking her head and sat down. No, you can’t get me like that, Dan. I’m not going to fall for that. I didn’t dump him. I simply stopped all my lessons, because I needed to take stock. It hasn’t been an easy time. Sarah was delighted, he insisted. I’ve no idea, Hilary said.
So nobody’s playing the piano, he tried. No, she said, not at the moment. It seems such a shame with . . . Cut it, Dan. They were staring at each other. I feel I could seduce anyone but you, he suddenly confessed. Go ahead then, she said. Who’s stopping you? He hesitated: Do you mind if I keep trying with you? Yes, she told him. It’ll make me cry when you’ve left. Going out, he asked: Have you lit the fire yet? Hilary didn’t answer.
Sometime later, climbing the stairs to the fourth floor, he was still reflecting on this meeting, on the completeness of his wife’s refusal of any sort of intimacy, when Frank appeared above. He was excited. Is that you, squire. Dan? Come and take a butcher’s at these. Get your black bastard arse up the stairs.
Arthur had found them taped underneath the second drawer of the Georgian dresser in Martin’s bedroom. In two separate folders, he said. On the sticky wooden top of Frank’s kitchen table, among glasses of Verduzzo and hunks of Battenberg, were a dozen photos of young children, girls and boys, in obscene poses. Most were oriental, Indian, or black. The faces had been scratched away.
TWENTY-NINE
YOU HAVE HEARD various conflicting versions of what happened on the evening of March 22nd. The time has now come for you to weigh up all that evidence and decide whether each of the defendants is, beyond reasonable doubt, guilty as charged. It is my duty to assist you in that task.
Thus, in routine fashion, would Judge Savage begin his summing up in R. v. Sayle and others. But that moment was still four days away, four days and four nights during which, it seemed, the judge slept not a wink. Nor had he eaten. Colleagues noticed that he looked haggard. It’s a delayed reaction, Kathleen Connolly told herself, for there had been nothing adverse in the press about Judge Savage for some days now. That phase was over. He had survived. Nevertheless, patch over his eye, shoulders slumped, clothes crumpled, he did not look in the best possible state for delivering the authoritative summing up that a complex trial like this required. Aside from which, there was now the added intricacy that on the night of Saturday, September 15th, Mrs Whitaker died. Sensibly, the prosecution asked for no alteration in the indictment. Grievous bodily harm with intent was crime enough. But would the defendants later be able to argue that the death had hardened the attitude of the jury? Juries were known to be more willing to convict when there had been a death. All the same, at this late stage there seemed no reasonable alternative but to proceed. In the early hours of Sunday morning, it seemed, the woman had simply ceased to breathe. This was the same night that Judge Savage had sat up, towards three o’clock, sharp and frightened, on the sofa in Frank’s flat, as if jerked rigid from a sleep of years, and cried out loud, I feel utterly betrayed.
Utterly betrayed, he announced. He shivered, sitting bolt upright, though it wasn’t cold. His heart beat fast. It was as if the words had been given to him and now he must make sense of them. What sense did it make to feel betrayed when it was you who had done all the betraying? Now he remembered the photos. Surely that wasn’t the dirt Hilary had kept from him. Those photos were so much more than what his wife would have called dirt. He stood up and began to walk about the sitting room. Hilary has cut me off, he announced. I am utterly betrayed, he said. I would never have done that to her.
To avoid confusion, Judge Savage would tell the jury four days hence, before you consider those conflicting stories, it will be worth going over the facts that are not a matter of dispute between any of the parties, facts with which any satisfactory version of events must be consistent.
Reading slowly, he began: On March 22nd of this year at 10.52 p.m. a motor vehicle was struck by a stone as it passed under the bridge where Malding Lane crosses over the ring road. He looked up. This is not disputed.
The impact of the stone meeting the car at a speed estimated to be about forty-five miles per hour and thus within the fifty-mile-an-hour limit in force on the ring road, led to the coma and eventually, as we have recently heard, the death of Mrs Elizabeth Whitaker. This is not disputed.
The eight defendants all admit to having been present on the bridge the night of the incident and to having seen the damaged car on the hard shoulder before the arrival of ambulance and police vehicles. They neither aided the victims of the incident, nor informed either hospital or police. This is not disputed.
Data from the telephone company Orange shows that 85 telephone calls were made between the eight mobile phones of the defendants in the hours between 6.30 and 9 a.m. on the morning of March 23rd. No similar intensity of phone traffic has ever been recorded between these phones. This is not disputed.
Judge Savage seemed exhausted. Why was he repeating that phrase so insistently. It was an unusual way to proceed with a summing up. Looking up from his notes his seeing eye was bloodshot.
So much then, he told the jury, for the undisputed evidence. It is all, as you will have observed, circumstantial evidence, by which I mean that it is not the same as the testimony of an independent eye-witness identifying the perpetrator of a crime at the moment he or she commits that crime. We have no such evidence in this case. A witness did see a group of youths on the bridge around the time of the crime and has positively identified two of the defendants. But he did not see any stones thrown. No one saw the crime committed. However, it is permissible for you, as the jury, to infer from circumstances proven and accepted by all parties any other facts necessary to complete the elements of guilt or, for that matter, to establish the defendants’ innocence. What I am saying is: to call evidence circumstantial is by no means to deny its importance as evidence. The dirty bastard, Frank had breathed over the photos. He was shaking his head. Someone else could have put them there, Arthur said reasonably. Maybe he didn’t even know they were there. It doesn’t prove anything. Oh but it fits! Frank cried. Doesn’t it, squire. He turned to Daniel, splashing out wine all round. It fits! Art, if you’d known Martin you’d understand! It explains everything. The bloke was sick. It’s him, Dan! It must be. What you must bear in mind, however, Judge Savage would go on to tell the jury, is that
even the strongest circumstantial evidence can often allow for various interpretations, however unlikely they may at first seem. It is with this caveat, then, that you must consider the various divergent versions of events which you have heard, versions which can be understood as different attempts to explain those circumstances that are, I repeat, not a matter for dispute: the throwing of a stone, the impact with the car, the presence of these nine young people on the bridge. It is also important that you understand, he warned, how your acceptance, or otherwise, of any given version will affect the position of each single defendant.
Jerked from sleep in the early hours of that Sunday morning, after his afternoon with Tom, the conversation with his wife, the shock of the photos, sitting shivering and stiff on the sofa, Judge Savage was aware that something new had happened in his life, something important had changed. I feel utterly betrayed. He said the words out loud. But was that reasonable? He stood barefoot, rather frightened, on the gritty carpet. He didn’t understand how he could have been so violently tossed out of sleep. When he woke, he was already sitting up.
He waited. In the dark his vision was blurred. He had no perspective on things. He felt vulnerable. Perhaps it’s a dream I’m about to remember. He felt that kind of pressure. But no dream came. Rather, the simplest and most lucid of observations suddenly spoke itself with great conviction: Hilary sees a different version of our lives. He stared into the dark. His wife wasn’t being hysterical, as once at the Cambridge Hotel. She wasn’t even being aggressive or actually in any way unpleasant. Quite calmly, he told himself, even sensibly, Hilary considers our life together as over. My marriage is finished. At the very point where she had been about to crown him as her dream hero, the wounded Savage, the heroic Savage, the strong moral figure who had at last replaced her first love Robert, at that very moment, circumstances had prompted her to change position: they weren’t even partners. We are no longer partners, he announced. Though I haven’t changed at all. She isn’t saying there was never a story, he thought, I never loved you, as she had said before, beating on his chest in the foyer of the Cambridge Hotel. That line had been easy to refute. She was saying, this is how that old story ends: we don’t grow old together. It still doesn’t seem possible, Daniel thought. I am dead to Hilary, he announced out loud and rather strangely in the street-lit shadows of his brother’s flat. She has put herself away from me.
