by Sarah Rayne
Lewis said, ‘Then I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Mr Pierrepoint.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
No one will get into Calvary tonight, Lewis had said to Belinda Skelton, but as he walked along the prison’s dimly lit corridors he could not help thinking that something had got in. Cas would have said, with serious eyes, that death had entered the prison and was stalking the corridors, peering into the men’s cells one by one, saying, Ah yes, that one is not for me, nor that one. But this one – oh yes, this is the one who is waiting for me . . . But then Cas would have smiled the narrow-eyed smile, and said, God, what fantastical nonsense and wouldn’t you think I’d have grown out of all that stuff years since.
Lewis did not consider himself to be what Thomas Pierrepoint called fanciful, but he knew that on the night before a hanging something happened to Calvary. The change in atmosphere was largely due to the prisoners’ unease and to the extreme fear and nervous tension within the condemned block itself, but he always thought it was as if the prison slid down into a half-haunted state.
The prisoners hated a hanging. The warders had instructions not to tell them about it, but they always knew. They heard the scrape of spade against earth in the burial yard and they saw the warders with the marks of quicklime on their boots, and they gathered in frightened little groups in the exercise yard, whispering together, half resentful, half fearful. It was extraordinary to see these men – many of whom were killers in their own right and had narrowly escaped the gallows themselves – so strongly and so visibly affected.
The gas lamps in the corridors were always turned down after the prisoners were locked into their cells for the night, but they were never turned off completely. Normally there was no one abroad in the evening, except the handful of night warders, but tonight was different. Tonight people came and went within the flickering bluish gaslight, occasionally pausing to exchange a word, frequently hunching their shoulders as if to ward off a cold breath of air, or glancing about them as if fearful of being watched.
Denzil McNulty was among them, subdued and deferential, but his normally sallow face showed a tinge of colour and he was unable to wholly conceal a self-important swagger. The chaplain, sombre and absorbed, walked the dimly lit halls as well, the prayer book clutched to his chest, a ribbon marking the page for the burial service. His lips moved as if in prayer and he looked at his pocket watch with nervous regularity.
Shortly after half past seven Lewis saw Mr Pierrepoint and his assistant shuffle their way through the gloom, the shameful bag of their curious trade in their hands. Presently he heard the clang of gates being unlocked and then the scrape of the execution shed door opening and closing. The two men would carry out their sandbag tests as quietly as possible, but several times – perhaps as many as four or five – the prison would feel a dull thrumming as the gallows lever was released and the trap opened.
Before supper Lewis had talked to Denzil McNulty. Had the prisoner been given the usual bromide? Had he made any special requests?
‘I haven’t given the bromide yet, I’m just off to do so now,’ said McNulty. ‘There aren’t any requests, as far as I know. He’s very quiet. He’ll go like a gentleman, this one.’
But Lewis knew Pierrepoint intended to put the hood on the prisoner outside the execution chamber, and could not stop thinking that O’Kane would go not so much like a gentleman but more like an animal made docile, unable to see the instrument of death that waited for him.
He knew, deep down, he was feeling this way because he liked O’Kane. There was no accounting for such things, and there was no law saying a killer or a traitor could not possess charm. It was nothing to do with his resemblance to Cas; there was no possible link between them. In fact, they were worlds apart because Cas would never have betrayed his country. But hadn’t Cas fought for a cause he believed in just as Nicholas O’Kane had? Cas had known he faced death because of that cause, and O’Kane had known it as well. When it came down to it, both had been destined to die: Cas on a mud-drenched battlefield in France, O’Kane at the end of a rope. Lewis thought that Cas would certainly have been prepared to go into the Kaiser’s realm to get information about German secrets to pass to his country. He would have seen it as brave and romantic and honourable – and he, too, might have ended in some dreary prison cell, watching the minutes slide by until morning.
He went back to his office. A small inner room opened off it, furnished with a narrow bed and a washstand. In accordance with custom soap and towels had been put out for him. Calvary’s governor – any prison’s governor – was expected to spend the night inside the gaol before an execution.
He ate his supper without tasting it. It was half past nine now – O’Kane must be watching the minutes tick by in much the same way. Or would McNulty’s bromide have sent him into a dreamless sleep by this time? Lewis frowned and reached for his book. He would read until ten o’clock, and then go along to see if O’Kane slept. If he did not, Lewis would sit with him for an hour. After that he could talk with the chaplain.
He lay on the bed, trying to relax, wishing his muscles were not so tense. By tomorrow night every bone in his body would feel bruised, as if he had been struck repeatedly with a hammer. Blind bruising, he called it to himself, and wished, as he always wished on these nights, that there was a sympathetic female waiting for him at home, someone who would understand the nightmare that went with this part of the job, and who would apply whatever comforts might be available. Simple things like a hot bath, a stiff drink, a listening ear.
After presiding over his first few hangings he had tried to talk to Clara about this feeling but she had looked at him in blank astonishment, and said surely he had known what the post of governor would entail? It was to be hoped he was not developing some ridiculous sentimental notion about clemency or forgiveness, said Clara. Murder was murder, and those committing it deserved their fate. She, personally, had no qualms whatsoever about the executing of a convicted criminal.
(But supposing the criminal in question is only a few years older than Cas, and supposing he has Cas’s trick of tilting his head challengingly, as if he was prepared to take on the world?)
Lewis forced his mind to the pages of his book. He had chosen Somerset Maugham’s Of Human Bondage, liking the gracefulness of the phrasing and the gentle unwinding of the hero’s tribulations. But he could not concentrate. Every emotion and every feeling that dwelled inside Calvary tonight seemed to be settling on the condemned cell along the passageway, and the printed words danced meaninglessly before his eyes. If it was Cas in that condemned cell tonight, what would I do? With the thought came a sudden painful image of Cas, and the day he had left.
The countryside had looked so beautiful – the woods around Thornbeck had been smoky with the haze of bluebells, and the cuckoo was calling everywhere.
At the railway station there had been flags flying and military bands playing, and there had been crowds of family and friends to cheer the soldiers off. None of them had known what was ahead, although some of the old soldiers – the fathers and grandfathers of these heart-breakingly young men – might have guessed at some of it. But none of them could have guessed that those boys were going into a world of muddy battles, violent shelling, mustard gas and of men drowning in quagmires and dying squalidly from dysentery . . .
The ache of loss sliced through Lewis all over again and he lay back on the bed, pressing his face into the pillow, fighting for self-control. Through the muffled difficult sobs, he was aware that someone had knocked at the door. Oh God, no. No one must see me like this.
The tap came again, and then the door was pushed hesitantly open. Lewis managed to say, ‘Yes?’
It was Belinda Skelton. She paused, looking round the main office, then turned to look through the partly open inner door. By now Lewis was sitting on the edge of the bed, more or less composed, although he thought the marks of his emotions were still visible.
‘I didn’t see you in there, sir. They’ve made coff
ee in the canteen – quite a treat for once. I thought you might like a cup after your supper.’
‘Thank you, Belinda. Yes, I should.’ Had his voice sounded all right? A bit false, maybe. She would not notice.
But she did. She set the cup down and came to the doorway of the inner room.
‘Is something wrong, sir?’
‘Not at all,’ said Lewis. ‘I’m only tired.’ And now all I have to do is thank her for the coffee, pick up my book, and she’ll go.
‘You hate these hours, don’t you?’ she said, not moving. ‘I mean – the last few hours before a hanging.’
‘Yes, I do. How did you know?’
‘I don’t know. Is it just because of this particular one – Mr O’Kane? Or do you always hate it?’
‘I always hate it,’ said Lewis. ‘But tonight is worse than usual.’
‘Why? I don’t mean to be prying, sir, but— Is it because he’s young? Or because he’s – I don’t know the right word. Because he believes so strongly that what he did was right?’
‘The word you’re looking for is idealistic,’ said Lewis, and saw her give a small nod as if she was tucking away the newly learned word. Her hair was lit from behind by the desk lamp. It was pinned under her cap, but little tendrils had escaped. Lewis suddenly wondered what she would look like with her hair loose and tumbling over her bare shoulders. He said, ‘Nicholas O’Kane reminds me a little of my son, that’s all.’ All? said his mind angrily. All, when it’s tearing me into pieces?
‘Your son who was killed in France? I heard about that. It’ll be a difficult thing for you, then, seeing Mr O’Kane hanged and all.’
‘Yes.’
She was still standing in the doorway. Her skin was white, like alabaster or porcelain. She would be warm and welcoming, and she would drive away some of the ghosts. But I’d be mad, thought Lewis – it’s insane even to think about it. But the ache for Cas was still with him and the black loneliness that always gripped him on these nights had bitten deeply this time. He looked at Belinda and thought, Would it be so disastrous? She’s indicated more than once that she’d be willing. She hasn’t actually said it aloud, but we both know. But supposing it’s all a trick – or even a bet with the other warders? Or supposing she’s deliberately set out to seduce me, intending to use it against me later?
But it was as if the normal values and rules of his world had turned upside-down. He stared at Belinda and thought, Just for company. Just for half an hour of human warmth and human sympathy. No, that’s utterly selfish, I can’t make use of her like that. I’ll thank her for the coffee and she’ll go away.
But instead of the cool words of thanks and dismissal he had intended, he said, ‘Will you stay and drink the coffee with me, Belinda?’ And then as she smiled, he heard himself say, ‘And are we going to keep on playing this game, or are you going to come over here to the bed?’
It was as simple and as straightforward as that. No pretence about needing to be coaxed. No coy flutterings of, ‘Oh, sir, I shouldn’t . . .’ or, ‘What will you think of me afterwards?’
No genteel demurrals or protestations that she did not usually, but perhaps just this once . . .
Belinda closed the inner door and came to stand at the side of the bed. She pulled off the linen cap, tugging at her hair so that it cascaded around her shoulders. Her eyes narrowed in a sudden smile of intimacy, and she unfastened the buttons of the ugly prison uniform and slid out of it. Lewis saw with delight that there was no ungainly struggling with lacings or whalebonings: she simply unbuttoned the bodice and stepped out of the dark blue gown. Beneath it she wore a few wisps of white cotton and what looked like silk stockings. Lewis could not remember the last time he had seen a female’s legs in such gossamer-thin silk stockings, and the sight was almost unbearably arousing. They were held up with little black garters. Had she worn the stockings and the garters deliberately tonight? If she had Lewis was beyond caring. He held out his hands to her and she took them eagerly and let him draw her down onto the bed.
She locked her hands behind his head, kissing him as if she had been thirsting for him for a very long time. Her mouth tasted young and clean and eager, and her thighs were firm and warm against his body. He finally managed to say in a gasp, ‘Belinda, I’ll stop in a minute.’
‘No – oh, don’t stop, Lewis,’ she said, and the words and the use of his name seemed to lock them into such deep and exciting intimacy that Lewis gave a half groan, and pulled at his own buttons.
As he moved on top of her he had the feeling she was not quite as experienced as she had let him believe. She knows the opening moves, he thought, and she’s not a virgin, but I think this means more to her than she’s letting me see. This realization made him pause, and say, ‘Are you sure?’
‘I put on my only pair of silk stockings specially for this,’ she said, her eyes narrowing in amusement.
‘I love them,’ said Lewis. ‘I’ll be careful, I’ll stop before—’
‘You’re doing it again,’ she said. ‘Talking about stopping. Lewis, will you stop being such a fucking gentleman and make love to me.’
Saul Ketch thought if it had not been for the onion broth served at tonight’s supper, he might never have known about that tart Belinda Skelton and her carryings-on with Lewis bloody Caradoc.
Ketch had gone along for his supper as usual. A quarter past nine to the tick it was, although on night duty you only got fifteen minutes to eat and have a bit of a smoke, which Ketch considered mean. He might ask somebody to write a letter about it – there would be no need for him to add the painstaking scrawl that constituted his signature because you should always be able to swear off a thing if it went wrong. But a man could not be expected to eat his food in fifteen minutes. Ketch often took in a gulp of air with his meal on account of having to gobble it down too fast, and this sometimes led to awkwardness later on, particularly in the small warders’ rest room. Old Muttonchops had once or twice pointed out that if Ketch did not eat such vast quantities in the first place he would not be continually letting off wind in such a disgusting way afterwards, and one of the female warders had very pointedly brought in some lavender bags to hang over Ketch’s chair. Ketch thought the stink of lavender far worse that any internal rumblings or letting-offs that Calvary’s onion broth brought about.
He had had two helpings of the onion broth tonight, defiantly slurping it up under the disapproving eye of Muttonchops who was on supper duty and who was always stricter than usual when they were about to turn a bloke off. But Ketch took his time because he did not see why he should not have as much supper as he wanted; it was not going to make any difference to Nicholas sodding O’Kane who ate what, and it was not going to help anybody if Ketch went hungry.
The broth sent him a bit hastily along to the necessary house, and on his way back he saw the tart Belinda padding along the corridors, a cup and saucer in her hand. And a button or two undone on her gown? Ketch stepped back from the flickering light of a nearby gas jet, and stood in the deep shadows, trying to see without being noticed. Yes, the slut had definitely unfastened her gown at the neck, Ketch could see a glimpse of white underneath the dark blue cloth. He could only think of one reason for the trollop to have done that; she was going to meet somebody, and it did not take a genius to guess who that somebody was. Ketch had seen the governor look at Belinda enough times, and he had seen Belinda look at the governor as well, and he felt a thump of pleasure when he thought of how gratified the doctor would be with this little nugget of information. But the doctor would want proof positive, that was always the arrangement, and so Ketch glanced up and down the passages to make sure no one else was around. Then he went after her.
He had been right! There she was, the saucy madam, going into the governor’s office, as bold as you liked. Would she take her clothes off for him right away? Ketch remembered there was a bed in there for when the governor stayed in Calvary, and he had a sudden picture of Belinda getting undressed and getting into th
at bed. If he stayed here to listen, would he be missed? He would surely hear the sounds of the others coming out of the dining room. He tiptoed nearer to the door, hoping to hear what was happening.
And he did! He heard the low murmur of voices, and then Belinda laughed. Sir Lewis’s deep voice said something in response, but Ketch could not make out the words. Greatly daring, he pressed closer to the door. If someone came along now and caught him he would be for the high jump, but he would risk it. As he listened, he could hear, beyond the closed door, the rhythmic creaking of a bed and cries and moans. A slow smile spread across Ketch’s doughy features. No doubt about what those two were doing, and very thoroughly as well! Who would have thought the disdainful Sir Lewis could have tupped a tart as vigorously as that? It went to show you should not judge by appearances.
Ketch listened for a minute or two longer, still grinning to himself, because from the sound of it they were going at it like a pair of stoats, in fact they would be lucky if they did not bust the bed. He laughed silently at this possibility. But keep it up for a while yet, Sir Lewis – in fact keep everything up – because if I’m to get along to the doctor and bring him back to listen to you, I’ll need at least ten minutes.
Lewis half raised himself in the bed and looked down at Belinda. Her hair was spilling across the pillow.
‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’ he said.
She reached up to trace the contours of his face with one finger. ‘You didn’t hurt me,’ she said. ‘It was sweet and loving and honest, wasn’t it? But had I better go now?’
