The Unforgiving Minute_Quantum Physics Can Be Murder

by Paul Casselle

  The man looked Phillips up and down.

  “Fuck off!” he said simply.

  “I want to see Fager.”

  “Well, ’e don’t want to see no nonce.”

  “I’m not a nonce,” said the Professor indignantly, “I’m a murderer!”

  “I thought you was innocent?” sneered the man.

  The Professor smiled.

  “Aren’t we all?”

  The man looked amused by Phillips comment, but his mouth refused to smile. He shot a furtive glance up and down the corridor, then waved a hand.

  “Well, come on then, nonce,” he said. “We ’aven’t got all fucking day.”

  Phillips followed the man into the drab and ill-fragranced room. Fager watched them approach. As the Professor neared him, he took an aggressive step forwards.

  “What the fuck do you want, ya fucking nonce?”

  “The nonce says ’e’s a murderer not a nonce,” said the man leading Phillips.

  The professor graciously bowed his head.

  “I’d like to buy some… stuff.”

  “Oh, you would, would ya,” Fager taunted. “And what stuff would this be?”

  “I… err… I don’t know,” stammered Phillips. “What do you have?”

  “What do I have?” Fager mocked, imitating Phillips’ Oxbridge accent. He turned to one of the other prisoners. “Well, don’t stand around. Show the Prof a menu.”

  Phillips was shocked. He believed Fager to be wily, but wasn’t expecting such a level of organisation. Phillips looked expectantly at Fager. Fager suddenly exploded in a rage that the Professor had only ever seen in films.

  “Are you a fucking madman as well as a nonce?” Fager yelled centimetres from Phillips face. “You actually think we have a fucking menu?” He punched Phillips in the eye. The Professor tripped and fell heavily to the floor. “I told ya what I’d do to you, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did,” said the Professor nursing his face and cowering.

  Phillips was fully expecting to be beaten to death, but as seconds passed, the attack failed to come. He looked up at Fager and noticed that the big Scot had unzipped his flies and was in the process of rummaging beneath his trousers. Fager extracted his penis from the aperture. Tufts of bright red hair protruded from around the man’s phallus. Fager held himself with his right hand and began to urinate onto the Professor. The hot torrent seemed endless and had a putrid aroma from the asparagus that had been served for lunch. But the absolute humiliation of this act was totally overshadowed by the incomprehensible silence in which it was carried out. When Fager had squeezed out every last drop, he tucked himself back into his trousers and pulled up his zip. The four men then left, still in complete silence leaving the Professor and his ill-conceived plan on the filthy lavatory floor.

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  Part Thirteen

  The heavy metal clunk of the cell door mechanism unlocking woke Phillips just moments before the ear-piercing siren completed the prison wake-up call. He climbed out of bed and went over to the washbasin. He stared at himself in the wall mirror. Not much of the silvered rectangle remained functional. Years of water damage had covered the mirror with black and grey splodges necessitating the need to bob one’s head around in order to view the whole of one’s face. Phillips inspected his black eye. He had hoped that by today it would have faded as the parole board would probably not think a shiner the most convincing indicator of a rehabilitated man.

  Phillips lined up outside his cell, and three prison guards herded the fifteen men in Section C towards the showers. Once all of Section C had vacated the wash block, they were led single-file back to their cells. They had ten minutes to change into their day clothes and be back outside their cells ready to be taken to the dining hall for breakfast. Life in a prison was a never ending procession of depressing congas.

  When Phillips got back to his cell he found the suit with which he had entered the prison had been neatly placed on his bunk. After breakfast, the Professor was escorted to the admin block that was, at all other times, off limits to prisoners. He waited in the corridor until a kindly looking woman emerged from an office and beckoned him in. Phillips was invited to sit down in front of a panel of two women and two men who were seated behind a long desk.

  “So,” said a late middle-aged man whom Phillips took to be in charge, “you are Edward Vivian Phillips?” The Professor nodded. “So, how are things going?”

  “All right,” Phillips responded, nodding enthusiastically.

  “Any problems?” the man continued momentarily peering down at some notes.

  “No, everything’s… okay.”

  The second man breathed loudly, making his presence known.

  “I suppose you walked into something, did you?” asked the second man. Phillips shook his head. “How’d you get that black eye, then?”

  “I know you probably see a lot of people in this job that simply tell you a pack of lies,” said Phillips. “I’m a scientist. I have spent my whole life in pursuit of the truth. I can assure you that that is all you’ll hear from me today.”

  “So,” asked the kindly woman gently, “how did you get a black eye?”

  “I was punched.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said the woman. “Have you reported it?”

  “Forgive me,” said Phillips, “you have all probably seen a lot more of prison life than I have, but you have not seen it from this side. The law exists only in the world of the innocent. Justice stops at the point of conviction.”

  “Are you saying that there is no place for justice in here?” asked the woman.

  “Oh no,” answered the Professor, “there’s definitely a place for it, just no room.” He laughed, then leant forwards conspiratorially, “You may have noticed, this prison is crawling with criminals.”

  The four parole panellists made a show of resisting levity.

  “Do you think this is funny?” said the woman with a sharpness designed to wound rather than be witty.

  “No,” responded Phillips shaking his head, “if you good people spent one day behind bars, you’d realise that as much as law-abiding society likes to think that criminals can be rehabilitated given enough care and understanding, it’s a lie. A lie with which we try to protect our terrified socialist selves. But just as ignorance of the law is no defence, neither is ignorance of the truth. And the truth is that even though this low-security prison is seen as the palatable face of punishment, it is most definitely not. It’s a fucking hell hole!”

  The man that seemed to be in charge shifted superiorly in his chair.

  “I really don’t think there is any need for that kind of language,” he said.

  “And that’s my point,” said Phillips, “you wouldn’t, would you, sitting that side of the desk.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” interjected the woman, hiding injury behind indignance.

  “You, my good lady, do not have a black eye,” said Phillips plainly, “and I am sure you have never suffered the humiliation of having a rather large Scot empty his bladder onto you while you lay on the floor reeling from his well placed right-hander.”

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  Part Fourteen

  “That, Professor,” said Boyce-Futch, “is not the way to behave at a bloody parole hearing.” His face betrayed incandescent rage although his professionalism was managing to contain it. “If you don’t want me to just wash my hands of you and throw you to the lions, you’ll learn how to control yourself and do as you’re told.”

  “You’re right, Sir. I won’t even begin to defend myself. I don’t think I’ve ever lost it to that degree before… except, maybe with my wife.”

  “Well, I’m at least glad that you’re not going to try and justify that abomination. I don’t suppose I need to tell you that they stamped your file ‘rejected’ before you had made it back to your cell?” Phillips nodded his head. “Are you willing to at leas
t try and do some good?”

  “Yes, Mr Boyce-Futch.”

  “Good,” said the Governor calming down and descending into the chair behind his desk, “I need you to do something for me… A delicate matter.”

  “Okay,” responded the Professor, intrigued.

  Boyce-Futch looked towards the open door of his office, then back to Phillips.

  “Shut the door,” said Boyce-Futch in little more than a whisper. Phillips crossed to the door and closed it. “Come and sit down.” Phillips sat and frowned. “Sorry, I’m just not sure who I can trust.” He paused. “The Home Office is on my back again about stamping out incidences of illegal drugs possession within the prison.”

  “A rather tall order,” said Phillips.

  “I believe,” continued Boyce-Futch, “that there is a single man controlling the whole thing.”

  “I can tell you who that is, Sir,” said Phillips. Boyce-Futch stared at him. “Jock Fager.”

  “I know it’s bloody Jock Fager!” Boyce-Futch shouted, then immediately reduced his volume. “I know it’s Jock Fager. I know that already. I just need to prove it.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “I need to catch him bang to rights. Then I can get him transferred out of here. Let him be someone else’s problem.”

  “And I can help?”

  “Yes you can. I need someone to set up a deal with him, then tip me off so we can catch him red-handed.” Phillips exhaled loudly. “I know, I know, I’m asking a lot… but so are you… bloody… Time… Machine…”

  “How would this work?” asked Phillips.

  “Do you know Fager?”

  “Oh yes, I know Fager.”

  Boyce-Futch narrowed his eyes and cocked his head questioningly.

  “You… you don’t do drugs yourself, do you?”

  “No, don’t be silly, Sir,” said Phillips. “Reality’s difficult enough without messing with my brain as well!”

  “Quite. Listen. I’ll give you the money to tempt Fager to make a deal. You just set it up and tip me off.” Phillips stared at the Governor and nervously licked his lips. “You want your bloody machine, right?” Phillips nodded. “Then do this.”

  Boyce-Futch unlocked a drawer in his desk and placed a bulging manila envelope in front of the Professor.

  “That’s the money,” said the Governor.

  “How much is there?”

  “Three thousand.”

  “Pounds?”

  “Yes. Three thousand pounds.”

  “And I’ll get my machine?”

  “Yes.”

  Phillips moved to pick up the envelope, but Boyce-Futch stopped him with a strong hand.

  “Do you actually think I’m going to let you walk out of here with three thousand pounds in cash?” said the Governor. “No Professor, just set the deal up and let me know when and where.”

  “And I just don’t turn up?”

  “No, you have to go or Fager will know something’s up and we won’t catch him in the act.”

  “Hold on, let me get this right,” said the Professor. “You want me to go to a drugs deal with Fager without the money?”

  “No. Listen. When you’re ready to do the deal, Clive - Officer Connelly - will hand you the money, okay?”

  “Officer Connelly knows?”

  Boyce-Futch nodded.

  “You can’t tell anyone about this, you understand? There are only two… now three people who know about it,” explained the Governor. “As I said, I think some of my staff may be involved with Fager, but I’ll deal with that later. For now, I want Fager out of here. So, do the deal and tell Officer Connelly where and when. Before you meet with Fager, Connelly will give you the money.”

  Phillips knocked tentatively on the open cell door. Fager looked up from lying on his bunk. He started to get up.

  “I’m going to fucking kill you, you fucking…”

  “Three thousand pounds,” said Phillips.

  “What?”

  “I want to buy some coke. Three thousand pounds.”

  “You don’t do drugs, you nonce,” countered Fager.

  “But I do have three thousand.”

  “Cash?” Phillips nodded. “Where’d you get three grand?”

  “That doesn’t matter. What matters is, can you handle that much?”

  “Don’t you worry about me, Prof… You want coke?”

  “Three thousand pounds’ worth, yes.”

  “Okay, Prof. Tomorrow, after lunch, usual place.”

  “I’ll see you then,” Phillips said turning to go.

  “Hey, Prof,” Fager called after him. Phillips looked at the big Scot. “If yous are fucking me around, I will fucking kill ya. You know that, right?”

  “I have no doubt, Mr Fager. No doubt at all.”

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  Part Fifteen

  Phillips’ appetite had deserted him. He was so nervous at lunch that he couldn’t even face the carton of orange juice that sat on the metal tray next to his untouched meal.

  On the other side of the dining hall, he saw Fager and his entourage get up and head out of the room. Phillips waited a moment, then pushed his chair away from the table. He felt weak, possibly because he had not eaten a thing since breakfast, but more likely because he felt more terrified than he had ever felt in his life.

  As he walked down the corridor towards the lavatory, he could see Officer Connelly hiding in an alcove on the other side of the lavatory door. Phillips walked the last few metres and looked expectantly towards Connelly. The Officer nodded, then ducked out of sight as the door was suddenly opened by one of Fager’s men.

  “Come on then, nonce.” said Fager’s man.

  “I’ll be right there,” said Phillips. The man stared at the Professor. “I said I’ll be right there. If you want to mess this deal up for Fager, just keep fucking around. I’m sure he will have no trouble showing his gratitude for doing him out of three thousand pounds.” The man opened his mouth and hesitated. “Go inside,” Phillips said as if talking to a toddler, “and tell your boss that I’m just coming. Go on, run along.”

  The man went into the toilet, and Phillips pulled the door closed.

  “Officer Connelly,” he whispered. The Officer’s head appeared. “Can I have the money?”

  Connelly narrowed his eyes.

  “First,” whispered Connelly, “go inside and make sure Fager has the stuff. Then come back out here and I’ll give you the money and radio the Governor and the other officers.”

  “But why can’t I just take the money now,” asked the Professor. “Fager’s not going to be able to get away.”

  “This is not my first time carrying out a sting, Professor. Do it my way and everything will go just as we want it.”

  Phillips hesitated, then drew a large breath and pushed the door open. Fager was leaning against a washbasin. He silently watched Phillips approach.

  “Have you got the money?” asked Fager.

  “Do you have the drugs?” responded Phillips.

  “Don’t fuck me around, nonce.”

  “Look, Mr Fager, you show me that you have the drugs and I’ll give you your money. Someone is holding it for me just outside the door.”

  “Are yous saying you don’t trust me?” said Fager. “Because that would hurt my feelings.”

  “It’s not a question of trust, Mr Fager. It’s a question of prudent negotiation.”

  Fager looked around his entourage.

  “You see, boys, isn’t it nice to do business with such a cultured and intelligent man.” He turned to Phillips. “And such a trustworthy one as well, eh?” Fager stared threateningly into the Professor’s eyes, then turned and signalled one of his men. The man brought a backpack over to Fager. The Scot unzipped the main compartment and showed Phillips several neatly wrapped bags of white powder that were within. “Them is the drugs, Professor. Now give me my money.”

  Phillips struggled not to smile as he backed
up, turned, then walked quickly towards the lavatory door. This had actually been much easier than he had imagined. Phillips reached the door and pulled it open. He stepped through into the corridor, then urgently looked left and right. The corridor was empty. Connelly was gone.

  “Where’s my fucking money, nonce?” came Fager’s voice in a whisper centimetres from the Professor’s ear.

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  Part Sixteen

  Julie had had a lot of trouble finding a parking space in central London, but as she turned the same corner she had already been around seven times, she spotted a blue Lexus pulling away from a parking meter. At least something was going her way this afternoon. The space she had managed to grab was only a short walk from the place she was visiting.

  For most of the previous year, Julie had wanted to make this visit, but fear of what she might find out had stopped her. Knowledge cannot be undone, and the chronic pain of the unknown had been easier to bear than the wounds she believed the truth might inflict upon her.

  Julie climbed the stairs to the impressive building and quickly found her way to the Chief Court Clerk’s office. She knocked and heard a voice inside instruct her to come in. Seated at an ancient dark oak desk was a suited man in his early thirties. She caught him half way between sitting down to his lunch, and rising to greet her.

  “Hello,” she said pleasantly, “I’m Julie Taggart.”

  “Very pleased to meet you. Please excuse me eating my lunch,” the man said with a laugh, then extended a welcoming hand. “So, how can I help you?”

  “I’m a friend of Professor Edward Phillips.”

  “So you said on the phone.”

  “I was wondering if you could fill in some blank spaces from the day of his trial?”

  “What do you mean, ‘blank spaces’? Sorry, Miss Taggart, I don’t follow.”

  “Well, his lawyer Mr Smythe told me that he managed to get an unusual request of the Professor’s granted.”

  “And what was that?” said the clerk with a fleeting, but plainly evident glance at the uneaten sandwich on his desk.