by Michael Dean
It was a Tunisian, Abdallah Melaouhi, who had been closest to him for some months, and who had been looking after him that morning. Afterwards he was to claim that the prison log had been altered for that day, and that Prisoner Number Seven had been found dead or dying at 2.30 p.m., not an hour later. He would further claim that when he fought his way to the small garden hut having been held back by a British guard for forty minutes, there were two men in US Army coveralls already there, two men he did not recognize, as well as the American guard whose job it was to attend the old man constantly for fear of suicide attempts. The prisoner was on the floor, apparently lifeless, and the electric-light extension cable later said to have been used in the self-murder was plugged, as normal, into the wall. There were signs of a struggle, everything had been 'turned over', and he later discovered that the prison's emergency resuscitation unit had been destroyed. Shortly, the cable itself had disappeared, burnt by the British, and next day the garden hut was gone as well. So too was the US guard who had left the prisoner alone for a minute or two 'to take a telephone call' - flown back, on whose orders it was never disclosed, to the United States. Melaouhi, failing to evoke a serious response from the British, took his story to the West Berlin police, who immediately announced that they intended to investigate it as a possible murder case. The British response this time was prompt: the incident had taken place on their territory, and the West Berliners had no jurisdiction. The case was closed.
Whatever time it started, the chaos soon became overwhelming.
The American director, once informed, immediately ordered that the man be taken to the British military hospital, with no time for a police escort to be mustered. Although his face was blue, no one was prepared to name him dead, and as the stretcher-bearers rattled clumsily up the spiral staircase into the main cell block, as they raced along the echoing, empty building towards the gate, they pummelled inexpertly at his chest, breaking several ribs. In the ambulance, which had two miles to go and took seven minutes, a rubber tube was inserted down the patient's throat, missing the windpipe, and oxygen was pumped into his stomach, which was later found to be inflated hard, grotesque. Whether it was ninety minutes after Melaouhi saw him on the ground or thirty, the prisoner reached the hospital at precisely four o'clock, where a team of doctors had been alerted. The rubber tube was re-inserted correctly, drips were attached to wrist and ankle, heart massage continued, even life-saving methods of last resort perfected in Vietnam were used. At 4.10 Major Carabot, the duty doctor, gave the thumbs-down. They were dealing with a corpse.
The chaos worsened. Even by the time the medics had given up, officials and soldiers of all four powers were cramming the hospital.
The British military governor, Lieutenant Colonel Anthony Le Tissier, bore the brunt, as his government was most intimately concerned. The furious rows erupted almost instantaneously, as the way to tell the world the news became the crucial issue. After two hours of wrangling the first release said the death had been in hospital, which enraged the Russians, who pointed out the man had been sent to jail to die, and had therefore to have done so. Further, they said, the slapdash methods of the Americans were to blame for the whole pathetic farce, and that fact should be noted. A second communiqué said the prisoner had died in the summer house, in the normal course of his captivity, and a third release, twenty-four hours later, said tersely that it was suicide with an electric cord. After another twenty-four hours - fortuitously - a suicide note was found in the dead man's jacket pocket, where it had been 'overlooked'. His family were not allowed to see it.
On procedure, the British were insistent. Whatever anybody else might want, the matter was to be investigated solely by the British Army. An SIB investigation unit under Major J.P. Gallagher was under orders within an hour, with operatives on their way from Rheindalen and Dusseldorf. The autopsy was to be conducted by Dr J.M. Cameron and no one else, although doctors from the other powers could be present as observers. To prevent the possibility of souvenirs, there were to be no still photographs of any sort during the examination. For the same reason, all the prisoner's effects were to be destroyed immediately, save a few which would go to his family. A few not of their choosing.
It was a long evening, a longer night, a fraught few days. But very soon - although details were sparse and contradictory - the simple words had flown around the world: Hess is dead. The same words, oddly, had been doodled on his scribbling pad by Winston Churchill.
That had been in 1941.
Two
A month before the death at Spandau, on the morning of his son's eleventh birthday, Bill Wiley was called from Northern Ireland to a hotel in Lancashire to help to solve a problem in Berlin. He was not sure who or what the problem was, and had far more urgent things to think about. He left the house at a run, fury fighting with despair in his stomach, and almost forgot to check beneath his new Q-car. He gripped the door handle, and stared back at the house. His son's face appeared at the bedroom window, white and stressed. This could not go on.
The bomb check took half a minute, and the routine calmed him. When Wiley straightened up, he was in control. A group of women were close as well, with buggies and a dog. Some toddlers, too. Three of the women knew him and smiled tentatively, although he was not popular, because they liked Liz too much. To Army wives, the story was well known, happiness in marriage was not the norm. They glanced at No 23, the lace curtains, the red-painted door. Soon it would open and Liz would bring out Johnnie, and join the others in the trek to school. Johnnie was eleven today, there was going to be a party.
'Poor little bastard!' Liz had been screaming, barely five minutes earlier. 'What sort of a birthday is it, anyway! Ten to three this morning you got in, and you're like a dishcloth! He comes into the bedroom and you shout at him, you bastard, you shout at him! You pig, you utter pig. And you won't be here tonight, will you? You won't have remembered the party, will you? Or the present, or a bloody card! Go on, get out. Go to work. Go and be a hero. Go and drive your nice new car.'
Liz's face was long, and white. Her pupils dilated, and she looked about her, wildly, as if for something to throw at him. He was dispassionate for a moment, felt a pang of pain and pity for her as a human being, not a wife. The pupils were probably dilated with the drugs, he thought. Jesus Christ, how had it come to this?
'Liz,' he said. 'Please. I got in late. I was exhausted. I know, I know! It's not an excuse, it's my job, OK! But I'll make it up to him. Johnnie understands. He'll let me off.'
'Well he shouldn't! You've got no right to be let off. You're a selfish, piggish, piggish…'
She ran out of steam and Wiley pulled the front door open and shouted up the stairs: 'Come on John. I know you're up there! For God's sake come and tell your Mum you still love your selfish bastard of a father. It's upsetting her.
Johnnie was at the doorway, in his pyjamas. His face was pale, but then it always was, he got that from his mother. He smiled, but it was a pretty miserable affair.
'Will you be?' he said. 'Honestly? Here tonight?'
'Yes, I will be here, it's all arranged. Unless Paisley runs off with the Pope, I'm off tonight, OK? And I've got a birthday present lined up for you, to collect. I might be a bastard, but I'm not a total one. It's your birthday, for God's sake. Big school next term.'
Johnnie nodded, seriously. He was a quiet boy, small for his age, thin and wiry. Like his mother, he was not wild about the place they lived, although he did not actively hate it, as she did. He had his computer, and there were two or three other boys of his own age in the married quarters to play football with, and one especial friend living in another Army enclave at Holywood, whom he met as often as possible to play chess with. The thing he hated most was the lack of Bill. Until they had come to Ireland two years before they had spent an enormous amount of time together, they had been best friends.
While John was getting his school clothes on, Bill returned to the kitchen. He was dressed for work - jeans, trainers and a sweatsh
irt - and he had trimmed his moustache in front of the dressing-table mirror. He hoped the fight was over, and he was holding a small pair of scissors as part of the truce. He waved them. 'There's a bit sticking up my nose. I can never get it without risk of bleeding to death. Give us a snip will you, love?'
Liz did not move. Her eyes were on him, bright with misery.
'You're trying to turn my son against me,' she said. 'You're trying to make me into the nagging, carping wife.'
'What?'
His surprise was genuine, but his wife did not believe that.
'You had forgotten, hadn't you, you liar? And you haven't got a bloody present, waiting to be collected.'
'I have! It's up in Belfast! I'm going up there!'
'Liar! What is it then? Tell me!'
'Don't be stupid, Liz. John'll hear you. It's a surprise.'
'It will be, when he doesn't get it! You don't even know what a boy of his age likes! You don't even know how bloody old he is!'
Her voice was rising, and Wiley felt his hands, involuntarily, form into fists. In one of them, like a dagger, he held the scissors. He became aware of them as a shock. He lowered his own voice, a counterpart to hers, he was prepared for pleading.
'Liz, darling, please. It's all right. I've got the present, it's even paid for. For G— For John 's sake, keep your voice down. Please.'
'No!' she screamed. 'I won't! I'll fucking shout my head off, if I want to! I won't keep quiet!'
'Liz! For Christ's sake!'
Johnnie was at the door once more, his white face whiter, like a sheet. Bill felt the small chrome scissors collapse within his fist. He hurled them to the floor.
'John,' he said. 'I'm going to work. Your mother…Look, son…'
'And he won't be back!' screeched Liz, big tears pouring from her eyes and down her face. 'Whatever he says, he won't be back.'
Bill moved towards her, forced himself to stop and turn, and went towards the door. He said to Johnnie: 'We'll talk. We'll see a doctor,' and Johnnie turned and ran, crashing into the newel post. Liz was rushing at him, so Bill side-stepped and broke her forward moment, prevented her from hurting her body against the kitchen wall.
'I'll ring,' he said, opening the door.
She picked a beaker off the work-top - light, plastic, useless - and flung it at him. It bounced off the closing door. 'I hope you die,' she said.
Bill Wiley, on the other side of the kitchen door, tried to control himself. It was despair, not fury, despair in hot black waves. Then he heard Liz tear open the other door.
'Johnnie,' she called. 'Hurry up. You've got to go to school.'
Her voice was changed, although still shaky. She sounded almost calm. Bill closed his eyes.
Then Liz said, 'We'll go and get you something extra, Johnnie. After school. Your daddy won't be back , you know. He won't be back.'
Bill could either leave, or he could go back into the kitchen and kill her.
So he left.
Three
By the time he reached the office block in central Belfast, Bill had got complete control again. He had driven first to Holywood, where an unpleasant colonel, with more power than brains, had redirected him tersely back to the city for a meeting with a ‘Mr Boswell.’ He rode the lift to the third floor, smiled at the receptionist – who knew him – and entered the outer room. Two minutes later the connecting door was opened, and Boswell took his arm.
The meeting was brief. Boswell was a large fat man with a bald, shiny dome and a face not filled with humour. He watched Wiley like a hawk, as if he knew something detrimental to his character and standing. Bill wondered what it was .
'Are you bored with it yet?' he asked. He had seated himself behind a big green desk, covered with papers. Considering his position, it was not very opulent.
Bill affected surprise. But he was used to Boswell's gambits.
'I wouldn't say so, sir. It keeps me off the streets.'
'Two years nearly. I suppose that helps.'
'Sir?'
'The extra risk, the extra adrenalin. Jesus Christ Almighty, Bill, the boyos aren't as stupid as they're painted, are they? They must have at least an inkling by now of who you are. And what.'
Bill nodded, non-committal.
'They change, we change, I get around. It doesn't worry me yet. Not very often.'
'When did you last get to kill one? A bogwog?'
Boswell chose the word carefully, and noted Wiley's face. It was a word that neither of them would normally have used, so the man behind the desk was testing something. Wiley, face impassive, shrugged.
'I was involved in that shoot-out down near Omagh not so long ago. May, was it? Nothing very bloody, though.'
'Not bloody? There was slime and guts all over, is what I heard. Two bogwogs vaporised. Two of the big ones. Doesn’t that bother you?'
Bill let the pause develop, as if he was giving it deep thought. He shrugged. Didn’t give a fuck.
Boswell dropped the urbanity.
'Well it damn well should,' he snapped. 'We want you out of here. We want you on a plane at one o'clock. We think you need a rest from the front line.'
He smiled at Bill’s expression.
'Is that OK with you? Any commitments, loose ends, jobs need passing on?'
Bill looked into the fat face. It was glistening with moisture. The window was open, but the heat was still oppressive.
'Are you talking burn-out, sir? I assure you I—'
I what, he wondered? Jesus Christ, I'm like a wound up spring.
'Of course we’re not, man. Who mentioned burn-out?' Boswell said. 'It’s just a meeting. In England. There's a job. I don't know any details.' He sniggered, sharply. 'But I think you'll like it. Oh, indeed I do.'
Bill said, unexpectedly: 'My son's eleven today. There's a birthday party.'
The voice was slightly puzzled: 'Congratulations. So?'
Bill stood, shrugging. He must get a sandwich, quickly. He was on the verge of sounding like a basket-case. A nut. He forced a smile.
'Nothing. The wife was keen on it, that's all. Me being there. She bawled me out this morning. The rules of fatherhood. You know.'
The face was crinkled like a big bag pudding.
'Oh I say, I'm sorry,' Boswell said, almost in a chortle. 'I'll ring Silversmith, shall I? Tell him you can't make it!'
'Christ,' said Wiley. 'Silversmith? Is it his?'
The smile, the chortle, humour, all were gone.
'It's Silversmith. I’m telling you, it's a good one. Lots of fun. Something to blow away the cobwebs.'
'Yes,' said Bill.
Boswell levered himself upright and thrust his hand across the desk. It was clammy and immensely muscular.
'How is the wife, by the way?' he asked silkily. 'I heard she
... well, no, let's put it this way. How is she coping with it all? The strain? Be honest with me.'
Oh Christ, thought Wiley. It's like living in a goldfish bowl. He dropped the hand, a fraction of a second too early.
'She's fine. We all have our little problems, don't we? But in general terms, she's fine.'
Boswell sat.
'Grand. One o'clock we want you on that aeroplane. See Anne outside. She'll organize tickets, parking, everything. You can use the telephone, can't you?'
'What for?'
'To phone the boy, of course. From England. It's his birthday party, isn't it?'
Of course.
Table of Contents
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Author Note
Bibliography
Extract from Death Order by Jan Needle
