Naked Justice
Page 3
KEITH: You were taken off crime because you wouldn’t make people face the consequences of their evil actions. As in the case of Wendy and her abysmal cooking.
(Pause.)
FRED: You have to bend the rules from time to time…for the sake of humanity.
KEITH: (Laughing.) Bend the rules! You think you’re above the rules… Far, far above them! You think it’s all right for you – to laugh at the rules?
FRED: It’s all right for anyone…
KEITH: Anyone privileged? You were born into this job. It opened its arms to you! And your face fitted.
FRED: Fitted what?
KEITH: The net. The old boys’ net. I had to work for my chances. I had to fight every inch of the way… To get where I am…
FRED: And I’m sure it does you enormous credit.
KEITH: You don’t sound as though you think it’s very fair.
FRED: It’s exactly how fair you think it is.
KEITH: Where I came from. In the back streets of this town. In places you’ve never been to. They’ve forgotten all the rules… And I’m here to remind them… Forcibly…
FRED: What about trying to understand them… Isn’t that…occasionally important…?
KEITH: They need rules! They can’t live a decent life without them…
FRED: So if they go commit some outrageous crime – like cooking a dubious paella – they should be sent to prison for life?
KEITH: I suppose you think that’s funny? Let me tell you, Fred – you’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.
(The men are standing, staring at each other, hostile. ELSPETH enters, carefully made-up, wearing a black cocktail dress, a little jewellery.)
ELSPETH: Are you two boys quarrelling again?
KEITH: Fred has failed to do his obvious duty.
ELSPETH: Have you, Uncle Fred?
FRED: I feel unusually relaxed. There’s nothing like failing to do your duty to give you a little glow of satisfaction.
ELSPETH: So. What’s going on?
FRED: We were having a deep, philosophical argument about Wendy’s cooking.
KEITH: You know it wasn’t just that.
ELSPETH: Please don’t quarrel. Either of you. I’m so looking forward to dinner tonight…
KEITH: You shouldn’t. Nothing’s changed in the kitchen.
FRED: We’ll hope for the best. (To ELSPETH.) And you’re looking exotic.
ELSPETH: Of course. I’ve got a guest, remember?
KEITH: Are you trying to tell me… You’ve invited a guest here tonight. To the lodgings.
ELSPETH: Of course.
KEITH: Has this been discussed?
FRED: Certainly. And I made my decision. As the Senior Judge. Remember the rules, Keith. Just try to take them seriously.
(Pause. KEITH decides to ignore FRED. Speaks to ELSPETH.)
KEITH: Who is this guest exactly?
FRED: Her young man’s coming to dinner.
ELSPETH: Not so young. But a bit devastating.
(HUBERT enters.)
HUBERT: The gentleman’s here.
(KEITH, angry at the others for inviting a guest, turns away and starts reading the papers on his desk. He doesn’t look up as RODDY enters. He’s only a year or two younger than KEITH but he looks much younger. He is handsome with longish hair, wears a blazer with gold buttons and some sort of sporting club tie. FRED advances towards RODDY.)
FRED: I’m Fred Dotteridge. You must be Roddy.
RODDY: Afraid so. Haven’t got much choice. I say, Elspeth. You all look jolly comfortable here.
FRED: Fond of the Spice Girls, are you?
RODDY: They were rather gorgeous.
FRED: A bit out of date, I know. And I hope you think we’re gorgeous. I’m Posh Spice. At least, I was. Elspeth’s Baby Spice. Now, let’s have a minute’s silence. While Keith says, ‘What are the Spice Girls?’
(KEITH says nothing.)
Keith…is Scary Spice.
(KEITH turns and now looks at RODDY for the first time.)
RODDY: (Holds out his hand to KEITH.) We’ve met before…
FRED: How nice.
(KEITH turns and looks at RODDY, holds out his hand. FRED watches them as the light fades.)
(Lights come up downstage. CASSANDRA and MARSTON DAWLISH, ex-public school, superior, large and fat, in his thirties, is patronising her. They are on bar stools at a chromium hotel bar. Muzak is playing.)
DAWLISH: Poor old Lord Byron.
CASSANDRA: Don’t make fun of his name.
DAWLISH: He’ll go no more a’roving. At least, not for the next fifteen years or so.
CASSANDRA: Don’t you be too sure.
DAWLISH: That’s the spirit! It’ll be fun prosecuting you.
CASSANDRA: Don’t you be too sure of that, either.
(Pause. DAWLISH looks at her approvingly, then.)
DAWLISH: I really want to help you.
CASSANDRA: Oh, is that what you want?
DAWLISH: We don’t have to spend days on this, do we? Advise his Lordship to plead guilty. He’d be out sooner.
CASSANDRA: Because he says he didn’t do it.
DAWLISH: He says…? He’s already confessed…
CASSANDRA: Why don’t you just wait and see…?
DAWLISH: What’re you hinting at? Self-defence? Provocation? I might be prepared to consider a plea
to manslaughter. Just between friends.
CASSANDRA: Is that what we are? (She drinks.) I’m going to fight for an acquittal.
DAWLISH: (Looking at her.) Brave.
CASSANDRA: What?
DAWLISH: Something brave and sexy about you. A little bit of crackling in a wig…determined to fight the impossible fight.
CASSANDRA: Has anyone ever told you how totally disgusting you are?
DAWLISH: (Smiling.) Heaps of people! They tell me all the time!
CASSANDRA: I suppose you find it rather flattering.
DAWLISH: I don’t believe it.
CASSANDRA: You don’t believe you’re totally disgusting?
DAWLISH: I don’t believe that if I gave a discreet tap on the door of Number Fifty-One, you wouldn’t open up to me.
(Pause. CASSANDRA looks at him, thinks it over, then.)
CASSANDRA: Out of the question.
DAWLISH: Why, exactly?
CASSANDRA: Byron wouldn’t like it. He’s all alone in an airless cell that smells of disinfectant and stale piss and how could he stand the thought of his brief being fucked by the prosecution?
DAWLISH: He’d never know.
CASSANDRA: That doesn’t matter.
DAWLISH: (Grandly.) A mere client. He’s not so important as the great tradition of fellowship of the Bar.
CASSANDRA: The great fellowship of the bar in a Trusthouse on circuit doesn’t require me to be fallen on by a hugely overweight Christmas turkey with its front claw stuck out.
DAWLISH: (Smiling.) Too bad…
CASSANDRA: Sorry.
DAWLISH: So am I. It means we’ve got a fight on our hands.
CASSANDRA: To the death.
(They clink glasses and drink to each other. Light fades on the bar. CASSANDRA and DAWLISH go.)
(We see the lodgings, now only lit by a light on the table beside KEITH’s papers. HUBERT enters, helping FRED, who is in considerable pain in his back.)
HUBERT: It’s playing up again…?
FRED: No. This time it’s completely serious.
HUBERT: Was it Elspeth’s boyfriend? Bit of pain in the backside…
FRED: The entertaining accountant.
HUBERT: I couldn’t fancy him.
FRED: I don’t think you’ll be required to. (Stab of pain.) Ouch!
HUBERT: It’s time you let me try it.
FRED: (Suspicious.) Try what, exactly?
HUBERT: Cosmic pedal digital manipulation.
FRED: Hubert… I don’t need it.
HUBERT: Let me give it a whirl, girl!
FRED: I’ve got enough on my plate withou
t having you get me in touch with the universe.
HUBERT: If you’d at least lie down flat, you’d feel the better for it.
FRED: Do you honestly think so?
HUBERT: No harm in trying, is there? If you were flat on your back with your head on the phone books…
FRED: Well…
HUBERT: It can’t do any harm.
FRED: I suppose not. All right, then.
HUBERT: There’s my Fred!
(HUBERT puts the phone book down behind the sofa. FRED lowers himself gingerly to the ground, and then lies flat. In this position, FRED is out of sight of the audience or others coming into the room. We see HUBERT’s head over the back of the sofa.)
Let’s have your shoes off, Uncle Fred. No. Don’t bother.
I can work through the sock.
FRED: Oh, well done!
HUBERT: Nice little feet you’ve got on you. I bet you were a dancer in your younger years! Rhumba, at all, did you? Now, flat on your back. Close your eyes.
FRED: You’re tickling
HUBERT: Don’t talk. Empty your mind now.
FRED: (Sleepy.) No problem.
HUBERT: Think of…blue. Blue shirt. Blue frock.
FRED: Frock or sock?
HUBERT: Whatever you want to think about that’s blue. While I gently manoeuvre your toes…
FRED: (Very sleepy.) Delightful.
HUBERT: The pain’s going out of those toe ends. Through the sock. The pain is draining away. Slowly. Draining away. Keep thinking of blue. Do you mind? Just blue… Lovely. Deep blue. No pain… No pain at all. Now then. Sleep well, Uncle Fred.
(HUBERT gets up and leaves the room quietly after having turned off the reading lamp on the table. The room is in darkness. KEITH enters, not in a good mood. Starts to collect his work – documents – from the table. As he does so, RODDY comes in. He is smoking a cigar.)
RODDY: Good stories.
KEITH: What?
RODDY: Fred has some good stories.
KEITH: Ten.
RODDY: Ten?
KEITH: Ten good stories. He plays them almost every evening. Like the ten favourite tunes he’d take to a desert island.
(Pause.)
RODDY: Pity about his back. Oh, by the way, I liked the one about the judge who said he’d written out his judgement but he’d left it in his cottage in Wales so they’d have to wait for the post…
KEITH: We know…
RODDY: And this helpful barrister said, ‘Fax it up, my Lord.’ (Laughing.) And the judge said, ‘Yes, it does rather!’
KEITH: (Going back to work.) You don’t have to tell me. We know it by heart.
RODDY: I hadn’t heard it before.
KEITH: What?
RODDY: (Louder.) I said, I rather enjoyed it. I hadn’t heard it before.
KEITH: You’ll forgive me. I have to work.
RODDY: Of course. Mind if I pour myself a drink?
(He goes to the drinks table, puts down his cigar and looks at the bottles.)
KEITH: There may not be any whisky…
RODDY: I’m easy. (Pause, then he says louder.) I said, I’m easily satisfied. (Pours a drink, looks round.) Fine old house, this…
KEITH: (At work.) Yes.
RODDY: Just kept open…for you lot?
KEITH: Yes. It’s reserved for us.
RODDY: It’s the detail I most admire. The plaster moulding! The carved balustrade! And the Edwardian bathroom!
KEITH: You didn’t use the downstairs lavatory?
RODDY: I fancied a bit of a wander. I found this antique treasure. Bath with claw feet. Chipped enamel and yellow round the plughole.
KEITH: (Deeply suspicious.) Where was this bathroom?
RODDY: Top of the stairs. First right. You must know it. Oh, and best of all a genuine mahogany loo seat. They’re very collectable.
KEITH: (Appalled.) You didn’t collect it!
RODDY: Of course not. I sat on it.
KEITH: You sat on it!
RODDY: That’s what it’s for, isn’t it? So much warmer and more comforting than plastic. I could’ve gone to sleep.
I mean, I could’ve stayed there all night.
(He sits, with his drink and cigar.)
KEITH: No, you couldn’t!
RODDY: I never thought we’d meet again. After Saint Tom’s.
(Pause.)
KEITH: No.
RODDY: I never thought our paths would cross again.
KEITH: It seemed extremely unlikely.
RODDY: An outside chance! But it came up. A bit of luck.
KEITH: Was it?
RODDY: For me. I hope so… Dear old Saint Tom’s College. Do you ever go back there?
KEITH: Never.
RODDY: No. Neither do I. Of course, we’ve come a long way since then.
KEITH: Yes. (Moves towards the door.) It’s been nice chatting to you.
RODDY: (Laughing.) Liar!
KEITH: Excuse me?
RODDY: It hasn’t been nice for you. Not chatting to me.
I bet you hoped you’d never have to chat to me again.
KEITH: (Moving towards the door.) I’m sorry, I’ve got work to do…
RODDY: And I have someone who’s trying to murder my reputation. A solicitor called Hanshaw. Of Hanshaw, Hawkish and Reeks.
KEITH: I can’t possibly discuss anyone’s case.
RODDY: You’ll recognise him quite easily. Booming voice, red face, overblown carnation in the button-hole. Goes to the races in a tweed suit and a squashed hat. He’s a fellow who raised money on empty houses with vanished owners. A President of the Rotary Club who mortgaged property he didn’t happen to own.
KEITH: I knew we shouldn’t have invited guests. You know perfectly well. I can’t talk about forthcoming trials. It would be highly improper.
RODDY: (He looks hard at KEITH.) You know. Now I come to look at you, I can’t think how I ever came to fancy you!
(Long pause. KEITH moves tot he drinks table, pours himself a whisky, drinks.)
You remember our times together at old Saint T’s, don’t you? You do remember?
KEITH: I recall you as a bit of a show off. Wore purple corduroy trousers, if I remember rightly.
RODDY: And swung both ways.
(KEITH turns to look at him.)
KEITH: I think the others will be wondering what’s happened to us.
RODDY: No, they won’t. Anyway, I’ll look after Mizz Elspeth later. I can swing her way quite easily. And old Uncle’s probably tucked up in bed, coping with his back. (Stands.) When we first met, you didn’t swing any way at all. Just a pale, young schoolboy trying not to admit he was fascinated with purple corduroy trousers.
(Pause.)
KEITH: What do you want?
RODDY: I’m not asking much, Keith, darling. I’m just asking you to remember. You can do that, can’t you? An act of imagination. Throw yourself back into the past. Meet young Keith, a boy with an interesting profile and no enemies. No friends either, come to that. A damp-handed stripling who would develop a nervous twitch when spoken to by a girl, and run for cover.
KEITH: That’s a ridiculous exaggeration!
RODDY: Probably. But the truth’s even funnier. Friday night. Do you remember? In the JCR. The rugger buggers screaming after some long-forgotten victory and a couple of third-year students vomiting on the floor. And then Keith, involved in his first genuine, no holds barred, old English piss-up, soliciting my favours! ‘I’ve wanted to say this all year. I do love you, Roddy!’
(Pause.)
KEITH: Why are you telling me all this?
RODDY: Unnecessary, do you think? I’m sure you haven’t forgotten. The night you got extraordinarily lucky.
KEITH: Was I lucky?
RODDY: I’ll say you were. Do yourself justice. It wasn’t just the Snowballs and the Newcastle Brown. It was that clear little profile. Those eyes full of terror and desire. Of course, I didn’t know how you’d end up. I was just engaged on an act of absurd generosity. But it’s paid off.
KEITH: How?
RODDY: You’re going to help me.
KEITH: Am I?
RODDY: Oh, yes. You know what that four-letter fellow, that pompous prick, that bucket shop lawyer, that button-holed, squash-hatted, purple-nosed, snake in the grass Hanshaw is planning to do at the trial…?
KEITH: I can’t discuss…
RODDY: Only wants to put it all down to his accountant. Only says that I supplied him with all the info about the houses. Only tell the world that Roddy was the brains behind the whole fraudulent cock-up. It won’t help him, of course. He’s off to a long holiday in an open prison. But he wants me dragged along behind the black van. In irons! That’s what he wants, Keith. So, in return for past favours, would you mind…?
KEITH: Doing what?
RODDY: Do I have to spell it out? You’re the Judge, aren’t you? All I’m asking you to do is keep me out of it.
(KEITH stands.)
KEITH: I can’t.
RODDY: Can’t you?
KEITH: I can’t keep out evidence if it’s relevant. I don’t know what the prosecution’s going to say. Or the defence. Even if… Even if I wanted to help you. It’s impossible!
RODDY: Sorry, darling. I don’t believe it. You’ll just have to get that ingenious brain of yours working. You were quite an ingenious little thing if I remember. And so enthusiastic you didn’t even notice the smell of the girl I’d had in the afternoon. You can do anything you want, Keith. Otherwise…
KEITH: Otherwise what?
RODDY: I might start talking about the old days. Give that old Uncle Fred Dotteridge another dinner time story. So you’ll do it for me, won’t you, darling?
(RODDY moves towards KEITH and kisses him. Then he moves away and out of one of the doors. KEITH stands, looking after him, then he gathers up his papers and goes quickly, leaving the lamp on the table lit. FRED’s head appears over the back of the sofa. He gets up slowly and goes to the drinks table. Pours himself a drink. Turns to the audience.)
FRED: Blimey!
End of Act One.
ACT TWO
Light downstage. We hear the March from ‘Aida’ as KEITH, FRED and ELSPETH enter in procession, impressively robed as Judges, KEITH in scarlet, FRED and ELSPETH in black Judges’ robes. As they get centre stage they bow to the audience. Then KEITH moves away into upstage shadows. FRED watches him go for a beat then, in a downstage pool of light, speaks.
FRED: There he goes. Keith’s trying crime. He’s got the best job, of course. Crime deals with the weakness of mankind, the reality of life on earth, the curse of misfortune and the struggle for happiness. Cases about the human condition. Not some rigmarole about penalty clauses and certificates of completion, draught exclusion and sanitary conditions. When I asked the great monument of pomposity, the QC, or queer customer, appearing for the Borough Council exactly what provisions of the Public Health Act he was talking about it took him an entire afternoon to tell me. I wrote him a little note. ‘Dear Pomposity QC,’ I wrote to him. ‘Do you think I really want to know about the Public Health Acts? You know what I wish – I wish to God I’d never asked you the bloody question.’ I tore the note up, of course. Sitting on the bench you have to preserve a certain aloofness. When it’s a fight between the Builders and the Borough Council it’s easy to be impartial. It takes, in fact, very little effort not to give a tuppenny toss who wins or loses.