The Witness

by Naomi Kryskle

  “Needing a bit of reassurance is normal, Jenny.”

  She looked up and smiled suddenly. “When you kiss me, I feel normal.”

  “Jen, so many things are right between us. One step at a time is all I ask. Will you do that?”

  She began to blush. “Can we repeat some of the steps?”

  Her warmth and humour had returned. He leant forward and kissed her again, lightly at first and gradually more intensely. “The men will be here soon,” he smiled. “I should give you time to stop blushing before they arrive.”

  “Please do,” she laughed.

  She was glowing, and he was very pleased with himself. “Coffee?”

  She laughed again. “What would Sergeant Casey call that? Opdec? Yes, please. It’s a good thing they’re not detectives.”

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  After she left, he remembered her frankness. He had not been put off by it; rather, he respected her ability to face things. He spent his days investigating crimes, often dealing with persons who either didn’t know the truth or were unwilling to share what they knew. Jenny’s direct manner was refreshing.

  And her laughter—a sign of her resilience. So unlike Vi’s forced gaiety, her terrible compulsion to experience everything straightaway. Vi’s mother had died when Vi was a child, and he hadn’t begrudged her the happy times she sought. At least, not at first. His parents had been active socially, entertaining and attending others’ parties. It seemed a natural thing for him to do as well. Vi was a stunning woman, always on the go. In her company the bright lights of London’s night life had appealed to him. He had wanted to forget the things he saw in dark alleys, the intense nature of some cases.

  As he matured, however, helping someone gave him more lasting satisfaction than what was in vogue on the entertainment scene. If he arrived home late, he would find the flat empty. Married colleagues began to have children, and their lives seemed more balanced, more fulfilled than his. Having a family demonstrated a faith in the future. Vi’s only faith had been in the pleasure of the moment, but she had known how to give and receive pleasure. The nights he’d waited up for her had been worthwhile.

  Then his father had become ill. He had expected Vi to understand: She had lost a parent. But she had not been able to deal with the dark side of life. She wouldn’t even accompany him to the hospital, and he had been deeply hurt. Their late-night couplings ceased. She wanted to receive passion and excitement, not give comfort to a man who had joined the ranks of the bereaved.

  He had been on his own a long while now, and he hadn’t had to look beyond his own needs. Although Vi had accused him of it, he didn’t consider himself selfish. His role models were in professions of service.

  And now there was Jenny, who expected so little from him: safety, which he could not guarantee, and honesty, which he thought he could. Jenny, who had proved she could survive the hard times. Jenny, whose courage impressed him and whose enthusiasm infected him. Jenny, who could make the bright lights fun again.

  CHAPTER 16

  Jenny didn’t know what to think. Sergeant Casey was inscrutable, telling her only that they were going out and not to wear anything colourful. The other men were alert but not somber. She was alternately irritated because they knew something she didn’t, apprehensive because Casey had brought his kit and his backpack, and afraid that some legal problem had arisen suddenly.

  Sergeant Andrews was behind the wheel. When they pulled into a hospital emergency entrance, Casey opened his kit and covered part of her forehead and right cheek with gauze. “I’m not hurt,” she wanted to say, but he had warned her in The Voice to be silent. He wrapped her hospital gown around her before they exited the car.

  Colin had a wheelchair waiting for her. She sat down and tried not to react at the sight of Casey donning his white doctor’s coat. Colin led the way, his face giving nothing away. Casey pushed the wheelchair, and Brian and Hunt brought up the rear, their eyes constantly scanning the corridors and preventing other passengers from taking the lift with them.

  “Left,” Colin said.

  There was a policeman outside someone’s door. Colin stood to one side, and Brian pushed the door open in front of her, his smile as bright as the rising sun. She saw Danny sitting up in bed, Danny pale but grinning, Danny disappearing behind her flood of tears.

  “Sis, you’re bandaged! Are you okay?”

  She’d forgotten her disguise, and she laughed and cried at her silly memory as she tore it away, laughed and cried at the whole charade, laughed and cried at the expression on Colin’s face, laughed and cried when Danny teased, “Some things never change!”

  She stood next to the bed and held his hand. He looked so thin! “Danny, I was so afraid for you!”

  “I hear you did well, Sis.”

  “That’s not important now. You’re all right. I’m so glad!”

  “Have you heard my new nickname? Rip Van Winkle. You’re the only one of my sisters who didn’t age while I was asleep!”

  There were cards everywhere, and flowers, too—in the hospital, even men got flowers! “Did you get my card?”

  “Trying to see if I can count? You sent more than one, Sis.”

  Danny’s bandages were small, but he looked so weak. “Will it hurt you if I hug you?”

  “Don’t give a toss if it does!”

  She sat beside him on the bed and put her arms around him. His heart sounded strong, oh, thank you, God. Thank you, God.

  “Sir, my mum said you’ve been by almost every day. It meant a lot to her. Thank you.”

  “None required.”

  She gave Danny a quick kiss on the cheek and climbed back in the wheelchair. Sergeant Casey shook hands with Danny. “Good job, Sullivan.” He looked at Jenny. “Sir, we’ll never muzzle that smile.”

  “I’ll look down.”

  Sinclair wished she didn’t have to conceal it. He had never seen her look so lovely. He pushed the door open slightly. “Clear?” he asked Hunt.

  “I miss you, Danny!”

  “You’re good medicine, Sis. Good luck.”

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  Following their visit to see Sullivan in hospital, Sinclair felt a celebration was in order. He splurged and took a bottle of Pol Roget and a corkscrew to the flat. Eager for the drink, Hunt gulped his and challenged Jenny to do the same, but she declined, punching him playfully on the shoulder and teasing him about wanting her lightheaded as well as lighthearted. “Colin, I feel like the sun is shining all the time, because of Danny,” she said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you for taking me to see him.”

  Then she clasped his hand and begged him to stay for a few minutes, even though the champagne had been quickly consumed by the five of them. He joined her in the sitting room, unable to resist her effervescence. She was still dressed in the dark and plain clothes she’d worn to the hospital, but her resplendent face would have outshone any attire, no matter how fine. She had a toast of her own for Sullivan: “Salud y pesetas y el tiempo para gustarlos.”

  “Health, wealth, and the time to enjoy them,” she explained. “The toast used to be for health, wealth, and love, but someone decided that if you had health and wealth, love would find you, so they changed it.”

  Her bubbly demeanor made him expansive, and he recounted the early history of champagne. She hadn’t known that it wasn’t originally intended to have bubbles but agreed that they’d be so much poorer without them. She was cheery and relaxed, and more physically affectionate as well, if her spontaneous kiss were any indication. She touched her lips to his mouth, not his cheek, and he made the most of it, receiving one last taste of the Pol Roget.

  He wanted a relationship with this girl. His glimpses of Jenny’s body had only whetted his appetite for her, but he understood that intimate physical contact could be a long time in coming. In the meantime, what could he do? Most women seemed to measure a man’s seriousness by the amount of time he was w
illing to devote to them. Time—but how to occupy it? The postcard excursions were not sufficient now. He wanted to engender more personal topics, the discussion of which would draw them closer.

  Thoughtfulness—women wanted to know you’d thought about them when you weren’t with them. Talk—they wanted you to listen. That would be easy—he still found her Texas accent so charming that he even wanted to smile from time to time when she was describing sad events. In her case, one more element would be crucial: tenderness. She had been so abused.

  CHAPTER 17

  The next week saw the continuation of the defence case and the influx of day police, some old faces, some new, to relieve Jenny’s favorites. Sergeant Casey left first, followed by Brian on Casey’s return. She was in charge of the kitchen in Brian’s absence, which gave her something to do. He’d taught her to make pot roast with vegetables—she wondered if she could omit the potatoes without his hearing about it—and Cornish game hens with seasoned rice.

  The newspapers were full of quotes from the various witnesses the defence had called, and she identified each page with Scott’s name and meticulously tore it into tiny shreds, not caring if she defaced the broadsheet before others had read it. Danny’s recovery notwithstanding, she still felt residual anger toward the monster, and she wanted to feed the flame so it would not go out. Other trials and testimony lay ahead of her, and she now saw anger as a resource she could draw upon in time of need.

  The redoubtable Sergeant Howard was one of the substitutes, but his dark stillness didn’t faze her this time. She teased him about not paying close enough attention to the security cameras, although his focus was exemplary. She found the most idiotic game shows on TV and the deadliest farm report, but he didn’t react to sound or silence. He was the oyster without the pearl. She knew he didn’t like the assignment, but she didn’t hold it against him. Something had made him the way he was. She didn’t have to know what it was to accept his guarded nature. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he had decided to align himself with the law, and that was enough. She brought him his lunch and refilled his tea unasked.

  She didn’t see much of Colin, but one morning he called by while she was still asleep, leaving a book for her. It was a paperbound volume of poems by Louis MacNeice with a note for her to enjoy them at her leisure. She found that funny—how else would she enjoy them? In the hectic rat race that was life in the flat? Please!

  She’d heard of MacNeice. There had been selections from his Autumn Journal in one of Rosamund Pilcher’s books. “London Rain”—she’d love to feel it on her cheeks, but the poet was writing about an internal climate of conscience and concluding that without God, there was no moral law at all. She wondered if that were true: Did all moral law come from God? If you did not know God, could you still be a moral being? Could God supply you with His law unawares? What would Colin think? He had certainly seen a lot of lawlessness.

  Other verses were equally provocative: “… this land / Is always more than matter—as a ballet / Dancer is more than body.” His poetry posed more questions than it answered, drawing her thoughts beyond the outward appearances he described and outlining choices but not doing the discerning for her. She thought about Colin’s face. What lay behind his smile?

  It was Friday evening before she saw him. He had a bottle of wine with him. The men were playing cards in the dining room, and she could hear Hunt’s exclamations, good and bad, as the games progressed. Sergeant Casey was always quiet as he contemplated and strategised, and Brian spoke only when announcing the type of poker or requesting the number of substitute cards he required.

  “I want you to start a new list,” Colin said. “Call it Wines I Have Enjoyed with Colin. The first is sauvignon blanc.”

  The first? What was he doing?

  He had chilled the wine, and he poured some for her and watched her lips through the glass when she drank.

  She thanked him for the book of poetry, and the issues raised by the verses were a springboard that launched them into far-ranging discussions. One’s values might be forged in crisis, he believed, but if one were lucky, their seeds had been planted and nurtured long before. In his experience, those without strong values collapsed when trials came.

  “No kidding,” she said.

  “Faith doesn’t make rough times easy, it makes them bearable,” he countered. “You didn’t collapse. You reacted, then rallied.”

  “And all because of words and pictures—well, one particular picture.” She was thinking of Rob’s. “Regardless of other media, won’t we always need words to communicate with each other? Think how many of our institutions revolve around what people say: politics, the legal system, the church, even much of our entertainment.”

  Colin would have preferred to communicate with her by touch, but circumstances weren’t going to allow it.

  “Studies show that people are reading less, but that doesn’t mean they’re thinking less, does it?” she asked. “Anyway, I loved the poetry. Poets need to have a better vocabulary than the rest of us because they rely on an economy of words.”

  The poker games ended. Hunt liked to stop when he was on top, and the others knew there would be games on other nights, so they put the cards away and left Colin and Jenny alone. She began to wish that he were seated next to her on the sofa. Too soon, he rose to his feet.

  “I’ll be in Kent for Easter,” he said. He called for the men to lock up behind him.

  CHAPTER 18

  The days following Easter brought more day police—“fresh meat,” Hunt called them, because Jenny’s boredom led her to question them so extensively—and less Colin. She stopped reading the newspaper accounts of the continuing efforts of the defence in the Scott trial and turned to the notices of spring events in the London area. There were flower shows, music festivals, walking festivals, and celebrations scheduled for Shakespeare’s birthday later in the month.

  Houston in April would be beautiful, too. Baseball season would be beginning, and all over America people would see the green baseball diamonds and hear the crack of the bat. Wild blackberries would be ripe and sweet. It was too early for Indian paintbrush to bloom—she’d always thought Indian sunset would have been a more apt name because of their fiery orange color—but there would be masses of white, pink, and red azaleas, and the most unusual floral color, blue, would be finding dramatic expression in the bluebonnets along the Texas highways.

  None of the day police had ever attended any of the festivals. They’d all walked a beat and didn’t consider walking a festival. Their mums liked the flowers, they said, but their own disinterest was so marked that Jenny felt they wouldn’t have noticed the tulips or daffodils unless someone had dropped dead in them.

  She made a list of scenic places she had been and asked Sergeant Howard if he would tell her what his favorite place was.

  He thought for a few minutes. Old Street, after a successful mission. The crack between a woman’s thighs. He could not speak of those. “No, sorry,” he said.

  She gave up on Howard, choosing instead to corner Hunt with the World Series videos, which Colin had had converted to the British VCR. “Want to learn a little about baseball?”

  “Cue it up!”

  As the first game unfolded, she explained. “Baseball’s a game of statistics. They record everything you do, good and bad. Good things are getting a hit, batting someone in, stealing a base, catching a fly ball. Errors are when you mess up.”

  Hunt thought the pace of play was a bit slow. “Why’d that bloke get on first? He didn’t do anything.”

  “Poor pitching. It’s like life—in some cases you benefit from someone else’s mistakes.”

  The game progressed.

  “What sort of pitch was that?”

  “Curve ball,” she said. “They’re really hard to hit.”

  “What else do I need to know?”

  “Individual stats are important, but sometimes a player will sacrifice himself for the good of the team. Like that guy—
he didn’t get on base, but his play allowed the man on first to advance to second.”

  It was not a concept that appealed to Hunt. In a rare philosophical moment, he asked, “Do you ever wonder why so many games are about balls?”

  He was lively—occasionally shocking—but not malicious. “Because they were all invented by guys,” she answered. “Think about the terminology. In football, you make a pass; in baseball, you want to get to first base; and all games are about scoring.”

  Hunt’s interest level rose. The ball, the bat, the squeeze play, first base. A home run was “going deep.” He had certainly struck out more than once himself. Baseball began to make sense. It was like life, too right.

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  Friday evening Colin came by bearing gifts and good news. Cambridge had beaten Oxford in the annual boat race the weekend before—“Light defeats Dark again,” he said—and the defence in the Scott case had rested that very afternoon. Closing arguments were scheduled for the Monday, and following the judge’s instructions to the jury, deliberations would begin.

  As he uncorked the bottle of wine—a pinot grigio—she looked through the sheaf of pages he had brought. They were all poems by Siegfried Sassoon, who had written during and after World War I. She tried to remember her world history. England and France had been in a stalemate against Germany, all three countries paralyzed in trench warfare across no-man’s-land. Sassoon’s work was dark, expressing his anger at the senior officers who continued to send young men into battle when nothing was accomplished by their deaths, cynicism for the futility of war in general, and grief for untold friends who had died. “He thought Death was a person,” she said.

  “I imagine most soldiers do. And for those who were wounded, Life could be a person as well, in the form of the medic, for example.”

  Like Sergeant Casey. “Evil is a person—I encountered him. Do you suppose Good is a person?”

  “I know He is.”