Three days after being temporarily returned to prison, Jude received a visit from his lawyer, Dorian Simms, bringing the not entirely unexpected news that Jude had been cleared of the murder charge. Also not unexpectedly, though, he wasn’t off the hook quite yet – he’d still have to face justice for escaping. It was a mixed celebration for Jude that night, with freedom hanging in the balance. His hearing was due to take place in two more days, at the same courtroom in Oxford where he’d been sent away.
Ben had checked into a local hotel for those few days rather than travel back to Le Val. Unable to find a single rental company willing to risk letting him have a hire car – his past record with those being a catalogue of wanton destruction and wreckage – he was privileged to get the loan of Tom McAllister’s precious Barracuda (‘you be fucking careful with her, mind’) while its owner made do with an unmarked cruiser from the police pool.
Ben spent the daytime mooching restlessly around in his hotel room or driving by old haunts, and his evenings at the riverside cottage in the company of McAllister and Radar. Fine meals were shared, a great deal of wine and the detective’s favourite Langtree Hundred ale consumed. Ben was beginning to appreciate how well McAllister lived. He’d also come to realise that the cop was probably one of the most unusual people he’d ever known. As well as a true friend. Ben had been blessed with a few of those in his life; now he’d added another to that list.
But through those days Ben felt ill at ease and unable to relax. He dreaded the coming hearing and the pronouncement of the judge that might, just might, result in Jude’s imprisonment for a good while longer.
The day finally came. The morning of the hearing was grey and overcast, and if Ben had been a superstitious man he might have taken that as a bad omen. He was up early after a restless night and couldn’t face breakfast. He walked from his hotel and met Dorian Simms outside the courthouse in Speedwell Street. McAllister was tied up at work and couldn’t make it. Simms was very noncommittal about Jude’s situation. ‘It could go either way, depending on the judge’s mood. Jude could walk out a free man today, or he could be made to serve another twelve months, maybe longer.’
Soon afterwards, Ben and Simms took their seats in the courtroom where District Judge Crapper would once again preside over Jude’s fate.
The proceedings started out like a replay of the first hearing, which seemed as though it had taken place months ago. Ben had an unsettling sensation of déjà vu as Jude was brought in, was requested to identify himself before the court and the judge asked him if he understood the very serious charge brought against him. Escaping from the custody of one of Her Majesty’s prisons was no small matter, Crapper explained gravely. Even if you were innocent of the original crime, you were not to take the law into your own hands, but instead to trust the time-honoured judicial system to take its course. What had the accused to say for himself?
In Ben’s nightmares during the wee small hours, Jude had answered that question by leaping wildly over the railing, thrusting an obscene gesture in Judge Crapper’s face and screaming out, ‘Yes, you ugly old fart, damn right I broke out of that shitty horrible place. And I’d do the same again tomorrow!’
But dreams can be worse than reality, and Jude behaved himself perfectly. He hung his head and looked suitably penitent as he replied that yes, he understood the charges; yes, he admitted what he’d done was wrong; and he accepted he must pay the price. The judge seemed sympathetic, almost benevolent, towards Jude – or was it just wishful thinking on Ben’s part?
The lawyer for the Crown Prosecution Service, a man called Barclay with a sardonic leer permanently imprinted on his face, took a very different view. ‘Now, Mr Arundel, I’m sure I needn’t remind you that the last time you appeared in this very same courtroom, you openly stated that it was your intention to escape from prison. Is it not the case that you simply acted on your threat?’
‘I was angry and upset when I said that,’ Jude replied. ‘I didn’t really mean it at the time. How could I have known the riot was going to happen?’
As the morning rolled on, various witnesses were brought out to testify to their part in the drama of the now infamous Bullingdon Prison jailbreak. The court heard from a guard who had been injured in the riot, his arm still in a sling, who described the violence of that night as nothing like he’d ever seen before. An officer of the Gloucestershire Constabulary, who’d headed up the police unit that had found the bodies of crime boss Luan Copja and his Albanian gangsters in the field near Chedworth, gave a detailed depiction of the abortive escape, as best as the police had been able to figure out exactly what happened. Much of it was still a mystery.
After a short recess, the next witness to appear was Jude’s former cellmate at Bullingdon, a large but softly-spoken inmate called David Flynn. He was wearing the regulation sweatshirt and jogging pants of a convicted prisoner and seemed happy to have been let out for a few hours to testify. A pair of prison guards hovered nearby, ready to collar him if he decided to copy Jude’s example and make a break for it. They needn’t have worried.
Dorian Simms, as the lawyer for the defence, was the first to question the witness. Judge Crapper listened intently to Flynn’s account of the moment when Jude had been plucked from their cell by one of Luan Copja’s men.
‘Did it seem to you as though Mr Arundel had been expecting these men to take them with him?’ Simms asked.
‘No, sir,’ the big guy replied respectfully. ‘Jude looked pretty confused when the guy turned up, like he had no idea what was happening. Neither of us did. It was a weird moment.’
‘Had you any reason to believe that Mr Arundel might have been involved in any way with the gang, prior to his stay at Bullingdon?’
‘No, sir,’ Big Dave repeated. ‘He’d never had anything to do with them before. I know that for a fact.’
‘And how do you know this?’
‘Because it was me who pointed them out to him, in the mess hall, just a couple of days before the riot happened. He’d never heard of Luan Copja until that moment. I believed him. He’s not a liar.’
Again, predictably, come his turn to question the witness, Barclay the prosecutor went straight into offensive mode, claiming that Jude had intentionally hooked up with Luan Copja’s gang in the knowledge that they were planning to escape. Big Dave deflected all his lines of attack with polite, simple replies, until Barclay’s most damaging question stopped him in his tracks: ‘If Mr Arundel was unknown to Luan Copja, then please explain to the court why the gang chose to single him out to take along for the ride, when they could presumably have chosen anyone in the prison, or nobody at all?’
Big Dave couldn’t answer that, but Jude was given the opportunity some time later when he was recalled to the stand. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied innocently as Barclay fired the same question at him. ‘I got the impression that Copja wanted me to join his gang for some reason. I couldn’t say why. Maybe he’d run out of real hard guys to recruit.’
There was a small ripple of amusement in the court. Judge Crapper, Ben and the two lawyers were the only ones not smiling.
Once all the witnesses had testified, all arguments been heard and the defence and prosecution rested, the moment had come for Crapper to make his judgement. He reflected for a long moment, apparently undecided, then sighed and called another short recess. Simms whispered in Ben’s ear, ‘Keep your fingers crossed.’
Fifteen minutes later, Crapper re-emerged from his chambers, resumed his position at the bench, cleared his throat and addressed the court.
‘In light of the evidence, the particular circumstances of this case and his proven innocence of the charge of murder, I see no legal basis for returning the defendant to prison. Foolish he may have been in some of his actions, but he is no criminal. Mr Arundel, on behalf of this court I hereby sentence you to six months, suspended.’
And with that, it was over. An hour later, Jude walked out of the courthouse more or less a free man. The conditions he
’d have to meet for the next six months required him to do a few hours’ community work a week, and he was forbidden to leave the country. He couldn’t stop grinning.
‘It’s no big deal. The only downside is that I won’t be able to come with you to Le Val,’ he said to Ben as the two of them headed on foot towards the bustle and noise of Oxford’s city centre. It was after midday and the rain had given way to a clear blue sky. Sunshine gleamed off the towers and cathedral spires of Ben’s old college. He was smiling, too. It was good to be alive.
‘Le Val’s not going anywhere,’ Ben told him. ‘When you’ve served out the six months you can come and stay as long as you like. What are your plans now?’
‘I’ve decided to sell the vicarage, Dad. I’m going to put it on the market right away, and live in the annexe until it’s sold. After that, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I feel like I’ve been stuck in a rut, not really doing anything with my life. Maybe I’ll finish my marine biology degree.’
‘You’ve always loved the ocean. I can see you doing something in that line.’
‘But right this moment all I can really think about is a big pile of bacon, sausages and chips, and a thousand pints of beer to wash it down with. Let’s celebrate!’
‘I think we can manage that.’
The Turf Tavern was one of Ben’s favourite Oxford pubs from the past. They sat outside in the leafy, sunny beer garden to eat. Jude had his mountain of food, but as he dug into it his cheeriness seemed to have left him.
Ben said, ‘You look very pensive all of a sudden, for a bloke who just got his freedom back.’
Jude shrugged. ‘Sorry. It’s just that the last couple of days I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about Achlys-14, all those millions of people those bastards killed or made sick with their poison. It haunts me. I still can’t bring myself to believe it’s true.’
‘There are lots of things men do to one another in warfare that you wouldn’t believe,’ Ben said. ‘Speaking from experience. That’s why I never wanted you to belong to that world.’
‘I never will,’ Jude replied resolutely. ‘That’s for sure.’ He paused while he munched reflectively on a chip, then asked, ‘Do you think it could ever happen again? If they had the biotechnology to create something like that a hundred years ago, think what even more awful shit they could cook up now.’
Ben thought about all the awful shit that was already cooked up and lurking in thousands of labs around the world, ready for use. Most people had no idea of the extent of it. He said, ‘In a war, you mean?’
‘In a war, sure. But I was thinking generally, too. Think of the power something like that would give to an evil maniac secret ruler of the world, over nations, over economies, over everything. Even if the virus wasn’t half as lethal as Achlys-14. Even if it only killed one per cent as many people. Imagine the fear it would cause today, what with social media and all the ways information spreads around the world in the blink of an eye nowadays. I mean, total apeshit panic. Everyone afraid of each other, people terrified to go outside in case they get it and drop down dead. Whoever had that sort of power could shut the entire system down and make slaves out of the lot of us, force whole populations to do whatever they wanted. They could herd us all into containment camps, or keep everyone in isolation, locked down under house arrest wearing gas masks. The world we knew, suddenly turned into a hell on earth. One you can’t escape from.’
Ben smiled. ‘That’s one hell of a vivid imagination you’ve got there.’
‘Maybe I’m thinking that way because I’ve just come out of prison,’ Jude said. ‘But it’s true, isn’t it? It’s possible. Then you’d have a hundred pharmaceutical companies just like Clarkson’s lining up to make a trillion quid out of some untested vaccine that’d probably hurt more people than it cured.’ He shook his head and took a glug of his beer. ‘I don’t know. The idea scares the shit out of me. I was lying there in my cell the last two nights and I couldn’t sleep a wink thinking about it.’
Ben clapped him on the back. ‘You worry too much, Jude. I’m sure it’ll never happen.’
‘Yeah, maybe you’re right. Let’s hope it doesn’t, anyway.’ Jude went back to eating, and the tasty feast on his plate soon restored his spirits. ‘So what now?’ he asked as he polished off the last chip with a satisfied flourish and settled back in his seat, patting his full belly. ‘Off home to France?’
Ben nodded. ‘I’ll be heading back soon. Maybe late tonight, or maybe early tomorrow. There’s just one last thing I need to take care of before I go.’
EPILOGUE
Ben stepped out of the London taxicab and lingered for a moment on the pavement to look at the building. The tea room was still open for business, serving its last few afternoon customers before closing for the day. It was an old-world kind of establishment, unrestored all these years but lovingly maintained, a throwback to bygone times in the midst of all this sleek, plastic modernity. The fancy gingerbread woodwork facade was painted glossy emerald green and the signs etched into the two large front windows either side of the entrance displayed its name in florid, cursive script: KITTY RYAN’S, with a shamrock underneath.
The Irish theme was even more pronounced inside. Anything that wasn’t painted emerald green was decorated with more shamrocks and Celtic knots. Ceilidh music was playing on the scratchy sound system. The Chieftains, Ben thought. Behind the green counter were display shelves and cabinets filled with home-baked Irish soda bread, cakes and scones whose aroma mingled with the scent of fresh-brewed tea and ground coffee. A handful of clientele, mostly older ladies, were finishing up their slices of cake before closing time. A teenage girl in a Bee Happy T-shirt was going round clearing up the empty tables.
Ben walked up to the counter where a young red-haired woman in an apron, a green off-the-shoulder top and black leggings was tidying away dishes. He watched her for a moment. She was the classic Irish redhead, with curling Pre-Raphaelite locks halfway down her back, very fair skin with freckles on her shoulder and vivid green eyes that hinted at a fiery temperament. She looked exactly, uncannily, the way Ben had imagined Kitty Kelly from Violet Bowman’s memoir, except she couldn’t be more than about twenty-three. Which made her about a hundred years younger. Much too young to be her granddaughter. A great-granddaughter, maybe, he wondered.
She saw him and smiled, wiping her hands on her apron. Slender hands with long fingers and trim nails, no rings. She said brightly, ‘Hey there, stranger. What can I get you?’ No trace of Irish accent. The heritage was clear enough, but it was generations down the line.
Ben said, ‘Nothing.’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘Nothing?’
‘It all looks good,’ he said, pointing at the displays. ‘In fact it looks great. But I’m not here for that.’
‘Then why are you here?’ she asked him quizzically, cocking her head to one side, eyeing him with a widening smile. Flirtatious, but also genuinely curious.
‘To deliver something,’ Ben replied. He took the memoir from his bag and placed it carefully on the counter, wrapped in plastic.
‘I’m intrigued,’ she said, looking at it. ‘May I?’
‘Be my guest.’
She peeled away the plastic wrapping with her long, slender fingers. ‘It’s a book.’
‘It’s a little bit more than that,’ he told her. ‘More like a little slice of history.’
‘Is it for me?’
‘That depends,’ he said. ‘I came here to pass it to the descendant of Kitty Kelly, the founder of this place. Is that you?’
The green eyes narrowed a touch. She pointed at the window. ‘Sign says Kitty Ryan’s. How did you know about Kitty Kelly?’
‘You should read the book,’ he said. ‘It’s all in there.’
‘Kitty Kelly was my great-grandmother.’
‘Then I guess it belongs to you now,’ he said. ‘It was written by a very old friend of hers, a long, long time ago.’
‘So, how come you had it? Are you a r
elative?’
He shook his head. ‘That’s a long story.’
‘They always are, aren’t they?’ She picked up the memoir and leafed delicately through some of the pages. Then shook her head, making the curly red locks swirl around her shoulders. She laid the book back down on the counter. ‘No, this wouldn’t be for me. It’s my nan you should be giving it to.’
‘Your nan?’
‘Orla. Orla O’Casey. She used to be Orla Flanagan. That was her mother’s married name.’ The green-eyed redhead let her gaze linger on him for another long moment, as though she was considering whether to trust him. ‘My name’s Shannon. What’s yours?’
‘It’s Ben. Ben Hope.’
‘That’s a nice name. Are you a nice man, Mr Ben Hope?’
‘I try to be. It’s not for me to judge.’
‘Because if I thought you were a nice man, instead of just passing it on to her I’d invite you back here to meet my nan and give it to her in person. She’s old. She doesn’t get a lot of visitors these days.’
‘I would like that very much,’ Ben said. ‘And I wouldn’t take up much of her time.’
A moment’s hesitation. Then Shannon flipped up a hatch in the counter and beckoned him through. She called to the girl who was clearing the tables, ‘Lizzy, watch the front for me, will you?’
Lizzy called back, ‘Okay.’
Shannon led Ben through a door and along a passage to a back room. She tapped softly at a door before going in.
‘Nan, you have a visitor. Someone called Ben. He’s come to bring you something.’
Sitting at a table in the small storeroom that doubled as a laundry room was an old, old woman. An ironing board lay across the tabletop in front of her as she worked her way through a laundry basket of real cloth napkins embroidered with little shamrocks. A stack of them sat on the table at her elbow, immaculately pressed and folded. The room smelled of hot steam and clean, fresh linen.
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