The Art of Drowning, page 10
The judge looked at his watch. ‘That’s all I have to preserve. The jury’s right not to be bamboozled. So that they can judge. I do wish defendants could see that. I digress. You were saying?’
The crafty bastard, pretending he knew nothing of history, Donald thought. In other circumstances he might enjoy this man. He wanted to argue that the William Penn jury were hardly unbiased, since the leader was a diehard Quaker himself. And what about the fate of the poor deluded imbecile who was hanged for starting the Fire of London? That was a jury too. They could go on, he sensed, for a long time, and the judge was trying to distract him. He wondered why, and could only guess.
‘The man who sends you threatening images, sir, and who maybe got into your room in chambers, is certainly dangerous, potentially at least, because he’s calculating, and he has to have two qualifications. The last three images, by the way, came from two sources: one from a college with a bank of computers open to everyone in the place, two from an internet café. Maybe our man is capable of untraceable trespass, but he’s got to be computer literate. Capable of accessing or scanning a picture, using a machine.’
‘Isn’t everyone, these days?’ Carl said airily.
He did live in an ivory tower, after all.
‘Not the unemployed riff-raff who pass through your court, yelling threats, unless, of course, they go to prison, where they may learn how. They do learn computers in prison.’
‘I’d be glad if they learned anything,’ Carl said, ‘apart from a drug habit. So you think the person who is threatening me is an ex-con, still holding a grievance after he’s free? Having learned the necessary skills?’
‘A computer-literate ex-con, capable of breaking into your chambers. Multi-skilled, perhaps with a history of harassment and planning. I doubt if he cares if you live or die, but he does want you to be uncomfortable.’
‘Anyone obvious on your little list?’
Donald sensed he was trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He could risk being offended, because he was waiting to play his trump card. Produce the jack of spades which justified keeping him going on with this cushy number as long as he liked. Unless, of course, the murder of the man in the ambulance turned into a spate of murders. Then they would all be called in.
‘Yes, there is, as it happens. Remember a man called Blaker? Recidivist, drop-out? Leniency because of age, even though he’s spiteful? Convicted for robbery. He mugged women for handbags, sold on the credit cards, kept the cash. Then, just when they were beginning to recover, he contacted the women. Told them he knew where they lived, watch out. Scared them for no particular purpose except his own enjoyment. When he was arrested, which he was because he only had one patch and always went back to the same places – he can’t operate or feel at home in any place other than Soho, that one – he had a fine old collection of keys. Hadn’t tried to use them, but still, must have had it in mind. You’ve sentenced him twice, and he didn’t like it either time. Released in April. Crazy but articulate.’
Carl sat up. He seemed to be enormously relieved.
‘Ah, yes. Blaker. Unpleasant, to say the least. Yes. He did shout, didn’t he? Said he was framed and I was part of an endless conspiracy against him. He should still be inside. Where is he now?’
Big Ben chimed two. The sonorous notes cut through all other noises and echoed around them. Donald waited for the sound to roll away.
‘Don’t know where he is,’ he said. ‘Early release, courtesy of the parole board. There’s an address where he isn’t, so I either walk the streets where I know he might be, or wait for him to call on his parole officer. In the meantime, I have to talk to your son. I’ve called his mobile, like you said. He doesn’t get back to me.’
A stiffening of the judge’s shoulders showed Donald he had been right, and that this was one of the subjects His Honour wanted to avoid. Carl seemed deafened by the chimes of the clock, shifted uncomfortably. Then he rallied, shook his head. ‘I do apologise for his rudeness. I’ve had to tell him, of course. He says I’m paranoid.’
‘When’s the best time to catch him?’
Donald wanted to call him Carly baby, if only to provoke. Carl sighed, rose from the bench, and looked back at Winston, as if for inspiration.
‘He’s a student,’ he said. ‘Of economics, I think I told you. So it makes sound sense for him to live with his father and sleep all morning. That’s where you’ll find him in the early part of the day. I’ll tell him to expect you, shall I? By now, on a day like this, he’ll be sitting outside college holding court with his friends. He might conceivably be attending a lecture, but I doubt it. You’ve got the photo I gave you?’
‘Yes.’
He had photos of both, as a matter of course. Donald wondered how anyone who had formed a grievance against the judge whilst he was wearing his wig would ever recognise him without it. Maybe that was what it was for.
‘The photo of Sam may not be very helpful,’ Carl said. ‘They change very quickly at that age. My son in particular.’
‘Funny, that. My wife says that about the daughters.’
They began to walk back towards the courthouse together. There was this strange moment when Donald did not want to leave him. Wanted, instead, to say, let’s go for a pint and find out what you really know about history. Discuss the ignorance of children. How they know bugger-all about it. He was momentarily grateful to Carl. After all, the judge was facing the next few hours effectively locked up with scumbags, lawyers and jurors, while he himself could roam free.
‘Do you think your jury’ll convict the bloke in the dock?’ he asked, as they waited to cross the road back towards the court. The traffic seemed endless and angry, racing against time, as if wanting to be far away before the monstrous clock struck the time again.
‘Oh yes. The evidence is all there, for once. It was like the witness said, it was as if he couldn’t stop. He didn’t stop kicking, our man in the dock, until he was hauled off, with blood on his striped shoes. A frenzy. I don’t understand it, do you? Repeated kicks to the body and head, ruptured spleen. Where does that kind of hatred come from? They didn’t even know each other.’
They were on the other side of the road, breathless.
‘Does that make it better or worse, Carly baby?’ Donald asked, panting.
Carl stopped in his tracks and considered. It was as if the question was all that mattered and all questions had to be answered. He spread his big hands, honestly bewildered. ‘I just don’t know. I wish I did. Only the victim could tell you that. It’s violence without any purpose that I can’t understand. I can understand planning it, for money, retribution, whatever you like, but not for nothing. I can understand running and hiding and lying. Sensible people take aim and fire once, don’t they, Don? I can’t understand the kind of anger which doesn’t fizzle out.’
‘Oh, I can,’ Donald said, smiling. ‘I can understand that. Did Your Honour ever learn to shoot? You have to go on until you stop missing.’
‘Don’t be hard on my son,’ Carl said. ‘He’s very … young.’
He inclined his head, left him abruptly. Donald stood on the lonely pavement, with no priorities for the afternoon, except how he would later justify the time spent. A little creative reporting. He was lured by the thought of a walk by the river, any vain mission which involved staying out of doors, so he may as well try and track down the student. There was something satisfying about looking for needles in haystacks in a way that could be regarded as important, at least on paper. The rude little bastard who did not respond to phone calls could also be a prime suspect, and both he and the judge knew it.
He walked. Westminster to the Temple was not far along the side of the river. The son’s college was uphill from the Embankment, not far from the Aldwych. Stone buildings were the order of the day everywhere after the Great Fire in 1666, all of them built and rebuilt beyond recognition, changed by wars, fashion, money. He was taking a bet that a spoiled student had no idea how lucky he was to be where he was, in an age of extraordinary peace and prosperity lasting longer than almost any in centuries. His own daughters were just the same.
It was hot. Eighty degrees, humid, London hot. He turned away from the river with regret, uphill to the Aldwych and the pale buildings of the London School of Economics. The kids sat outside in their dozens. The crowds, as he went uphill, seemed to move downhill, thicker as he moved. He hated not being able to walk in a straight line; it was like being inside a swarm of flies. He surveyed the milling groups of students with profound distaste, and turned back. Even with a photo of the boy, he would never find him here. Instead he found a pub and a place to sit outside with a pint, pulled out his time sheet and scribbled on it.
Mr Terry Blaker, loony tunes of no fixed abode except a hostel address, did exist, of course. The judge remembered him better than he was letting on. Blaker’s valedictory message as he was led screaming from the dock was unusually biblical, according to the court notes. Judgement will be upon you, he had yelled. Your own sins will find you out. You murderer! It would be nice to know what all that was about. Donald began to be convinced by his own argument, his own categorisation of the various degrees of potential culprit for the heinous crime of giving the good judge sleepless nights. The more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself that Blaker could be good for this, because Blaker might consider himself vindicated by the parole board, an innocent, bent on revenge. Donald found to his surprise that it was all, also, beginning to matter, just a bit. He would rather it was Blaker than the judge’s son, because he liked the judge. He liked his men served dry, when they knew about history. He liked it when they tried to protect their children. It did not follow that there was any urgency. He was perfectly sure that the judge was safer than most people who risked crossing the road, and that meant tomorrow would do.
It rained in the late afternoon of the Tuesday, overdue rain released in a rush after the muggy heat of the day. Rachel thought differently about rain these days. In the city it was simply a nuisance, even if it cleansed the air and brightened the trees, it did not have any obvious purpose. Now she thought of Farmer Wiseman and his hay. They needed rain, he had said, proper rain, not like the drizzle of Saturday. The more the better. A week’s worth would be nice. She no longer resented the rain, except for the fact that it made people behave badly. A downpour after drought had the same effect as a snowfall in the city, creating bad temper and amazement, as if it had never happened before. It was an excuse to be late and for trains to stop. The model for the life drawing class failed to turn up. Everyone else did, and no one believed the excuse.
It happens, the teacher said. They aren’t all reliable. Sorry, folks, we have to rely on ourselves. Regard it as an opportunity. Today we do heads. Our heads. Any volunteers? You? May as well start with a pretty one. Five minutes, please.
Rachel followed his instructions, sat on the dusty plastic chair on the podium in the middle of the room and made herself comfortable, as she had watched other models do, trying to find a position she could maintain. It was more difficult than she had imagined. There were precious few times in the day when anyone kept entirely still for any length of time, except when asleep, and not even then. She stared at the far wall, and immediately wanted to move. The room was silent apart from the swish of traffic in rain outside. It was a sound as soothing as the sea. She did not find the sensation of being scrutinised uncomfortable; keeping still, gazing in the same direction, she let her mind roam free. It was a great time for dreaming and planning, Ivy had told her.
‘You rarely see a smiling portrait,’ the teacher was saying. ‘Not in pencil or charcoal, anyway. Not drawn straight from life. No one can keep up a smile for long. Not even a politician. Remember the way it seems fixed on their faces? It starts to hurt after a while. Solemnity’s the natural repose for the face.’
What a short memory you have, Rachel thought. Ivy could keep up a smile for ten minutes. She had once done it here, but the teacher was right. It had been slightly disconcerting.
‘Those of you who’ve only got a view of the back of the head,’ the teacher said, ‘don’t worry. It’s just as revealing as the front. Especially when you can see the angle of the neck. Necks are like stalks, always bending.’
Rachel’s hair was severely knotted on the top of her head as usual. Lately, she was always longing to let it hang free. Now she felt she was being obliging.
‘Thank you. Now you, Norman.’
A male head, by way of contrast. The one they called the Plonker took the hot seat. It reminded her of a medical examination in front of an audience. He was facing her, chose to stare at her beseechingly, rather than at the wall. Not a bad face, once she looked at it directly, gauging the distance between hairline and eyes, nose and mouth, the narrow chin. Nothing unkind about it. Any slight frisson of dislike and embarrassment he had caused disappeared completely. He was simply a face. No one else noticed that he was staring at her, willing her attention with his pleading eyes. He twitched; he was limited to three minutes. She decided that heads were less revealing than bodies. On his way back to his seat on the other side of the room, he paused by her easel.
‘Listen,’ he whispered urgently, taking advantage of the shuffling round as a new head took up position, pages turned to a fresh sheet of paper. ‘Listen, I’ve got to talk to you. You flat-share with Ivy, don’t you? I’ve got to tell you …’
‘No you don’t.’
‘I was with her on Saturday night,’ he said, his voice growing louder as the shuffling ceased.
‘In your dreams,’ Rachel muttered.
‘Five minutes, please.’
He went back to his seat.
‘When drawing the head,’ the teacher intoned wearily, glaring at Norman, ‘always remember to leave room for the brain.’
Rachel got out first at the end of the class, leaving someone else to stack her easel and chair. Ivy would be at home and her flat was full of flowers. It was still raining, and it was lovely to be going home.
In the pocket of her jacket she found the piece of bone Farmer Wiseman had handed to her out of the incinerator. A souvenir of another country. She and Ivy would go back there soon. This was the summer of her happiness, and her achievement.
She could find him. It was only a question of whether she should.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rachel was proud of her flat. More aptly, she was proud of owning it. Owning anything was an achievement. Your own place, with your own door, that was the goal. It was the promised land, her father swore, the only honourable debt, the passport to safety, but then, the repossession of his own had been a nightmare never forgotten, not even when they struggled back into the gentler waters of being able to manage in a place improved within an inch of its life. They never thought it was a false dream to aspire to a lifetime of debt, or that there were others worth pursuing. Their daughter would do better. Their daughter did. Ivy didn’t get it at all.
‘I think he might be envious of me sometimes,’ Rachel explained to Ivy. ‘As well as terrified that someone will take it away. First flat at twenty-five? Beyond his dreams. His generation began with rationing, saved up to get married. Then he saved up to have me. Couldn’t afford another.’
‘What a pity,’ Ivy said. ‘There should have been more of us. Mine tried and couldn’t. I suppose I couldn’t give a toss about owning anything because it was always there. Dad’s farm was Dad’s farm and his dad’s farm; our house was our house, never a landlord’s. It didn’t make them free, because they’re bound by it. They’ve had to fight tooth and nail to keep it, no question they could ever leave it. Dad’s in debt to his ears, but he couldn’t do anything else. There’s never been a bean to spend and they could no more sell it than fly to the moon. It owns them.’
They were curled in armchairs, as comfortable as cats, barefoot and warm. The window was open to the sound of rain.
‘Who’s going to take over when they get too old?’
‘No one.’
‘You could.’
Ivy shook her head. ‘No, I’d never be strong enough for that. It’s not in my blood, and he couldn’t bear it. It’s just not the natural order of things, you see. It simply has to go to a man. He doesn’t talk about it, but I know what he dreams of. A son to take over, or a grandson now. Or if not to take over, at least to admire, understand, appreciate. To see. To share, or mourn, something like. Poor man. I’ve let him down.’
Rachel focused on her glass. ‘You never know. Maybe Sam’s out there, yearning for real country life. Wanting a grandfather.’
Ivy laughed. ‘Wouldn’t that be nice? Carl would have to be dead before Sam would ever be allowed to go back there, even just to see.’
‘You don’t know that.’
Rachel was uncomfortable. It was the wrong time for the conversation. Ivy thought so too.
‘Yes I do. Believe me, I do. He’d do anything to prevent it. Where does this wine come from? It’s a lovely piss-coloured yellow. I’d rather talk about that than talk about parents. Why do we always do it?’
‘Because you invited my father to supper, and we were talking about him. Because we’re attached to them by that blasted umbilical cord no one ever severs. They have their hypodermics into our veins. We want them happy; they want us happy. They’re the only people who remain the subject of mutual fascination. Oh God, look at the time. Again. What time are you starting in the morning?’
‘It is the morning. I start at five. I’ll have plenty of time to go to Berwick Street after I’ve finished the shift. It’s my old stomping ground. There’s a bit of this lovely stuff left.’
‘Wish you didn’t work such crazy hours,’ Rachel grumbled. ‘Don’t know how you do it. Three hours’ sleep and you’re raring to go.’
She was drowsy. Well past midnight. They could talk for hours; it was easier than breathing; they were pleasantly, indolently drunk. She had come home to home-cooked food: Ivy could cook like her mother. The flat was still full of flowers, smelled of herbs and perfume and coffee and home, like a lived-in lair. Ivy had that knack, without changing a thing. It was a strange talent for someone who also relished homelessness.
