29
September 2009
James cleans
himself slowly at the sink. The stench from the toilet cubicle disgusts him.
After washing his face, he runs his fingers through his longish hair and
studies his face in the mirror. The black lines under his eyes have not gone
away.
‘I mean, Henry the Eighth had the right answer didn't he?” James listens
in silence. “Didn't like the way the church was being run. So set up his own.
Also, showed his women who was boss. I mean, my parents didn't call me Henry for
nothing.’
‘Don't you agree my friend?’
‘I am with you Henry.’
The other man is much older than James. He is wearing a short sleeved
vest and track suit bottoms. His face is very lined, suggesting a hard life.
There is a rattle of keys and the door is opened.
‘Lights out in five minutes guys. Time to get some sleep eye,’ says the
warder.
‘Always a pleasure to spend a night in the Ritz officer,’ says Henry.
James laughs softly to himself. The Ritz brought back so many memories
for him. He climbs into his bunk and pulls the blanket over his head and turns
to settle down.
He had lost all sense of time since arriving. The monotonous and
repetitive regime made every day seem the same. This was not the way to look
after the incarcerated, he thought. Our society should be better than this. He
tries to recall which day it was his lawyer was meeting him to discuss his
appeal. The prospect of spending fifteen years inside was unthinkable.
As usual, darkness prompted him to go back over past events in his mind.
Each night he reaches the same conclusion. He was in the wrong place at the
wrong time and there was no point beating himself up over how he reacted. His
thoughts are rudely interrupted.
‘I'm Henry the Eighth, I am, I am. I got married to the widow next door,’
his cellmate sings. An unwanted lullaby to settle James down for another night
in hell.
17 August
2009
‘To conclude,
I draw the jury's attention to my client's character. He has a successful
career and devotes time to raising funds for good causes. What possible reason
could he have for carrying out the offence alleged?’
The barrister pauses to take a sip of water. He is a stocky and middle
aged. His wig sits at an awkward angle on his head. It cries out for someone to
adjust it.
‘When you take this into account, together with the inconsistencies in
the eye witness testimony of the taxi driver and lack of any DNA evidence,
serious doubt must be cast on the prosecution case. So I urge you to let my
client walk free from this court as an innocent man.’
James studies the jury as the closing statement comes to an end. Some
female members of the jury are conscious of his piercing blue eyes staring at
them and avert his look.
The judge starts her summing up. She looks over the top of her glasses as
she addresses the jurors. She bears a passing resemblance to Meryl Streep and
speaks slowly and clearly as she speaks. James zones out at this point. His
eyes focus on the elaborate cornicing in the court ceiling. When was the court
built he wonders? Late Victorian? Or Edwardian perhaps? His mind wanders until
the judge finishes and the security guard taps him on the shoulder and asks him
to stand up. He is taken downstairs from the dock to a cell in the basement.
The cell has a damp odour. The walls are covered in graffiti. James
studies the detail in to pass the time. Names, swear words, swastikas and
drawings cover the brick work. James thinks about the people before him who had
spent time there, awaiting their fate.
After ninety minutes or so he is taken back up to the court. He looks up
to the ceiling as he stands in the dock. The court clerk asks the jury foreman
to stand.
‘Have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed? Please answer
'yes or 'no'.’
‘Yes,’ a tall male juror with blonde hair replies.
James listens as 'guilty' verdicts are read out for the charges against
him. Each one feels like a punch in the stomach.
The judge starts to address him about the sentence. He closes his eyes
and wishes he was somewhere else.
4 May 2009
He wakes up in
a place of sanctuary. The perfumed sheets and goose duvet have kept him safe
and warm for the previous ten hours. Turning over, he notices that Sylvia has
already got up. He hears her in the kitchen next door. A minute later she
enters the bedroom. Her red hair is tied up in a bun. Without make up she still
looks gorgeous to him.
“Hello, you,’ she says. ‘I do hope you slept well given the state you
were in last night.’
Sylvia had been preparing for bed when he rang her intercom at ten o'clock.
They had been seeing each other for nearly three weeks and he had stayed over
in her flat a couple of times. She was attracted to him but was not sure
whether she wanted to get too involved with him.
His arrival had taken her by surprise. He was not his usual suave self.
His face was chalk white and, unusually for him, there was stubble on his chin.
Once inside, he kept walking up and down, running his hands through this hair,
and telling her what an anxious twenty four hours he had had. After a large
glass of whisky he started to relax a little. She asked him why his left hand
was so badly swollen and bruised.
‘It's a long story. In short, I got into a fight. The whole thing is a
mess. Now I need to lie low for a bit.’
‘Have you seen a doctor?’
‘No, I am getting by with strong painkillers.’
“’Then how’s the other guy?”
‘He was a random stranger. He could have picked on anyone. I was just
unlucky.’
‘What did the police say?
‘I kept them out of it.’
James continued to be evasive about the whole business and Sylvia
concluded that rest was the best option for him. He would hopefully be more
forthcoming in the morning.
However, that has not proved to be the case. He says very little over a
breakfast of coffee and a croissant. Sylvia does not want to appear to be cross
examining him and so chats about her plans for the rest of the weekend.
He goes for a shower. As he is drying himself with a towel, he can half
hear the television in the lounge. A reporter is telling listeners that police
want to question a man in relation to a suspicious death and have issued an
artist's impression of him.
Once dressed, he returns to the lounge. It is an open plan design and he
can see the top of the Royal Albert Hall from the window. There is no sign of
Sylvia and he switches on the television. Twenty minutes later she enters the
flat holding a shopping bag.
‘I had to pop out to get a few things. More coffee?’
‘That would be great, thanks.’
While she is making the coffee the intercom buzzes. Sylvia goes to the
hallway and asks the caller to come up. Two minutes later two police officers
enter the room. James is sitting on a large sofa covered with a floral print.
One of the officers approaches him. Sylvia hovers behind the officer mouthing
the words “sorry”. But insincerity is written all over her face.
‘James Crombie?’
‘Yes.’
‘I would like you to come to the station with us.’
3 May 2009
James opens
his eyes. The curtains have not been closed and the bright sunlight makes him
blink. His hand hurts like hell. The pain immediately reminds him of the events
twelve hours before. His nose wrinkles at the smell of sweat from the clothes
he has slept in all night. He drags himself out of bed and heads into the
bathroom. He takes two painkillers and swallows them with a glass of water. His
hand looks more swollen than it was last night. He wonders whether it is
broken.
He decides to make some chamomile tea to help him relax. Wondering into
the kitchen he clumsily prepares the drink with his uninjured hand. He switches
on the radio. It is tuned to LBC news. The first bulletin at twelve thirty has
nothing of interest. The radio is left tuned to the station.
There are fifteen messages on his phone. He decides to ignore them. He is
tempted to call Nigel or Nick to talk. But the story would not come out right
if he tried to tell it to either of them. As he sits at the pine kitchen table
sipping the tea he notices that his heartbeat is stronger than usual. He takes
several deep breaths and exhales but it doesn't help. He feels himself tensing
each time the image from last flashes in his mind. The last time he saw that
man.
He goes over his actions again and again. It had been a case of fight or
flight and his response had been to confront the threat. Can anyone know in
advance how they would react in such a situation?
James moves to the sitting room and sits down on a chair. He wants to
have a shower and change but he doesn't have the energy. Time passes without
him noticing it. He stares at the modern art print hanging on the wall opposite
and repeatedly tries to count the number of stars in it. The radio is just
white background noise and he starts dozing. Later, he comes round to hear the
end of the news.
‘....found dead this morning in Argyll Road, Kensington. The cause of
death has not been established and the man has not been identified yet. Police
have asked anyone who might have information on the case to come forward.’
He stretches over to the coffee table, turns off the radio and jumps up.
He stands completely still for a few seconds and then rubs his eyes. He looks
at his watch. It is now nine o'clock and the light is fading outside, and there
is a reddish glow in the sky.
He decides he needs to get out of
his flat and mentally runs through a list of his friends who could put him up.
One name jumps out: Sylvia. He hasn't known her long but he feels that they
have a real connection and she doesn't live far away. But he needs to clean up
first.
He slowly undresses in his bedroom and heads for the bathroom. The shower
takes longer than usual and drying himself proves a challenge. Dressing is also
awkward but by nine forty five he is kitted out in a beige jacket, green polo
shirt and black jeans. He swallows two more painkillers, grabs his keys and
heads out into the night.
2 May 2009
(11.45pm)
James steps
out onto Arlington Street. The evening is warm and his bow tie makes his neck
feel uncomfortable. Heavy rain has fallen during the dinner and the lights of
the Ritz reflect brightly in the puddles. He calls a black cab and provides an
address close to Kensington High Street.
During the journey he decides on a change of plan. He asks the taxi
driver to leave him at the twenty four hour shop on the High Street so he can
buy cigarettes. He can walk home from there. The driver drops him off and
thanks him for the generous tip.
After making his purchase, he leaves the shop, turns left and takes the
first road on the right. It is a starry night and handsome red bricked mansion
blocks line both sides of the well lit street. A figure suddenly emerges from
an alleyway between two blocks. As the person moves into the light, it becomes
clear that he is a tall burly man, looking unkempt with thick beard and stained
clothes.
He comes up close to James. ‘Excuse me, sir. Can I trouble you for some
cash?’
‘Let's see what I can do.” James reaches into his pocket and brings out
some pound coins.
‘Ain't you got some folding money?’ He menacingly leans forward into
James' face. He can smell the sourness of the man's breath.
James stands back a little. ‘I am sorry but I can't help any more. Good
night.’
‘Not so fast. You and me haven't finished talking.’
‘I don't want any trouble.’
The man puts his left hand on James' shoulder and raises his right fist.
“Your type don't...”
James throws a left hook at the man. It catches his chin and his head
snaps back and hits the wall behind him, and he slumps to the ground. In that
moment the younger James, the Oxford Blue, has come to life again. Or Rocky, as
his sparring partners had nicknamed him. His hand throbs with pain. It feels
like it has been smashed into concrete.
The man lies in silence. Blood runs from his face creating a red rivulet
on the pavement. James bends over the prone body. He gazes at his face and
checks for a pulse by placing two fingers on the inside of his wrist. There is
no evidence of life.
He stands up. Time appears to stop. His mouth is dry and his hands are
shaking. He reaches inside his jacket for his mobile with his right hand. But
then he stops to think. How does he explain what happened to the police? He had
been acting in self defence, hadn't he? But what if he is accused of using
excessive force? There were no witnesses to testify either way. It's a big
risk. He puts the phone back.
He looks around and starts to walk away. That soon turns into a sprint
and within three minutes he reaches his block and catches the lift to the
fourth floor. Once inside the flat, he heads into the bathroom to examine his
aching hand. As he runs cold water over his hand, he sees his reflection. What
has he become, he asks himself? He starts crying uncontrollably.
2 May 2009
(10pm)
‘Finally, I
would like to extend my thanks to James Crombie. Without his efforts behind the
scene, tonight's event would not have happened. Despite having a demanding job
he found the time to find sponsors for the occasion and some top quality
speakers.’
Sir Richard leads the diners in a round of applause. James stands up and
takes a bow. He is nearly six foot tall and about forty years old, with a
rugged jaw and expensive looking haircut. He looks comfortably at home in a
black dinner suit. He sits down and lies back in his chair.
‘I look forward to you joining us for next year's event,’ Sir Richard
concludes. ‘The work of the Prison Reform Society will continue, as it has done
for the last eighty years, and your support and contributions are invaluable in
sustaining its mission.’
He sits downs as the diners in the Marie Antoinette Suite bring their
hands together in agreement.
“Did you not bring a companion?’ asks an older man sitting beside James.
“Sylvia my escort had to drop out at the last minute. She's a lawyer and
had go at the last minute to York to represent someone. It's a real vocation
for her. She keeps telling me no one is above the rule of law.”
‘She missed a great evening. How did you manage to get us into the Ritz
this year?’
‘Contacts’, James replies with a wink. ‘To be more specific, I pulled a
few strings with some clients and they agreed to cough up the cost of hiring
the restaurant. They are all interested in schemes giving prisoners a work
placement on release. They are quite taken with the success that that national
shoe repair chain has had in training and employing ex prisoners.’
‘Excellent stuff. By the way, I never asked you how you first got
involved in the Society.
‘Well, I am a bit of an idealist, despite being a City banker. I think we
should use imprisonment as an opportunity to reform criminals. Change their
behaviour and train them for work. Also, you will get the odd guy or girl who
does something completely out of character and ends up inside. Losing their
freedom should be sufficient punishment for them. Otherwise, they should be
treated decently. If I ever ended up in that position that's what I would
expect.’
About the author
Rob started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had a few published in anthologies produced by small publishers. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing.
Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)
