Bleak Expectations (33 page)

‘Harry—’ I started to explain, but he cut me off.

‘I ask for a small investment – no more than seven hundred and twelve pounds, eight shillings and sixpence
¹
and you refuse me. Me! The man who has always been there for you, the man who held your hand and stroked your hair when Flora died, the man who looked after you. I gave up my dreams and ambitions for you, and now I want to do this one tiny thing for myself and you won’t let me!’

‘Harry—’

‘No! I will not hear a thing you say unless it is “Sorry, Harry, here’s the money.” Is it going to be that, Pip Bin?’

‘Harry, I cannot. For the idea is ridiculous, and I have no money.’

‘Then you also have no best friend. For you are a friend to me no more, Pip Bin.’ Head held high, he proudly marched from the room, the effect lessened only slightly by the fact that he had got the wrong door and consequently walked straight into a cupboard. ‘I meant to do that!’ I heard from within. ‘I’d rather be in a cupboard than be with you!’

Now he emerged from the cupboard and marched across the room again. ‘You are still a friend to me no more, Pip Bin!’ He left, slamming the door behind him. The door to the billiards room and, again, not the way out.

‘Aarggh!’ He came back in. ‘I’m confused! I don’t know which the right door is any more. So I shall just use the window.’ He went to the window, opened it and sat on the sill, legs dangling outside. ‘For the final time I say: you are a friend to me no more, Pip Bin.’

With this solemn declaration, he jumped, landing below with a thud, and I heard him say, ‘Ow! I think I’ve broken my ankle! But you are still a friend to me no more, Pip Bin!’

I went to the window and looked down to see him hobbling away, and sadness now filled my heart for I had lost my best friend – but I had not the time to worry about the matter for I had to study the law and, looking at my watch, I realized I had but four minutes to do so before the court was back in session.

¹
About twenty-three million pounds in today’s money.

Four minutes was not a long time. Oh, true, a man may achieve a lot in four minutes – run nearly a quarter of a mile,
¹
sire several children, establish a small colony,
²
look at the minute hand on his watch go round four times, even five if the watch is rubbish, beat Italy in a war twice –
³
but to learn the law, well, it was pushing it a bit. Or a lot.

Indeed, it was impossible, and though I tried as hard as I could, by the time I returned to court I had got no further than learning how to talk while holding the lapels of a legal gown, and had only just begun work on a condescending lawerly sneer.

I feared that might not be enough.

As I re-entered the court, I reassured myself with one thought: at least thus far Mr Benevolent had not arrived to gloat at my misfortune, and I glanced up at the public gallery to ensure his continued absence. To my surprise, it was completely empty, when before lunch it had been packed with the usual audience such cases brought. What is more, apart from my opponent Mr Trashcan, Judge Hardthrasher and the usher, the entire court was now bereft of people – even the jury box was deserted.

An explanation was quickly forthcoming.

‘Over lunch I made a decision,’ the judge said. ‘The verdict will no longer be decided by a jury but instead by me alone. Juries are so inconvenient and messy.’

‘Your Honour—’ I gripped the lapels of my legal gown firmly, but he cut me off, which was lucky as I didn’t really know what I had been intending to say.

‘I know what you’re thinking, Mr Bin. But do not worry, I am a scrupulously fair man who despises partiality, and your slaughter of my siblings shall have no bearing on my judgment. The case will be conducted in line with the noble British tradition of being presumed guilty until proven dead.’

‘Surely Your Honour means innocent until proven guilty.’ I was pleased at being able to display at least this minor piece of legal knowledge.

‘I know what I mean, young man. Now, let us begin.’ He banged his mighty gavel hard and turned to me. ‘Mr Bin, did you invent the Bin?’

‘I did, Your Honour.’

‘I see.’ The judge turned to the star-spangled American plaintiff, who had removed his eagled hat to reveal hair that looked unnaturally wiggy, and was itching awkwardly at his beard, as if unused to its hairy facial presence. ‘Mr Trashcan, did you actually invent it first?’

‘Yes, sirree, Your Honour, I surely did.’

‘Oh, well, that is most convincing. And incontrovertible. I find for Mr Trashcan. Pip Bin, you are guilty on all counts and I sentence you to—’

This had not gone well, and not gone well at a much quicker rate than I had expected. I quickly rose to my feet to protest.

‘Wait! Your Honour, I wish to question the witness.’

‘Really? You’re only delaying the inevitable, you know. Inevitable impartial judgment, I mean.’ The judge rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘But very well. Justice must at least be pretended to be done.’

The usher escorted Mr Trashcan to the witness box. He stumbled on his way, an act that caused his hair to dislodge and fall over his left ear, and I instantly thought how odd it was that he wore a wig, given that I could clearly see a full head of glossy black hair beneath.

How eccentric were the ways of our ex-colonial cousins across the Atlantic!

In scrabbling to reattach hair to head, he now caught his beard on the large signet ring he sported, and it came momentarily unstuck, revealing bare chin beneath. There was a brief flash of familiarity to that chin, but I dismissed it – for all men have chins and therefore all chins are familiar.

‘Place your right hand on the Bible and take the oath, please,’ the usher said.

Mr Trashcan cleared his throat, then said, ‘I swear to tell the truth, the half-truth and something a bit like the truth, so help me, God.’

I instantly knew this was not right and turned to plead with the judge. ‘Hang on. He said—’

‘It sounded fine to me. Get on with it, Bin.’ The judge banged his gavel angrily.

‘Sorry, Your Honour.’ I refocused my attention on my American accuser. ‘Mr Trashcan, you claim you invented the Bin yourself.’

‘I do.’

Now I had him! He had fallen into the complex legal web I had woven for him, and there was no way he could extricate himself. I steadied myself lest I seem too obviously excited and asked my deadly question.

‘Is it not the case, Mr Trashcan, that when you say you invented the Bin first you are lying?’

‘No.’

‘Damn! I was hoping you’d say yes.’

I slumped to my seat, my brilliant strategy in tatters, like a battle-plan that has been attacked by a scissor-wielding cat. But, from nowhere, inspiration struck, and I leaped to my feet again.

‘Are you sure you’re not lying?’

‘As sure as I am that my name is Mr Gentl—’ He stopped and consulted a bit of paper he held in his hand. ‘I mean, Mr Harlan J. Trashcan. Which it is.’

His words pushed doubts into my mind. Was this Harlan Trashcan all he seemed? Or was he slightly more? Or less, even? Who was he really? Where had he sprung from with his convenient accusation? Could he even be an agent of the dastardly Mr Benevolent, sent to legally ensnare me?

‘Are you even American?’ I asked, suspicious.

‘What? Yes. Of course. Y’all. As American as a breakfast platter of hominy grits.’

‘Hmm.’ I had no idea what hominy grits
⁴
were, so could find neither truth nor falsehood in his answer, but immediately thought of another way to test his Americanness. ‘If you truly are American, then you will be able to name all the states of your fair nation.’

‘Of course. There’s Virginia. West Virginia. And, um . . .’ He looked baffled and uncertain, but then rallied geographically. ‘North Virginia, South Virginia, East Virginia, South-east Virginia, mid-Virginia, Virginia-Virginia and Texas.’

Alas, I myself did not know what the states of America were, but he sounded jolly convincing and I decided he was probably right, even though it did sound as if there were a few too many Virginias in there.

‘I have had enough of this tiresome questioning. It is my turn now.’ The judge turned to the witness box. ‘Mr Trashcan, in your own words, please tell us why Mr Bin is guilty as charged.’

‘Of course. I, Harlan . . .’ Now I noticed something strange: his American accent temporarily disappeared and a smooth British accent, with oily undertones of evil, briefly took its place. ‘Ah, damn, lost the accent . . . I
Haaar
lan,
Haaaar
lan, I Harlan J. Trashcan’ – here the accent gained traction again – ‘invented the Bin a whole month before this gosh-darned varmint. Which is American slang from America, by the way.’

The British accent had seemed tantalizingly familiar. But whose was it?

‘Do you have proof of this?’

‘I surely do, Your Honour.’

‘Excellent. Case proved. I find Pip Bin guilty—’

‘May we at least see this evidence?’ I was not going down without a fight, even if it was a rubbish, hand-slappy, hair-pulling, playground-style fight.

‘Oh, if we must. Mr Trashcan?’

‘The proof is this newspaper, containing a story about my invention of the Bin or, as we call it in America, the Trashcan. Someone has circled the story in ink and written “Great idea, must steal, lots of love Pip Bin.” You can see it quite clearly.’

He waved the newspaper about the courtroom and there was a shocked intake of breath from everyone watching – or, at least, I am sure there would have been had there been any spectators.

‘What newspaper is it?’ I asked.

‘The
Philadelphia Fictional Times
. There is no more accurate journal in America.’

‘And when is it dated?’

‘Hmm, let me see. When did you invent the Bin?’

This was a date burned on my memory with the intensity of any life-changing experience, and I proudly told him. ‘Why, the tenth of May, last year.’

‘Really? Then this newspaper is dated . . .’ He now turned away so that the newspaper was out of sight, removed from his pocket what appeared to be a small ink-pad and date-stamping kit, took that from view also, fiddled around briefly, then triumphantly brandished the newspaper saying ‘. . . the tenth of April last year.’

‘May I see that to confirm it?’ asked the judge.

‘Of course, Your Honour.’ Mr Trashcan handed over the newspaper as the judge reached for it. ‘Though be careful, the ink is still wet.’

As he leaned towards the judge, a host of things came together in my mind regarding this bizarre American: the way he had sounded when his accent had slipped; the way he had looked when his wig and beard had slipped; the way he had moved when, on his way into the witness box, he himself had slipped. These parts added up to a recognizable and entirely horrifying whole: this was no Harlan J. Trashcan, this was one Mr Gently Benevolent.

‘Your Honour! There is about to be a terrible injustice!’

The judge turned to me with curious eyes, that is to say eyes full of curiosity, not eyes that were themselves curious, though as I think back on it, one of his eyes was green and the other brown, so in fact they were curious in both senses.

‘How so, young man?’

‘That is not an American called Harlan J. Trashcan. It is an evil Englishman by the name of Mr Gently Benevolent! He has brought this invented case to destroy me.’

‘Nonsense.’ The judge’s eyes now turned from curious to angry, though, as recently established, with their bi-coloured nature they remained in at least one sense curious. ‘For I know Gently Benevolent and he would never do such a thing. Would you, Benevolent?’

This protestation would have held more weight had he not just addressed himself directly to the disguised Mr Benevolent in the witness box; even the vile fiend himself seemed somewhat taken aback and knew not how to answer.

‘Um . . . er . . .’ he floundered.

‘My mistake,’ said the judge, trying desperately to recover. ‘Thought I saw him there. But I didn’t. Because he’s not. Anyway, it’s judgment time. I find you guilty on all counts, Pip Bin. You forfeit all rights to the Bin and all monies deriving therefrom. Furthermore, you are guilty of industrial theft, a heinous crime against society.’

A bitter, burning sense of injustice rose in me, like badly digested flambéed lemons; this whole trial was a fraud, and I was about to suffer for it.

‘But before I pass sentence I want to emphasize that, whatever I say, my decision has in no way been prejudiced by Mr Bin being responsible for the deaths of my entire family. I simply cannot stress that enough.’ He banged his gavel savagely. ‘The sentence for industrial theft is five years’ imprisonment.’

Five years in gaol! This was more than I could bear. To think that after so much recent personal emotional agony I had now also been falsely accused, convicted and imprisoned.

‘No! That cannot be!’ I shouted, emotions seething within my chest.

‘And nor shall it be.’ Was the judge about to show lenience? As it turned out, only if it was sarcastically. ‘For I deem your crimes much more serious than that and sentence you to be hanged by the neck until dead a week hence. Yes! Take that, you murdering scum. Not that it’s personal, of course.’

I could not help but feel it might have been a tiny bit personal, but that was of scant comfort to me as officers of the court now entered, chained my hands and feet and dragged me out. As I passed through the door, Mr Benevolent raised his disguising wig as if it were a hat raised in farewell, and then laughed, the scornful triumph of his evil cackling seeming to follow me down the corridor, outside the courthouse, all the way to prison, and thence to death.

¹
In the nineteenth century the world record for running a mile stood at seventeen minutes, slower even than a brisk walk – it was deemed ungentlemanly to hurry and any man of high breeding caught running in any circumstance other than racing after a saucy scullery-maid was liable to be sent to prison.