My Policeman (33 page)

Much of the work involves dealing with new deliveries from public libraries. We always get the absolute dregs. In yesterday’s shipment, for example: a guide to the maintenance of Norton
motorcycles
from the 1930s, a history of the village of Ripe, a book on the coinage of the Middle East, another on the dress of the people of Latvia, and – the only slightly interesting volume among the whole lot – a biography of William of Orange, written in 1905.

With me in the library is Davies, a large, quiet man with grey eyes, who is apparently in for causing his wife grievous bodily harm. Impossible to imagine anyone less likely to commit such a crime. But one learns not to question a man too closely on his conviction. Also with me is Mowatt, a young fair-haired lad festooned with freckles. A habit of licking his lips as he works. Mowatt was a Borstal boy, like so many of them here. Talks a lot about his next ‘twenty-two-carat doddle’, which I now understand to mean his next fantastically large-scale yet utterly risk-free robbery. He walks as though his feet are too long, picking them up and placing them down so carefully you want to offer him an arm.

Yesterday Mowatt said nothing at all as we sorted through our shipment of books. At first I was glad to be spared the usual fantasies of how, on his release, he’d
hook up with this gorgeous bird
who’s waiting for him and make use of the
ton
he’s
got stashed for a new life in Spain
. But later I noticed that his hands trembled more than usual on the book spines, and he walked as if his feet were not only too long but also incredibly heavy. At last Davies shed light on it. ‘Family visit,’ he whispered. ‘Tomorrow. He’s saved enough for a bit of hair oil but he’s obsessed with the state of his boots. I told him. He can’t borrow mine. I’d never get them back.’

And so this morning, whilst we were sitting together at the library table, I slipped off my boots, which I’d left unlaced, and kicked them in Mowatt’s direction. No response. So I shoved an out-of-date theology textbook towards him, deliberately
nudging
him in the ribs with one corner. ‘Oi!’ he began, making O’Brien look up. But I put my hand on his, very gently, to silence him, and the deaf old screw chose to ignore us.

Mowatt looked down at my fingers, lost for words for a minute. I gestured beneath the table, seeking his boot with my foot. After a second, he understood what was going on. He looked at me with such warmth in his eyes that I almost laughed. I almost opened my mouth and roared with laughter in that stinking, cold room, amongst those useless, forgotten books.

Another visit to Russell’s warm sanctuary.

‘Why don’t we start with you telling me about your childhood?’

‘I didn’t think psychiatrists really said that.’

‘Begin wherever you like.’

My first instinct was to make something up.
At the age of nine I was taken brutally over the nursery rocking horse by my Russian uncle, and ever since I’ve been drawn to other men, Doctor
. Or:
My mother dressed me in flowered smocks and rouged my cheeks when I was five, and ever since I’ve longed to attract a strong man to my bed, Doctor
. But instead I told him a kind of truth: that mine was a happy childhood. No brothers or sisters to knock me off my perch. Many idyllic hours spent playing in the garden (with a sailor doll named Hops, but
outside
nonetheless). My father largely absent, like many fathers, but not overly mysterious or abusive, despite his later dalliances. Mother and I always got along well. Whenever I was home from school, we enjoyed our times together, going up to town to the theatre, museums and cafés … I ran away with myself rather, telling him about the time in Fortnum’s when a stranger at the next table had tried to buy Mother a glass of champagne. She’d smiled and very firmly turned him
down
. I’d been so disappointed. The man had a blue silk cravat, wonderfully waved blond hair and had worn a sapphire ring on his index finger. He’d looked to me as though he knew all the secrets of the world. As we left the place, Mother had commented hotly on his impertinence, but that afternoon her whole being had been lit up in a way I’d never seen before. She’d moved in an easier way, laughed at my silly jokes and bought all sorts of things that hadn’t been on our list: a new scarf for her, a leather-bound notebook for me. I still think of that man sometimes, remembering the way he’d sipped his coffee and shrugged at Mother’s rejection. I’d wanted him to weep or become angry, but he’d merely put down his cup, bowed his head and said, ‘What a shame.’

‘That’s our time almost up,’ said Russell.

I waited for his comments about how I had projected myself into my mother’s situation and this was really most unhealthy and it was no
wonder
I was in prison for gross indecency. But none came.

‘Before you leave,’ he said, ‘I want you to know that you could change. But the question is: do you really want to?’

‘I told you last week. I want to be cured.’

‘I’m not sure I believe you.’

I said nothing.

He let out a long breath. ‘Look. I’ll be honest with you. Therapy can help some individuals to overcome certain … proclivities, but it’s very hard work, and it takes a lot of time.’

‘How much time?’

‘Years, probably.’

‘I only have six months left.’

He gave a rueful laugh. ‘Personally,’ he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, ‘I think the law is an ass. What two adults get up to in private is their business.’ He was looking at
me
very seriously, dimpled cheeks aglow. ‘So what I’m saying is, if
you
want to change, then therapy could help you. But if you don’t …’ he held his palms upward and smiled, ‘then it’s really not worth the effort.’

I held out a hand, which he took, and thanked him for his honesty.

‘No more fireside chats, then,’ I said.

‘No more fireside chats.’

‘That’s a great shame.’

Burkitt took me back to my cell.

I’m trying to keep the image of
La Danse
in my head.

I don’t suppose a man of Russell’s integrity will last long here.

In Venice we’d spend the morning in bed, have a long lunch on the hotel terrace, then walk through the city. Delicious freedom. No one glanced our way, even when I took Tom’s arm and guided him through the throngs of tourists on the Rialto Bridge. One afternoon we stepped out of the summer fug and into the sweet coolness of the church of Santa Maria dei Miracoli. What I’ve always loved about the little place is its paleness. With its pastel grey, pink and white marble walls and floor, the Miracoli could be made of sugar. We sat together in a front pew. Utterly alone. And we kissed. There in the presence of all the saints and angels, we kissed. I looked at the altar with its image of the miraculous Virgin – reputed to have brought a drowned man back to life – and I said, ‘We should live here.’ After just two days of the possibilities of Venice, I said, ‘We should live here.’ And Tom’s answer was, ‘We should fly to the moon.’ But he was smiling.

*

Every fortnight I am allowed to receive and reply to one letter. So far, most of these have been from Mother. They’re typed, so I know she dictates them to Nina. She says nothing of her health, merely rattles on about the weather, the neighbours, what Nina has cooked for supper. But this morning there was one from Mrs Marion Burgess. A short, formal letter requesting permission to visit. At first I was determined to refuse. Why would I want to see her, of all people? But I soon changed my mind. The woman is my only link to Tom, whose absolute silence I hardly dare consider. I’ve heard not one word from him since my arrest. At first I almost hoped he would appear in the Scrubs, to serve his sentence, just so I could see him again.

If she comes, perhaps he will come too. Or perhaps she will carry some message from him.

The courtroom was small and stuffy, with none of the embellishments I’d expected. More like a school hall than a chamber of the law. Proceedings began with the public gallery being warned that the trial would contain material of a nature offensive to ladies, who might wish to leave. Every single one of them made an immediate bolt for the exit. Only one looked slightly rueful. The rest blushed to their hairlines.

As the counsel for the prosecution, Jones – Labrador eyes, but the voice of a bichon frise bitch – presented the case against me, Coleman stood shaking in the witness box, never once meeting my eye. In his blue flannel suit he looked older than when we last met. When he was cross-examined it became clear – to me, at least – that he’d made his claim to get himself out of trouble; he admitted to being involved in a petty piece of thievery. But even this realisation did not wake me from my daze. Everyone in the courtroom seemed to be going through the motions, the police yawning occasionally, the
judge
looking on impervious, and I was no different. I stood in my box, all the time aware of a uniformed man sitting behind me, biting his nails absent-mindedly. I found myself listening to the sound of the saliva in his mouth, rather than the court proceedings, as he nibbled away. I kept telling myself: in a few moments I’ll receive my sentence. My future will be decided. But somehow I could not comprehend what was happening to me.

Then everything changed. My barrister, the amiable but ineffectual Mr Thompson, began his presentation of the defence. And he called Marion Burgess.

I was prepared for this. Thompson had asked me who I’d recommend as a character witness. My list did not include anyone who was both female and married, as he’d soon pointed out. ‘Don’t you know any really dull ladies?’ he’d asked. ‘Librarians? Matrons? Schoolteachers?’

Marion was my only choice. And I calculated that, even if she did know the truth about my relationship with Tom (he’d always reassured me that she did not, although in my estimation she seemed too sharp to miss it for long), she would not risk denouncing me because of the damage it would cause her husband and, by extension, herself.

She was wearing a pale-green dress, too loose for her. She’d lost weight since I last saw her, and this accentuated her height. Her red hair was set into an absolutely unmovable shape. She stood very straight and clutched a pair of white gloves as she spoke. I could hardly hear her voice as she stated the usual formalities – her oath, her name, her occupation. Then she was asked in what capacity she knew the accused.

‘Mr Hazlewood was kind enough to take my pupils for an art-appreciation afternoon at the museum,’ she stated. And suddenly her voice was not her own. Long ago I’d guessed her
teaching
had chipped the edges from her Brighton accent – which is not nearly as pronounced as Tom’s – but in that witness box she sounded as though she’d been to Roedean.

She confirmed that I had performed my duties thoroughly, she would not hesitate to call on me again, and I was absolutely not the sort of man one might ordinarily find committing acts of gross indecency in a public convenience. Then the counsel for the prosecution stood and asked Mrs Burgess if she knew the accused in anything other than a professional capacity.

A flicker of concern passed across her freckled face. She said nothing. I willed her to look at me. If she would only look at me, I might have a chance of staring her into silence.

‘Is it not the case,’ continued Jones, ‘that the accused is a close friend of your husband, Constable Thomas Burgess?’

The sound of his name made me gasp. But I kept my eyes on Marion.

‘Yes.’

‘Speak up so the court can hear you.’

‘Yes. He is.’

‘How would you describe their relationship?’

‘It’s as you said. They’re good friends.’

‘So you know Mr Hazlewood personally, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you still say he is not the sort of man who would commit the crime of which he is accused?’

‘Of course he’s not.’ She was looking at Jones’s shoulder as she answered him.

‘And you completely trusted this man with your pupils?’

‘Completely.’

‘Mrs Burgess, I would like to read an extract from Patrick Hazlewood’s diary to you.’

Thompson objected, but was overruled.

‘Some of it is rather purple, I’m afraid. It’s dated October 1957.’ Jones spent a long time fixing his glasses to his nose, then cleared his throat and began, one hand waving airily about as he read. ‘
And then: the unmistakable line of his shoulders. My policeman was standing, head on one side, looking at a rather mediocre Sisley … Magnificently alive, breathing, and actually here, in the museum. I’d pictured him so many times over the past days that I rubbed my eyes, as disbelieving girls do in films
.’ A short pause. ‘Mrs Burgess, who is “my policeman”?’

Marion pulled herself up taller, stuck out her chin. ‘I have no idea.’

She sounded quite convincing. More convincing than I would have done, under the circumstances.

‘Perhaps another extract will help you to remember. This time dated December 1957.’ Another clearing-of-throat-placing-of-glasses-on-nose performance. Then: ‘
We’ve been meeting some lunchtimes, when he can get a long break. But he has not forgotten the schoolteacher. And yesterday, for the first time, he brought her with him … They are so obviously mismatched that I had to smile when I saw them together
.’

I winced.

‘
She is almost as tall as he is, made no attempt to disguise it (wearing heels), and is not nearly as handsome as him. But I suppose I would think so
.’

A long pause from Jones.

‘Mrs Burgess, who is “the schoolteacher”?’

She made no reply. She was still standing very tall and straight, looking at his shoulder. Cheeks red. Blinking a great deal.

Jones addressed the jury. ‘This journal contains many more intimate details of Patrick Hazlewood’s relationship with “his”
policeman
, a relationship that can only be described as deeply perverse. But I’ll spare the court any further account of such depravity.’ He turned back to Marion. ‘Who do you think the accused is writing about, Mrs Burgess?’

‘I don’t know.’ Bite of the lip. ‘Perhaps it’s some fantasy of his.’