Читать книгу Ploughing Potter’s Field - Phil Lovesey - Страница 11

That night I had the dream again …

The ship was listing, spilt diesel oil vaporizing on the salted air as the huge iron hulk began its obscene journey into the foaming black sea.

A lifeboat swung dangerously, tossed by storm-force winds, held by straining steel cables, a puppet boat, dooming its terrified occupants as it crashed into the dark swell below.

But I was safe, a young boy swimming powerfully, away from the sinking liner, making for stiller waters, passing weaker passengers, feeling occasional connections with tired limbs as I crashed by.

Just another thirty yards or so, twenty at the most, then I could turn, tread water, enjoy the dreadful spectacle of the fizzing, popping boat slide into the deep. Safe – beyond the fatal pull of the whirlpool which would condemn so many others to follow its huge turning propellers.

Ten strokes, now.

Nine.

Eight.

Then I heard their voices, coughing, spluttering – Mum and Dad – old, useless, tired.

Mum, hair in thick wet black ropes, struggling to reach me, my point of oceanic calm, calls out.

‘Adrian!’

Dad tries too.

But they are too far away.

‘Save us!’

How could I? They were as good as dead. To turn back and try and save them would only mean that I would perish alongside them. Lose my life. We’d all die. What point would the fatal heroics prove?

‘Save us, please!’

But I wanted to live. Let them die. Not me.

Suddenly the whirlpool catches them, and for a second their progress stops. I catch a look of complete disbelief and surprise on their faces, as the huge current begins sweeping them screaming towards the same dark sea the boat once occupied …

After, I wandered downstairs to the silent kitchen for a coffee. Jemimah’s dream kitchen, elegantly tiled and strewn with cast-iron pots and pans hanging from stainless-steel rails. I sat at the heavy pine table wondering at the laughable irony of the ad business wherein such luxury is achieved by its employees pushing tat on the masses. The result is very often a lifestyle only dreamt of by the unknowing punters.

A sleepy voice from somewhere behind. Jemimah, dressing gown open, yawning. ‘Can’t sleep?’

I shrugged.

She joined me at the table. ‘Bad dreams?’

I nodded.

‘You saw Rattigan again today, didn’t you?’

‘Uhuh.’

‘Don’t want to talk about it?’

‘That’s part of the problem, J. I don’t know what I want.’

Middle of the night’s a bad time to brood, I know that much.’

‘Maybe it’s the best time.’

‘What’s wrong?’ she playfully chided. ‘Has that nasty man been calling you names again?’

‘He’s not the problem. I think I am.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Something someone said to me today. Saying I should take a long hard look at the reasons why I’m doing this.’

‘The PhD?’ she replied, then smiled. ‘Because you’re going to make the best forensic psychologist the ad business ever fired. Because you believe in yourself. Because I do.’

‘Thanks, J. It means a lot.’

She reached out for my hand. ‘Let me in, Adrian. I can’t help if you bottle it all up.’

‘Jesus, I’d love to.’

‘Then do it.’

‘Problem is, I can’t even get there myself.’

She half frowned. ‘I’m not sure I …’

‘Remember when I hit you?’

She withdrew her hand, avoided my gaze. ‘Adrian, you don’t have to …’

‘But I do,’ I persisted. ‘It’s all tied in.’

‘And it’s history. Bad history. We’ve moved on.’

‘But I did it. We can’t just ignore it.’

‘You were pissed. Weren’t yourself.’

‘But what if …?’ I started.

She shook her head, reading my thoughts. ‘Don’t go down this road, Adrian, please.’

‘Maybe I’ve got to.’

‘Why?’

‘To face up to it. To me.’

‘But it wasn’t you, don’t you understand? It was drink. And now I’ve got you back. We’ve moved on. Why the analysis? Why now, for heaven’s sake?’

‘Because I think I know why I did it.’

She was becoming unsettled, nervous. ‘You were bloody drunk. End of story.’

‘But I remember the feelings,’ I replied. ‘And perhaps the booze simply let them slip through. Surface.’

She said nothing, waiting.

‘I remember bits of it. I remember you telling me you’d exchanged on the house. Then there was this … awful pain …’

‘Can’t we just forget the whole thing?’

But I couldn’t. ‘It was raw, J. Familiar almost. Like some kind of replay from the past. I felt like I was being abandoned. It was terrifying. It all welled up, sort of roaring, overwhelming. Next thing I remember, I’d hit you. But I don’t remember doing it. It had happened. Like I wasn’t even there.’

‘As I said,’ Jemimah quietly replied. ‘You weren’t yourself.’

‘Then who the hell was I? A fucking wife-beater? But I have no memory of it, can’t tell you where the rage and the pain came from, except it’s there, real. Inside me.’

‘You’re spending too long on this. It’s not good for you. Or us.’

‘Listen, J, please. I know enough about the subconscious to realize that those feelings are still there, still have the power to race right up and overwhelm me again.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Adrian. We’ve all got a temper! Right now, you’re really beginning to test mine.’

‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘But you wouldn’t hit me, would you? Then have no recollection of doing so. This is more than temper, J. This is about something I’ve buried as neatly as the time when I hit you. Something happened, I’m sure of it, a long time ago. It left me with the anguish I felt when you said you were moving. It’s still there, and it frightens the life out of me.’

‘So, get help,’ Jemimah frostily replied. ‘You’re a bloody psychiatrist. Get one of your student friends to recommend a good shrink. Hypnotherapy, regression, or whatever the hell you call it.’

‘Maybe.’

She stood. ‘I’m tired, I’m going back to bed.’

‘Sure.’

‘You coming?’

‘In a moment. I’m sorry.’

She stood by the door. ‘What for?’

‘Bringing it all up again.’

‘Yeah,’ she replied, turning. ‘So am I.’

‘Do you know what really frightens me?’

‘I’m not sure I want to.’

‘I’m meeting with a man who claims to have killed for fun. It’s his sole motive. According to him, he just went ahead and did it, because he wanted to. Yet I find myself wondering what is it about him that obsesses me? And it all comes back to me. He did something, grotesque, irrational, something I can’t possibly make any sense out of. Just like I did – when I hit you.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Adrian …!’

‘I think … I fear that in some senses Rattigan and I are possibly the same,’ I whispered. ‘We’ve both harmed others without a real motive. Perhaps that’s why I’m so hellbent on finding his. Because if I did it’d give me some kind of chance to apply it on myself. I don’t know, make me less of a monster than him.’

She’d had enough. ‘Christ’s sake, Adrian! Listen to yourself. You’re not thinking straight. You’re not a monster, you haven’t killed anyone, and you’re putting far too much of you into the whole stupid business. Honestly, it’s like comparing a petty shoplifter with the Great Train Robbers. You’re talking crap. I’m going upstairs.’

Which she did.

PC KILLER TO HANG

The trial of Joseph Attwood Rattigan concluded yesterday, when Judge Andrew Beaumont Clarke pronounced the death sentence for the silent defendant found guilty of the murder of PC John Scrimshaw, after a late-night brawl during January.

The jury deliberated for less than an hour before returning their unanimous guilty verdict, leaving Judge Clarke with no option but to don the black cap as he passed sentence.

Throughout the nine-day trial, the defendant had refused to take the stand, offering a plea of diminished responsibility and manslaughter, subsequently refused by the court. Upon sentencing, Rattigan silently shook his head, before being taken down.

The guilty verdict comes as no surprise to many who have followed the case. Evidence offered by the Crown during the trial supported its contentions that PC Scrimshaw had been mercilessly attacked while about his duties on the night of January 15th, 1949. Witnesses were able to testify that Rattigan had been seen drinking heavily in a series of public houses found on the Mile End Road, when, stumbling upon PC Scrimshaw about his duties, he proceeded to enter into a drunken verbal exchange with the 22-year-old police officer.

An altercation ensued which rapidly developed into a violent assault on the officer, resulting in Rattigan pushing Scrimshaw through a plate-glass window of a grocery shop. PC Scrimshaw was later identified as dead at the scene of the crime, his throat fatally cut from injuries sustained during his fall through the shop front.

It was only the selfless action of three brave passers-by who managed to manhandle the fleeing Rattigan to the ground as he sought to escape, so bringing the cowardly killer swiftly to justice.

At no point during the trial was Rattigan prepared to offer any motivation for his crime, leaving the jury with little option but to conclude that the defendant’s actions were the result of overintoxication due to drink.

In passing sentence, Judge Clarke stated, ‘It is the intention of this court that your punishment serve as a warning to all others foolish enough to consider assaulting officers of the law as legitimate sport, following reckless drinking of the sort you were undoubtedly involved in immediately preceding Officer Scrimshaw’s untimely demise. Let no one be in any doubt – the law has only one response to perpetrators of this vile, increasing crime. Police officers of any rank will be protected by the law, using its ultimate sanction. And those of us empowered to dispense the righteous justice of retribution will not cower from the responsibilities of our office.’

Solicitors representing Rattigan thought it unlikely he would appeal, as the condemned seemed fully resigned to his fate. At no stage during interviews with arresting officers did Rattigan ever express remorse for his crime, or give solid reasons for his unprovoked attack on PC Scrimshaw.

The Times, Wednesday, 2nd April, 1949.