The Star Witness

by Andy Hamilton

  “You’re a people-pleaser.”

  “I suppose so, yes.”

  His eyes are welling up now. God, this is terrible acting. Surely everyone will see through this pantomime? They’ve got to, haven’t they? The public aren’t that stupid. They can see when something is grotesque. Suddenly the room starts to recede from me and I dash to the toilet to throw up. I hurry back to find Derek is telling the world how much he liked me.

  “And did Kevin Carver like you?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “But he used you.”

  Derek bows his head, like a saint about to be martyred. “Yes…yes he did.”

  I am watching my whole life unravel. Everything I have is – however much that was – was being destroyed, in high-definition slow motion, by Derek and this woman.

  “And did he offer you money to commit this perjury?”

  “Yes, yes he did.”

  Oh God, no.

  “But I didn’t want any money, so I asked him to make a donation to my favourite charity. It supports hospices.”

  Oh Jesus Christ. I wrote a cheque.

  “We should perhaps point out that you’re not being paid for this interview.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Knowing what you know now, Derek, do you think Kevin Carver did or did not…assault Jade Pope?”

  Derek puffs his cheeks. “I don’t know…I mean…if their relationship was in trouble…well, I’m not sure that Kevin finds rejection easy to cope with. But, y’know, it’s really not for me to speculate.”

  “You just did!” I scream at the television. My body starts to heave with wracking, gulping sobs and, even though no one can see me, I feel humiliated.

  “Finally, Derek –” she leans forward and spreads her hands “– the question that a lot of our viewers will be asking, namely, why now? Why have you waited to come forward and admit your crime…because it is a very serious offence you’ve committed.”

  On the screen, with misting eyes, Derek is slowly choosing his words: “Yes…yes it is a serious offence. And I’m not proud of the mistake I made. Not at all. So I’ve chosen to come forward because basically, I couldn’t go on living a lie. I take full responsibility.”

  Everybody takes full responsibility now, have you noticed? It’s funny that. We must be getting more honest.

  For a moment, a fast-fading moment, I cling to the hope that they won’t believe him; all the millions of people with their suppers on their laps. Then I know that they will. Why wouldn’t they believe him? He is creating a moment of mass intimacy with them; they love that.

  It’s over for me, that’s inescapable. I’ve been placed in the national pantheon of liars. Somewhere between Jonathan Aitken and Jeffrey Archer. In the eyes of millions, I am now arrogant, corrupt, violent, and ridiculous.

  I feel stupid and shamed; which is why I don’t answer when Sandra rings back.

  9

  The New Home

  My cell-mate’s name is Dougie. His body is mostly tattoos, but he’s alright once you get to know him – and as long as you stay off the topic of race. Funnily enough, the other night he came out with the same observation as Jade did at our disastrous dinner – the one about black South Africans having been better off under apartheid.

  I didn’t pick him up on it.

  He’s in for GBH. Self-defence, he says. He beat a man senseless with a wheeljack, which I did once as Lenny. Although I don’t suppose Dougie needed four takes to get it right.

  There’s no point my dwelling on the details of the trial, because it was a foregone conclusion. Even though I had lied to them, my legal team stuck with me. I felt acutely embarrassed by their loyalty because I knew I wasn’t worthy of it. They tried to argue that Derek’s TV interview made it impossible for me to receive a fair hearing. There was a day and a half’s discussion on various points of law before the judge decided that the trial could continue, provided that none of the jury had seen the programme.

  I gave my evidence and told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth; and the more truthful I was, the more absurd it sounded. The prosecuting barrister spent most of his time just repeating my words back at me.

  My counsel did his best to explain that, yes, I was guilty of lying to a court, but not guilty of the offence I had been lying about. It was laughably futile.

  Derek gave Queen’s evidence and got a suspended sentence. I was found guilty on both counts and sentenced to five years. They tell me I’ll probably serve a minimum of two.

  The prison came as a shock to me, as in my mind’s eye I had been picturing a modern, clinical facility where inmates sat around watching DVDs – the kind of prison you read about in the Daily Mail. Instead, they put me in a van and delivered me to this rotting Victorian relic that smells of damp and cabbage.

  In his summing-up, the judge had highlighted my “deviousness and contempt for the law”, so perhaps that marked me down for special treatment – who knows? The newspapers had been unanimous that an example should be made of me. ‘Lock Lenny up and throw away the key!’ said the Star, as ever, struggling to cling on to where reality starts and ends.

  As we approached the prison, the walls seemed to lean over me. We drove in and the main gate closed behind me with a heavy clang, like it would in a movie. How could this be happening to me? It was only the last tattered shreds of pride that stopped me from curling up into a ball and whimpering like a beaten animal. But that’s what I wanted to do.

  That’s what I felt like.

  A beaten animal.

  The staff greeted me with civility, no more, no less. I tried to crack a couple of jokes, but a watery smile was the most I got. My clothes and belongings were logged. I filled out some medical forms. I won’t bore you with it all.

  About an hour after my arrival, I am sitting, in pale blue shirt and dark blue trousers, outside the office of the prison governor, trying to ignore the random flickers of a faulty strip-light.

  A voice calls me into the governor’s office. I am expecting to meet my idea of a prison governor; some grey mediocrity who has been moved sideways into the post, but this one is quick and sharp.

  “Kevin, come in, sit down, sorry about that light out there. They do that when they’re about to go, bloody annoying. I’m Malcolm.”

  He thrusts a hand towards me. I shake it, weakly. He smiles. He is surprisingly young. Late, maybe mid thirties. And there is a crackle of energy about him.

  “Feeling pretty dazed I expect, yes?”

  I nod.

  “Totally normal, one hundred per cent normal. You’ll probably feel like that for a while. It’s like going into shock. You’ll be fine. Cup of tea?”

  “Please.”

  He reaches for a pot on his desk.

  “Sugar?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Sorry about the cups. They look dirty, but they’re just stained…I hope.”

  He gives a mischievous little chuckle, which, for some reason, reminds me of Harry Secombe.

  “We’ll be putting you in with a chap called Dougie,” he tells me as he pours. “He does have a slight history of violence, but he’s a talker, and we think that’d be best. Initially. For you. Given that you’re new to this.”

  He hands me the cup of tea, which, once in my hand, starts to rattle in the saucer.

  “Most of them in here have had lots of experience…”

  He smiles at me and I try to smile back, but I’m just moving my mouth.

  “You’re not our first ‘face’. No, no, we’ve had an MP who got done for fraud, a former Big Brother housemate who liked setting fire to things…a drug-pushing disc jockey.” He lets out the Goon-ish giggle again. “All sorts. No one as big as you, though. It’s not easy being a celeb in prison. Some do OK. It’s an alien world. I mean, someone like Jeffrey Archer did fine, because he lives in his own world and just carries it around with him, but…um…well, for a sensitive person, it’s…are you a sensitive person, would you say, Kevin?”<
br />
  It’s an impossible question. Do I feel things more or less than other people? How would I know?

  “I don’t know, Malcolm.” I mumble.

  “Indeed, indeed. People react to prison in all sorts of unexpected ways. Some of them discover they’ve got minds. They throw themselves into books and start devouring ideas. It’s good to see. We’ve turned out three sociologists.”

  “Right.”

  “And an urban poet. Although he’s just been done for criminal damage. Some chaps find a kind of comfort in the routine of the place, y’know, the little daily rituals. The games room. The meals. The chat. Some lose themselves in new hobbies, y’know, like Burt Lancaster in The Birdman of Alcatraz. Do you like birds? We’ve got a kestrel that hovers over the yard sometimes. That’s the upside of having mice.”

  He pulls an embarrassed face. It would be easy to mistake him for a clown, but he’s sounding me out.

  “The ones I worry about are the ones who don’t talk…who don’t engage…that never works.” His eyes drop for a moment, as if he’s visiting an ugly memory. Then he starts up again, louder and more emphatic.

  “But you, Kevin, are a man of talent and resource, so you’ll be fine, I’m sure. Do you feel sorry for what you did?”

  The question has taken me by surprise.

  “Um…sorry for which thing that I did, only—”

  “You know what I mean,” he interrupts, “do you feel – sincerely feel – and acknowledge that you did something wrong?”

  “I…acknowledge…that I made mistakes.”

  “Ah, yes,” he chuckles, “that old favourite.”

  “Why does it matter? My thinking I’ve done something wrong?”

  He sips his tea as he considers.

  “It’s of no huge significance…just a starting point.”

  We talk a little longer, small talk mostly, the occasional question about my background; then, suddenly he’s on his feet ushering me towards the door.

  “Well, let’s get you settled in. We’re not part of the private sector…not yet anyway. So we still try to treat inmates as people, not units. But the rules are the rules and apply to everyone. So I’d advise against trying to take any liberties. Prison officers don’t like that.”

  I bristle at this change of tone.

  “I don’t expect star treatment.”

  “Good. I’ve only two objectives here, Kevin. The first is the safety of prisoners and staff, obviously, and the other is rehabilitation.”

  “I don’t need rehabilitating. I’m only here because…because of the actions of two delusional people.”

  “Just the two?”

  He gives me a cryptic smile, which irritates me intensely, and then guides me out of the door towards a waiting officer.

  “Give Kevin the tour, please, Frank.”

  My cell turned out to be far less depressing than I had feared. I had steeled myself for some bleak hole straight out of Midnight Express, but instead I was presented with something that could have passed for student accommodation at a third-rate university. There were bunks, quite new (and surprisingly comfortable), a small desk, two knee-high cupboards with sharp corners, and a door that opened into an extremely compact toilet with a tiny plastic washbasin. All very basic, but I had stayed in worse places touring as a young actor.

  And the Governor was right about my cellmate. From the outset it was clear that, despite his Magwitch-like appearance and piercing stare, he was a sociable individual whose conversation ranged freely, in urgent, jabbing rhythms, across a wide variety of topics. He does have certain ground rules, though, which he laid out for me in our very first conversation, a few moments after an alarmingly firm handshake that felt like some kind of test.

  “Listen, Kevin, I hope you don’t mind but there’s some basics you need to be aware of. (Oh-oh) I know that you are from the world of showbiz and I know that the world of showbiz is full of bullshitters and I don’t like bullshitters. Hate ’em. (Don’t say anything.) Just wanted that on record. OK? I also don’t like whingers. I don’t like finger-pointers, timewasters or naysayers. (“Naysayers”?) I don’t like queue-jumpers, scroungers, ponces and people who criticise her Majesty the Queen, because she can’t answer back. I don’t like Wayne Rooney – he’s an embarrassment – Richard Dawkins – too smug – any of the Bronte sisters, (What?) Jeremy Clarkson, musicals based on films, and rudeness. Erm…also…I don’t like rap, Channel Five, the metric system, lazy use of Americanisms, wanky ringtones, panel shows and vegans. Everything else I like.”

  It was not the most promising of starts, but within a day or two we were putting the world to rights and identifying who is to blame for everything. Or as Dougie puts it: “which fuck-up has been fucked up by which fucker-upper.”

  In many ways, my conversations with him remind me of talking to Mac. We tend to run through the same index of grievances. The only difference is that when Dougie concludes (as Mac often does) that those responsible should be taken out and shot, you sense he may not be talking metaphorically.

  Now and then, just occasionally, Dougie does manage to get on my nerves (though I choose not to let it show). One night, a few weeks into my stretch, sticks in my memory.

  A hot night. We are lying on our bunks, Dougie is listening to Radio Four through earpieces. I am just staring into space, thinking about how I am probably two thirds of the way through my life – possibly three-quarters even, or worse. Contemporaries of mine are regularly appearing in the obit pages.

  This gloomy line of thought is punctured by Dougie’s voice.

  “What’s it like being famous?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Is it nice? Or is it a pain in the jacksie?”

  “Both.”

  “Must be weird though. Having strangers come up to you and that, wanting to photograph you?”

  “It’s OK…most people are very nice…they never seem to know how their cameras work, but most of them are pleasant enough.”

  Dougie makes approving noises. “Really? That’s good to hear. ’Cos manners are important. As I had to point out to someone yesterday.”

  “Yeh, I heard about that.”

  “Well, queues are there for a reason…I don’t think he’ll do it again.”

  “No, I’m sure he won’t.”

  The springs creak above me, as he shifts his weight.

  “I bet some people take liberties, though, don’t they? What’s the worst that’s happened to you?”

  “Oh, I dunno…I’ve had the occasional drunk who wanted to fight me…”

  “That’s predictable.”

  “Some old boy called me a cunt once.”

  “Why?”

  “He believed the papers. Thought I was the kind of man who beats up women.”

  “Well if you were, then you would be a cunt.”

  “I suppose so…if I were…but I’m not.”

  “You didn’t hit her, or manhandle her in any way, then?”

  What sort of a question is that? Why doesn’t he just listen to his radio? I retreat into silence.

  “Not even a gentle clip?”

  “Listen, Dougie, we’ve been over this. She was deluded, emotional. I was totally innocent.”

  The springs dance for a moment as he gets more comfortable.

  “Well, maybe not totally innocent,” he mutters.

  “Sorry?”

  “Well, y’know, Kevin, no disrespect, but you did invent an alibi, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t invent it.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “No. Someone…presented it to me. Someone who was a—”

  “Nutter.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you still availed yourself of the nutter’s services, didn’t you? I know you had your reasons, which made sense at the time, you’ve explained that, but…let’s face it, Kevin…you made some very bad choices, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but the accusation that started it is—”

  “I kn
ow, it’s—”

  “It’s false, Dougie.”

  “I know but—”

  “Completely false.”

  “Yeh, but that doesn’t make you ‘innocent’, does it? You knew you were doing something wrong…but you went ahead and did it…just like the rest of us.”

  God Almighty, is he seriously bracketing me with all the lowlife in here?

  “We’re all responsible for our actions, Kevin. That’s the basis of civilisation…”

  Please, spare me the pearls of wisdom.

  “You’re an educated man, Kevin, you know how it works.”

  Right, I’m ending this conversation.

  “I’m tired, Dougie. G’night.”

  “I haven’t upset you, have I?”

  “No.”

  “Does this light bother you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  In the distance I can hear a growing chorus of car horns. Lots of them, blaring incessantly. What I wouldn’t give to be sitting in that traffic jam.

  “I’m sort of famous,” says Dougie, quietly, “in Dagenham.”

  I know that some people have written entire books about their experience of prison, but frankly, there is not much to tell. Prison life is exactly as you would imagine it, a grind of tedium and routine punctuated by the occasional moment of terror. The first few weeks were the hardest. I felt alone, disorientated, scared, etcetera, but it is surprising how quickly you can get used to an environment, even a very weird one. I went to a ClubMed once and, within days, I was doing the water aerobics and singing the club song. It’s shocking how passive you can be, isn’t it? If you just go with the flow.

  The one pleasant surprise was the attitude of the other prisoners. They accepted me almost immediately. As a joke – at least I think it’s a joke – they nearly all call me Lenny. One prisoner called Toby took an immediate shine to me. (He’s not here any more.) He followed me around telling me how big a fan he was and, on one occasion, he took me to one side in the computer room and expressed the view that Derek was scum and could meet with an “accident”, if I wanted him to arrange it.

  I was touched; as, indeed, was he.