The Star Witness

by Andy Hamilton

  I follow him, talking to his back.

  “I’m not sure the truth is really your area, Derek, I’d stick with the delusional egoism, that’s your strong suit.”

  I’m rather pleased with that, usually when I’m angry I don’t think of that kind of line till half an hour afterwards. The warder moves to open the door for Derek, who is offering me his hand again.

  “I just wanted you to know that I am sorry that you’re going through this pain.”

  He gives me a soft, sorrowful smile. I punch him in the face.

  Derek went straight to the newspapers.

  The Mirror put his shiny, cosmetically-enhanced black eye on the front page, beneath the headline “Lenny Did This”. The Sun went with ‘Carver Hits Man For a Change’. The Express published an interview with Derek where he explained that he would not be pressing charges against me because it felt wrong to punish someone who is ‘spiritually in a bad place’.

  The governor, Malcolm, had no choice but to be seen to discipline me. So I lost some privileges, though he kept the loss to a minimum because, as he put it, Derek has a face that is asking to be punched.

  The guards all seemed to think it was a huge laugh. So did most of the inmates.

  It’s only in the psychiatrist’s office that it is treated it as a matter of any significance.

  This psychiatrist is new. The one who assessed me on my arrival was short, stout and bald. This one is late-thirties, lean, and he doesn’t like me. He says “take a seat” after I have sat down.

  He has over-lustrous black hair, which he runs his hand through at every opportunity.

  “You know why you’re here, don’t you, Kevin? You were referred to me because you are complaining of sleeplessness but are disinclined to take sleeping pills…have I got that right?”

  “Yes. I don’t like taking pills.”

  He leans forward a little. “Why is that?”

  Here we go.

  “I just don’t like taking pills.”

  No response.

  “…like a lot of people,” I add.

  A quick note is made. I can see the bulge of his tongue inside his cheek.

  “Now, since you were referred to me you have, of course – infamously – punched a visitor. Any thoughts about that?”

  “Not really.”

  “Any regrets?”

  I can’t be bothered to answer that.

  “Why did you punch him?”

  “Have you met him?”

  This gets a languid half smile and a ruffle of the hair.

  “How is your hand?”

  “Still pretty sore.”

  “I’d have thought you would know how to throw a punch.”

  “Yeh, well, when I throw a punch at a stuntman he rolls away. He doesn’t stand there like a brick.”

  “Do…you…regret…” He teases out the words as he leans back and stares at the ceiling. “…that you gave this man exactly what he wanted? Clearly he lives for attention, and you presented him with acres of newsprint, front-page photos and a huge interview in the Express.”

  I don’t bother answering this either, because I know he’s right.

  “An-y-way,” he drawls, “the insomnia. How much sleep per night would you say you are getting?”

  “None.”

  “None at all?”

  “Well…maybe twenty minutes…I dunno…but, basically none.”

  “We could film you if you like. Install a camera in your cell.”

  “I’m not sure my cellmate would be very keen on that. Also, I don’t need to be filmed, why can’t you just take my word for it?”

  He bounces his fingertips against each other for a few moments. He does like to keep you waiting.

  “In my experience, patients who claim to be getting no sleep are invariably getting more sleep than they realise. It’s perfectly understandable. We remember the anxiety of not being able to sleep, rather than the fact of sleep.”

  This really gets under my skin and, for the next few minutes, I give him a large piece of my mind about how I don’t like being patronised and how I can’t see any scientific basis for him knowing more about my insomnia than I do.

  “Alrighty,” he says, “let’s change tack a bit. There were some riots in Manchester last night. Did you see that?”

  “I heard it on the news.”

  “There was a lot of looting.” The half smile puts in another appearance. “Why do you suppose that was? Why did so many people come out on the streets? Was it opportunism? Greed?”

  “Something was happening.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Lots of people live their lives waiting for something – anything – to happen…when it does, they all pile in and go nuts. Life throws you a brief moment of apparent power and you OD on it.”

  “And do you ever feel like that?”

  “No.” I sigh – just to let him know that it’s a predictable question. “I have lived a very prosperous, very privileged life…until now.”

  “What I was getting at –” He rakes his hand through that ludicrous hair“– is…emotionally, do you get bored? Do you find yourself desperately craving for something to happen? Is that how you ended up here?”

  I take my time and choose my words.

  “I ended up here because I took the wrong way out of what looked like a hopeless situation.”

  “The trial was only halfway through.”

  “The trial was clearly not fair.”

  “Most of life isn’t fair, Kevin. Does that provide an excuse for anti-social behaviour?”

  “I was about to be found guilty of a—”

  “What’s your attitude to women?” he interjects.

  Exasperation takes over, so I shout: “I don’t have an attitude to women!”

  He makes a note and mutters something about an interesting turn of phrase. I raise a hand.

  “Excuse me, but I thought you were supposed to be addressing my sleep problems.”

  “Well, Kevin…something is obviously stopping you from sleeping as you would like, and I’m looking for clues as to what that something might be, so that hopefully, by explaining it and understanding it, you can come to terms with it.”

  “The ‘talking cure’?”

  “If you like. Is there a woman in your life?”

  “Can I go? I don’t really believe in this stuff.”

  “What do you believe in? Are you religious?”

  “I’m an atheist who likes Christmas.”

  “Why do you like Christmas?”

  “Just do.”

  “Is it a family thing? The getting together?”

  “I don’t have any family to speak of. Mum and Dad are gone. A smattering of cousins.”

  “But you think family is important?”

  “Of course family is important. If it wasn’t for family, we’d have to fight with strangers.”

  “Kevin, it does seem to me that whenever the conversation tends towards something that makes you uncomfortable, your default setting is to crack a joke.”

  “That sounds about right.”

  He makes notes, while stroking his hair. I would like to set fire to it.

  “Well, Kevin, what’s your theory? Why can’t you sleep? You seem to know everything else?”

  I was right. He definitely doesn’t like me.

  “I’d really like to go now.”

  “Why? Are you scared?”

  “Yeh, I’m scared you might bore me to death.”

  “Perhaps that’s why you can’t fall asleep. You’re too scared to.”

  “Why would I be scared to fall asleep?”

  “I dunno. Perhaps you’re frightened of your dreams. Where they might take you.”

  “I don’t dream.”

  “You mean you don’t remember you dreams.”

  “No, I don’t dream.” I do really, but I just want to close this conversation.

  He writes something down.

  Dougie thinks I made a mistake with
the psychiatrist. As we lie on our bunks listening to ‘Just A Minute’, he explains where I went wrong.

  “By saying that, y’know, you never dream, you have basically identified yourself as someone who is a bit different. Y’know, maybe a bit unfeeling, a bit shutdown. You have to be careful about that, otherwise they can mark you down as a psychopath. Next thing you know it’s ‘hello, Broadmoor’.”

  He lolls an arm over the side of his bunk so that it floats in space above me. Graham Norton is buzzed for hesitation.

  “See these tattoos?”

  “…Yeh.”

  “The psychiatrist was really interested in these in Pentonville. And I know why, ’cos, y’know, I’ve read stuff about it. See, apparently, psychopaths have a higher pain threshold, less physical fear, so, like, they’re not bothered by the idea of needles, ergo, a psychopath is more likely to have lots of tattoos.”

  “…Right.”

  This is not a comforting conversation, I think to myself, as I gaze at the skull on Dougie’s upper arm and the cobra coiling up from his wrist.

  “Yeh, no, the shrink in Pentonville used to interview me for hours to see if I was psychopathic. He’s dead now.” He pauses (for effect?). “Heart attack. Then lots of shrinks interviewed me.”

  “So…what was the outcome?” I fish. “Did they classify you…as…”

  “No, luckily they decided I wasn’t intelligent enough to be a psychopath.”

  “OK…well, that’s good.”

  “Yeh, so if you get shrinked again, don’t come across as bright. And don’t say you don’t dream, ’cos I read that a lot of psychopaths reckon they don’t dream, and the ones that do have some dreams they reckon they dream in black and white.”

  “Right…so psychopaths only have arthouse dreams.”

  “That,” Dougie chuckles, “is the sort of crack not to make, unless you want to wake up sharing with a serial killer.”

  Paul Merton starts to talk for a minute on the subject of Feet. He says that feet are a vital part of the human body because if we didn’t have feet then the ends of our legs would fray.

  “I like that,” laughs Dougie. “Yeh, no, that’s good, frayed legs.”

  “Why would not dreaming be the…the sign of a psychopath?”

  “Well, from memory, I think it’s, y’know, it’s because dreams are part of your sort of emotional life. I think the theory is that there’s a bit of the brain that gives us emotions and makes us, sensitive to others. And that in psychopaths that bit isn’t sort of working properly…or maybe not even at all.”

  Sue Perkins buzzes Paul Merton for repetition.

  “In this article I read,” continues Dougie, “there was, like, a list of, y’know, ways to spot a psychopath. Manipulating people, that was a biggie…cruelty to animals during childhood, that was another one. I mean, I ask you, what little boy hasn’t pulled the wings off an insect, eh?”

  “Yeh.”

  “Or lobbed bricks at a cat.”

  Fortunately, Dougie can’t see my face.

  “Promiscuity. That’s another symptom,” he informs me.

  “…Right.”

  “Lack of, um…empathy.”

  “Yeh, you’ve covered that,” I say, a little irritable. “Anyway, all this bollocks about empathy, how can they possibly know the correct level of feeling towards others? What’s the standard unit of empathy? The world’s full of posers who go around constantly empathising, how do we know any of that empathy’s genuine? It could all be narcissism.”

  “That’s what I am,” he remembers.

  “Eh?”

  “The shrink at Pentonville…that’s what he decided I was. A narcissist. We should have a ‘Just A Minute’ competition here, shouldn’t we, eh? The whole prison. Yeh, I’ll suggest that. It’ll be a nice diversion.”

  ‘The Minute Waltz’ plays as I launch into a tirade.

  “People just wallow in their emotions now…incontinently…blabber about their feelings…tell their Facebook ‘friends’ about whether they’re in a relationship…give interviews about their struggles with their demons. All that used to be personal. None of that stuff matters to anyone else. Who the fuck do these people think they are?”

  “Spoken like a true psychopath,” chuckles Dougie, as his illustrated legs swing over the side of his bunk. “Time for supper by my reckoning.”

  A thought strikes me.

  “By their definition…”

  “Jesus, Kevin, give it a rest.”

  No, I will not give it a rest.

  “By their definition, I reckon we’re all psychopaths. Or half psychopaths. Because when it comes down to it, deep down, none of us really care about anyone else, do we?”

  Dougie jumps down on to the floor.

  “You’re upsetting me now,” he says, “because I love my wife and my mum.”

  Then he shows me the tattoos to that effect.

  11

  The Death

  A few days after Dougie’s little lecture on psychosis (it could have been a week) Malcolm called me to his office to tell me that he was worried about me. The psychiatrist had told him that my manner had been prickly and uncooperative. Malcolm said he found that disappointing. He also expressed the view that I needed to engage more with the activities the prison had to offer. Five-a-side football, perhaps? Or zumba? Or I could start some activity group of my own? I told Malcolm that I was prepared to take part in more activities, provided I did not have to attend any more sessions with the psychiatrist. Then Malcolm asked if I was trying to manipulate him, so I backed off.

  The second session with the psychiatrist did not go much better. We seemed to go around in circles, with me trying not to sound like a smartarse.

  Suddenly, from nowhere, he ambushes me with Sandra.

  “Now, you were married.” He pauses to sweep back his mane. God, this man is annoying. “Am I correct?”

  “You are.”

  “And are you on good terms with your ex-wife?”

  “Yes, we’re friends.”

  “‘Friends’,” he parenthesises. (Get your hair cut, you look pathetic.) “She gave evidence on your behalf at the trial – your first trial.”

  “Yes.”

  “And she comes to visit you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sandra.”

  “That’s right.”

  He waits. He wants me to fill the silence and start talking about Sandra. I don’t want to, but I will be out of here quicker if I do.

  “She’s probably my best friend,” I begin, “although we didn’t really become friends until after our marriage ended. Somehow things became easier between us.”

  “Why do you think that was?”

  “I don’t know…maybe, when you’re with someone…everything can become…over-nuanced.”

  He’s taking a lot of notes now.

  “Maybe…the…steering gets too sensitive,” I add.

  “And why do you think the marriage broke down?”

  “My fault.”

  “In what way?”

  “I was a prick…there’s no need to write that down.”

  One of his eyebrows rises.

  “Interestingly, Kevin, that is the first time in either of our conversations where you have taken responsibility for anything. Usually, something is always somebody else’s fault.”

  He smiles, knowingly, at me.

  “And is Sandra still single?”

  “She’s about to re-marry.”

  “Ah,” he says (like he’s some kind of genius detective) “and does that bother you?”

  “I’d just like her to be happy.”

  “Yes, but does it bother you?”

  “If I said it doesn’t bother me…would that mean I was unfeeling?”

  “You haven’t said that it doesn’t bother you.”

  “All right then, it doesn’t bother me.”

  There is a hiatus as he stares thoughtfully at the wall.

  “Very well, let’s move on.”

>   Should I have said that? I’m not even sure it’s the truth.

  “How’s the sleeplessness, Kevin? Worse? Better? Any dreams yet?”

  “Listen, I know where you’re going with this.”

  He straightens up in his chair. Shit, that was clumsy, why didn’t I just keep my trap shut?

  “Go on.”

  “Well, all I’m saying is…just because a man doesn’t seem to feel things very much…or as much as people think he should…that doesn’t make him…y’know…a psychopath.”

  He chuckles to himself. “Have I said I think you’re a psychopath?”

  “No…do you think I’m a psychopath?”

  “Do you?”

  “No, certainly not.”

  “Good. Although, of course, that is exactly the answer a psychopath would give.”

  He laughs at his little joke. “Shades of Catch-22, eh?”

  “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?” I blurt out. Where did that come from?

  He sucks in air, like a shady plumber.

  “Well…you’re here.”

  After a few more months inside, I stopped taking any notice of the outside world. I no longer bothered to read newspapers and if the TV news was on in one of the recreation areas, I would just let it wash over me. I was dimly aware of markets imploding, rebellions being crushed, politicians talking about tough choices, journalists getting arrested, but it was only background music.

  Then, one morning, as I am playing Dougie at chess, the con with the beaky nose (Boyd? Boyle?) calls across the room.

  “Shame about your mate, eh?”

  He’s reading the Sun.

  “What mate?” I ask, not really interested.

  “Your mate…from the show.” He crosses the room to give me the paper. “There. Your mate – messy business.”

  I take the paper, secretly hoping that something horrible and final has happened to Derek, but it isn’t Derek.

  “What’s happened?” asks Dougie.

  “It’s an actor I used to work with…Gavin…” I scan the text. “He’s thrown himself off a bridge.”

  “Poor sod.”

  “Yeh.”

  “Was he a friend?”

  “No…no, he was a colleague.”

  In my mind, I start hunting for memories of Gavin, but all I can find are the moments when we took the piss out of him for being such a flake. We found it funny, the way he was forever bursting into tears, locking himself in his dressing room, converting to some new religion. He was our little comic soap opera inside a soap opera. Everyone cracked jokes about him. All of us; but especially me.