Verbatim

by Andrew Hill

  Little cash was lying around, people don’t leave it about the house as much these days unlike times when people saved cash in various jars for a multitude of purposes. Grant acquired the princely sum of £16.42 before deciding it might be better to bring this venture to its close. He made his way to the back door, stopped and listened hard in case any suspicious person was lurking about. All was silent, Grant carefully opened the door but stopped. It was gone midnight on a week day. If the family who lived here were still out then why not stay in the warm? Grant closed the door and sat at the table in the kitchen and before long began to feel very tired.

  As he was falling asleep a noise alerted him, it wasn’t the front door being opened but someone walking around upstairs. Grant remained silent and motionless as he listened not wanting to move for fear of alerting the mysterious occupant. A door opened. A few moments later the sound of a toilet flush. The hall light came on and Grant fled through the back door making as little noise as he could.

  “Christ, there was someone in all the time. They must be deaf.”

  An elderly man came through into the kitchen where Grant had been and turned on the light revealing nothing out of place. The old man poured himself a glass of water and was about to return upstairs when he noticed the back door slightly ajar. He grumbled to himself about not locking it and shuffled over to secure the open door, blaming his own forgetfulness.

  Grant had successfully completed his first burglary and he didn’t feel bad about it. He was cold and hungry and only took a fairly small amount of money. Committing his second crime was one thing but not feeling some degree of remorse shows how Grant was deteriorating.

  “There she was, it’s her,” flashed through Grant’s mind but it wasn’t her. Almost every woman he saw was Carol until he looked again.

  “Excuse me, I know you.”

  The young woman turned to look at him. It was not Carol and Grant could now see she wasn’t but he would get closer and closer to doing something stupid to one of them before he realised.

  The following day the money was gone. At least it had been spent on food not alcohol. But Grant was still homeless, penniless, with no income while that Verity woman can still publish his novel under her name.

  Another cold night. Grant sought another house to satisfy his need for warmth, food and money. He was a complete amateur at the art of breaking and entering but found somewhere and acquired food and money. He tried again the next night and the night after. Grant was becoming a much more proficient house breaker. He wasn’t counting but had committed about fifteen larcenies in just a few weeks.

  * * *

  Two weeks or so before the Christmas merry-go-round Carol received a phone call from her sister, Florence.

  “I’m really angry,” said Flo.

  “What’s happened?” enquired Carol.

  “I went to the pictures last night and you’ll never believe what happened while I was out.”

  “What did happen?”

  “I was burgled.”

  Florence went on to explain that someone had broken into her ground-floor flat and taken some money, around twenty pounds, from her other handbag.

  “…and would you believe it, he helped himself to some of my food from the fridge.”

  All that seems rather familiar but we can’t know for sure it was Grant.

  They say the method of entry gives burglars away, maybe we’ll find out in due course whether it was Grant or not. Florence lives in the Waterloo area by the way, more damning evidence.

  You’ll be happy to hear, sister Florence soon recovered from the effects of the robbery and doesn’t suffer any further reoccurrences. Christmas for Florence and her younger sister was not to be spoiled. It was others who, as Christmas approached, found themselves with a little less food in the fridge and a little less money in their wallets and handbags than they thought.

  Grant had given serious consideration to going home to his family, it was after all the time of year for such things but for one reason or another he had delayed telephoning them and was in such a mental and physical state that he was a little ashamed and wanted to get himself sorted out first but this was proving too much. In an attempt to improve his financial position, rather than just stealing enough to live on, Grant increased his criminal activity. But this tactic didn’t work. Grant was an honest man who had lost his way; he was reluctant to commit acts of violence such as robbing a post office or some similar act in order to increase his funds but kept on carrying out small-time petty burglaries hardly bettering his financial position. All he was able to do was warm himself up at night, consume a little extra food and spoil the festive period for others.

  * * *

  Christmas came; Christmas passed. Grant had scarcely been aware of it. Every day was the same; walking the streets in a near mindless trance and finding somewhere warm to spend the night. Breaking into houses that looked as though no one was in and taking whatever money and food came to hand. Usually this was enough to last for a few days. Lucidity would come and go. In these periods Grant would know who he was and how he came to be in this state but often unable to remember the previous day or so; his mind would have forgotten it all. This morning he found a fifty-pound note in his pocket and had no idea how he came to possess such a thing. Who cares? Grant cared in his lucid moments. It never took long before the trigger for his moroseness fired and what was it, this trigger? It was, of course, the Verity woman. Soon he began once more to challenge women, not just those of Carol’s age but any age. In fact, around Waterloo station, local people were beginning to take notice of him.

  “Have you been molested by that weirdo?” asked one woman of her friend.

  “What weirdo?”

  “That one who said that you stole his work.”

  If it wasn’t Waterloo it was outside the courthouse. But in all honesty he spent less and less time there, though occasionally he’d go and follow Carol. It was odd that he had the opportunity of challenging the woman herself but never took it. Ah well, the strange workings of the human mind.

  Grant had made his way into a ground-floor flat. It was a cold January night and he was eating some food he’d removed from the fridge belonging to his latest victim. Grant had already looked around and felt in the various pockets, wallets and handbags lying around and discovered twenty-nine pounds and forty-two pence which were now in the safe custody of his own pockets. Grant made his way to the back window through which he’d earlier gained entry and climbed out into the back yard. A bright light shone straight into his eyes.

  “Stay exactly where you are.” Came a male voice.

  Grant realised immediately it was the police. He’d always been quite fit and decided to give escape a try; he ran off chased by the officer. Running in the dark is rather hazardous and on reaching the end of the narrow passageway between the two houses a second policeman stepped out in front of him. They struggled but once the first policeman had caught up to the two of them they soon overpowered Grant who was now handcuffed and awaiting the arrival of a police van.

  It came to light that a neighbour heard Grant breaking in. Grant’s life of crime, for the time being at least, was over.

  * * *

  I haven’t said much about Carol lately. What was she up to? So far Carol had not ventured into the envelope containing Grant’s manuscript and, given Grant’s inability to talk to her about it, and Phil Johnson’s, remember him, lack of interest in the whole affair, Carol was still happily unaware of the duplication problem. The revisions Alan Fielding wanted were hard, much harder than ever she thought they’d be, but they were now complete as far as a first-time novelist was able, and the latest version of Dead Letter Perfect had been sent to him. Apart from an acknowledgement, Carol had heard nothing more and it had now been three weeks. If truth be known, Carol was getting a little concerned, friends, relations and work colleagues were asking when
they’d see this masterpiece in print. The answer was always the same, “I don’t know.”

  A few more weeks had gone by and Carol was getting more despondent about Alan ever publishing her novel and became sure in her mind that when the silence broke it would be in the negative.

  One day it happened, a letter appeared on the carpet by the front door and was clearly from Fielding Novels having their logo on the front. A second letter had also appeared on the mat. Carol ignored it and grabbed the letter from Fielding. But what was it, what did it say? Carol was almost too nervous to open it but, with trepidation, she did so to find that Alan Fielding liked her revisions very much but wanted more changes. The novel had been shown to a professional author who had made suggestions and had also tweaked some of the dialogue. Alan needed Carol’s permission to accept them as part of the novel.

  “It still remains your novel,” the letter went on to say, “it’s not uncommon practice to tweak a manuscript using another writer.”

  Carol wasn’t sure about this but was afraid of rocking the boat and the changes were not ones she objected to so, perhaps, she thought, it won’t matter.

  “It’s still my novel.” Though Grant would have something to say about that.

  Carol replied eagerly to the letter saying that she accepted the tweaks and would work on the other revisions; a task which she was not looking forward to a bit, “I suppose it has to be done.”

  There had been one obvious omission from Carol’s talks with Alan Fielding and it was an omission of some importance as it would be to any aspiring novelist; money! Alan had never volunteered any information about money. Would she receive an advance if he goes ahead with the publication? Would she be expected to contribute to it herself? Carol hadn’t ever brought up the subject in case it seemed too pushy and put Alan off.

  Carol’s attention now turned to the second letter with her name and address in handwriting she did not recognise. Is there any need for me to tell you who the letter is from and what it says? A little late perhaps but it’s finally reached its destination. Carol opened it and read what you already know. It was signed ‘Gordon Grant’.

  “Who is he and how does he know?” crossed her mind, “It can’t be from a publisher as none would write such a letter as this.”

  The letter mentions no phone number but the address is clear enough. She wondered whether or not to go there but soon thought better of it. She placed it on her bedside cabinet where it, for the time being, remained.

  A new member of staff had arrived on Carol’s team of court ushers; his name, Robert Wilson, was common enough but from Carol’s viewpoint there was nothing common about Robert Wilson. Let’s see, he was around five feet eleven inches and slim, that second quality was fully to Carol’s taste; to our young court usher overweight men are not attractive. Robert’s voice was a little deeper than you might expect but not too deep. “An upper baritone,” Carol thought, “if he can sing.” Clean shaven with short, dark brown hair and green eyes.

  All that she could hear apart from his baritone voice was a reasonably cultured accent occasionally betraying its northern origins but how far north and why had he ventured so far south? He looked in his mid-thirties but it’s hard to tell. Questions ran through her mind; is he married or living with someone? Is he gay? Not obviously so. Mr Wilson never mentioned a wife or a girlfriend. Carol would try to steer the conversation around to see if he’d ask her out; to her immense delight he did but only for lunch instead of spending it in the staff canteen.

  It was a small independent café not one of those ubiquitous franchise places and was quite full but the couple, as Carol hoped they’d soon become, managed to find a table for two and sat down to a sandwich and tea each, chatting pleasantly for around three quarters of an hour. Things were looking up. Rob was not married, had no current girlfriend and was definitely not gay. Carol had met many young men who she had found pleasant and attractive, you may recall she once thought so of Grant but always knew that none of them would be the right one for her. But when it happens it sure happens fast. As far as Carol was concerned she would become Mrs Wilson tomorrow if he asked and the law allowed. But it doesn’t and he didn’t. Nevertheless, it was clear that a whole new chapter in Carol’s life was about to start, at least it seemed to her that way.

  4

  With his arrest and the prompt arrival of a police van a new chapter in the young man’s life also began. Grant was bundled inside with his hands cuffed behind his back. A short and bumpy ride was soon over and Grant was taken into the police station by the rear entrance and registered in by the custody sergeant before being taken down to a vacant cell where his handcuffs were removed. You’d be forgiven for thinking this was a nervous time for Grant, he’d spent his life on the right side of the law without giving any thought to becoming a criminal. Such a situation as he was now in, had at no time previously entered his head.

  Smoking a little cannabis when he was at university was as far as his earlier criminal activity had extended. But Grant’s state of mind put all such concerns aside. Questions like what will people, especially his family, think when they find out? How will he be able to find work when he gets out of this place didn’t pass through his conscious mind. Grant considered himself to be the victim here as he lay on a very narrow and quite hard bed before his first ever sleep in a police cell.

  A sleep which wasn’t to last. The police only have a limited time to get on and prosecute someone so at around two o’clock in the morning Grant was woken and taken to the interview room where he was left alone for a few minutes save for uniformed constable who stood by the door in silence.

  Thus far Grant had not asked to see a solicitor and when the interview commenced the conducting officer chose not to remind him, though he was cautioned. The investigating officer was a certain Inspector Wishart with the first name of Judith. This woman was rather stern looking but it was easy to see how she could be very attractive if she smiled, at present, Inspector Wishart was not smiling and sat quietly leafing through a handwritten report by the arresting officer and at no point looked up at Grant’s face. Wishart wasn’t dressed as action woman might be; she wore a tailored dark grey suit with a light blue shirt underneath, nothing around the neck. Grant was unable to see her green eyes clearly but could tell their colour. Her light brown hair was rather short but he always preferred that to overlong hair on a woman.

  Judith Wishart picked up a pen from her pocket and wrote something on a form that Grant couldn’t read. He observed the awkward manner in which many left-handers hold a pen. A few more moments went by.

  Inspector Wishart asked a few preliminary questions about Grant’s name, age, date of birth, nationality and address all of which he furnished except for the last one to which he replied: “The streets of London.” The lovely Inspector Wishart wrote, “No fixed abode.”

  “She has such a lovely face,” thought Grant, and a shapely torso and when she spoke it was not in that artificial way police officers sound, as though they’ve all been to the same school of how to speak to a suspect. Instead the words, which no doubt she had said to many people over the years, just came from her lips which Grant considered perfectly formed, quite naturally.

  “You’re quite lovely.” The words came from Grant who, equally naturally, was unable to stop them, it was almost as if he said them without even knowing. Unseen by Grant or Judith, let’s call her Judith shall we? There was a wry smile from the only other person present at this unexpected moment.

  “Wipe that smirk off your face constable.” She hadn’t seen the constable’s grin but had guessed it. Judith knew how to handle this, Grant wasn’t the first person, or should I say male, to try this tactic. But this was no ploy to obtain some privilege. This was the genuine attraction of a male to a female but alas with two things getting in the way, firstly Grant was likely to be spending sometime in one of Her Majesty’s cheaper boarding houses, probably at HMP
Brixton, while rings on her fingers betrayed the second. The next item on the agenda for Grant would be a visit to the magistrates’ court. If this were a novel I was writing it would have to be the same one where Carol worked and for Grant that certainly was a possibility; would ‘The Verity Woman’ be the usher?

  * * *

  The journey was not long, just as well, being cooped up in a small compartment of a prison van is not what you’d call luxury travel. The accommodation at the court was nothing to shout about either. The cell was quite small with no toilet, if he needed to go he would have to call a guard who would escort him. A cell of plain whitewashed bricks surrounds our first time prisoner with nothing, not even an official notice board to look at. A simple heavily frosted window impossible to see through and too high to look out of was the only source of natural light. It was around ten thirty in the morning of Grant’s arrival and at about one o’clock lunch was served: mashed potato and sausages with one cup of weak tea. Not very appetising but satisfied the need for sustenance. Two o’clock came and two o’clock passed, and three; five hours without leaving the cell eventually elapsed.

  For the first time Grant was to see a solicitor. A young woman in her mid-twenties with black hair, blue eyes and a little over weight was escorted into the cell where she was left alone with him, a prison officer was stationed outside the door. The young, and seemingly, inexperienced solicitor introduced herself as Karen Peters. The interview didn’t last long, she perused the evidence making sure he received due process. Grant was advised to plead guilty which he had already decided to do. Miss Peters advised him not to apply for bail as he certainly wouldn’t get it as a prison sentence was not in doubt. Shortly after Miss Peters left the cell and Grant behind.