by Mark Hayes
You may be asking yourself how I knew it was spitting distance. Well, let’s just say the guard demonstrated this fact with a certain distasteful flair.
I was, I should’ve probably mentioned, chained to the floor of the cell. Presumably, this was on the off chance I could’ve otherwise found a way through the bars, out of the cell block, through the New Bailey itself, past many armed and very motivated guards, through the upper courtyard and then over the wall to freedom. The guardians of the New Bailey had never lost a prisoner; they were taking no chances of doing so with me, sad to say.
At this point, I’d like to say I was considering my options, but in truth, I wasn’t, for they looked as bleak as could be. The cell was robustly constructed, I was chained hand and foot to a steel eyelet within it, and even if I could in some way overcome this impediment, I would, as I mentioned, have to get past several locked doors and an array of guards. Also, time was a factor as I had only about two hours until my imminent appointment with the end of a rope, so tunnelling my way through the stone floor was somewhat unlikely.
Bribery, depressingly, was not going to be an option either. I wasn’t, after all, locked up in some tiny despot kingdom where the guards might look the other way for a few Sheckles. This cell was in the very heart of Imperial London, itself the heart of the ever great and glorious British Empire. An Empire that may be considered at times a tad despotic, but tiny it certainly isn’t.
That’s not to say that there is no corruption to be found within the Empire’s capital. If you are the sort to believe that, you are, sadly, very naïve. But if that is the case, then I invite you to play cards with me sometime.
Great and glorious though the Empire is, it remains corrupt to its rotten stinking heart. There’d, I’m sure, be little problem finding someone willing to take a bribe. Even in the highest court of the land. Finding a corrupt guard to slip me a file, or an equally corrupt judge who might change my sentence would probably be simple enough. The problem was more prosaic than that and of a fiscal nature. Or to put it another way, I was broke, and as such, I’d no means to pay said bribe. A bribe that would, after all, be far more than a few lousy Sheckles. Corrupt the Empire may be, but it is also very rich. So only the wealthy could afford the kind of bribes that neatly avoided those little inconveniences of a legal nature, and the larger the legal inconvenience, the greater the bribe required.
Lady Justice in London’s courts wasn’t exactly for sale, but she could be rented for a sizeable contribution to someone’s retirement fund.
Sadly in my current straits, I couldn’t have afforded the bribe in a tiny despot kingdom where they still considered a couple of Shillings a sizable amount. Besides, it would probably cost the wealth of said tiny despotic kingdom to gain clemency for one who had committed my sizable infractions. As it was, without funds, I was as equal in the eyes of the law as any other cash-strapped subject of ‘Old Iron Knickers’. Equality of justice isn’t just a dream for those who can’t afford a better class of lawyer, but a stark reality. For the poor are always equal under the law.
Such equality with the common man was, as you may suspect, of little comfort to me at the time.
Breakfast had arrived, but my appetite was sadly lacking. Which was something the frankly inedible looking breakfast did little to alter. There is a lot of rubbish told about last meals for the condemned. I can testify it isn’t the final treat that they make out.
The chef, if indeed it was prepared by someone to whom that title could be applied, seemed of the opinion that it was wasteful to make something edible for a condemned man. My stomach was, however, cramping for food all the same, so I made the best effort I could to eat it with the single spoon provided.
Life has taught me a few lessons over the years, eating whenever you’ve the chance being one of them. As an orphan raised under the care of the Empire, it’s sometimes been a choice between eating the inedible or nothing at all, and nothing is never the better choice. In particular, if you don’t know where the next inedible meal is coming from.
So, eat I did, somewhat unaware of my surroundings, as I found myself lost in thought.
Mostly the thoughts involved Gunnery Sergeant Hardacre falling to his death through the bomb bay doors after being the recipient of a good hard shove from yours truly. An image that I was sure at the time would stay with me for the rest of my life. The rest of my life being measurable in hours at this point.
I could remember the feeling of satisfaction I’d felt as I watched him fall, having finally put an end to the miserable swine. That and the look of panic in his eyes as he fell.
Sadly I could also remember the feeling that followed closely on the heels of that moment of satisfaction, the horrendous realisation that Petty Officer Maythorpe had been stood in the doorway watching it all as it happened.
Maythorpe, or ‘Principal Witness for the Prosecution’, as he was referred to later, was and remains a stiff-necked idealist who believed in the righteous justice of the Empire. He was the kind of self-important borderline idiot that only the British public school system could produce. I am sure you know the type, clueless as to how the world actually works, while remaining absolutely convinced of his own superiority over the lower orders. Those being defined as anyone not born in the Home Counties, and Johnny-come-lately foreigners. He was boorish, pig-headed, priggish, loud and invariably overconfident. All rugby, cold showers, chasing the fillies and ‘what-oh’. The only thing stiffer than his neck was his upper lip…
I’d, in fairness, quite liked him up to this point in our acquaintance. Not least because he also lacked the imagination to cheat at cards, or indeed to spot anyone else doing so. Something that had ingratiated him to my pocket on more than one occasion. I liked him in the way you do when you happen upon an actual honest man. If only for the novelty value of such an event.
So there I was lost in my thoughts while trying to stomach ill-cooked food. Thoughts, which though it may reflect badly on me, included how much simpler everything would have been if I’d sent Maythorpe the way of Gunnery Sergeant Hardacre. This may have proved a wiser course, rather than my attempt to bribe him into silence. The attempt to do so proved to be a mistake. It’s remarkable how quickly you can go off an honest man I discovered…
Lost in these thoughts, I didn’t hear the door to the cell block open again or the footsteps of the man who entered. I was therefore mildly surprised to hear a voice interrupt my contemplation, a soft, refined, gentlemanly voice, which had the ring of a civil servant about it. The softness you only got from mixing a home county’s accent with several years in Oxbridge. It was the sort of voice that was used to being listened to without ever having to be raised. The sort of voice that knew that what it was telling you to do, was something you were then going to go do, as you not doing so was frankly unthinkable. A voice that spoke the calm assurance. The voice of a man who could sign a death warrant or blackball you from the club with equal disregard if you didn’t listen to it. British officers and civil servants never shout. They never have to. That is after all what they have sergeants for.
“Good morning, Mr Smyth. How are you finding the accommodation the Bailey has to offer?” the aforementioned voice inquired softly.
Surprised, and in truth lacking the clarity to formulate a truly witty retort, I uttered, rather weakly, “It’s a bit damp.”
“No great surprise there, Mr Smyth. London itself has an unfortunate tendency to be a ‘bit damp’ as you put it. I believe there are moves in parliament to relocate the city to the Riviera, but the French are being somewhat obstinate on the subject, as I recall. Still, that’s the French for you,” came a deadpan and vaguely arid reply.
I laughed despite myself as I looked up to see the speaker. Expecting to see some humour in his eyes.
I was slightly perturbed when I saw nothing of the sort.
CHAPTER THE SECOND
The Humourless Mr M
On taking close regard of my visitor, he didn’t seem a ve
ry humorous fellow at all.
What he looked like was every inch to be one of those dour civil servants that so infest the British Empire. A short cadaverous man, in a stiff-collared dark suit, tailed coat and wearing the obligatory top hat. He was indeed indistinguishable from any other Whitehall drone. That mildly comical stereotype so often lampooned in the political cartoons that feature in the likes of Punch and the daily rags of Fleet Street.
There are workers and doers in this world, and then there are also those who do the paperwork. Which is exactly what the man before me looked to be. A pen-pushing civil servant to his hind teeth. The kind I had long ago learned to both loathe and suck up to in equal measure. I can’t pretend not to have some prejudices when it came to his type. Parasitic little shits to a man, in my opinion, and this one looked more the parasite than most. There was something unpleasant about him. Like that itch on your scrotum that you can’t scratch in public, he gave you an uncomfortable feeling that made it hard for you to be at your ease. It was something about the blank stare that lacked any human warmth behind his bespectacled eyes.
Observing his arid expression, my bitter half-laugh ran dry in my throat. I realised, much to my irk, that I wasn’t entirely sure he was making a joke after all. Indeed his offhand comment had been made in complete seriousness. I could almost imagine a gaggle of civil servants of his ilk discussing the idea in dusty meeting rooms. The idiocy of the idea of no concern, they merely put forward an advisory committee, after all, it was up to other men to actually do things. Move London to the Riviera indeed… It was a slightly disconcerting idea if truth be told, but it would hardly be the most ridiculous idea ever to have come out of Whitehall.
After this, a rather odd silence fell between us, and I found myself feeling more than a little unnerved by him. I was not, as I am sure you have surmised, in the happiest frame of mind to start with, but there was something about the man’s demeanour that made me feel downright itchy.
This went on for a lingering moment, while he showed no inclination to expand on why he had chosen to visit me in my death cell. He just continued to peer at me through those thick round spectacles of his. As if I was some kind of exhibit to be observed, or perhaps scrutinised is a closer word. I felt like the subject of a voyeur and wondered to myself if he was a man who just enjoyed the sight of a doomed man’s final hours.
As I said, he made me feel downright itchy.
Unnerved, to fill the developing silence, I cleared my throat. In the process, I realised just how dry it now felt. So I ventured a request, with little hope. “I don’t suppose you’re here to offer me a drink?”
The civil servant, uncharacteristically for him I suspected, smiled at me. It was though a smile that held no more than a smidgeon of arid humour. “I am afraid that is not the case. Though I am reliably assured, they serve breakfast to the condemned at some time in the morning.”
“They already have,” I replied, turning my gaze to the grim remains of the tray in front of me. “If you can call this slop breakfast, but for some reason, they were decidedly lax in serving a drink with it,” I added, trying to keep an air of civility to my tone. I was in all honesty, however, starting to feel a little irritable. Which was doubtless betrayed in my voice when I uttered my next words. “Who the hell are you anyway?”
This outburst caused him to raise an eyebrow of inquiry, accompanied by a little audible tut. The same reaction I’d have expected for being rude at a dinner table. His rebuke, however, was altogether more scathing.
“Oh, my dear Mr Smyth, is incarceration and an impending death sentence all it takes to remove your manners? What hopes for our wondrous Empire if a prized example of its manhood such as yourself can be so easily vexed? Perhaps you are not the man I require after all if that is indeed the case,” he said, all uttered in the nauseatingly self-assured and utterly belittling tone only a British civil servant could achieve.
At this point in the conversation, I should have noted the faintest glimmer of hope. Which as a condemned man was more than I had any right to expect. ‘The man I require’ after all, was a suggestive turn of phrase, words that implied I might yet hold out hope of avoiding the noose. If that was, I proved that I could be valuable elsewhere.
Indeed, I dare say that had I noted said ‘the man I require’, I’d have wisely minded my tone somewhat. I’d have trodden that careful, if precarious path, between humility and toadying we all learn to walk in our lives. Massaging the officious swine’s ego a little, as it were, may have proved the wiser course. A saying about gift horses and mouths spring to mind. However, this little gem of insight slipped past me at the time. So instead, I found myself inclined once more to use some choice words in regards to another man’s parentage.
That said, with the benefit of hindsight and considering all that has happened since, I’m not sure the noose was such a bad alternative to what was hinted at in that ominous ‘the man I require’. It would have spared me a great many indignities all things considered. But I digress, and really shouldn’t get ahead of myself.
In any event, I didn’t get a chance to try and ingratiate myself with him. No doubt because he could see the anger brewing in my face. With something akin to the dismissive, he raised his hand to cut off any angry reply and spoke on.
“Your pardon, however, as I also failed in my manners, so I must endeavour to rectify the situation. My name, I must regrettably inform you, is a state secret, and as such something I am unable to share with you at this time. You may, however, refer to me by my title. M.”
“M? Just M… your title is just the letter M?” I asked, mildly bemused and irritated by his condescending tone.
The man calling himself M smiled ever so slightly, the thin smile of someone offering sufferance to another.
“Indeed, Mr Smyth, just M. Further than that, I cannot, and indeed will not be drawn. I can, however, tell you that I am at present engaged by the crown to deal with matters which, like my name, are designated state secrets. Ones to which I equally can not make you privy at this time. Though given the current position you find yourself in, you are unlikely to become privy to any state secrets anytime soon.”
This last was followed by a slight snort, which may have been a laugh at my expense. It was hard to tell.
“Though it is the aforementioned state secrets which have made it necessary for me to seek you out this day. Unfortunately, the necessity of them may make you late for any pressing appointments you happen to have, though one suspects you will not find this too disagreeable in that respect. You only have the one appointment to keep, I believe.”
I listened to all this with a degree of disbelief, while trying to swallow my temper. My brain had, you see, caught up with the conversation, and with that ‘the man I require’ he’d left hanging a moment before. Though his formal approach to conversation was less than conducive to an actual explanation. As a rule, I’ve found I prefer a little more in the way of plain speaking when I’m resident in a death cell.
It is strange, now I consider it, to realise just how often I’ve had occasion to find myself inside a death cell. Suffice to say, enough times to have come to the conclusion I prefer not to be flannelled by someone when I am…
In any regard, I did my best to remind myself that I was a gentleman and an officer, despite my incarceration. Or at least that was how I preferred to present myself to the world. I am in actuality, a lying thieving swindler, who just happens to wear a uniform and hold pretensions to civility. Though truth be told I’ve always considered that to be the definition of an officer and a gentleman. I’ll add I have seldom met anyone who has proved that definition false, saving perhaps Maythorpe, unfortunately for me.
Regardless, by this time I was intrigued and the faintest glimmer of hope was starting to vest itself upon me.
Hope to the condemned man is something taken where he can find it in my experience. The mysterious M seemed an unlikely sort to visit a condemned man without a damned good reason. Come to tha
t though he seemed an unlikely fellow all round, what with his talk of state secrets and that odd single initial name.
‘M for Mountbatten perhaps?’ I pondered. Everyone was aware after all that Lord Mountbatten had some strange ideas. Ideas that due to his rank and position were probably considered to be state secrets. But that seemed unlikely, whomever M was, he didn’t look like a man who reportedly spent his weekdays in charge of the Queen’s purse and his weekends holding the purses of infamous transvestites.
That particular ‘state secret’ was a scandal that was being carefully kept out of the periodicals. It did, however, travel through the whispered conversations in the gentlemen’s clubs of Soho. Which, in fairness, made it a very widely known state secret.
I remember shaking my head as I dismissed this idea. Whoever this M was, he didn’t have the insipid half-dead look of royalty.
“I see, Mr M, if I may call you that?” I said at last. Though I didn’t see at all, not really.
“Just M will suffice, Mr Smyth. There is no need for title here,” he replied primly.
“Then you should call me Hannibal, as we’re being informal,” I said, falling back into old habits. When in doubt I have always found it wise to make the effort to sound like a gentleman, while holding a slight measure of indignation in my voice. It was an affectation I’d carefully acquired over the years. If you wished to be treated like a gentleman, you had to make sure you both sounded and behaved like one. Which is to say with that certain sense of entitlement to your mannerisms. The ones that declared you were lowering yourself just to be holding this conversation. That was unless of course your credentials were impeccable, in which case you could act however you wished.