Guy Fawkes Day

by KJ Griffin

  ***

  Oxford, 2:15 p.m.

  Sophie sat down on Joanna's sofa and tried to put a hand round Marcus, but her consolation was offered half-heartedly. He must have felt that, for he shook Sophie's arm from his shoulders, without showing her a face buried deep in the palms of his hands.

  In a way Sophie felt stronger inside, watching Marcus’s inconsolable despair now that she had finished telling him everything she knew about Douglas Easterby's involvement in the Falls Road Massacre. But that was mean and threatened to cheapen her own feelings of indignant victimization, so she tried to summon up as much compassion as she muster.

  ‘I'll make some more tea,’ she whispered. If Marcus wanted to cry, she would give him time to do so in private. She knew his pride would hate her seeing him that way.

  Fortunately there was plenty of washing up to keep her busy in the kitchen for some time and Sophie was glad that Joanna had gone upstairs to work in her room. She could do with a few private moments herself, staring out the window at a soft, autumnal sky and the bare, spiky branches of the neighbours' apple tree.

  Marcus was standing up with his back towards her when she returned to the sitting room. Hands in pockets and shoulders hunched, he stood looking out of the bay window across the street. The muted television was flashing another of those 'live update' red triangles in the top left corner, and once again, Darren was sitting centre-screen in a TV studio, interviewing a burly, balding middle-aged fellow with glasses. Sophie placed the mugs on the coffee table and restored the sound.

  ‘Mr Carroway,’ Darren asked rather aggressively. ‘Why is it that neither you and Privates Orr and Kynaston told a different version of the events of April 3rd to the court martial that found Lieutenant Robert Bailey guilty of manslaughter, different that is, to what we have just heard?’

  Carroway looked cockily at the camera:

  ‘We signed written statements that were presented to the court martial after we'd been transferred to Germany. But I only found out long after that the ones we signed weren't the ones that were actually read out in court.’

  ‘You mean your affidavits were tampered with?’

  ‘That's exactly what I mean.’

  ‘Yet you never brought that fact to anyone's attention before now?’

  Carroway looked down from the camera, losing some of his swagger.

  ‘By the time we noticed what had happened, Orr and Kynaston were already under arrest pending court martial.’

  ‘For?’

  Again Carroway sighed.

  ‘Theft. Personal effects belonging to three of the civilians shot on April 3rd were found in their lockers: a watch, two wallets and a gold chain.’

  ‘And the arresting officer was?’

  ‘Major Easterby. The day after Orr and Kynaston were locked up, I was also summoned to the CO's office.’

  ‘And what happened there?’

  ‘Major Easterby was sitting at his desk. He presented me with my affidavit and asked me if I'd like to reconsider what I'd said.’

  ‘And what was your answer?’

  Carroway dropped his head.

  ‘First of all I refused.’

  ‘First of all?’

  ‘Yes, but they were very persuasive. Sergeant Goss was with them too.

  Sophie watched in horror as Carroway's now sheepish face suddenly convulsed and he looked away from the camera with tears streaming down his eyes.

  ‘Sergeant Goss and Corporal Barlow took me to a special interrogation cell.’

  Darren's voice had grown more sympathetic:

  ‘And?’

  ‘Goss worked me round with his fists a bit at first—belly blows, that sort of thing.’

  ‘And you changed your testimony.’

  ‘No. It took a lot more than that.’

  ‘More what?’

  ‘Corporal Barlow and Sergeant Goss stripped me and trussed me up spread-eagled to a table, tying me by the wrists and ankles to the legs of the table so my arse was pointing in the air. Goss made a lot of crude jokes and threats, but after five minutes' of verbal abuse, both he and Barlow left the cell.’

  ‘They left you like that?’

  ‘That's right. I don't know how long for. I was cold and frightened, shaking the table with my shivering. I could smell the alcohol on their breaths the minute they returned. Goss started hitting me with his swagger stick across the buttocks, first of all almost playfully, pretending he was a madam in a brothel, then swift and viciously, taking his time between strokes. I was howling in pain and humiliation. Then I felt the hard metal tip being shoved up against my anus. He asked me if I had ever 'taken the stick' before and he boasted about how painful it was, about the bleeding the metal tip induced. I can't repeat his exact words here, but he made it quite clear that it was his favourite method of punishment. By this time, I was pissing myself uncontrollably with fright, cold and humiliation. I shouted to them that I'd agree to anything if they'd release me. But Goss didn't seem to want to listen, he carried on probing, poking and started to shove the stick in.’

  Carroway had stopped speaking and gulped heavily. The camera sat on his silence like a vulture around a partially resurrected carcass. Eventually Carroway resumed his narrative.

  ‘I passed out eventually from the pain. When I came round they had untied me and someone had thrown a blanket over me. Barlow helped me to dress and took me back to the CO's office. Easterby wasn't there any longer, but there was a new affidavit waiting for me. I am ashamed to say I couldn't sign it quick enough. Goss would have been back for more in no time if I had refused.’

  ‘Didn't you report this torture to anyone?’

  ‘I did. But it took me three weeks to summon up the courage, I was so terrified of provoking Goss. In the end, though, anger got the better of my fear and I went straight to the top: to Colonel McPherson's office.’

  ‘McPherson?’ Darren queried. ‘You are talking about Foreign Secretary James McPherson, currently being held hostage in the House of Commons?’

  Carroway's voice was acidic.

  ‘That's right. I hope the bastard never comes out of there alive!’

  ‘And what did James McPherson tell you?’

  ‘Oh, he was very reassuring. Dry, but sympathetic; told me I could confide in him.’

  ‘So he arrested Goss.’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. After taking down all the details, McPherson assured me he would personally see to it that Goss never came near me again, but he asked me to not to press formal charges. The Regiment had just been through a terrible time, he said, and none of us could afford any more scandal. His message was clear: as long as I kept my mouth shut, I had his word that Goss would never even be allowed to put me on fatigues again.’

  ‘And what was your reaction to this?’

  ‘Well, I was only a private, but I wasn't stupid. I knew what the Colonel really meant, and there was no doubt in my mind about it: the only thing I wasn't going to risk again was the possibility of Goss being allowed to get me across that table.’

  ‘And so? What happened next?’

  ‘I followed the Colonel's advice and retracted my original affidavit.’

  Darren was fiddling with the bridge of his glasses again.

  ‘Mr Carroway, just so there is no doubt about it in anyone's mind: you are alleging that James McPherson was acting in league with Douglas Easterby and Phil Goss to suppress evidence.’

  Carroway shrugged:

  ‘No, I'm not alleging anything, I'm telling your straight, man. I've told you the facts, Mr Chapman. You and the rest of the country can draw your own conclusions.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Carroway,’ Darren moved on almost reverentially. ‘And is it true that you were contacted again several years later to give evidence about the events of April 3rd?’

  ‘I was. A lawyer called on me out of the blue one Sunday morning, said the government wanted to reinvestigate the events of April 3rd, wanted to take statements from key witnesses.’

&n
bsp; ‘Mr Carroway, I'm sorry to interrupt,’ Darren broke in, in a tone that seemed to suggest that his new-found international media stardom had given him the divine right to cut in whenever he pleased, ‘But I must explain to the audience that according to my own enquiries, the interview you are describing was never sanctioned by Westminster; on the contrary, the lawyer you spoke to, Mr Raj Patel, was paid privately by a Mr Frank Russell of a postal address in South Africa to take sworn statements from key witnesses to the events of April 3rd.’

  Sophie slurped her coffee, continuing to ignore Marcus, while David Carroway seemed to be waiting for his cue to carry on. Darren's constant interruptions must have started to unnerve the ex-paratrooper, for he now needed verbal prompting before continuing.

  ‘Well, whatever you say, Mr Chapman. Anyway, I repeated the contents of my original affidavit to Mr Patel, the one I had retracted at McPherson's suggestion, and I explained about the treatment I had received from Goss.’

  ‘Did Mr Patel explain what he was going to do with the affidavits he collected from you and Mrs Orr and Kynaston after he left?’

  ‘No, not really. Just said I would be hearing back from him in due course. Never did, mind. Funny, that. At least that's what I thought till I heard Robbie Bailey on TV last night, saying how Goss, Easterby and McPherson had had the poor bloke murdered. Now it all starts to make sense.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Sophie murmured, switching the TV off. ‘It just gets worse and worse. Come on, Marky, have some tea. It's getting very cold.’

  With the television off, Marcus finally turned towards her.

  ‘No tea, thanks, Soph. I've changed my mind – about everything, I mean.’

  The dreary grey of the November afternoon light filtering through the bay window suited both their moods, but it was just strong enough for Sophie to see the large red patches around her ex-boyfriend's eyes. She stood up and walked towards him in the window, running her fingers through his thick, blond hair, more deliberately than he was wont to do himself.

  ‘What do you mean by that, Marky?’

  He sighed.

  ‘You're lucky this will never happen to you, Soph, finding out that the dad you respected and felt proud of all your life is actually one of the biggest shits in the world.’

  Sophie's eyes narrowed at his talk of fathers; the sudden discovery of her own was too painfully fresh on her mind.

  ‘I'm sorry for you, Marky. Truly sorry. This whole wretched business is nothing to do with us, but we are the ones who have been made to suffer.’

  She tried to take hold of his hand but Marcus pulled it away, morosely rather than bitterly, and began to put on his trench coat.

  ‘I can't take any more of this, Soph. I've listened to everything you told me and I've had to listen to them dragging my name through the mire on TV and in the papers for the last week. It's time for my father to do something, or… or he can go to hell.’

  ‘Wait… wait, Marky,’ she begged. ‘You can't go off like this. Where are you going?’

  ‘Home,’ he growled.