The Wisdom of Crocodiles

by Paul Hoffman

  The Dark Figure spoke sympathetically. ‘I can see it must have been difficult, Sir Robert. Particularly since you had to take such enormous risks to solve a problem for which you had no responsibility.’

  Kingsley looked wary and said nothing. The Dark Figure leant forward and said softly, ‘So, Sir Robert, who was to blame for the Austin-Maxi-shaped decisions which brought about such a terrible prospect?’

  Kingsley shifted awkwardly in his seat. ‘I don’t see what pointing the finger would achieve.’

  ‘The Treasury seemed to have held you responsible.’

  Kingsley’s face became instantly impassive, as if in an effort not to allow any emotion to register. The set expression betrayed his anger.

  ‘Is it not the case that the Treasury postponed your reappointment as Deputy Governor for several months out of spite?’ said the Dark Figure.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’

  ‘Who was responsible?’

  ‘Surely everything you’ve heard makes it clear that there’s no fair answer to that.’

  Suddenly there was a commotion from the judge’s bench. The Dark Figure, Winnicott and an astonished Kingsley looked up to see the judge waving the DayGlo rubber gavel desperately around his head.

  ‘Bats! Bats! OW! Get away! Get away!’ He dived under the table with a howl of anguish, then everything went quiet.

  ‘Are you all right, m’lud?’ said the Dark Figure at last.

  Slowly the judge’s head appeared above the bench looking for evidence of his leathery tormentors. He ignored the Dark Figure and held out a tiny apple the size of a gobstopper. ‘Look at that!’ he said indignantly. ‘That bat hit me on the head with an apple.’

  ‘Yes, m’lud,’ came the voice from the dark. ‘I understand the creatures in the belfry are fruit bats, a species known for the disagreeable behaviour you have just experienced.’

  ‘Why me?’ asked the judge tearfully.

  There was a discreet cough from the dark, the sound of a disapproving underling about to deliver an unwelcome criticism of a clearly familiar nature. ‘I believe the fruit bats are attracted by the squeak of your gavel, m’lud.’ Slowly, a beautifully carved wooden gavel was proffered from the dark inlaid with brass and heavy with legal seriousness. ‘If m’lud were to take this in exchange, I dare say the bats might find it less easy to locate your lordship.’

  With huge reluctance the judge took the wooden gavel with one hand and held out the rubber one with the other. Unseen hands took it away. The judge sat down sulkily.

  A look of the purest malice crossed the Dark Figure’s face. He turned away from the judge and winked at Winnicott. ‘Quack! Quack!’

  It was a soft sound, barely audible but brilliantly accurate. It barely carried up to the judge but a look of horror crossed his face and he shrank back into his throne-like seat as if to hide in one of its corners.

  A delighted Dark Figure turned back to Kingsley. ‘Just one thing, Sir Robert, just to get it clear in my mind.’

  ‘Yes?’ Kingsley was deeply suspicious now.

  ‘The two-tier system led to there being two quite different ways of supervising banks.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And because there was a lighter supervisory regime placed on the top tier it was extremely difficult to know what was going on in a bank like JMB because supervisors had no real power to demand information.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The Dark Figure seemed to be thinking something through. ‘And this system just. . . happened?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The two-tier system just evolved of its own accord the way poor structures sometimes do in large organisations?’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand you.’

  ‘Well, you said that no one person was really to blame for JMB and for the unimaginable, world-wide misery that might have resulted from its collapse, the millions thrown out of work, the divorces, the repossessed homes, the suicides, the blight that would have poisoned a generation. It was the system that was at fault. It surely follows that it must have been a bad system that just grew up haphazardly, in a piecemeal fashion, without any specific aim in view. The system was wrong and you’re saying no one set it up?’

  Kingsley did not reply. The Dark Figure allowed the silence to fill the enormous hall. ‘I can see that you understand my problem, Sir Robert, because I can’t accept your view that no one was responsible but the system, and I can’t accept it because the system, as we have heard here today, did not happen by accident. The two-tier system was designed, planned, contrived, drafted, arranged, devised, elaborated and lobbied for. Is that not so?’

  Kingsley paused for a moment. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And there was one person at the heart of all this devising and planning, wasn’t there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who was that person, Sir Robert?’

  Kingsley paused and shifted in his seat. ‘Samuel Letherby, Governor of the Bank of England.’

  The Dark Figure looked around the cavernous hall, then spoke in tones of profound triumph.

  ‘Thank you, Sir Robert. That will be all.’

  ‘But,’ protested Kingsley, ‘I have to say that when it was being set up there were many in favour. I was one of them, at first. There were good reasons to preserve the informality of the way things had been.’

  The Dark Figure interrupted firmly. ‘That will be all.’

  ‘But you must understand that it wasn’t as simp—’

  ‘THAT WILL BE ALL!’ shouted the Dark Figure. Kingsley sank back in his chair and his light went out.

  ‘You needn’t worry about writing down that last outburst from Kingsley,’ said the Dark Figure affably to Winnicott, as he walked over to a spot between two chairs. He called out in a loud voice, as if he were conjuring spirits, ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury!’

  The space in front of him shimmered and slowly twelve people materialised. Each was sitting in a toy bus, the front of which was clearly marked: Clapham. They were dressed as if for a terrible village pageant in which they were to represent a typical member of a particular class: a plumber holding a toilet plunger, a City gent wearing a bowler hat and carrying a furled umbrella, a Pakistani holding a shop sign that declared he was open, a large, smiling West Indian woman dressed in a hat for a Sunday prayer meeting, an Irishman holding a shovel, and so on. Winnicott suddenly noticed what was truly odd about them: all the men were women in disguise. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury . . .’ He paused for effect. ‘I accuse Samuel Letherby, Governor of the Bank of England, of placing at risk through his obdurate pursuit of the two-tier banking system not only the financial well-being of every man, woman and child in the country but every man, woman and child in the entire world. When Wall Street crashed in flames, out of the ashes grew the monster of Fascism and the deaths of millions. Who can say what the consequences might have been but for . . . but for what? Only the regulator lies between us and the chaos of total collapse. We demand of these men and women that they strive with courage to hold at bay the seven-headed hydra of the marketplace with the bright sword of policy and the burnished shield of procedure. Not just our livelihoods but our very lives themselves rest on the skills of men such as Samuel Letherby. We deserve better than this. We require that matters be regulated better than this.’ His voice rose, filled with indignation and swollen with wrath. ‘WE DEMAND IT! The men, women and children of the world, now and in the generations to come, they DEMAND IT!’ He turned to the jury, a single tear slowly forming in the corner of his left eye. ‘Gentlemen of the jury, I beg of you, send a signal to all those who would fail in their duty through their vanity and contempt for the little people, the defenceless children, your wives, your servants. Protect them now and in the future with the simple sword of truth and the trusty shield of decent British values.’ The Dark Figure drew himself up to his full height, his face noble with sorrow, yet stern with righteousness. ‘Ladies, er, I’m sorry, gentlemen of the jury, I beg of you to
censure the delinquent, castigate the culpable, condemn the reprehensible, blame the . . . uh . . . blame-worthy, and send a signal to the world that Albion will not tolerate the malfeasance of infamies such as . . .’ he was hardly able to say the words ‘the two-tier banking system’. He pointed his finger at the former Governor of the Bank of England. ‘Look upon the face of the defendant, Samuel Letherby, and let right be done. Gentlemen of the jury, how do you find him?’

  Letherby sat, amazement and fear written into every line of his face.

  The jury rose as one and shouted aloud as if with one voice: ‘GUILTY! GUILTY! GUILTY!’

  The judge, grim-faced at the terrible majesty of the law, allowed a careful hand to place a small black cap on his head. ‘Prisoner at the bar,’ he said, in gloomy exaltation.

  The Dark Figure nudged Winnicott heavily in the back. ‘What?’ gasped Winnicott, alarmed and confused.

  ‘He’s talking to you, fuckwit!’ said the Dark Figure malevolently.

  Standing up in open-mouthed protest, Winnicott looked up at the judge. ‘I’m not on trial. He is.’ He looked around wildly for Letherby. But Letherby was also wearing a black cap, as was everyone else in the court, and he was smiling.

  ‘The Dark Figure was right about you,’ said the judge accusingly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Winnicott, his helpless terror growing with every passing moment.

  The judge looked at him with absolute contempt. ‘You are a fuckwit!’ He gasped in disbelief. ‘Did you really think you were going to get away with it? Now, shut up and listen to the judgment.’ He closed his eyes to recover his equanimity. ‘Prisoner at the bar, you have been found guilty of a most grievous case of implacabilis inscitia de anima. I therefore sentence you to be hanged by the neck until you be dead.’

  Winnicott fell to his knees sobbing with terror. Everyone in the court stared down at him with utter contempt. There was a brief pause followed by a discreet cough from the shadows behind the judge. ‘Excuse me, m’lud.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s the wrong verdict.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ said the judge, truculently. ‘I’m the fucking judge, you’re just an usher.’

  ‘Very well, m’lud, it’s the right verdict but the wrong defendant. You’ll notice that you turned over two pages. The death penalty you have passed on Mr Winnicott is actually meant for a Miss Ruth Ellis.’

  The judge looked down furiously at his papers. He swore under his breath as he realised that the usher was right. Something seemed to trouble him.

  ‘Isn’t Ruth a woman’s name?’

  ‘I believe so, m’lud.’

  ‘You can’t hang a woman!’ he said indignantly.

  ‘I think you’ll find that you can, m’lud.’

  ‘A gentleman should never hit a woman, no matter what the provocation,’ he insisted.

  ‘Quite so, m’lud,’ said the usher emolliently, ‘but in death by hanging, the aim is to snap the neck of the prisoner using a carefully contrived placement of the rope and employing the prisoner’s own weight as the means of effecting the fatal injury. I don’t think that it is unreasonable to claim that this is not a blow, hit, thump, strike, rap, knock or impact in the sense that your lordship rightly finds so objectionable. And besides,’ he added reassuringly, ‘the bitch deserves it.’

  But the judge was no longer listening as he read the page he had previously missed. He looked down at Winnicott, who was now staring up at him wildly. ‘Right, you, you’ve wasted enough of the court’s valuable time. In addition to the previous charge, which is jolly serious whatever it means, you have also been found guilty of the crime of allowing your wife to become a miserable cow. No proper man allows his wife to become a miserable cow. I therefore sentence you to explain the meaning of life and elucidate the origin of good and evil, the sentences to run concurrently. And may God have mercy on your soul!’ He smiled malevolently at the bewildered Winnicott. ‘By the time you’ve finished with that lot you’ll wish I had been able to sentence you to death.’

  ‘You can’t sentence him to death, m’lud.’

  The judge groaned irritably. ‘Yes, I know, I heard you the first time. Shut up.’

  ‘No, m’lud, you can’t sentence him to death for the simple reason that he already is dead.’

  The judge stared into the dark, a look of the deepest exasperation on his face. ‘What are you talking about? Is that supposed to be clever, or something? Is it?’ Before he could receive a reply he turned to Winnicott. ‘Are you already dead?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘See!’ said the judge triumphantly, looking into the dark as if he had won a great victory over a previously undefeated opponent. ‘He says he’s not dead.’

  ‘He most definitely is dead, m’lud,’ came the unperturbed reply. ‘He just doesn’t know it yet.’

  ‘I’ve never heard such a complete pile of camel dung in my life!’ said the judge furiously. ‘What do you mean by—’

  Suddenly a small, round, hard object bounced on the table in front of the judge. It rebounded up into the dark then fell back onto the table. It did this several times as the judge and the courtroom watched, mesmerised. Finally it stopped and before it could roll away the judge picked it up and examined it carefully. It was a fruit-flavoured gobstopper covered in tiny tooth marks. He turned it over in his hand, puzzling over what it might mean.

  Everyone in the courtroom stared at him. Then the Dark Figure cocked his head to one side, listening. In the almost complete silence, Winnicott could hear a distant sound. Gradually it became louder and louder, like the whining of an aeroplane going into a steep dive. Winnicott looked up at the source of the noise. Far above in the high-domed roof, a huge fruit bat was aiming directly for the judge who was staring down, puzzling over the nibbled gobstopper in his hand. The bat was the size of an eagle and heading for him at a ferocious speed, its huge teeth bared. Winnicott watched in amazement as it went into a shallow dive aimed straight at the judge’s head. Everyone in the court bellowed a warning: ‘DUCK!’ they shrieked.

  The judge stood up in terror. ‘WHERE?’ he screamed.

  And as he heard the horrible SPLAT! of giant fruit bat and Lord Chancellor meeting at a hundred miles per hour, Winnicott fell to the ground and began to lose consciousness.

  The Dark Figure leaned over him and smiled. ‘You were told to keep your mouth shut about the meaning of life, Winnicott. We’ve got Maria, and if you want to see her again, button your lip.’ By now the jury of women had taken off their disguises. They were staring down at him menacingly. One by one they began to speak.

  ‘Yeah, keep it mum, chum.’

  ‘Leave it in the dark, Mark.’

  ‘Cover your tracks, Max.’

  ‘Keep it discreet, Pete.’

  ‘Don’t blow the gaff . . .’ There was an awkward pause from the woman disguised as a City gent holding a furled umbrella. ‘Look, I’m most awfully sorry but I can’t think of a name to rhyme with gaff.’

  ‘What about Taff?’ suggested one of them.

  The disguised City gent wrinkled her nose. ‘Strictly speaking, shouldn’t it really be Taffy?’

  ‘I don’t see why,’ came the reply. ‘My uncle . . .’

  ‘SHUT UP!’ barked the Dark Figure, who then bent down so close to Winnicott that he was no more than two inches from his face. Winnicott could feel the wet heat of his breath mingle with his own and see every crack and fissure in his yellow teeth. ‘The point about secrets, Georgy Worgy, is that no one is supposed to know. We’re going to make an example of you so that no one else who squeals thinks they can get away with it. Nobody likes a snitch. You think that telling secrets is such a good idea? Well, we’ll see if you still think so after you listen to one.’

  Then the Dark Figure’s face began to stretch and buckle, short black hairs emerged from every pore, and he transmogrified into a huge and malevolent black cat, his hot breath blowing like a gale into Winnicott’s
mouth as he opened it to scream. There was a terrible pressure in his lower back as the weight of the huge cat began to crush his spine and then it was as if he were dissolving.

  Brett and Varadi, like anxious mothers, were looking down as Winnicott opened his eyes.

  ‘Who are you?’ he muttered.

  ‘I’m Sally Brett,’ said one of the faces, astonished and alarmed, ‘and this is Charley Varadi.’

  Winnicott blinked. ‘I have a secret to tell you . . . terrible secret. You must listen. I know the meaning of life.’

  Then his eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out.

  Later that day Varadi and the Governor he was soon to replace were having their usual end-of-day informal meeting, over a malt whisky for the former and a cup of tea for the latter. They were worrying. This was not personal or millennial heartache, this was the kind of worrying they were paid to do. Varadi’s salaried unease was about interest rates or, to be more specific, the rate of interest as it applied to mortgages.

  ‘You know what the buggers are like, Governor. As soon as the public sees mortgage rates fall they start behaving like bloody lunatics. House prices are rising and I don’t like it. A half a per cent cut was too much – the committee should have kept it to a quarter, or preferably no rise at all.’

  ‘But, Charley, let’s be honest, if it was up to you, you would have increased it by half a per cent.’ Smiling, the Governor changed the subject. ‘So, Charley, what did you make of Winnicott? I do hope he’s not the litigious kind.’ Varadi ignored the attempt to tease him.