by M. J. Hyland
I go past the café and look in and see the empty tables and say Georgia’s name and I’d give anything for her to come now, to see her standing inside.
I want life to go back where I had it before.
Night’s become day and my feet and hands are cold. I’ve not thought what I’ll do. I’ve got no plan.
I check my wallet and all my pockets for money. I’ve not got much, twenty-eight quid, enough for a train journey, a night somewhere, maybe enough to clear a hundred miles. I could do a runner, find work in a garage in a far away city or on the continent. I should’ve packed a bag, should’ve got my toolkit.
I go fast in the direction of the station and see there’s a motel across the road. It’s called The Comfort Inn, and there’s a yellow sign with plain black letters that say: Budget—TV—Weekly Rates—Daily.
That’s where I need to go, just for a day to get my head in order, but I’ve not even got as far as crossing the road when there’s a car pulled up beside me. I didn’t even hear its engine, didn’t see it coming.
It’s the police.
The cop driving is in uniform and the cop on the passenger’s side is in plain clothes and he winds his window down. I expect he’ll get out to talk to me, but he just brings the window down and speaks to me through the gap.
‘Are you Patrick?'
‘Yeah.’
There’ll be no going back.
Welkin’s dead.
‘Get in.’
I get in.
The uniform cop starts driving and the plain-clothes copper turns to me.
‘I’m Sergeant Middleton,’ he says, ‘and this is PC Davies.’
Middleton’s in his fifties. The copper, Davies, is about the same age as me.
‘What’s happened?’ I ask.
‘Were you in the bedroom of Mr Ian Welkin this morning?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘What’s happened?’
‘He’s dead,’ says PC Davies.
A heat goes down the front of my body and it’s as though I’m standing by a fire, the heat of shock, and it spreads all over my chest and head.
‘What’s your full name?’ asks Middleton. ‘Patrick James Oxtoby.’
He writes it down, then asks me for my home address, my father’s name, my date of birth.
‘What’s the date?’ he says to Davies. ‘August.’
‘I know the bloody month. What’s the date?'
‘Twenty-ninth, sir. It’s Saturday the twenty-ninth of August.’
Middleton’s so tall his head is near the roof of the car. He makes another note, then says, ‘Patrick James Oxtoby. You are being arrested on suspicion of the murder of Ian Gordon Welkin.’
I nod.
‘Do you wish to say anything? You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence.’
I nod again.
‘We need to take you back to the house. You need to show us where the weapon is. Can you do that?'
We pull up outside as the paramedics are leaving with the stretcher. ‘Just wait in the back,’ says Davies.
Bridget stands on the street, looks at the ambulance with her hand up over her nose and mouth, watches the stretcher getting put inside the ambulance.
When the ambulance pulls away, Davies opens the door and lets me out.
As we follow Bridget inside the front door, he doesn’t wipe his feet on the mat, but I do.
‘In here okay?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ says Bridget.
We go with her into the dining room.
I sit at the table under the bay window. They all stay standing.
Sergeant Middleton stands against my chair and his gun-belt touches my shoulder.
‘Where is it?’ he says. ‘The weapon?’
‘In the sink.’
Davies leaves, goes upstairs.
‘Should I get some water? Some tea?’ says Bridget.
Bridget’s not crying, but her voice shakes.
‘No,’ says Middleton. ‘We’ll be finished in a few minutes.’
My mouth’s dried up but, now I’ve had some time to think, I’m not so nervous as I was before and I think they’ve got to realise there’s been a mistake.
He can’t be dead because of anything I’ve done and they’ll soon work it out. I’m pretty sure I only hit him once and it wasn’t hard enough to kill. I know that much.
There’s been a mistake.
Davies comes back with the adjustable wrench in a plastic bag and he’s got my toolkit.
‘Why are you taking my toolkit?’
‘We need to take the lot.’
Fuck.
‘I’ll just go up to my room and get my clothes, then,’ I say. ‘You’ll not need clothes,’ says Davies.
Bridget moves in, stands close to me.
‘Can he take a toothbrush?’ she says.
Middleton thinks on it.
‘Okay,’ he says.
Now Bridget has tears rolling down her face and into her mouth.
‘What about a change of clothes?’ she says.
She’s crying hard now and Middleton looks at her like she’s doing something wrong.
‘No,’ he says. ‘He can’t take any clothes.’
‘She can get your things to you later,’ says Davies.
‘Her name’s Bridget,’ I say.
And then I remember. I might’ve left my ball peen hammer at work. I took it out when Hayes’ nephew asked to borrow it. I gave it to Ben. He mightn’t have returned it.
Davies gets a pair of cuffs from the hook on his belt and takes hold of my arms. He holds my arms out in front of my body, my palms face up, as though I’m about to be given something nice, puts my hands in the cuffs.
Bridget comes back with a toiletries bag.
‘The prisoner’s ready to go now,’ says Middleton.
‘We’ll be out of your hair,’ says Davies. ‘And be sure not to touch anything in the deceased’s room.’
‘But the mess?’ says Bridget.
‘Leave it,’ says Davies.
What mess?
Bridget leaves the room.
There’s no goodbye.
We go out.
It’s going to be a fine, bright day and I want to be included, want to stand near the water and look out at the horizon and smell the salty air. I want to swim and go and eat down the pier. I want going back.
‘Get in the car,’ says Davies.
I get in the back with him.
A small crowd’s gathered and there’s an angry old woman, her arms folded tight across her chest, her face lopsided and bitter and, the way she looks at me, as though she’d like to spit, it’s like a blow from a fist to the neck.
I’ve a rush of tears clogging my throat and the old woman speaks to a woman with a pram standing close by but, whatever she’s said, it’s not meant for me to hear.
Part Two
14
We go through an entrance at the side of the cop station, then at the end of a long corridor through a door with frosted glass that says Custody Office.
We go to the counter.
‘Just stand here,’ says Davies.
The only window is high on the wall, a useless, murky porthole and the walls are covered top to bottom with posters for the missing and the wanted.
‘What’s happening now?’ I say.
‘You’ll be put in a holding cell.’
‘And then?'
‘You’ll be interviewed. You’ll make a statement.’
‘And then?'
‘You might be charged.’
‘Do I get a solicitor?’
‘You’re entitled to one.’
‘And what about a phone call?’
‘We’ll get to that.’
The desk sergeant comes through a door holding a black mug with steam coming off.
Davies stands close to me and I’m cautioned and put under arrest, the same as before.
‘Patrick
James Oxtoby, you are being held in custody on suspicion of murder and anything you say…’
And then it happens again. That same heat all over my chest as though I’m standing in front of a fire. I lean my elbows on the desk, put my head in my cuffed hands, close my eyes.
‘You going to be sick?’ says Davies.
I shake my head.
The desk sergeant takes a noisy slurp from his mug of tea, says, ‘Give me your date of birth, address, and your father’s name.’
‘I already gave that,’ I say.
‘Give it again.’
I tell him.
‘And your mother’s maiden name?'
I’ve gone into Welkin’s bedroom and I’ve hit him on the head. It was dark out, but getting light. He was on his side, facing away from me. I hit him on the right temple, not very hard. I hit him all right, but there was no blood. But maybe there was blood, and that’s why the wrench was put in the sink.
‘Your mother’s maiden name?'
‘Collins.’
Wait a minute. I’m not sure. Maybe Welkin wasn’t facing away. If he was facing me, I must’ve hit him on the left temple. If there was blood, it came after. I don’t know how long it all took. I don’t know what the order was. I drank some water and then I think I slept.
‘We can make that phone call now,’ says Davies.
I give him my mum’s number but, when I see it written on the page, I can’t do it. I can’t face it.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I say.
I give him the name of the café, and the desk sergeant looks it up.
‘Can I have the cuffs taken off?'
‘No.’
Davies dials the number, hands me the phone.
She takes a long time to answer.
‘Georgia,’ I say. ‘It’s me, Patrick.’
‘Hello there.’
‘Listen, I’ve gone and done something a bit stupid.’
‘What’s wrong?'
‘I hit a man in the boarding house last night and he’s dead. I’ve been arrested. I’m at the police station.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I haven’t much time,’ I say. ‘I just wanted to tell you I’ve been arrested.’
‘You killed somebody?'
‘No,’ I say. ‘I didn’t kill him. I didn’t mean to kill him, but he’s dead. I only hit him once.’
‘Was it an accident?'
‘It’s hard to explain,’ I say. ‘I just wanted to say I’m sorry I won’t be able to see you for a while.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I just wanted to tell you.’
‘Do you have somebody to bail you out?'
‘No.’
‘Is that why you’ve called? Do you need somebody to come and get you?'
‘No, that’s okay.’
‘Are you sure?'
‘Yeah.’
‘Have you spoken to your mum?’ I’ve got an idea.
‘If I give you the number, could you call her for me?’
she waits, thinking. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘They won’t give me another phone call.’
‘Okay, I’ll call your mum for you. If that’s what you want.’
I give her the number. ‘Will you tell my mum I’m really sorry.’
Another pause.
‘It’d be better if you said that.’
‘All right,’ I say.
‘You’ll be okay,’ she says. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll all get worked out.’
If I say much more, I’ll be sure to choke up and I’m glad Davies has stepped forward to signal that my time’s up.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I say.
‘Okay. Goodbye, Patrick.’
‘Goodbye.’
I should’ve used her name like she’s used mine. It was nice to hear it said.
Davies takes me back to the custody office and the desk sergeant’s got the inkpad ready for my fingerprints. When I’ve pressed my fingers onto the print sheet, rolled them back and forth, the desk sergeant steps out from behind the desk and puts my cuffs back on.
There’s a chair in the corner and I mean to go to it and sit, but I don’t make it. There’s no warning when it happens and it happens fast and it doubles me over. The sick that’s come out of me is liquid, a bitter water, and there’s lots of it.
‘Get a bucket,’ says Davies.
The desk sergeant comes with a bucket, says, ‘Put your head over this.’
I go to the chair and sit and put my head over the bucket.
The desk sergeant gives me some water in a paper triangle and the paper goes soft in my hand.
Davies takes me back out to the corridor, holds me by the elbow.
‘We’ll set up an interview room soon as we can,’ he says.
‘What about some more water?'
‘In a minute,’ he says.
There are two empty cells, one a bit bigger than the other. In the smaller one there’s a sluice in the middle of the floor and a rubber mattress sits on a low bench.
I won’t go in.
‘You’re in the big cell,’ says Davies. ‘We’ve got a drunk ‘n’ disorderly coming in. I don’t want you sharing with him.’
I don’t go in.
‘Pop yourself on the bed,’ he says. ‘Might as well take a rest.’
‘I only hit him once,’ I say, ‘and there was no blood.’
‘Best to wait for your brief,’ he says. ‘Get in and hop on the bed.’
But this is no bed. It’s only a blue rubber mat about two inches thick and it sits on a bench that’s bolted to the wall. Over the bench there’s a window, six bars in, six out, and there’s a crack in the glass letting the cold air in. In the corner of the cell, there’s a squat three-legged wooden stool and a toilet.
‘Give me your belt,’ says Davies.
I take my belt off, give it to him.
‘Now get in,’ he says.
‘I don’t belong in here,’ I say.
‘Get in.’
I go in, get on the bench, sit with my back against the brick wall. Davies takes the stool into the middle of the cell. ‘Are you staying?'
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?'
‘It’s routine for an officer to stay with murder suspects.’
‘I’m not a murderer.’
‘It’s routine.’
‘Can I have these cuffs off?’
‘Not yet.’
The rubber mat looks like a P.E. mat, but it’s not soft and it stinks of rotten meat.
I hang my legs over the side.
‘You can smoke if you want,’ he says.
‘I don’t smoke.’
‘There’s a packet in my pocket, in case you change your mind.’
Davies flips through the pages of his pocket book and then looks over at me as though he’s sure I’m about to do something interesting.
I get up, pull the bucket in nearer the bench, put my hands to my throat and breathe deep to stop myself being sick.
‘You going to spew again?'
I say nothing.
He sits with me for an hour, maybe more.
The desk sergeant comes to the cell door, speaks through the opened hatch.
‘The brief’s gonna get here as soon as he can.’
‘Okay,’ says Davies. The desk sergeant leaves.
‘I’ll get you something to eat in a minute,’ says Davies.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘I’ll see if I can get something.’
Davies leaves the cell, slides the bolt across, locks me in. I want him back.
So long as he’s here, I’m not a prisoner, not yet jailed.
I go to the cell door, try to slide the hatch open.
It’ll not budge. There’s no hope of it opening.
I go back to the bench and stand on it, look out the window. There’s a wall about four feet away and overhead there’s a wire grille with cigarette packets stuffed into the holes.
When they let me o
ut, I’m going for a long walk and I won’t look at the ground in front of me. I’ll pay more attention.
Almost a half-hour later, Davies comes back with a sandwich on a paper plate.
I smile when I see him.
I want to talk and I want him to stay. So long as he doesn’t go away, there’s still hope I might get out of here before dark.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘Try and eat.’
I peel the bread back and look at the thick butter and slice of cheese.
‘You don’t want it?'
‘No, but thanks.’
‘Give it here.’
Davies eats the sandwich.
‘What happens now?'
‘We wait for your brief.’
I want him to know.
I want him to know there was no blood.
‘I only hit him once,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t hard and I didn’t mean to kill him.’
‘You’d better save it,’ he says. ‘You’re being held for murder. You should probably keep your trap shut for now.’
It shouldn’t take only a second to end a life.
‘I’m not a murderer,’ I say.
‘That’s not for me to decide.’
I wrap my arms round my knees.
‘Are you cold?'
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ll see if I can get a blanket.’
He goes out for the blanket, locks me in.
He comes back.
‘Sorry, we don’t have any spare blankets. I’ll get you one later.’
I take a tissue out of my pocket.
He looks away, waits a bit, looks back. ‘Okay?’ he says.
He takes off his jacket and hands it over.
‘Thanks.’
I put the jacket over my shoulders.
‘I’ll need it back,’ he says. ‘Soon as I can get you a blanket.’
I look down at the concrete floor and wipe my eyes and it probably looks to Davies like I’ve got a case of remorse. But I don’t know about that, or guilt either. All I know is, I didn’t mean to kill him.
It’s three or four o’clock when the desk sergeant comes. He’s got my solicitor. Davies leaves the cell.
My solicitor’s about fifty and he’s got curly black hair.
‘We’ve got about ten minutes,’ he says.
‘I think I need help,’ I say.
‘That’s what I’m here for.’
He sits next to me on the bench and opens a red notebook.