On scanning the back row, I come face to face with myself. For a moment, I presume that they have planted a decoy in case the verdict should go against me and the crowd should bay for blood. Then I realise that he is one of the two professional Leo Young look-alikes who advertise their – my – services in the back pages of The Stage. He wrote upbraiding me shortly after the news of the charges. I found that I was not the only one whose career was in ruins; he depended on me even more than I did myself. I could at least resume my research on Chaliapin; I might have travelled to Russia, had it not been for the conditions of bail. But who would employ him to stand in at smalltown fetes and preside at village hall chat shows when I was awaiting trial for abuse?
I did not answer his question, let alone his letter. I could find more deserving objects of sympathy closer to home. Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but impersonation is nothing but parasitism. And yet, now that I see him, I feel a degree of loyalty towards him. Does the natural affection which you ascribed to the people who share your blood extend to those who share your features? Can we respond to our mother’s nose and our father’s mouth on a stranger’s face? Where does the mystery of resemblance lie? Is it simply a lucky dip in a universal gene pool? I feel an inexplicable kinship with this man who mirrors me in public and in private … my identical, yet non-fraternal, twin.
Max leads me to the dock and chats with me as I step inside. Observing that the leather seat is more cracked than any in the body of the Court, I determine to sit stony-still. I sense the gallery’s glare on the back of my neck and pray that my mother is not finding fault with my morning wash. Max moves to his place behind Rebecca, and we rise for the Judge. It is Mrs Justice Campbell … although her wig destroys all distinctions of sex. The Court Associate announces the case of Regina versus Leonard Young, which makes me feel as if I had broken into Balmoral. He puts the charge to me and asks how I plead. My shout of ‘not guilty’ comes out like a squeak. I find myself clawing the chair.
The jury are brought in; their racial and sexual mix seems to reflect a mythically integrated society. I am intrigued to find that all the men wear grey or black and all the women blue, as though respectability were set within strict, colour-coded limits. I harbour fears of two of them: a skeletal man in a pince-nez and a fierce woman who looks as if she has hidden her ‘all men are rapists’ badge beneath her lapel. Once they have been sworn in, the Judge informs them that they must put out of their minds anything that they may have read in the newspapers or seen on television and try the case solely on the evidence that they hear in court. She reminds the press that they must print nothing that identifies the victim. At the reference to Pagan, I realise that much of my elation derives from the prospect of seeing her again, albeit at a distance, for the first time in seven months.
The prosecution’s first witness is Detective Sergeant Bridges, who, from the strain on his shirt, appears to have celebrated his promotion in every pub and restaurant in Sussex. He walks so smugly into the witness box that it is a particular pleasure to hear him stumble over the oath. With the aid of a notebook, which he removes reverently from a sealed plastic bag (as though it had been vacuum-packed to preserve its freshness), he answers a litany of questions on my arrest and interrogation, Pagan’s injuries and interview, and the objects discovered in the search of the house.
The Judge commends the clarity of his evidence: a view which Rebecca manifestly does not share. Any forbearance that she may have shown in the family court disappears, as she cross-examines him harshly, probing his attitude to sexuality and his knowledge of homosexuality. He claims that, for a policeman in Brighton, ignorance is an impossibility.
‘The other week we were investigating a rent-boy racket and my colleague, DI Watson, arrested a man of seventy-four.’ I swivel round and catch Duncan’s eye.
‘Is it his age or his occupation that offends you?’
‘It just goes to show; they’ll go with anything.’
‘Does that include six-year-old girls?’
‘If you’d dealt with as many abused kids as I have …’
‘Oh but I have, Sergeant. I was appearing in such cases, if not before you were born, then very soon after. And I know the distinction between evidence and prejudice.’
‘I hope that you also know that between question and comment, Miss Colestone,’ the Judge interjects.
‘I appreciate Your Ladyship’s reminder. May I turn to the matter of the photographs seized from my client’s house … Exhibit P3, My Lady. May I ask the jury to examine these photographs once again and to take particular care, as they are original prints by Candida Mulliner and therefore highly prized … and priced.’ The Usher passes the pictures to the jury. ‘Are you aware, Sergeant, that, although now exhibited in court, these pictures and many others on a similar theme are far more frequently exhibited in galleries worldwide?’
‘No, I can’t honestly say that I am.’
‘Are you then unaware of Candida Mulliner’s reputation as a photographer?’
‘Didn’t she take some pictures of Madonna on a tank?’
‘Yes. And many thousands of portraits and landscapes from around the world. Were you aware that Miss Mulliner specialised in studies of prostitutes?’
‘No.’
‘Although, unlike the many celebrated male artists who have dealt with the subject, her images can in no sense be described as seductive.’ I search for a flicker of feminist sympathy from the Judge. ‘Some of the prostitutes whom she depicts are as young as seven. It is these pictures – a small selection from a vast archive – that you have chosen to remove. Why? Do you consider them to be erotic?’
‘Anything can be erotic to a pervert.’
‘How true, Sergeant.’ He looks confused. ‘Did you know that my client is Miss Mulliner’s artistic executor?’
‘No,’ he replies, ‘I didn’t.’
‘Since this makes him responsible for dealing with all inquiries about her work (including both its exhibition and reproduction), wouldn’t it be surprising if he did not possess examples of her photographs?’
‘Yes, but you tell me; why weren’t they on the walls like so many others or, at least, filed in cabinets downstairs? Why were they stuffed in a box at the back of a wardrobe?’
‘Mightn’t it be the case that Mr Young kept them there precisely because he didn’t want them to be part of his everyday life … these disturbing, degrading, incriminating images, but incriminating of a whole society, a whole culture, not one individual?’
‘It might be, yes.’
‘Yes, Sergeant, it might well be; and, indeed, it is. For Mr Young is not one of those men – those heterosexual men – who travel regularly from this and other Western countries to the Philippines or Brazil or Thailand, where girls as young as these are freely on offer. As one look at his passport – let alone at the stories in several scandalous newspapers – will show.’
‘I’m sorry? Was that a question?’ Bridges asks cockily.
‘Miss Colestone, I do not consider this a relevant matter for the witness.’
‘I apologise, My Lady. Now I should like to turn to the matter of the black rubber dildo with teeth marks. This is not exhibited in court. May I ask why?’
‘It seems to have got lost somehow,’ Bridges shrugs.
‘Lost?’
‘Mislaid.’
‘A black rubber dildo has been lost – I beg your pardon, mislaid – in a police station?’ Rebecca’s tone delights the gallery. ‘Is this a common occurrence? Wouldn’t you have been wise to keep it under lock and key?’
‘It was under lock and key.’ He is growing sullen.
‘Then may I ask who was in charge of the key?’
‘No, you may not, Miss Colestone.’ The Judge is losing patience. ‘I think that we have established that the article in question has disappeared. Would you either demonstrate the point of this line of enquiry, or take up another.’
‘Of course, My Lady.’ She turns bac
k to her witness. ‘You say that the dildo in question was bitten?’
‘Yes. Large tooth marks. As if a mad dog had chewed it.’
‘A mad dog, really? Fortunately, My Lady, I have a replica of the item here.’ She flourishes a dildo to a further burst of laughter. ‘Of course, sizes vary, as I am sure you are well aware, but would you say that this is approximately the equivalent of the one which you confiscated from my client’s house?’
‘As far as I can tell, yes.’
‘My Lady, would it be convenient for this to be marked as Exhibit Dl?’ She summons the Usher. ‘Would you show this to the witness.’ She does. ‘Thank you. Now, Sergeant, would you say that this was about the same consistency, thickness, malleability, as the one which has been so mysteriously mislaid?’ Bridges holds the object as though its very touch was compromising.
‘I should think so. I’m not an expert in these matters.’
‘Would you bite it, Sergeant.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Bite … with your teeth.’
The Prosecuting Counsel stands. ‘My Lady, I really cannot see what this has to do with the case in hand. My learned friend is attempting to embarrass the witness.’
‘Not at all, My Lady. As I intend to show, it is of crucial significance.’
‘I hope so, Miss Colestone.’ The Judge smiles sweetly at Bridges. ‘If you’d be so kind, Sergeant. Would you oblige me by biting it.’
‘Of course, M’lord … I mean M’lady.’ He bites it and holds it up.
‘Any toothmarks, Sergeant?’
‘I didn’t want to damage it. I wasn’t sure what you might want to use it for.’ His attempt to play to the gallery falls flat.
‘Don’t worry, Sergeant. This is precisely what I want to use it for. So bite away.’ He does and examines it. Evidently unhappy with the result, he attacks it as though he had not eaten for a week. He takes it out of his mouth, sticky with saliva. ‘Would you pass me the exhibit.’ The Usher hands it back to Rebecca with distaste. She studies it carefully. ‘Would you say that your teeth were strong, Sergeant?’
‘I’ve tackled some T-bones in my time.’
‘I can well imagine. And you see, there’s barely an impression on this.’ She addresses the Usher. ‘Might that be passed to the jury.’
‘I think that I’d better look at it first,’ the Judge interjects. The Usher hands it, via the Court Associate, to the Judge, who examines it warily. She then returns it to the Usher who takes it to the jury. From the intensity of her inspection, I suspect that I may have misread the ‘all men are rapists’ juror.
‘It seems clear, does it not, Sergeant, that the marks you’ve described could not have been made by a human?’
‘If the rubber were as hard as this, yes.’
‘Which you’ve testified that it was. In fact, you told the court that it looked as though a mad dog had chewed it … are you aware that before they were given a cat – a cat to whom I shall be returning shortly – my client and Miss Mulliner owned a retriever?’
‘No, I was not.’
‘Then may I take it you are also unaware that, for a joke, instead of a rubber bone, Miss Mulliner bought Texas a dildo; which has remained forgotten in a cupboard for years?’
‘A joke? What sort of a joke was that? It seems to me in pretty poor taste.’
‘Oh surely not as poor as hiring Tarzan-grams to strip off and embarrass WPCs or sending them letters in envelopes headed “Confidential: AIDS Test results”?’
Bridges blushes beetroot. ‘How the hell did you hear about that?’
‘The truth is, Sergeant, that you see what you want to see.’ She ignores his question. ‘A little girl has been horribly abused, so you pick the obvious candidate. You were determined that Mr Young was guilty, partly because of his celebrity – and there’s an element in us all that longs to see the rich and famous take a tumble – but mainly because he is gay. It is not my client who is standing in the dock; it is his sexuality … and your prejudice.’
Rebecca so effectively demolishes Bridges’s credibility that nothing the Prosecuting Counsel says in his re-examination can restore it. She goes on to deal a similar blow to the police paediatrician, accepting his diagnosis at almost every stage but dissenting from his conclusions. In her view, there is as much significance in the scarring of Pagan’s hymen as in the tears to her anus. ‘Is it not true,’ she asks, ‘that in girls of Pagan’s age, the anus displays considerably more elasticity than the vagina, and that buggery, far from being indicative of sexual tastes, is, in fact, the only practical means of penetration?’ The paediatrician is forced to agree.
With the medical evidence in ruins, the Court rises for lunch … although the Judge instructs me to remain in the room for a further ten minutes, in order to reduce the risk of confrontation. As I sit beside a tattooed and taciturn prison officer, I feel more than ever like Ronnie Kray. My request for his estimate of the morning’s progress is met with a grunt. I receive a more considered response when I am released to join my defence team in the corridor. Max and Anthony are jubilant, although Rebecca remains as circumspect as a producer in the middle of a shoot. Since our delayed start gives no guarantee of immunity from the prosecution, we choose to avoid the cafeteria. Anthony is dispatched to assess the position in the street. When he reports that the crowd has dwindled into single figures, we decide to head for a nearby pub.
As we walk through the hall, I experience a Mozartian tingle when my name appears to emerge from the statue of Charles II. A moment later, a wheelchair rolls round a pillar, which I at once identify as William’s. Glancing at his face, I am struck by a resemblance to you, which is patently absurd … unless it has been shaped by shared memories, the experiences of childhood which leave their mark as physically as accidents of birth. He asks if we might have a few words in private, so I tell the others to go on ahead. At first, I suspect that he simply wants to justify his conduct during your illness. He sniffs and fumbles for excuses like tissues.
‘It was my mum and dad. When Candida refused to have anything to do with them, they made me promise not to see her. They said it would be disloyal. My father’s very hot on loyalty.’
‘I suppose it’s inevitable when you’ve spent twenty years in the Army and thirty in a public school.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that. He wouldn’t send me to his school. It was alright for Candida; but not for me.’
‘I could never understand that. I’d have thought that as a boy …’
‘But I wasn’t a boy, don’t you see? I was a chair. What sits four foot off the ground, has a head, four legs and runs on wheels? Come on, Leo; if you don’t know, have a guess.’ I am unable to deal with his pain. ‘He was ashamed of me, of my – that’s to say, his – disability. He claimed it was impractical. Old buildings … narrow corridors … stone flags … steep steps. “You’re the bursar,” Candida said, “make them build a few ramps.” I said nothing. Instead, I was sent to a school for children with euphemisms.’
‘Euphemisms?’
‘Learning difficulties. Physical handicaps. Half of us in our chairs, the other half off their trolleys.’
‘Candida never forgave him.’
‘Candida didn’t have to forgive him. This isn’t Candida’s story; it’s mine!’ He looks down. ‘I should have come to the funeral. I wanted to come to the funeral. But I could imagine you introducing me to everyone. “This is Candida’s brother.” “I never knew she had a brother; she kept that very quiet.” Yes, this is Candida’s quiet brother, only sometimes he wants to scream so loud.’
‘Then why don’t you?’
‘Oh, it’s harder when you’re sitting down all day; it’s not just your muscles that atrophy, but your vocal cords. Life shits in your face and you’re supposed to be grateful to anyone who wipes it off. I need my parents, see. They’re getting old and one day they won’t be here; but, while they are here, I need them. I’m not Mr Disabled Person of the Year; I’m not running marat
hons in the Wheelchair Olympics. I live by myself, sure, and I drive my own car, but that’s it. My mother cooks for me. She brings me food marked Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and so on. And I always eat it in the correct order … as if they were medicines not meals. Why’s that, would you say?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’
‘You should do; you’re clever. You were always so much cleverer than me, you and Candida. I need an answer … I’m sorry, I’m embarrassing you. They’ll be wondering where I am.’
‘Are both your parents in court? I only saw your father.’
‘My mother’s a witness. I’m sure it’s quite unethical, but my father’s giving her a blow-by-blow account of the morning’s events over cod and chips.’
‘How did you escape?’
‘I need the lavatory. I asked a waitress in the canteen for the way. “Do you want the disabled toilet?” she said. “That’s right,” I said; “I only want one that won’t flush.” Why aren’t you laughing? She didn’t either. In the past, everyone’s always roared.’
‘Perhaps another time. The setting’s not conducive to laughter.’
‘You didn’t do it, Leo; I know you didn’t do it; you’ll be OK.’
‘How do you know? What do you know? You haven’t seen me in years.’ I am perplexed by his change of tone.
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