by Mark Evans
‘I do.’
Now I had him! He had fallen into the complex legal web I had woven for him, and there was no way he could extricate himself. I steadied myself lest I seem too obviously excited and asked my deadly question.
‘Is it not the case, Mr Trashcan, that when you say you invented the Bin first you are lying?’
‘No.’
‘Damn! I was hoping you’d say yes.’
I slumped to my seat, my brilliant strategy in tatters, like a battle-plan that has been attacked by a scissor-wielding cat. But, from nowhere, inspiration struck, and I leaped to my feet again.
‘Are you sure you’re not lying?’
‘As sure as I am that my name is Mr Gentl—’ He stopped and consulted a bit of paper he held in his hand. ‘I mean, Mr Harlan J. Trashcan. Which it is.’
His words pushed doubts into my mind. Was this Harlan Trashcan all he seemed? Or was he slightly more? Or less, even? Who was he really? Where had he sprung from with his convenient accusation? Could he even be an agent of the dastardly Mr Benevolent, sent to legally ensnare me?
‘Are you even American?’ I asked, suspicious.
‘What? Yes. Of course. Y’all. As American as a breakfast platter of hominy grits.’
‘Hmm.’ I had no idea what hominy grits4 were, so could find neither truth nor falsehood in his answer, but immediately thought of another way to test his Americanness. ‘If you truly are American, then you will be able to name all the states of your fair nation.’
‘Of course. There’s Virginia. West Virginia. And, um . . .’ He looked baffled and uncertain, but then rallied geographically. ‘North Virginia, South Virginia, East Virginia, South-east Virginia, mid-Virginia, Virginia-Virginia and Texas.’
Alas, I myself did not know what the states of America were, but he sounded jolly convincing and I decided he was probably right, even though it did sound as if there were a few too many Virginias in there.
‘I have had enough of this tiresome questioning. It is my turn now.’ The judge turned to the witness box. ‘Mr Trashcan, in your own words, please tell us why Mr Bin is guilty as charged.’
‘Of course. I, Harlan . . .’ Now I noticed something strange: his American accent temporarily disappeared and a smooth British accent, with oily undertones of evil, briefly took its place. ‘Ah, damn, lost the accent . . . I Haaarlan, Haaaarlan, I Harlan J. Trashcan’ – here the accent gained traction again – ‘invented the Bin a whole month before this gosh-darned varmint. Which is American slang from America, by the way.’
The British accent had seemed tantalizingly familiar. But whose was it?
‘Do you have proof of this?’
‘I surely do, Your Honour.’
‘Excellent. Case proved. I find Pip Bin guilty—’
‘May we at least see this evidence?’ I was not going down without a fight, even if it was a rubbish, hand-slappy, hair-pulling, playground-style fight.
‘Oh, if we must. Mr Trashcan?’
‘The proof is this newspaper, containing a story about my invention of the Bin or, as we call it in America, the Trashcan. Someone has circled the story in ink and written “Great idea, must steal, lots of love Pip Bin.” You can see it quite clearly.’
He waved the newspaper about the courtroom and there was a shocked intake of breath from everyone watching – or, at least, I am sure there would have been had there been any spectators.
‘What newspaper is it?’ I asked.
‘The Philadelphia Fictional Times. There is no more accurate journal in America.’
‘And when is it dated?’
‘Hmm, let me see. When did you invent the Bin?’
This was a date burned on my memory with the intensity of any life-changing experience, and I proudly told him. ‘Why, the tenth of May, last year.’
‘Really? Then this newspaper is dated . . .’ He now turned away so that the newspaper was out of sight, removed from his pocket what appeared to be a small ink-pad and date-stamping kit, took that from view also, fiddled around briefly, then triumphantly brandished the newspaper saying ‘. . . the tenth of April last year.’
‘May I see that to confirm it?’ asked the judge.
‘Of course, Your Honour.’ Mr Trashcan handed over the newspaper as the judge reached for it. ‘Though be careful, the ink is still wet.’
As he leaned towards the judge, a host of things came together in my mind regarding this bizarre American: the way he had sounded when his accent had slipped; the way he had looked when his wig and beard had slipped; the way he had moved when, on his way into the witness box, he himself had slipped. These parts added up to a recognizable and entirely horrifying whole: this was no Harlan J. Trashcan, this was one Mr Gently Benevolent.
‘Your Honour! There is about to be a terrible injustice!’
The judge turned to me with curious eyes, that is to say eyes full of curiosity, not eyes that were themselves curious, though as I think back on it, one of his eyes was green and the other brown, so in fact they were curious in both senses.
‘How so, young man?’
‘That is not an American called Harlan J. Trashcan. It is an evil Englishman by the name of Mr Gently Benevolent! He has brought this invented case to destroy me.’
‘Nonsense.’ The judge’s eyes now turned from curious to angry, though, as recently established, with their bi-coloured nature they remained in at least one sense curious. ‘For I know Gently Benevolent and he would never do such a thing. Would you, Benevolent?’
This protestation would have held more weight had he not just addressed himself directly to the disguised Mr Benevolent in the witness box; even the vile fiend himself seemed somewhat taken aback and knew not how to answer.
‘Um . . . er . . .’ he floundered.
‘My mistake,’ said the judge, trying desperately to recover. ‘Thought I saw him there. But I didn’t. Because he’s not. Anyway, it’s judgment time. I find you guilty on all counts, Pip Bin. You forfeit all rights to the Bin and all monies deriving therefrom. Furthermore, you are guilty of industrial theft, a heinous crime against society.’
A bitter, burning sense of injustice rose in me, like badly digested flambéed lemons; this whole trial was a fraud, and I was about to suffer for it.
‘But before I pass sentence I want to emphasize that, whatever I say, my decision has in no way been prejudiced by Mr Bin being responsible for the deaths of my entire family. I simply cannot stress that enough.’ He banged his gavel savagely. ‘The sentence for industrial theft is five years’ imprisonment.’
Five years in gaol! This was more than I could bear. To think that after so much recent personal emotional agony I had now also been falsely accused, convicted and imprisoned.
‘No! That cannot be!’ I shouted, emotions seething within my chest.
‘And nor shall it be.’ Was the judge about to show lenience? As it turned out, only if it was sarcastically. ‘For I deem your crimes much more serious than that and sentence you to be hanged by the neck until dead a week hence. Yes! Take that, you murdering scum. Not that it’s personal, of course.’
I could not help but feel it might have been a tiny bit personal, but that was of scant comfort to me as officers of the court now entered, chained my hands and feet and dragged me out. As I passed through the door, Mr Benevolent raised his disguising wig as if it were a hat raised in farewell, and then laughed, the scornful triumph of his evil cackling seeming to follow me down the corridor, outside the courthouse, all the way to prison, and thence to death.
1 In the nineteenth century the world record for running a mile stood at seventeen minutes, slower even than a brisk walk – it was deemed ungentlemanly to hurry and any man of high breeding caught running in any circumstance other than racing after a saucy scullery-maid was liable to be sent to prison.
2 The quickest colony ever established took three minutes and was Burkina Fast-o.
3 The famous Minute War of 1795, which, after a two-minute truce, was followed by
the even shorter Thirty-second War.
4 A porridge-like dish of coarsely ground corn. Not as delicious as it sounds, and it sounds horrible.
CHAPTER THE FORTY-EIGHTH
Despair, and all who sail in her
They hurled me into a prison cell and threw away the key. Then they realized that later that week they had to let me out of the cell to get hanged and also that in the meantime they’d need to put other prisoners in there with me, so they immediately started to look for it again.
My cell was grim, grimy and gruesome, but I cared not. For I had given up all hope. My vow to destroy Mr Benevolent was forgotten, for he had destroyed me first, his fiendishly fake plan having succeeded beyond his wildest dreams and my wildest nightmares. I was spiritually broken; and after a week I would be physically broken too.
But now I welcomed death, for either the priests were right and I would be reunited with Flora in Heaven, or the scientists were right and I would simply dissolve into blissful oblivion.
Either way, the pain would be gone.
While the guards continued their search for the key, I had the cell to myself. Huddled in the corner, I stared without seeing, and my mind wandered. It roamed around my happy childhood, so carefree and family-filled, the reverse of my now care-filled and family-free situation. I remembered the giddy laughter I had shared with Pippa and Poppy, laughter we would never share again, for Poppy had gone to the grave and, if Mr Benevolent had his way and married her, Pippa would probably never laugh or be happy again. I thought of my mother before the madness had taken her, the cuddles, the hugs, the kisses, the constant flow of unadulterated love and affection that had helped make my childhood so glorious. Paternal memories came next, of my father’s reassuring masculine presence that had made the world seem such a safe place when I was little, and of how his love had been less overt than Mama’s but had still always been there, like a background bass-line of devoted emotion, his long absences on business only so that he might provide a plentiful and joyous life for us; and I wept, thinking back to the time, moments before I had heard of his supposed death, when I had tripped over the family black cat, slid under a ladder, smashed a mirror, spilled a pile of horseshoes and broken the rabbit’s foot and four-leaved clover I had had on my person. Pippa had said then that all our luck would run out and I had scoffed; yet she had been right, for soon afterwards the uncomplicated joys of childhood had been washed away by a cruel, adult world, full of malice and misfortune.
Next I thought of Harry, dear Harry Biscuit, from whom I had parted on such bad terms, and I wished there was some way of telling him I hadn’t meant it, that he was the best friend I had ever had, the best friend any man could ever have, true, loyal, decent and just stupid enough never to doubt you, a friend who had helped me escape from that dread school, had aided me in all my trials and adventures since and had been the only comfort I had had in the wake of my wife’s death.
And that led me, of course, to Flora, dear, sweet, beautiful Flora, whose existence had brightened my life like a glorious sun, a sun, alas, destined to burn brightly but shortly – and she had burned so very, very brightly.
Everything and everyone I had ever loved was gone; and soon I would be too. I sat alone and wretched, holding the metaphorical cards that God had dealt me, a Benevolent-trumped hand that had brought only pain.
Thus I mused for the days before my execution.
Finally, my last night on earth arrived. The guards brought me my last meal, but I did not eat it, as I had already mentally consumed a bowl of Regret Soup, followed by a slice of Rueful Pie, and for pudding, Wish-it-had-all-been-different Crumble.
As darkness fell, I turned to the wall and attempted my last, bitter sleep.
But barely had I done so when I was disturbed by the guards arriving with another prisoner. They swung the door open and hurled the felon inside. He was a huge, wide mass of a man, and he landed with a mighty, bone-jarring thud and let out a yelp of pain.
‘Ow!’
It was an ‘ow’ I recognized, as familiar to me as one of my own.
‘Harry, is that you?’
‘Pip? Pip Bin?’
‘Yes, it is I, old friend.’
‘Hmmph. You are a friend to me no more as I remember.’
He turned huffily away from me; I was evidently still unforgiven. But I remembered how in the past days I had dreamed of setting matters right with him, and knew that even if God had treated me cruelly – and, oh, how He had! – at least now He had sent me this last chance to do a tiny bit of good with my remaining earthly time.
‘Harry, it is true, I was a bad friend to you. I did not value you as I ought to have done.’ He still did not look at me, though I sensed a stiffening in his body that indicated he was at least paying attention. ‘But know this: you are the finest friend I have ever had, and if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, it would cheer me greatly in my final hours.’
For a few seconds there came no response. But then: ‘No.’
I had had my hand stretched out towards him in hopeful anticipation of absolution and reconciliation, and at this single negative syllable it dropped, as did my spirits, which is really saying something, as they were already right down in the basement of my soul. Barely a second had passed, however, before I heard more cheering words.
‘Oh, all right, then. I forgive you.’ Bless Harry and his fickle swiftness of mood! ‘You are a friend to me some more again, Pip Bin.’
‘Harry, you do not know how glad I am to hear that!’
I offered my hand and he shook it, then enfolded me in a huge, affectionate embrace that reminded me of why it was good to be alive, which was a shame, what with death so imminent.
‘So how is it that you are in this vile place with me, old friend?’ I asked, keen to make the most of these last hours of human company.
‘Well, much as I hate to admit it, my vintage meat emporium was not a success.’
‘No, how could that be?’ I said unconvincingly. ‘What happened?’
‘I poisoned seventy-four people.’
This only surprised me in as much as the figure was so low. ‘So that is why you are here. For committing meat-slaughter.’
‘Not entirely. You see, I only set up the emporium because I wanted to be a success. To be famous. To stand out. Like you, Pip Bin.’
‘But, Harry—’
He put out a hand to stop me, actually pinching my lips shut with his fingers. ‘No, you must hear this. You and your Bin were my inspiration. To achieve something so amazing! Why, I was honoured to be your friend. And I thought my vintage meat idea would see me lauded and loaded as you were. When it failed, I knew I had to do something else impressive and unique. So I decided to make myself the best in the world at something and, to that end, set out to become the fastest man on earth!’
‘A noble if strange ambition. How did it go?’
‘Badly. It turns out I am very, very slow. So I changed my ambition again, but not by much, because I vowed to become the fattest man on earth. Only one letter’s difference, you see.’
‘And how did that go?’
‘Pretty well, actually. You may have noticed I’ve put on a few pounds . . .’
‘No, no . . .’ In truth, I had noticed. Indeed, when the guards had first brought him to the cell, I had thought him to be three prisoners with but one head, a sort of human reverse Cerberus. ‘I mean, you are looking . . . prosperous. Very . . . healthy. Rubenesque, even.’ I could suddenly think of no more polite euphemisms and snapped, ‘All right, fat! You’re looking massively fat! Fatty, fatty, fat-fat!’
I am not proud of my outburst but, after so many days of navel-gazing misery in my own company, I was simply glad to be able to talk to someone else, even if that talking ended up being incredibly rude.
‘Yes, it turns out I am really, really good at getting fat. I only have to look at a piece of cheese and I put on half a stone.’
By the size of him, Harry had clearly been looking at a
lot of cheese.
‘Sadly, I was nowhere near the fattest man on earth. That is a man called “Big” Jeff All-lard.1 No matter how big I got, he was bigger. I needed to make one last effort to top him on the scales, but I didn’t have the money to buy enough food, so I . . .’ Here he paused, reddened and looked awkwardly at the floor. ‘I am ashamed to admit that I went to a food-lender.’2
‘Harry, no!’
‘I borrowed two geese and a big pie. When the time came to pay him back, I couldn’t. Because I’d eaten them. The interest was eight per cent, but I didn’t realize that was per second. It turned out that by the end of the week I owed him more geese than actually exist and a pie the size of the entire universe. Obviously I couldn’t pay, so he sued me and won, and with the seventy-four poisoned people taken into consideration as well, I was sentenced to be hanged and here we both are.’
This was a tragic fate, though I could not help thinking an utterly avoidable one.
‘Harry, you must not blame yourself,’ I lied, because it was so obviously his own daft fault. ‘At least we shall die with each other tomorrow. As friends.’
‘I suppose you could say it’s our last chance to hang out together!’ Harry tried to laugh, but it rapidly turned into a weepy bleat of sorrow, and I comforted him with another manly man-hug, sober and virtuously masculine.
‘Oh, that is so sweet . . .’
Our hug was interrupted by the oily tones of the man I hated more than anything in the world, more than spiders in baths, more than France, more than people not saying ‘thank you’ after I had held a door open for them, more even than salad:3 Mr Gently Benevolent.
‘What are you doing here?’ I broke off my Harry-hug as this most hated of figures appeared at the cell door.
‘Just popped round to say BBFE.’
‘BBFE?’
‘Bye-bye for ever. Oh, and to deliver this letter.’
He pushed an envelope through the bars. I recognized Pippa’s sisterly handwriting on the front and tore it open with fear in my heart.