If I Should Die (Joseph Stark)

by Matthew Frank

  Streets away they switched into Fran’s car and headed for Hampshire and the dubious sanctuary of his mother’s house.

  It didn’t take long for news of his escape to leak. The following morning a reporter door-stepped his mother and received short shrift. A pair of photographers hung around all day and the curtains had to remain drawn. Despite the crutches, he might’ve paced like a caged animal were his mother not there to insist he rest.

  His sister, Louise, visited with the kids but friends and old comrades were politely told that he needed peace, quiet and rest. There was no turning away Colonel Mattherson or Captain Pierson, of course, or the CPS.

  On the day of Maggs’s trial the press were back on the lawn. A dozen local uniforms held them at bay as Stark was whisked away in a van. Paparazzi on a motorbike tried to snap his picture as they raced along the motorway but were pulled over by the unmarked car trailing them.

  As a material witness, Stark was forbidden to contact Maggs. To his dismay the murder charge hadn’t been dropped. A secondary charge of manslaughter due to provocation was entered, though Maggs had maintained his not-guilty plea to both.

  As Stark took his seat in the witness stand Maggs nodded to him but nothing else. The questions were simple, the cross-examination painless. He had worried that everything would be dragged up, from the media storm to the painkillers and whisky, but the truth was he was insignificant to the case.

  That night he stayed in Fran’s spare room. The press were watching his flat. His neighbour had confirmed that the lift was still broken. He expected to find Fran’s flat devoid of life, a barren monument to her skewed work–life balance, empty fridge, pristine flat-pack furniture. Within seconds he realized he’d completely misjudged her. Almost every wall was lined with family photos, Fran posing with parents, brothers and their wives, endless beaming nieces and nephews and Caribbean relatives of every shape and size. Many had been taken in Barbados. Her fridge was full to bursting with fresh ingredients, many of which Stark didn’t recognize, and the tiny kitchen was a-clutter with the kind of robust cooking paraphernalia that spoke of practicality and heavy use. He was hard pressed to remember her consuming anything other than coffee and a Danish in his company.

  She settled him with a beer and the TV remote and set about the noisy preparation of flying-fish with cou-cou and plantain to a secret family recipe. When it was done she plonked the tray of stunning food on his lap. ‘There you go, Constable Sideways.’ She smirked.

  Stark grimaced. She’d been digging. She’d done well to get this gem, given the lockdown there had to be around his records right now. She was a formidable terrier.

  ‘Funny, most of your old comrades agreed that you weren’t really a nickname kind of bloke. They didn’t make that sound flattering. But most agreed that if you had to have one it would be Sideways. I found the story behind it quite revealing.’

  Private Sideways. Of course she’d winkled out the full story. Captain Delaney had not meant it as a term of endearment. The exercise was a standard one: defend a poor position for as long as possible against overwhelming odds. Perhaps suspecting NCO material, they had handed newly recruited Stark a corporal’s stripe for the night and command of the defenders. Delaney had led the attackers. But when his superior force had assaulted the indefensible position they had found it abandoned. Under cover of darkness Stark had moved his force sideways up a nearby hill behind a highly defensible ridge. Infuriated, Delaney had demanded they return and begin again. Stark had asked if he was therefore surrendering. When the captain had said he most definitely was not, Stark had sent a skirmishing force to break the stand-off with a sudden burst of fire. Under the wry eye of his major, Captain Delaney had had little option but to lead his assault uphill.

  Stark and his force were, of course, annihilated to a man, but only after several hours and after inflicting humiliating losses on the attacking side, including the captain himself. Despite eventually seeing the funny side Delaney had pegged Stark for a smart Alec and never let him forget it. His peers had never let him forget it either and on subsequent night-time exercises someone would often cry out, ‘Where’s Stark gone?’ to which others would answer, ‘Sideways again!’ Half of the officers and NCOs he’d had since then seemed to have heard the story. Infamy is not a trait desirable to the enlisted man. All you could do was keep your head down.

  ‘Wow, this is fantastic,’ he said, after one mouthful. Without the OxyContin, his appetite had returned with a vengeance and big, complementary flavours like this were just his kind of food.

  Fran raised an eyebrow at the obvious change of subject. ‘Not too much chilli for you?’

  ‘No, it’s perfect,’ he replied, tucking in.

  ‘I put in what I’d give my three-year-old niece.’

  Stark ate another forkful, murmuring appreciation. ‘You’re a magician! The world should know.’ His flattery coaxed the beginnings of a smile from her. ‘I bet Marcus likes Caribbean food,’ he added sweetly.

  ‘Shut up and eat!’

  Maggs took the stand and stood to attention as he was questioned. He admitted punching Gibbs in the throat, adding only that he had a right to defend himself. He was invited by the defence barrister to say he was defending the girl too, but replied that he’d already told her to run and believed she had. He was accused by the prosecution barrister of a calculated act. Maggs agreed. The punch, he said, had come after Gibbs had stabbed him but he made no attempt to link the two. He had been entirely focused on disarming the boy and, yes, he had known the blow had the capacity, at least, to kill. Stark couldn’t tell what the jury thought.

  ‘Where do you live?’ asked the wigged accuser, conversationally.

  ‘Somewhere dry, quiet and, if possible, warm,’ replied Maggs. ‘Preferably with decent passing trade and pleasing views of the nearest off-licence.’ There were chuckles around the court.

  The barrister smiled too. ‘How long have you lived in this way?’

  ‘Twenty years or so, on and off.’

  ‘Why?’ asked the barrister.

  ‘Because the world has little use for me any more, and I little use for it.’ Again there were chuckles, but Stark began to worry.

  ‘You had heard about the recent attacks on your brethren. Had you discussed or considered what you might do if confronted yourself?’

  ‘Discussed, no, considered, yes.’

  ‘Had you resolved to defend yourself?’

  ‘I’m not the kind who needs to resolve on that.’

  ‘No. Had you then considered the lengths you’d go to, if required?’

  ‘You either defend yourself or you don’t. The lengths depend on your enemy.’

  ‘Your enemy? You considered Kyle Gibbs your enemy?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What about the rest of your attackers?’

  ‘Them too.’

  ‘You broke one boy’s arm, another’s nose?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t kill them. Why not? Weren’t they your enemy too?’

  ‘I’ve said they were.’

  ‘So you disable some and kill others?’

  ‘m’lord!’ The defence barrister shot to his feet. ‘The coroner’s report does not conclude that the blow was fatal. Kyle Gibbs was stabbed to death by Paula Stevens.’

  The prosecution was ready for this. ‘M’lord, as has already been discussed at great length, the report equally does not show that the blow would not have proved fatal and the accused has admitted to knowing it might.’

  Both barristers had made their point; the judge instructed Maggs to respond.

  ‘They weren’t the real threat. I served them out as a deterrent.’

  ‘Why did you not “serve out” Kyle as a deterrent?’

  ‘The other two were his deterrent. He didn’t listen.’

  ‘He didn’t listen. You also claim that you verbally warned the group of your training. What did you say exactly?’

  ‘I said to walk on. I wasn’t a touri
st, I was a paratrooper.’

  ‘None of your alleged attackers have confirmed your warning.’

  ‘Have they confirmed standing by while their mate tried to rape a defenceless slip of a girl?’ retorted Maggs.

  The barrister ignored the question. ‘What do you claim was their response to your warning?’

  ‘They laughed.’

  ‘And that made you angry?’

  ‘I was angry the second I saw that little shite pinning a girl to the ground, fumbling for his dick!’

  ‘The accused will moderate his language,’ warned the judge.

  ‘So you were angry, furious perhaps, demented with rage.’

  ‘M’lord!’ protested the defence.

  ‘Withdrawn, m’lord,’ conceded the prosecution, smoothly. ‘So angry your one thought was to “serve them out”. For insulting you, for what you thought they’d done to other homeless people and what you thought they were trying to do to Paula Stevens.’

  ‘Trying to do?’ spluttered Maggs. ‘They’d done enough –’

  ‘“They’d done enough!”’ interrupted the barrister. ‘They had to be stopped – by any means.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The barrister let this sink in before asking his next question. ‘You display no remorse for the killing?’

  ‘M’lord!’ protested the defence.

  ‘I’ll rephrase the question, m’lord,’ said the prosecution. ‘Mr Maggs, do you regret the death of Kyle Gibbs?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He deserved it, you think?’

  ‘That’s not what I said,’ said Maggs, impatiently.

  ‘Yet it might explain why you made no effort to seek help for the wounded teenager.’

  ‘He was beyond help,’ said Maggs.

  ‘Who are you to make that judgement? Are you a medical professional?’

  ‘I’m a soldier.’

  ‘And once a soldier always a soldier. You can judge when a life has expired, you can “serve out” justice, you decide which youth lives and which dies.’

  ‘Who are you to do better?’ demanded Maggs.

  ‘I wouldn’t presume. I wasn’t there. But you were and you did what you had to do. They had to be stopped by any means necessary, they had to be served out for what they’d done and you were there to do it, to pay them back, to pay everyone back – society, the world, the Argentine junta, the British Army.’

  ‘M’lord …’ tried the defence, desperately.

  ‘I’ve no grudge against the army,’ growled Maggs, visibly angry now. The barrister was winding him up. Stark silently pleaded for Maggs not to bite.

  ‘Your whole life is a grudge! You hate the world, you hate the army!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘They used you up and when you were broken they threw you away like a soiled rag.’

  ‘That was the bloody MoD!’

  ‘Language, sir!’ growled the judge again.

  The prosecution hardly drew breath. ‘Yes, the Ministry of Defence. You hate them too! Your whole life has been about nothing but hate, for thirty years! Why, sir?’

  No, screamed Stark silently, as Maggs leant forward and planted his big fists on the dock.

  ‘Because they fucking lied to us,’ spat Maggs.

  ‘Language, sir!’ barked the judge.

  ‘They wave their precious Military Covenant but it’s just bullshit.’

  ‘Restrain yourself, sir,’ warned the judge.

  Maggs paid no heed. ‘Every year the same news stories of woeful equipment, appalling family accommodation and shameful veteran support – every time met with MoD denials. Then nothing happens till the same story pops up again and everyone acts like it’s some shocking scandal, like it’s news. Where’s the moral fucking outrage?’

  ‘One more profane outburst and I will hold you in contempt!’ shouted the judge.

  ‘You already do!’ yelled Maggs, with a wild look in his eyes. ‘You, the MoD, the sleepwalking public, you “good people of the jury”! You already do! Whining about legality and lack of exit strategy while poor fucks like him are getting blown to hell.’ Maggs jabbed a finger towards Stark.

  ‘Sit down now, sir!’ shouted the judge.

  ‘Bleeding into the sand and mud, watching their mates die begging for help, and for what? For you, you thankless fucks!’

  ‘SIT DOWN NOW!’ bellowed the judge, beet-faced, slamming his leather-bound notes on the desk, gunshot loud. If this were an American courtroom drama he’d be banging his gavel like a man possessed, thought Stark, but contrary to popular belief, British judges didn’t use them. ‘Sit down! This instant! Confine your answers to the questions and not one stray word, do you understand?’

  Maggs glared venomously round the silent, shocked room. ‘Ask yourself, all of you, would you fight for you?’

  ‘You are in contempt, sir!’ ordered the judge.

  Maggs sat down, fuming.

  ‘No further questions, m’lord,’ said the prosecution barrister, smugly, casting a knowing look at the jury.

  Stark’s head dropped into his hands.

  36

  The jury retired to deliberate. Fran spirited Stark through a side door into the judge’s antechamber where Groombridge had arranged to keep him away from the press.

  ‘That didn’t go well,’ said Groombridge, joining them.

  Stark was still shaken. ‘Christ, Guv, I knew he wanted his say but I thought he might’ve been dissuaded since then. I could’ve dissuaded him –’

  ‘He had been, lad. I spoke to his barrister at great length. But the prosecution knew what buttons to press and that’s that.’

  ‘What’ll happen?’

  ‘Not guilty of murder. Guilty of manslaughter with provocation.’

  ‘Really?’

  Groombridge nodded. ‘The CPS knew what they were doing. That’s what they wanted and they’ll get it. The rest is down to the judge.’

  ‘He hasn’t made much of a friend there, Guv,’ commented Fran.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What will he get?’ asked Stark.

  ‘Strictly speaking, with the high degree of provocation including violent assault, he should get no more than three years.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But with military training, lack of remorse, his evident fury …’

  ‘Not to mention contempt of court,’ added Fran.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Was he right?’ asked Fran. ‘Is all that stuff true?’

  Stark sighed. ‘Up to a point.’

  It was too big a conversation for now. The bottom line was that in peacetime people resented paying taxes for defence and, as Maggs himself had said, to the majority of voters modern wars felt no different from peace. The MoD had to prioritize spending, like any other ministry. That didn’t make it any more excusable, just perennial, and Maggs knew the futility of railing against it. Despite thirty years of bitterness, his answer to his own question would always be the same as Stark’s and most other serviceperson’s. Would you fight for you? Perhaps not, but I will.

  Two days later Fran drove out of the back gate of the courthouse, tooting her horn angrily at the photographers who tried to get in the way. ‘Five years, minimum three? For manslaughter with provocation?’ She shook her head for the umpteenth time. ‘While proper villains like Liam Dawson walk scot-free.’

  ‘As you said, Maggs did little to befriend the judge,’ said Groombridge, sadly.

  Through his own dismay Stark was surprised by their sympathy for Maggs’s plight.

  ‘Grounds for appeal, Guv?’ asked Fran.

  ‘I think so, but will Maggs pursue one? What do you think, Stark?’

  ‘I don’t know, Guv. Not for his own sake, it seems. I suppose it depends on whether he’s done making his point.’

  ‘When’s your fifteen minutes?’ asked Groombridge, though surely he knew well enough.

  ‘Wednesday.’

  ‘You ready?’

  ‘No.’ As Pierson seemed to take morbid delight i
n telling him.

  ‘Scared?’

  ‘He’s immune to pain and fear, Guv, you know that,’ said Fran, sarcastically.

  If only, sighed Stark silently.

  On Wednesday Captain Pierson arrived at Stark’s mother’s with two burly Red Caps, Royal Military Police, who made short work of keeping the photographers at bay. Monkey Hangers, regular soldiers called them, shortened to Monkeys, a reference to an infamous incident in Napoleonic Hartlepool; the town’s residents had also suffered and embraced the term. As a policeman Stark shouldn’t have disliked them, but as a soldier it had been the standard sentiment. That little irony did not lift his spirits.

  They drove sedately up the M3 and into Wellington Barracks on Birdcage Walk, where Stark was led into a small, plain room to change into his brand new No. 2 dress uniform. It fitted perfectly even though several weeks of voracious eating had begun to fill him out to something of his former self, but one glaring error sang out.

  Pierson knocked and came in. ‘There,’ she said. ‘I suppose that’s at least made you look halfway a soldier.’

  ‘But this tunic has three stripes,’ pointed out Stark, anxiously.

  ‘You were wearing three on the day so you’ll damn well stand up in three for this.’

  ‘But that isn’t right,’ he insisted.

  ‘That is not for you to say, Acting Sergeant Stark,’ she replied firmly. Stark recognized the tone: pushing his protest would not go well.

  He had to admit Pierson’s tailor had done a grand job, but the crutches spoilt the effect. ‘How about that walking stick?’ he asked, giving ground to attempt a flanking manoeuvre – Acting Sergeant Sideways. Thus far Pierson had taken the same line as his doctors on this topic. Strictly speaking, the rules said no weight-bearing for another week.

  ‘I shan’t ignore common sense and medical advice to soothe your vanity.’

  ‘This isn’t about vanity and you know it.’

  ‘Don’t presume to tell me what I know.’

  ‘If you want me to stand up like a soldier you should let me face this on my own two feet,’ he insisted.