by Hugh Fraser
• • •
Rolling hills give way to flat farmland stretching away for miles on each side of us. The road is dead straight and fast. Pilar switches the radio to a Mexican station and Carlos Santana wrings every last ounce of juice out of Black Magic Woman. The air blowing through the cab smells sweet and the sun sinking over the skyline casts long indolent shadows across the road. We drive on for a couple of hours. A sign tells us that we are approaching Torreon and another one informs us that there is a hotel in five kilometres. I ask Pilar if we have come far enough to stop for the night and still get to El Paso by tomorrow evening. She studies the map and decides that we have.
Another sign directs us to a brown two-storey brick building, set back from the road behind a parking lot. It looks run down and forgotten, among a scattering of warehouses and small factories, on the outer fringe of the town. Neon lettering above the main door flickers in a pathetic attempt to inform us that it is a hotel.
We pull into the parking lot and stop alongside a green van, which is the only vehicle present apart from a couple of mopeds leaning near the front door. Two men are unloading various cases and crates from the van and taking them through the front door of the hotel. We get out of the truck and follow them into a dark hallway. I peer into the gloom and make out a reception desk in a corner. Behind the counter, a small man with a bald head, horn-rimmed glasses with thick lenses and a fishy look, bends over a ledger. As we approach the desk he looks at us with surprise, scans Pilar’s body and speaks to us in a pinched, squeaky voice.
Pilar looks at me and suppresses a giggle.
‘He wants to know if we want rooms,’ she says.
‘He’s more intelligent than he looks,’ I say.
Pilar laughs and says, ‘Best to get two.’
‘Really?’
‘I think so.’
I watch the fish write our names in the register with intense concentration. I look at the wooden crucifix on the wall behind him, and conclude that she is probably right about the rooms. The fish gives us each keys and rings a bell on the counter as Pilar orders some food to be sent up to us. Moments later a bellhop with a smart uniform and a cheeky face appears. After Pilar explains that we have no bags, he takes us upstairs and along a corridor to two adjacent rooms at the far end. He unlocks the rooms and shows them to us, appearing faintly amused by the dilapidated condition of them. He shows us the bath-room next door and lingers for a tip, breaking into a broad grin and skipping off down the stairs when I give him a dollar.
We choose the larger room with its cracked and peeling ochre wallpaper, dark brown upholstery and threadbare, earth coloured carpet. I shake a cloud of dust free from the dark red velvet curtains and open the window to try and clear the fetid air. Pilar flops onto the sagging bed. I go over, lie beside her and put my arms round her. I feel the tension start to drain away as she curls into me and kisses my neck. Just as we are easing into making love, there is a knock at the door. I remember we ordered food and go to the door, pulling up my jeans on the way.
I open the door and find the cheeky bellhop holding a large tray, groaning with tapas, tortillas and bottles and glasses. I step aside and he carries the tray to a table, almost dropping it on the way when he catches sight of the half-naked Pilar pretending to be asleep on the bed. He grins at me and says something I don’t understand. I point at Pilar, mime sunstroke and give him another dollar. I open the door for him and he scampers off obediently.
I pour two glasses of whisky and take one to Pilar. I sit on the bed beside her and we sip our drinks. I stroke the silken skin around her navel while the whisky unlocks a few more tight muscles. I lie down with her and we melt into one another.
We wake at midnight, eat ravenously and then sleep again. I dream that I am standing on the saddle of a motorbike, turning circles in a circus ring. I look down and the bike is balanced on top of an elephant. The elephant is standing on top of a hot air balloon and far below in the basket of the balloon I can see a tiny lady in black waving at me. She pulls a string which sends a flame shooting up into the balloon and the balloon takes off. We float up from the circus ring and the audience roars and I look down at the circus ring getting smaller far below us and I overbalance and fall off the bike and plunge past the elephant and the balloon and the tiny lady tries to catch me as I fall past the basket, but she can’t hold me and I land in the circus ring with a thump.
Pilar is looking down at me over the side of the bed. ‘Are you alright?’
I get to a kneeling position and massage my hip. ‘I think so.’
‘Did I push you out of the bed?’
‘No.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes.’
I sit on the bed and shake away the dream. There is light around the edge of the curtains. Pilar puts her head on my lap and I stroke her hair. She puts her arms round me and kisses my stomach. We roll across the bed and a balm of pure bliss flows over me as I slide my tongue into her.
• • •
I wake and we’re lying beside each other. A breeze is making the velvet curtain stir slightly. The sound of the road, behind a mix of cicadas and birdsong, drifts through the open window.
Pilar lazily traces the muscles of my arm with her finger and says, ‘You are so beautiful and so strong. Like a python.’
I laugh, put my arm round her neck and squeeze. When I loosen my grip, she nuzzles my ear.
‘Take me to England with you,’ she whispers.
I feel a tremor of excitement and I want to squeeze her again until we become one person. I take control of myself and pull back from her a little.
‘I’d love to but …’
‘You have someone?’
‘No.’
‘Then why?’
She lays her hand on my cheek and her imploring eyes almost make me give way.
I turn to face her and say, ‘I only want good things for you.’
‘You are good.’
‘No. I’m not.’
‘I love you.’
‘You deserve better.’
‘What can be better than you?’
‘A life that is honest and free.’
‘We can have that life.’
‘No.’
‘But why?’
‘It’s too late.’
Tears moisten the corners of her eyes. I get up from the bed and go along the corridor to the bathroom. The shower shudders and spits and finally allows a weak trickle of tepid water to escape. I push my fists and forehead into the mildewed tiles and curse everything.
I shower and go back to the room. Pilar is lying face down on the bed. I touch her shoulder and say we should go. She gets off the bed and stands before me, looking so lost and sad.
I take her in my arms and say, ‘I know you’ll be happier in America than you could ever be with me.’
Her face darkens. She pushes me away and says, ‘You are the same as the men but with a smile.’
I’m about to speak but she slaps my face and turns away. ‘Take me to the border.’
We find our clothes, dress in silence and go downstairs to the desk. I ring the bell and our host appears and looks inquiringly at us for a moment as he tries to recollect who we are. Having done so, he applies himself to painstakingly constructing a hand-written bill which he presents to us, as if it were a vital remnant of some precious manuscript. He accepts payment and we bid him goodbye, which seems to confuse him slightly.
The sun is already baking as I pull the truck onto the highway. Pilar sits at the far end of the seat, leaning her head against the window.
26
The screw who’s putting the chains on my legs looks up at me and says, ‘I’m looking forward to giving you a good long body search when we get you back.’
‘You’re so fucking ugly, I bet that’s the only way you can get a feel,’ I say.
She puts her face next to mine and says, ‘I wouldn’t touch scum like you with a fucking barge pole.’
She slams
the door of my cubicle, shouts to the driver and the van moves off.
I’m on the way to the Old Bailey, where I was committed for trial by the Magistrates Court. Harker asked for bail, but there was no chance and I’ve spent the past three months on remand in Holloway. I get a glimpse out of the window of the massive old building, looking like a fortress in the morning mist. It was quite rough in there until I’d fought a couple of the women and got a reputation.
You don’t work if you’re on remand and I had time to get really good at reading. I was doing four books a week after a bit and learning all sorts about history and literature. I got friendly with this older woman who was in for fraud and embezzling; she’s really educated and she showed me how to use a dictionary and told me what was good to read. She knew about lots of things and could talk really well and I decided I was going to try to educate myself and be like her.
Lizzie came to see me when I first went in. As soon as I saw her, I wanted to hold her so badly. I went towards her and she put her arms out to me, but as soon as we touched a screw pulled me away and shouted that she was ending the visit, but Lizzie pleaded with her and told her she’d come all the way from Scotland, and the old bitch gave in. Lizzie told me that Maureen was looking after Georgie and that she was fine and I was glad to hear it. I’d written to Georgie a few times, but she never replied.
Lizzie said that a copper who was one of her regulars told her that Claire had tried to sell some jewellery to a bloke in a club who was off-duty CID, and that she grassed me up for the murder in exchange for immunity for the smash and grab we did. He told her they got some forensics off Sammy’s car and he did the same.
When Lizzie said how she missed me, I wanted to cry but I couldn’t let anyone see my weakness. She looked so soft and beautiful in that horrible ugly place, and I wanted to touch her so much, but then the visit was over and she was saying goodbye and doors were banging and screws were shouting and I was back in my cell and feeling more miserable than ever.
The van stops and the screw opens up and unlocks the chains on my legs. She handcuffs me and I’m taken off the van and into the building. I’m locked in a holding cell, where I can see the screw and the court officers writing forms and such.
• • •
The screw unlocks the door and tells me it’s time. There’s another screw outside the cell and I walk between them along the corridor to the steps at the end and up one flight to a landing. I can hear a lot of people talking as I go up the second flight and suddenly I’m in the dock of the Old Bailey. The talking stops and every head in the room turns towards me.
I look straight ahead and try to breathe slowly. The judge is dead opposite me on his high-backed chair. He’s a little fellow with a pointy chin and a hook nose poking out from under his wig. He looks like an old chicken, peering at me over his round glasses. There’s more men in wigs sitting at the tables in the well of the court between me and the judge. I can see the barrister who’s defending me. His name’s Beevers and I nearly don’t recognise him in his wig. He came to see me in Holloway with my brief. He didn’t say much while Harker was prattling on, but he seemed all right.
A bloke in a wig, sitting directly below the judge, stands up and says, ‘My Lord?’
The judge tells him to proceed and he turns round to me and says, ‘You are Katherine Irene Walker of twenty-two Portland Road, London West Eleven?’
‘Yes,’ I say. My voice is steady, even though my legs are shaking.
He turns to the judge, mumbles something else gets another nod from him and says, ‘Call the jury.’
I reckon he’s the clerk of the court that Harker told me about. A door over in the far corner of the court opens and the jury come in and take their seats. Half are men and half are women and they look like any bunch of people you might see in a pub or on a bus. The clerk hands a Bible to the one on the end of the first row and swears him in. He does the same with the rest and goes back to his seat. He picks up a folder and comes and stands in front of the dock.
He says, ‘Katherine Irene Walker. You stand accused of the murder of Nicholas Bailey on the night of the second of March, nineteen fifty-six. How do you plead?’
‘Not guilty.’
The clerk goes and sits at his desk. The judge is bowed over, writing. I look up to the public gallery above where the jury is. It looks almost full. A few in the front are scribbling in notebooks. I can’t really see the people in the back row, but they look like the Bailey firm up there all in suits and ties. I look for Lizzie but I can’t see her and I wonder why she hasn’t come. She never came back after that one visit and I’m worried that she doesn’t want to know me anymore. The judge is talking to the jury in a high, flutey sort of voice about how they’ve got to decide whether I’m guilty or not from the evidence only, or some such, and not have any doubt about it and then he tells the prosecution to open the case.
The prosecuting barrister’s tall and thin and his gown swirls about him as he walks towards the jury. He pauses in front of them and then he says, ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you see before you a young woman, Katherine Walker, accused of an act of brutal and cold-blooded murder. It is alleged that she shot the man Nicholas Bailey in the head, at point blank range, and made her escape, leaving him for dead. The burden of proof of the indictment rests with the Crown, which I have the honour to represent, and it is my task, in this court, to prove to you beyond all reasonable doubt that Walker is guilty of the crime of murder with which she is charged. To that end, I shall produce witnesses who will testify, under oath, that they saw Walker kill Bailey, heartlessly and of her own free will, on the night in question. When you have heard these witnesses and all the evidence, you must then weigh all elements of the case that the defence will put before you against the case for the prosecution and draw the necessary conclusions.’
He looks at the jury over for a moment then he turns to the judge and says, ‘With your permission, My Lord, I should like to call Claire Welch to give evidence.’
The judge nods and the clerk stands and calls out, ‘Call Claire Welch.’
It gets repeated twice by the ushers and Claire comes in and looks around the court. She’s wearing a light blue poodle skirt and blouse with a black leather belt. She’s got her beehive built up high and she’s wearing more make up then Coco the Clown. She steps up into the witness box and the clerk swears her in. She glances round at me, but won’t meet my eyes.
The prosecuting barrister says, ‘Miss Welch, you were at an illegal drinking club in Walmer Road, Notting Hill, on the night of the second of March, were you not?’
‘Yeah, I was.’
‘Were you accompanied?’
‘I was with my boyfriend.’
‘What is your boyfriend’s name?’
‘Samuel Clark.’
‘Did you see the accused at that club on that night?’
‘I did.’
‘Can you describe what she was wearing?’
‘Black skirt and a white V-neck.’
‘Did you see the accused in the company of Nicholas Bailey?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were they in close proximity?’
‘What?’
‘Were they close to one another?’
‘Snogging, yeah.’
People in the gallery laugh. The judge bangs on his desk and says, ‘Order!’
‘And did you see them leave the club together?’
‘They went out the back door into the yard.’
‘And did you and your boyfriend follow them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps you would be good enough to tell the court what you saw in the back yard of the club?’
‘He had her up against the wall, feeling her up. She had her arms round him, kissing him. He pulls her skirt up and she takes a gun out of her knickers and shoots him.’
There’s a buzz of whispering in the gallery. A couple of the jurors are writing things down.
The prosecuting counsel wait
s a moment and says, ‘And then?’
‘Nick Bailey falls on the floor with blood pouring out of his head and she climbs over the back wall and legs it.’
‘She runs away.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Thank you, Miss Welch.’
The barrister sits down. The judge writes for a bit and then Beevers gets up.
‘Permission to cross-examine the witness, My Lord?’ he says.
The judge nods and he says to Claire, ‘How would you describe the lighting in the club that night?’
Claire looks at him as if she doesn’t understand. ‘I don’t know,’ she says.
‘Bright, medium, dim?’
‘Dim, I suppose.’
‘The lighting in the club was dim.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And what time was it when you went, as you claim you did, into the back yard of the club?’
‘Gone midnight.’
‘And so it was pitch dark outside?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where were Bailey and my client standing?’
‘By the back wall.’
‘And you were standing where?’
‘By the back door.’
‘Was the door shut?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was there anybody else in the yard at that time?’
‘No.’
‘How could you be sure there was no one else there if it was pitch dark?’
‘I don’t think there was.’
‘You don’t think there was?’
‘No.’
‘But you’re not absolutely sure.’
‘No.’
‘Then how can you be sure that you saw my client shoot Nicholas Bailey?’
‘I did see it.’
‘The back yard of number forty-six Walmer Road is sixteen feet wide and eighteen feet long. You are telling the court, under oath, that you were able to identify the accused, with absolute certainty, as the murderer of Nicholas Bailey at a distance of eighteen feet and in complete darkness?’
Claire looks towards the prosecuting counsel, but he’s looking down at his desk. She looks at my barrister and says, ‘I know it was her.’
‘No further questions, My Lord.’