Harm

by Hugh Fraser

  Claire leaves the witness box and Sammy’s called. He’s in his best grey drape with a bootlace tie and blue brothel creepers. He stands in the box, gets sworn in and gives the prosecution the exact same story as Claire. My man has a go at him about whether he could see it was me in the dark, but Sammy says there was the light coming from the back window of the club and he could see me easily.

  Dave’s next up and he says he was standing near the back door and he ran out into the yard when he heard the shot and saw Nick lying there and me climbing over the wall. The defence council tries to catch him on if he could be sure it was me because of what I was wearing, but he gets it right.

  The judge adjourns the case until tomorrow and I get taken down to the cell. I sit on the bed feeling like I’ve been kicked in the guts. The screw brings a tray of food in and gives it to me, but I throw it on the floor and lie face down on the bed. I want to smash Claire and Sammy into little pieces and stamp them into the ground. I don’t expect much from Dave, who’s a cringing little ratbag anyway, but I’d never have thought Claire would do this to me. My best fucking mate! I’ve known her since we were two! That bastard Davis probably threatened her with half a dozen other charges and twenty years inside.

  I’m grinding the heel of my hand into the wall when the door’s unlocked and Harker comes in. He sits at the table and says, ‘It’s looking rather bleak, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

  He opens his briefcase and takes out his notes.

  ‘The prosecution have you identified at the scene by three witnesses, but ideally they’ll want motive as well if they can get it. We have a modicum of doubt over visibility by witnesses, but it’s not much.’

  ‘What happens next?’ I say.

  ‘The prosecution have just disclosed that they are calling another witness tomorrow.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Maureen Welch.’

  • • •

  I spend most of the night prowling round the cell and wondering what Maureen’s going to say. I’m praying she’s going to help me, but the prosecution have called her and I know she won’t. When she goes into the witness box the next day, she’s dressed in a new dark green coat and hat and she looks nervous. She’s gripping her handbag in front of her with both hands as if she’s expecting someone to grab it off her at any moment.

  She gets sworn in and the prosecuting counsel says, ‘You are Maureen Welch, the mother of Claire Welch?’

  She opens her mouth but nothing comes out. She coughs a bit, clears her throat and says, ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You need not address me as sir, Mrs Welch, a simple answer will do.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  ‘That is perfectly all right, Mrs Welch. Now. You are presently living at the same address as the accused?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But at the time of the murder you were not. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you were living close by and were in regular contact with the accused?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did the accused ever talk to you about the murder of Nicholas Bailey, either before or after the murder took place?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Before or after?’

  ‘After.’

  ‘Will you please tell the court what she said?’

  ‘She told me she’d done it.’

  ‘The accused told you that she had murdered Nicholas Bailey.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Welch.’

  The prosecutor takes a look at the jury and sits down. Maureen turns and walks down the steps of the witness box.

  The judge says, ‘Wait please!’

  She stops and looks him. Her face is red and she looks like she’s going to cry.

  He says, ‘Kindly remain in the witness box. Defence Counsel may have some questions for you.’

  Beevers stands and says, ‘Indeed I do, My Lord.’

  The judge nods to Beevers and looks down at his papers. Maureen goes back in the witness box.

  Beevers smiles at her and says, ‘Would you like a glass of water, Mrs Welch?’

  Maureen says, ‘I would, please.’

  Everyone waits while one of the ushers comes forward with a glass of water and I can see her hand shaking as she takes it. She takes a few sips and seems to calm down a bit. The usher takes the glass from her.

  Beevers says, ‘Just a few questions, Mrs Welch.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says.

  Beevers gives her another smile and says, ‘How would you describe your relationship with the accused?’

  ‘I don’t really …’

  ‘Were you close?’

  ‘I suppose, yes.’

  ‘Did the conversation regarding the murder, which you spoke about to my learned friend, take place before or after the recent death of the accused’s younger brother?’

  ‘After.’

  ‘Soon after his death?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was the accused distressed by her bereavement?

  ‘She was.’

  ‘And were you able to comfort her over her loss?’

  Maureen starts to cry and looks away. She reaches into her handbag for a handkerchief. She puts it to her eyes and leans on the edge of the witness box.

  Beevers waits a moment and says, ‘Was it whilst you were comforting her over the loss of her brother that she told you she had killed Bailey?’

  Maureen nods.

  Beevers says, ‘I’m afraid you have to answer the question, Mrs Welch.’

  She’s still sobbing but she says, ‘Yes.’

  Beevers goes close to her and almost whispers, ‘Why did she do it?’

  ‘Because …’

  She puts her handkerchief to her mouth to stop herself. The court goes quiet.

  Beevers waits a moment and says, ‘Because what, Mrs Welch?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Beevers stands back and his voice rises as he says, ‘I think you do know and I must remind you that you are in a court of law and that you have sworn to tell this court the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth and that it is a criminal offence to withhold any information that may have a bearing on the case.’

  Maureen’s shaking now and she’s gone deathly pale. He’s up close and glaring up at her.

  ‘I ask you again. Do you know why she did it?’

  She holds his look for a few moments. Very quietly, she says, ‘He forced her.’

  ‘Who forced her, Mrs Welch?’

  ‘Dave Preston.’

  ‘And why did he force her?’

  Maureen buries her face in her handkerchief. Beevers shouts at her, ‘Answer the question!’

  ‘Objection!’ says the prosecuting counsel.

  ‘Mr Beevers!’ says the judge.

  Beevers goes close to her again and says quietly, ‘Why, Mrs Welch?’

  She sways against the side of the witness box and she’s breathless and pale.

  ‘Because he was scared to do it himself.’ Then her legs give way and she passes out.

  • • •

  After they’ve brought her round and helped her out of the witness box, the court is adjourned and I’m put back in the cell. After a while, Harker and Beevers come in.

  Harker’s all excited. He’s pacing up and down saying, ‘We have duress! We have duress!’

  Beevers sits at the table and says, ‘Sit down, Jeffrey.’

  He turns to me and says, ‘If we can prove that Preston forced you to commit the murder or intimidated you in some way, we may be able to get the charge reduced to manslaughter. But we are a long way from doing so, as things stand.’

  Harker sits down, takes out his notebook and his pen and says, ‘In the light of this development, is there anything you can tell us that could help us to prove that you acted under duress?’

  I reckon that anything I tell them could lead back to me killing Johnny, so I don’t speak.

&nb
sp; Harker’s waiting, tapping his fingers on the table.

  ‘You must realise that you are now in a position to help yourself,’ he says.

  He goes on tapping and looking at me, but I stay quiet.

  He says, ‘The prosecution will petition the judge to be allowed to recall Preston to give him the opportunity to rebut the allegation. If he does so, and we have no means of corroborating it, then you are looking at a very long prison sentence indeed. Are you sure there is nothing you can tell us that will support the accusation that Preston forced you to commit the murder?’

  I look at the floor and shake my head. He snorts in anger, shoves his notebook in his briefcase, snaps it shut, bangs on the door and they leave. A screw comes in and gives me a bowl of soup and a chunk of bread. I sit on the bunk, dip the bread into the soup and chew a bit. It tastes of old socks.

  An hour later, I’m taken back into court. There’s a lot of talking at the desks below me and in the public gallery. The clerk tells everyone to rise and the judge comes in. The court settles and Dave’s called to the witness box.

  The clerk swears him in and then the prosecuting barrister says to him, ‘Do you know the accused well, Mr Preston?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know her family?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And yet when you saw her in the club in Walmer Road you knew who she was, did you not?’

  ‘I’ve seen her about.’

  ‘You both live in the same neighbourhood and you know her name and who she is, but you do not know her well. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you encourage or in any way coerce or force the accused to murder Nicholas Bailey?’

  ‘No.’

  There’s a shuffling sound up in the public gallery. I look up and see some of the Bailey firm near the door shifting along the back row. George Preston comes in and sits at the end of the row. Dave looks up and sees his father, staring down at him.

  The prosecuting counsel says, ‘It has been alleged in this court that you forced the accused to kill Bailey because you lacked the courage to do so yourself. Is that true?’

  Dave’s still looking at his father.

  The prosecuting counsel says, ‘Is that true, Mr Preston?’

  Dave’s eyes harden and he straightens his shoulders. He looks at the barrister and says, ‘No. I done him myself.’

  There’s a moment’s hush and then everyone’s talking at once. The judge bangs on the desk and shouts, ‘Silence in court!’

  It goes quiet and the judge says to Dave, ‘Mr Preston. Are you admitting, before this court, to the murder of Nicholas Bailey?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Dave.

  The judge writes something down, bangs his hammer down and calls for silence again.

  Without looking up, he says, ‘Take him down.’

  Two ushers escort Dave out of the witness box and through a door at the back of the court.

  The judge turns to me and says, ‘Miss Walker, you are free to go.’

  • • •

  Downstairs, they try to take me back to Holloway to get my bits and pieces, but I tell them to get stuffed and walk out. I go along Old Bailey and turn into Newgate Street. The sun’s shining and the air’s fresh and people are coming and going. I feel like I’m light as a feather and on top of the world and even the cars and the buses look fresh and new. Then I hear my name called and I turn round. Lizzie’s standing there and I run to her and throw my arms around her and we’re laughing and kissing. People are staring at us and so we quieten down and lean against the wall of a bank and she’s smiling her gorgeous smile and squeezing my hands in hers and we don’t even need words.

  After a while, she looks at her watch.

  ‘I’ve got to go, love. I’m late for a client at the Dorchester. Will you come to mine later?’ she says.

  I nod and kiss her again, then I watch her hail a cab and jump in it. I’m so excited I feel like I’m going to fly up in the air, so I go into a pub and order a whisky to calm me down, only then I remember I’ve got no money.

  Just as I’m telling the barmaid to leave it, a voice behind me says, ‘I’ll get that for you, Rina.’

  I turn round. It’s George Preston and two of his firm and suddenly I’m back on the ground with a bump. I move back against the bar and they stand round me.

  George says to the boys, ‘Wait in the car.’

  He buys two large whiskies and nods to a table at the back of the pub. He sits down opposite me, takes a drink and looks at me for a bit.

  Then he says, ‘He was always a stupid little cunt.’ I can’t help smiling.

  He says, ‘Still, he done the right thing in the end.’

  He leans forward, puts his arms on the table and looks into my eyes like he can see right into me. I know he’s as hard as they come, but I don’t feel scared. I look into his cruel eyes and say nothing, but I’m starting to get the feeling of how my life’s going to be.

  He sits back, takes a drink and has a look round the pub, then he smiles at me.

  ‘I’ve got a bit of work for you.’

  27

  The road is straight and fast. The truck muscles along through the flat scrublands. After a few hours, I stop at a roadside food stand on the edge of Torreon. I go to Pilar’s window with a peace-offering of burrito and coffee. She takes the coffee and allows me the trace of a smile. When we’ve eaten and started moving, she slides across the seat and sits next to me with her hand on my knee. I feel greatly relieved and able to turn the self-loathing down to a tolerable level. I let the road hypnotise me and we make good time. I switch on the radio hoping for more Santana, but have to settle for Pilar’s choice of Ritchie Valen’s nasal heartache. Eight hours later, after another fuel stop, we leave the scorched desert and blend into the light traffic on Highway 45 into Ciudad Juárez, the border-crossing town on the Mexican side next to El Paso, where Pilar wants me to leave her.

  I have three hours before I have to meet Lee. As we near the centre of town, I turn off the main road into an alleyway between two tall buildings where I can park. I kill the motor, find the piece of paper Rodrigo gave me and check the location of the rendezvous at the filling station on Alameda Avenue and Prado Street, where Lee will be waiting. I need a street guide so that I can find the nearest crossing point. Pilar walks to a shop and comes back with a street guide of Juárez and another of El Paso. Between the guide and the map, I can see that Highway 45 continues through town to the crossing point at the Bridge of the Americas. From there it is probably a half hour drive to Alameda Avenue and the filling station on the corner of Prado.

  Pilar is turned away, looking out of the window.

  Knowing that it is almost time to part, I say, ‘We have some time. Shall we find a bar?’

  ‘They do not allow women in a cantina.’

  ‘A café?’

  She turns to me and tears well up in her eyes. She looks so very frail and vulnerable and I know that I love her.

  She says, ‘I am sorry for what I said.’

  ‘I know.’

  After a moment she dries her eyes and smooths down her hair. ‘I should go now.’

  ‘Wait.’

  I move over to her and put my arm round her. ‘Do you know anyone here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Will you be OK?’

  ‘I think so.’

  I want to speak, but can’t find words. She reaches for the door handle. I try to let her go, but I can’t. She relaxes and curls into me and we kiss deeply, clinging to each other. I feel her pulling away from me and opening the door. I watch her walk away down the alleyway and then she turns the corner and is gone.

  I back the truck onto the main road and drive towards the border. I stop at traffic lights, punch the steering wheel and batter my fists against the roof of the cab until I notice a military jeep full of soldiers nearby, and content myself with gouging my finger into the spider bite on my ankle to force back the darkness.

  In the ce
ntre of town I park on a main street and buy a suitcase and some clothes, in case of a search by customs, and a roll of duct tape. I find a quiet street and tape the Colt to the top edge of a chassis member. I follow signs to El Paso and soon I am waiting in the queue for one of the check points at the border. Vendors weave in and out of the cars offering peanuts, corn on the cob and all kinds of fruit. I buy a couple of oranges and peel one as we creep towards the Mexican border post.

  Customs men lean out of windows and check papers. Some of the trucks get a cursory search, but mostly people are let through quickly. I get to the window and show Caroline’s passport to the official. He glances at it and waves me through. I proceed to the American post and an obese and mean-looking American customs man studies the passport and then casually searches the truck and the suitcase. He comes up empty, stamps the passport, gives me a look of mild revulsion and admits me to the United States of America. I leave the bridge and drive into El Paso feeling very alone.

  I consult the street guide and make my way to Alameda Avenue. I stop at an intersection while a girl in a wheelchair is pushed across the road in front of me, and I think of Georgie and wonder where the hell she could have gone. I drive south east, roughly parallel with the border, on a wide two-lane road, flanked by a mix of lowline blocks of houses, factory yards and container depots, interlaced with trees and patches of open wasteland.

  It’s just past eight o’clock when I reach the junction with Prado Street. I see the filling station on the corner and a small blue car parked behind a tanker at the back of the forecourt next to a tall wire fence. I can see Lee’s blond head leaning against the door pillar. I drive in and park alongside him.

  He winds down the window and says, ‘Great timing. How are you?’

  ‘Ready to go home.’

  ‘That’s what we’re here for.’

  ‘Everything cool?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He gets out of the car, goes to the boot, takes out a leather briefcase, walks round the back of the truck and gets into the cab beside me. He opens the briefcase, lifts the lid to show me it is full of dollar bills and snaps it shut again.

  ‘Nice briefcase,’ I say.

  ‘He appreciates a touch of class.’

  ‘Is that a million?’

  ‘In a way, yes, in another way, no.’