Judge Walden

by Peter Murphy

  Another shake of the head. ‘No. It’s something I’ve just got to say.’

  Ruth looks at me doubtfully. But there’s nothing I can do. I can’t stop the man talking if he’s determined to do so. If I had a jury, perhaps, but not in this case.

  ‘I’ll allow both sides to ask any further questions once we’re back in court,’ I assure her. She nods.

  ‘Do you feel up to it?’ Gwendolyn asks.

  ‘Yes.’ He glances at all of us in turn. ‘I was just a little boy during the war,’ he begins, ‘so my memory of that time isn’t perfect. But I do remember my father and my grandfather digging for victory, and there were other men from the village, older men who weren’t away fighting, and the women too, of course, who helped them. I remember that very clearly. But there’s something else that went on here, too, something I’ve had dreams about all my life: and now it’s coming back to me.’ He pauses.

  ‘Go on,’ Ruth says encouragingly.

  ‘Well, like I said in my court statement, my dad wasn’t able to go to fight – he did try, you know, but they rejected him on medical grounds. So he volunteered for the Civil Defence and the Home Guard. There wasn’t very much of that going on in the smaller villages, not as much as there should have been. We relied more on Cambridge and the bigger towns like Ramsey. In Lower Wattage it was my dad and two older men, Ken Baker and Ed Woodward – both dead a long time now – and my dad was in charge, being the youngest, I suppose. This is how I remember it – he didn’t talk about it much after the war.’

  We all nod. He takes a few more sips of water.

  ‘But one thing I remember, or think I remember, is the sticky bombs.’

  ‘The what?’ Ruth asks after a prolonged silence.

  ‘The sticky bombs. An officer in uniform from Cambridge brought them for my dad. He said he was taking them to the Home Guard in all the towns and villages, and he explained to my dad how they were supposed to use them.’

  ‘Archie,’ Ruth asks, ‘what…are… sticky bombs, exactly?’

  ‘They were, like, magnetic bombs – well more like hand grenades, really, except they were magnetic – but we always called them sticky bombs. The idea was: when the German tanks arrived, we were supposed to rush out into the street, pull the pin out, put the bomb on the tank, and run away again, so it would go off before they could remove it. How you were supposed to do that without getting yourself shot, no one ever explained; but that was the idea, apparently.’

  There is silence for some time, as those present begin to digest the significance of this morsel of Home Guard history.

  ‘Mr Barratt,’ I say in due course, ‘history records that the German tanks didn’t make it quite as far as Lower Wattage, doesn’t it? So after the war, did an officer come from Cambridge to collect the sticky bombs and take them away again?’

  ‘No, sir. That’s the point. My dad didn’t feel he could keep them in the house or even out in the garden – you know, I was running around there all the time, and my cousins would come to see us, and our friends from school. It would have been too dangerous. So – and this is the part I’m a bit vague on – but it came back to me just now that, once the threat of an invasion had passed, he and Ken Baker buried them here on the Middle Plot, to keep them safe. And then the war ended, and I don’t know whether he asked Cambridge to send someone to dig them up again, or whether he just forgot about them.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Gwendolyn says. She sits down abruptly on the bench next to Archie. She looks a bit pale.

  ‘I don’t remember anyone digging them up. Of course, I could have been at school when it happened. But I don’t remember anyone saying anything about it.’

  ‘This is complete nonsense…’ Andrew Pearce protests.

  But Anand already has his phone out. ‘Mr Barratt, do you have any idea exactly where they may be buried, and roughly how many of them there are?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘The memory came back while I was standing down there, so I think it might be down there somewhere. It wouldn’t have been near where we were planting, so I would say, down that way, nearer to the street. And as to how many – I remember seeing them laid out on the table in our living room when the officer unloaded them from the box. There might have been ten, something like that.’

  Anand has tapped a number into his phone. Judging by the speed with which his call is answered, he’s called 999. Of course, I realise belatedly, he will have been through drills for all kinds of emergencies at court any number of times, including full-scale building evacuations. He’s used to taking charge in this kind of situation, even if an outdoor location is rather unusual for a courtroom setting, and if anything, the evacuation is on a far smaller scale than he’s used to.

  ‘Police… yes, I’m in Lower Wattage… W-A-T-T-A-G-E, a street called The Ramblings… R-A… yes, that’s right, and I’ve just been alerted to the possible presence of unexploded World War Two ordnance… yes, that’s exactly what I said… a bomb, yes… well, possibly more than one, actually, it could be as many as ten… my name is Anand Gupta… G-U-P-T-A… could you expedite this, please? Yes, I will hold the line…’

  He turns to me. ‘Judge, I’d like everybody to make their way off the Middle Plot in an orderly fashion and convene in the Black Bull.’

  ‘There’s no need for all that, surely,’ Andrew Pearce protests. ‘There can’t be any danger. Even assuming that there ever were any sticky bombs, or whatever you call them, buried here – which, I must say, I rather doubt – they’ve been here for at least sixty years, haven’t they, with children jumping up and down, playing football and cricket all over the place? If they were going to explode, they would have done it by now, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Ordnance can deteriorate over time, Mr Pearce,’ Anand replies. ‘I’d prefer not to take any chances. In any case, the police will probably insist on evacuating the area so that the bomb squad can take a look.’

  ‘Anand is right,’ I say with as much authority as I can muster. ‘Let’s exit top right, up by the vegetable patches. From what Mr Barratt has told us, there shouldn’t be anything in that area.’

  I lead the way at a measured pace, the Pearces following behind me with an ill grace – as if to indicate that in their view, we are all falling victim to some desperate confidence trick on the part of Archie Barratt – and with Molly, doing a passable imitation of a border collie, shepherding the others into line behind them. We make a wide trajectory taking us to the right of the Old Rectory, and then turn towards the street. As we reach the street, I inform our limo driver of the situation, and advise him to remove the car to a place of safety, preferably the car park of the Black Bull. He sets off immediately. I turn back towards Anand.

  ‘No need to stand there, Anand,’ I say. ‘The police will find us. Come away.’

  But he’s talking on the phone, and as we reach the door of the Black Bull the sound of a single siren and the flashing of blue lights announce the arrival of the first police response in the form of the local bobby. I look at my watch: almost twelve already. It’s a slightly ridiculous formality in the circumstances, but it’s time to declare that the Court has decided to take an early lunch. Work is effectively over for the morning, anyway – the view has come to an abrupt end for now – and it doesn’t take me long to see that the odds on any further case-related work being done today are getting longer by the minute. I make the announcement about lunch accordingly. The parties and their lawyers commandeer separate tables on opposite sides of the bar. Molly is explaining the situation to Dennis, who is alarmed at first, but when Molly explains that there is no threat to the Black Bull, recovers admirably and starts taking orders for coffee, soft drinks and sandwiches. I order coffee and a Cheddar and pickle sandwich; I have my eye on the bar, but it will have to wait until later.

  I call Marjorie, who is in chambers receiving periodic reports on the progress o
f the repair work going on at the front entrance. All is quiet, she tells me. Apparently word of Chummy’s miraculous recovery has spread, and the police haven’t detected any enthusiasm among his mates – a number of whom are in any case in custody, facing serious public order and explosives charges – for a repetition of the events of yesterday. All the same, DI Derbyshire isn’t ready to release Legless from her protection just yet – she’s planning on keeping him in her clutches until the end of the week, just in case. But all in all, everything seems to be under control. Stella is hard at work revamping the list for the next few weeks, and Marjorie thinks she may be able to list a few urgent bail applications tomorrow, and perhaps some guilty pleas and sentences on Thursday and Friday, so that the week isn’t a complete write-off. She asks me what I’m doing.

  ‘Funny you should ask,’ I reply. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m in the Black Bull pub in Lower Wattage with the parties and their lawyers, hiding from some explosive devices.’

  She laughs hysterically, and rings off.

  * * *

  Tuesday afternoon

  Just after one o’clock, a uniformed police inspector arrives, accompanied by a sergeant and by Anand, for whom Molly has thoughtfully ordered a ginger ale and a vegetable wrap.

  ‘Inspector Jeffrey Whittaker, from Cambridge, my Lord. I just wanted to give you an update on what’s happening out there, and I must say I’m grateful to Mr Gupta here for his help.’

  ‘My pleasure, Inspector,’ Anand replies, taking a grateful gulp of his ginger ale.

  ‘We’ve got officers from the bomb squad on the way from RAF Alconbury, sir, ETA one thirty. My lads have evacuated the houses opposite the Pearce and Barratt residences, just to make sure, and the occupants have been advised that they won’t be allowed back until the Middle Plot has been thoroughly inspected.’

  ‘How long is that likely to take?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s impossible to say, sir, until the bomb squad boys know what they’re dealing with. If you want my honest opinion, it could be a long afternoon. I would settle in for the long haul if I were you, make yourself comfortable.’ He grins. ‘Look on the bright side, sir. It could be worse: there are lot of less comfortable places you could be holed up in.’

  I have to agree.

  The leader of the bomb squad team, an amiable young lieutenant by the name of Jonathan Dawson, calls to pay his respects just after two o’clock. Everyone leaves the refuge of their separate tables to gather around – they all want to hear this.

  ‘My team are running the metal detector over the entire area now, sir,’ Lieutenant Dawson assures us. ‘I say “metal detector”, but obviously it’s a bit more sophisticated than the version people use to search for old coins and the like. Actually, it’s more like clearing a minefield.’ This causes a couple of gasps and sharp intakes of breath among those assembled. ‘Don’t worry,’ he adds quickly. ‘We’re taking every precaution. We’re going to be very careful, but if there’s anything there, we’ll find it. ’

  ‘And then what?’ I ask.

  ‘If there’s anything there, sir, we’re going to dig the blighters up one at a time. We’ll make an assessment of their condition. If they’re stable, meaning they’re not about to blow, we’ll remove them back to base and detonate them remotely under safe conditions.’

  ‘What if they are about to blow?’

  ‘Well, sir… then we might have to detonate them in situ. That’s why no one can return home just yet. I don’t know how long it’s all going to take, to be honest. We have a couple of very powerful arc lights on the way, so we can continue work after dark if necessary. We’re not going to leave these things where they could cause harm a minute longer than we have to, believe you me; and at least we have one major advantage in this situation.’

  ‘What might that be?’ I ask.

  He grins. ‘Well, they’re ours, sir, aren’t they? Usually when we come across ordnance of this vintage, it’s German, and before we can do anything else we have to identify the type and work out how it’s made; and often the markings have faded and they’re all in German anyway. But these will be ours, and we should have a blueprint on its way to my phone less than a minute after we’ve dug the first one up.’

  A soldier opens the door and puts his head inside.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir,’ he says, ‘but you need to see this.’

  ‘Do excuse me,’ Lieutenant Dawson says. ‘Duty calls. Further update as soon as I can.’

  It’s after three by the time we are given the further update. Lieutenant Dawson is in company with the soldier who put his head around the door earlier, and he’s cradling, with obvious care, an almost spherical silver metallic object lying in his gloved hands on top of what looks like a filthy old towel. Once again, everyone gathers round. He spots Archie, who’s standing to his left, next to Ruth.

  ‘You would be Mr Barratt, would you, sir?’

  ‘Yes. I would.’

  He grins. ‘Recognise this, by any chance, sir?’

  Archie looks closely, and backs away rather quickly. ‘Oh, my God. That’s one of them. That’s one of the sticky bombs.’ This causes a general movement away from the door.

  ‘It’s all right,’ the Lieutenant assures us. ‘It’s completely stable. The pins are in as tight as the day it left the production line. I just wanted to show you. Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to anti-tank hand grenade Number 74, more commonly known as the “sticky bomb”, issued to the Home Guard for use against enemy tanks in the event of an invasion. There are actually two pins in place, one to release the sticky core from the outer casing, and one to activate the device. The core is a glass sphere filled with nitroglycerin – very nasty potentially.’ He looks directly at Archie. ‘But I’m glad your father never had to use one of these, sir. I know I wouldn’t want to.’

  ‘Oh? Why is that, then?’ Archie asks.

  ‘Well, for one thing, even if you could get near enough to the tank to plant it, it might not stick if the tank was dirty and muddy, as they usually are. The only reliable method of getting it to do real damage would be to climb up and throw it into the interior of the tank, in which case the explosion would almost certainly kill you as well as the crew. Also, it had a nasty habit of sticking to your clothing instead of the tank if you weren’t careful what you were doing: and obviously, that wasn’t good. Apparently the government advertised sticky bombs to the public with the slogan, “At least you can take one with you”. Not the most inviting call to action, if you ask me, but I suppose those were different times.’

  ‘My dad would have taken his chances,’ Archie insists.

  ‘I’m sure he would have, sir,’ Lieutenant Dawson agrees at once. ‘And that’s not all we have to thank your father for. It’s down to him that they’ve lain there all these years without blowing.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He kept them in good nick for us by wrapping them up in these oilskins before he buried them. The oilskins help to keep the dirt and moisture out. It’s thanks to him this one’s not going to hurt anybody.’

  ‘This one? So there are more, Lieutenant?’ Anand asks tentatively.

  The Lieutenant nods. ‘We think there are twelve altogether. That’s what the machine is indicating, and if so it’s going to take us a while to dig them all out. But if they’re all in the same good nick as this one, we will be able to bring them up safely. Anyway, I should get back, but I wanted to show you this. It seems that Mr Barratt’s memory is completely accurate, and we’re certainly glad that you remembered about these little blighters, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure we all are,’ I add, with a pointed look in the direction of Andrew Pearce, who nods towards Archie, though not as graciously as one might have hoped. They return to their respective tables.

  Lunchtime turns into very late afternoon, with no further updates. But as dusk begins to settle we can see the arc lights casting th
eir bright light down on the Middle Plot, and from the movement of the dark figures around the excavator and the occasional shouted instructions we know that the delicate work is continuing. Oddly, despite the police cordon around quite a stretch of The Ramblings and the evacuation of a handful of residents, the population of Lower Wattage seems to be taking the day’s excitement in its stride, and a good number of locals have joined us in the Black Bull to partake of their usual pints, as if there were nothing out of the ordinary going on. Just before six o’clock, bowing to the inevitable, I declare court to be adjourned for the day and advise everyone that they are now free to drink whatever they want. Leading by example, I order a pint of Abbot for myself, a vodka and coke for Molly, and another ginger ale for Anand, who, he intimates, doesn’t do alcohol. The Pearce and Barratt camps make their own separate ways to the bar to follow suit.

  By eight o’clock I’m on the phone, chatting happily away with Marjorie, who in contrast to yesterday evening is relaxing at home with her feet up and a gin and tonic close to hand. The atmosphere in the bar of the Black Bull has also become considerably more relaxed, and there has even been a little tentative cross-table contact between the parties in my case – until Lieutenant Dawson suddenly returns, looking rather more serious than hitherto. He has with him a soldier carrying a walkie-talkie.

  ‘Right, everyone,’ he says, raising his voice against the din in the bar, ‘if I could have your attention, please: just to let you know, we’ve removed ten of the devices without any problem – they’re very stable and not presenting any threat. However, the remaining two are buried very close together and one is showing signs of serious deterioration. The outside pin is highly unstable, and we don’t think it would be safe to try to remove it. Unfortunately, this leaves us with no alternative but to detonate it in situ. When we do it will also set off the twelfth device, so there will be a rather big bang, and, I’m afraid, some damage to the frontages of the houses, especially those on that side of the street. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do. Stand by.’