by Robert Edric
They eventually left the boatyard and returned to the compound. The day’s first flakes of thin snow drifted and melted on the windscreen. Only the offside wiper worked, and then only intermittently.
When they arrived home, Maria was waiting for them.
Patrick asked her if anyone had been there during their long absences over the previous few days. No one, she told him.
Devlin examined the few tracks in the barely settling snow. Only the dark lines of their own departure and return stretched to the gateway. In the sky above the road, a flock of starlings drifted like smoke, darkening and thinning as they twisted and turned in the cold air.
The evening forecast on the radio was for a drier, brighter spell. But after that, the wind would come back from the east and bring more bad weather with it.
25
‘WHAT YOU DOING here?’
Devlin had turned a corner in Lynn and walked into his sister. The woman stood at a bus stop with two full bags of shopping at her feet.
‘Nice to see you too,’ he said.
She looked him up and down. ‘That jacket looks as though it’s been slept in,’ she said. ‘And that shirt.’
‘There’s a good reason for that.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to know. You’re back on your uppers.’ She held out her hand, palm up. The sky, which had started dark, had darkened even further in the past hour.
‘It’ll pass,’ Devlin said to her.
‘Most things do. I wanted to get home, that’s all. And now this.’ She made him sound like a wall blocking her way.
Devlin was in Lynn on an errand for Patrick. A man owed Patrick money and had arranged to meet him to pay him, but then something had come up at the last minute and Patrick had been unable to go. It was at times like this that Devlin came in useful, earned his keep, pulled his weight, did his bit. Devlin had come to the town because there was nothing else he could do. He had hoped to meet the man, collect everything Patrick was owed and then return to Maria before the weather took its predicted turn for the worse.
‘You not working, then?’ Ellen said.
‘Not today. Here on a bit of business.’
‘I don’t want to hear about that, either,’ she said.
‘Why not? Not everything I do is’ – he couldn’t think of the word – ‘you know.’
‘Oh, I do know,’ she said. ‘That’s half the problem.’
It seemed in her nature now to behave like this towards him. Or perhaps it wasn’t just him, perhaps it was everybody. With the notable exception of Morris.
‘What about you?’ he said.
She tapped the two bags with her feet. ‘Guess,’ she said.
‘You here with Morris?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s the middle of the day. Morris is where most hard-working, law-abiding, decent men are at this time of day.’
Devlin thought of a cruel and funny answer, but kept it to himself.
‘I daresay,’ he said. He could spend a year throwing rocks at the impregnable Morris and not a single one would chip him.
‘You could at least wear a tie,’ she said.
A tie?
‘What I mean is – you could at least try to appear respectable.’
‘To what end?’
‘What end? I should have thought it was what most men wanted. Especially men—’
‘Like me?’
‘If you’d let me finish, I was going to say men who were hoping for a bit of an upturn in things.’
‘I’ve been hearing about that “upturn in things” ever since I came back from doing my bit for King and country,’ he said, immediately wondering how much she knew for certain.
Duggan wore a shirt and tie, Skelton wore a shirt and tie, Harrap wore a shirt and tie.
‘Yes, well,’ she said. ‘I suppose all good things come to those who wait.’
‘I hope so. Patience being its own reward and all that.’
‘Exactly.’
Every conversation with the woman flowed into the same soggy ground of her marriage. At least Morris would probably argue with him.
A light sleet started to fall and Ellen shuffled the bags closer to her feet.
‘What you got?’ Devlin asked her. He was hungry. When the man paid him, Patrick had said, bring some food back. Watch what you spend, but get something.
‘Just the usual. He’s a creature of habit, Morris. He likes to know what he’s got coming, and when.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘He says routine is important. He tells me he spends all day looking forward to whatever it is he’s got waiting for him when he comes home.’ She smiled at the thought of her husband and his compliments.
‘I can imagine that too,’ Devlin said.
‘No need to make everything sound so … so … Besides, you know where you are with a routine.’
‘A place for everything and everything in its place.’
‘Exactly. See – you do have some half-sensible ideas in your head.’
‘What is it tonight then?’
‘Thursday. Liver and onions.’ She smiled again at the thought of putting the plate of food in front of her husband. ‘Never been particularly keen myself.’
‘I could eat it seven days a week,’ Devlin said. The last hot meal he’d eaten had been four days earlier. Rabbit. Left at the field gate. Friend of Colm’s. Rabbit. He’d thought those days were long gone. Rabbit and potatoes, cooked by Maria. There were always potatoes. Some days there were only potatoes.
His sister looked alarmed at the remark, as though he might be expecting to be invited to share the meal.
‘Don’t worry,’ Devlin told her. ‘I’ve already got plans for tonight.’
She smiled at the word. ‘What sort of plans?’
‘Seeing a few friends, that’s all.’
‘Oh, those sort of plans. I can imagine. So what is it, this bit of business you’re here to do – to transact?’ She was pleased with the swift revision.
‘A man owes one of those friends of mine some money, and I’m here to meet said party and recoup the wherewithal for the other said party.’
She shook her head at this. ‘You want to be careful. You’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself one of these days.’
‘I’m only as sharp as I need to be,’ he said.
‘I doubt that very much. Look at you. People take advantage – they always did. Everybody you meet, everybody you ever knew, they all just look at you and try to work out how to get one over on you, what’s in it for them.’
The blunt remark surprised Devlin and he could think of nothing to rebut it.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said eventually. ‘Besides, it’s dog eat dog in this world. Always has been, always will be.’
She smiled again. ‘You should listen to yourself. The things you come out with. King and country. Honestly.’ She looked over his shoulder and her smile spread. ‘My bus is here,’ she said. ‘I’d like to say it’s been nice bumping into you like this.’
There was no need for the punchline.
He could imagine her telling Morris everything that had happened. And he could imagine Morris chewing carefully on his liver and onions – would there even be bacon in it? – and then telling her he was proud of her.
She picked up her bags and held out her hand. ‘It’s the same driver,’ she said. ‘He lives close to us. Lovely man. His wife’s a trained touch typist, you should see her fingers. They’re going to promote him to inspector soon. She has manicures, in a salon, to keep her nails trimmed and her fingertips smooth.’
She waved to the driver, the handle of her bag at her elbow.
‘I’ll help you on,’ Devlin said.
‘No need.’
He wondered if he should kiss her cheek. She was much happier back in her own world, finally rid of this open door letting in the cold wind.
She climbed aboard and stood in the doorway for a moment, telling the driver h
ow pleased she was to see him. Then she went to the closest seat and sat at the window, her bags beside her. Three or four other women sat further back on the bus.
Devlin waited where he stood.
She looked out at him, wiping the damp from the window with her fingers. She held them there briefly; she might even have been waving at him.
When the bus finally moved off he raised his hand and waved at her.
She watched him but made no further response. Exhaust fumes spread in a cloud across the road in the cold air. He waited until the bus turned a corner and then walked back in the direction he’d come. Another hour to kill until he was due to meet the man who might or might not turn up with some, all, or none of Patrick’s money.
26
A LOUD BANGING on the caravan door woke Devlin where he lay on one of the seats. Maria stood crouched at the sink, pumping water and drinking from the tap. The banging continued and then someone called in for Devlin. Sullivan.
Maria opened the door and looked around the deserted site over Sullivan’s shoulders.
‘What time is it?’ she said.
‘You going to invite me in or what?’ Sullivan said. ‘It’s brass monkeys out here.’ He came inside, screwing up his face, first at the aroma and then at everything he saw. He went to Devlin on the bench. Gesturing at Maria, he said, ‘I didn’t know you were – you know.’
‘Know what?’
‘That you had a lady friend, a bit on the side. You kept that quiet.’ He held out his hand to Maria and she took it. ‘Wake you up, did I?’ he said to Devlin. ‘You need to get yourself up, old chum. Bit of the old spit and polish. This could just turn out to be your lucky day.’
Maria filled the kettle and waited at the sink.
The two men sat at the table.
‘How did you know where to find me?’ Devlin said.
‘I asked about. Why, no big secret, is it?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘I asked in the Oak. Landlord said you hadn’t been back there since a bit of bother you had. He mentioned the gyp— the boys at the fairground and so I took a chance and here I am. A woman in one of the other vans told me which one was yours. This where you been living since the drainage, then?’
Maria came to the table with mugs of tea.
‘Why are you here?’ Devlin said. It was one thing sitting in the bus with the man, avoiding the rain and the sun and the work and enduring his endless moaning at the world, another thing completely having him turn up like this. He wanted to say all this to Maria. Perhaps even to Sullivan.
‘Like I said – it’s your lucky day, old son. They’re recruiting up at the borstal. Three vacancies. I already put in a good word for you. Trouble is, they’re interviewing later today. I’ve been off for a week – bit of a chest. Must be all that outdoor work.’ He slapped his chest and laughed.
‘What sort of a job?’ Maria said.
Sullivan resented this intrusion and he continued looking at Devlin as he spoke.
‘Sort that would suit him down to the ground. He knows what I’m talking about. You got something to wear? Two o’clock kick-off for the interviews. Just the Governor, in all likelihood. You wouldn’t believe the trouble we have filling vacancies in this God-forsaken neck of the woods. Got to keep up numbers, see – ratios, they call it. Believe me, after all I’ve spoon-fed the old man, you’re a shoo-in.’
‘What time is it?’ Devlin asked Maria.
‘Nearly twelve.’
‘Ten to,’ Sullivan said, tapping his watch. He finally sipped at his tea and pulled a face.
‘No sugar,’ Maria said.
‘I can see that. Anyhow, like I said, it’s a two o’clock start and I’ve put your name down. Are we on?’
Devlin exchanged a glance with Maria, who shrugged.
‘What are we waiting for?’ Sullivan said, angry now at Devlin’s lack of enthusiasm or gratitude.
‘It’s just a lot to take in,’ Devlin said.
‘Perhaps you’ve been offered a job running the Bank of England,’ Sullivan said. ‘Thing to remember about the prison work this time of year, it’s mostly indoors, sitting with your feet up, the odd roll call, the odd hour of supervision here and there. It’s not exactly what you’d call hard labour. Not for the likes of you and me, at least.’ He laughed again and this time Devlin smiled. ‘So?’
‘Patrick’s got a funeral suit that would fit,’ Maria said.
‘There you go, then,’ Sullivan said. ‘I came in the motor. Parked up on the road. Didn’t want to risk getting bogged down. Look at the state of my shoes as it is.’
‘Nobody else ever complains,’ Maria said.
‘That’s them,’ Sullivan said. ‘Not me. Besides, your lot – all I’m saying is that some people get used to things quicker than others. No offence.’ He rose from where he sat and clapped his hands together. ‘Come on then, chop chop. No time like the present. Tempus fugit and all that.’
Two hours later, wearing Patrick’s dark brown suit, a clean shirt that felt uncomfortable at his throat, and a tie borrowed from Sullivan, Devlin sat in the Governor’s office and waited for the interview to begin. The last time he’d sat in any office – another prison, as it happened – had been when he was in the Army.
The Governor was overweight and sweated in the warm room. A cast-iron radiator stood at each wall and the heat these gave out was almost visible. It was the warmest Devlin had been for months. The Governor wiped his brow and chins with a handkerchief and every now and again gave a nod to Devlin, who was starting to wonder at the delay.
‘We’re just waiting,’ the man said to him. ‘New rules. We are nowadays obliged to have someone from the Department for Prisons sit in at the interviews. A formality, that’s all. These people come and go. They seldom actually involve themselves in the thing itself. Between you and me, it does them good to imagine they’re keeping their hand in. You’re in luck today – they’ve sent a woman. A Miss’ – he scanned the sheet in front of him – ‘Scott-Dyer. Double-barrelled. I ask you. She arrived just before you. Late train, apparently, and then no taxi. If I’d known when the train was in, I could have sent a car. Expenses, I suppose. She’ll be here any moment. She’s just doing whatever it is women do. Nothing to concern yourself over. I’ve already had the low-down from Officer Sullivan. Said you and him were at the drainage work together. Good man, Sullivan. He tends to get landed with some of our more wayward customers. Firm hand, they appreciate that, and that’s what Sullivan gives them. Some of our newer officers have funny ideas about the place. Most of them are looking to move on from the day they arrive. Not Sullivan.’ He paused, waiting for Devlin to speak.
Devlin wondered at the man’s nervousness.
‘We worked together most of the summer,’ he said.
‘And the fact that your own superiors appointed you liaison officer already speaks volumes in your favour,’ the man said.
It was the first time Devlin had heard the title.
‘I suppose so,’ he said. He was considering what more he might add when the door opened and a woman in a pale grey jacket and skirt and carrying a briefcase came into the room.
Devlin caught a glimpse of the half-dozen other men sitting along the corridor outside, all of them waiting.
The Governor rose and Devlin copied him.
‘Mr Devlin,’ the woman said, holding out her hand to him. ‘I’m Janet Scott-Dyer. I’m here as a representative of the Juvenile Prisoner Licensing Authority. The Governor here will be conducting the interview. I might throw in a few questions of my own, but essentially I’m here to observe due process, and perhaps, should the need arise, though I think it unlikely, to consider any arising matters of regulatory procedure.’
Everything she said knocked Devlin even further off his guard.
She went on, ‘I don’t know if you are aware – and why should you be? – but there are big changes coming in the prison service, and you might say that some of us stuck away in our offices are beg
inning to feel the need to get our hands dirty, so to speak, to see how things actually work at the sharp end of things.’ Her tight smile was gone as quickly as it had come.
‘I see,’ Devlin said. Already it was much more than Sullivan had led him to believe it would be. Process. Licensing. Regulatory. It was a foreign language to Devlin. More than that – it was the foreign language of a hostile country.
Before Devlin could say more, Janet Scott-Dyer went and sat beside the Governor. She opened her briefcase and took out several files and laid them on the desk in front of her. The Governor pushed away some of the desk’s clutter to make way for these.
‘Shall we start?’ she said. Another quick smile. ‘As I say, please ignore me.’ She opened the uppermost file and Devlin was relieved to see that it contained only blank paper. She took a fountain pen from her inside pocket, unscrewed its cap and sat ready to write.
‘Mr Devlin comes highly recommended by one of my own officers,’ the Governor said. ‘Been with us almost twenty years.’
‘And he is …?’ Janet Scott-Dyer said.
‘Dan – Daniel Sullivan.’
She wrote the name on the empty sheet and both Devlin and the Governor watched and waited.
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘Perhaps you might care to tell us something about yourself,’ the Governor said to Devlin. ‘A bit of background, say, what it is that makes you think you’d be suitable for the work.’