by Clive Barker
Cleve said, "There used to be a hanging shed, I think."
Again, silence; and then another enquiry, dropped as lightly as the boy could contrive. "Is it still standing?" "The shed? I don't know. They don't hang people any more, Billy, or hadn't you heard?" There was no reply from below. "What's it to you, anyhow?"
"Just curious."
Billy was right; curious he was. So odd, with his vacant stares and his solitary manner, that most of the men kept clear of him. Only Lowell took any interest in him, and his motives for that were unequivocal. "You want to lend me your lady for the afternoon?" he asked Cleve while they waited in line for breakfast. Tait, who stood within earshot, said nothing; neither did Cleve.
"You hear me? I asked you a question."
"I heard. You leave him alone."
"Share and share alike," Lowell said. "I can do you some favours. We can work something out." "He's not available."
"Well, why don't I ask him?" Lowell said, grinning through his beard. "What do you say, baby?" Tait looked round at Lowell.
"I say no thank you."
"No thank you," Lowell said, and gave Cleve a second smile, this quite without humour. "You've got him well trained. Does he sit up and beg, too?"
Take a walk, Lowell," Cleve replied. "He's not available and that's all there is to it."
"You can't keep your eyes on him every minute of the day," Lowell pointed out. "Sooner or later he's going to have to stand on his own two feet. Unless he's better kneeling."
The innuendo won a guffaw from Lowell's cell-mate, Nayler. Neither were men Cleve would have willingly faced in a free-for-all, but his skills as a bluffer were honed razor-sharp, and he used them now.
"You don't want to trouble yourself," he told Lowell, “you can only cover so many scars with a beard." Lowell looked at Cleve, all humour fled. He clearly couldn't distinguish the truth from bluff, and equally clearly wasn't willing to put his neck on the line.
"Just don't look the other way." he said, and said no more.
The encounter at breakfast wasn't mentioned until that night, when the lights had been extinguished. It was Billy who brought it up.
"You shouldn't have done that," he said. "Lowell's a bad bastard. I've heard the talk."
"You want to get raped then, do you?"
"No," he said quickly, "Christ no. I got to be fit."
"You'll be fit for nothing if Lowell gets his hands on you."
Billy slipped out from his bunk and stood in the middle of the cell, barely visible in the gloom. "I suppose you want something in return," he said.
Cleve turned on his pillow and looked at the uncertain silhouette standing a yard from him. "What have you got that I'd want, Billy-Boy?" he said.
"What Lowell wanted."
"Is that what you think that bluster was all about? Me staking my claim?"
"Yeah."
"Like you said: no thank you." Cleve rolled over again to face the wall.
"I didn't mean -”
"I don't care what you meant. I just don't want to hear about it, all right? You stay out of Lowell's way, and don't give me shit."
"Hey," Billy murmured, “don't get like that, please. Please. You're the only friend I've got."
"I'm nobody's friend," Cleve said to the wall. "I just don't want any inconvenience. Understand me?" "No inconvenience," the boy repeated, dull-tongued.
"Right. Now… I need my beauty sleep."
Tait said no more, but returned to the bottom bunk, and lay down, the springs creaking as he did so. Cleve lay in silence, turning the exchange over in his head. He had no wish to lay hands on the boy; but perhaps he had made his point too harshly. Well, it was done.
From below he could hear Billy murmuring to himself, almost inaudibly. He strained to eavesdrop on what the boy was saying. It took several seconds of ear-pricking attention before Cleve realized that Billy-Boy was saying his prayers.
Cleve dreamt that night. What of, he couldn't remember in the morning, though as he showered and shaved tantalizing grains of the dream sifted through his head. Scarcely ten minutes went by that morning without something – salt overturned on the breakfast table, or the sound of shouts in the exercise yard – promising to break his dream: but the revelation did not come. It left him uncharacteristically edgy and short-tempered. When Wesley, a small-time forger whom he knew from his previous vacation here, approached him in the library and started to talk as though they were bosom pals, Cleve told the runt to shut up. But Wesley insisted on speaking. "You got trouble."
"Oh. How so?"
"That boy of yours. Billy."
"What about him?"
"He's asking questions. He's getting pushy. People don't like it. They're saying you should take him in hand." "I'm not his keeper."
Wesley pulled a face. "I'm telling you; as a friend."
"Spare me."
"Don't be stupid, Cleveland. You're making enemies."
"Oh?" said Cleve. "Name one."
"Lowell," Wesley said, quick as a flash. "Nayler for another. All kinds of people. They don't like the way Tait is." "And how is he?" Cleve snapped back.
Wesley made a small grunt of protest. "I'm just trying to tell you," he said. "He's sly. Like a fucking rat. There'll be trouble."
"Spare me the prophecies."
The law of averages demands the worst prophet be right some of the time: this was Wesley's moment it seemed. The day after, coming back from the Workshop where he'd exercised his intellect putting wheels on plastic cars, Cleve found Mayflower waiting for him on the landing.
"I asked you to look after William Tait, Smith," the officer said. "Don't you give a damn?"
"What's happened?"
"No, I suppose you don't."
"I asked what happened. Sir."
"Nothing much. Not this time. He's banged about, that's all. Seems Lowell has a hankering after him. Am I right?" Mayflower peered at Cleve, and when he got no response went on: "I made an error with you, Smith. I thought there was something worth appealing to under the hard man. My mistake."
Billy was lying on the bunk, his face bruised, his eyes closed. He didn't open them when Cleve came in. "You OK?" "Sure," the boy said softly.
"No bones broken?"
"I'll survive."
"You've got to understand -”
"Listen." Billy opened his eyes. The pupils had darkened somehow, or that was the trick the light performed with them. "I'm alive, OK? I'm not an idiot you know. I knew what I was letting myself in for, coming here." He spoke as if he'd had a choice in the matter. "I can take Lowell," he went on, “so don't fret." He paused, then said: "You were right."
"About what?"
"About not having friends. I'm on my own, you're on your own. Right? I'm just a slow learner; but I'm getting the hang of it." He smiled to himself.
"You've been asking questions," Cleve said.
"Oh, yeah?" Billy replied off-handedly. "Who says?"
"If you've got questions, ask me. People don't like snoopers. They get suspicious. And then they turn their backs when Lowell and his like get heavy."
Naming the man brought a painful frown to Billy's face. He touched his bruised cheek. "He's dead," the boy murmured, almost to himself.
"Some chance," Cleve commented.
The look that Tait returned could have sliced steel. "I mean it," he said, without a trace of doubt in his voice. "Lowell won't get out alive."
Cleve didn't comment; the boy needed this show of bravado, laughable as it was.
"What do you want to know, that you go snooping around?"
"Nothing much," Billy replied. He was no longer looking at Cleve, but staring at the bunk above. Quietly, he said: "I just wanted to know where the graves were, that was all."
The graves?"
"Where they buried the men they'd hanged. Somebody told me there's a rose-bush where Crippen's buried. You ever hear that?"
Cleve shook his head. Only now did he remember the boy asking about the hanging shed; an
d now the graves. Billy looked up at him. The bruise was ripening by the minute.
"You know where they are, Cleve?" he asked. Again, that feigned nonchalance.
"I could find out, if you do me the courtesy of telling me why you want to know."
Billy looked out from the shelter of the bunk. The afternoon sun was describing its short arc on the painted brick of the cell wall. It was weak today. The boy slid his legs off the bunk and sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the light as he had on that first day.
"My grandfather – that is, my mother's father – was hanged here," he said, his voice raw. "In 1937. Edgar Tait. Edgar St Clair Tait."
"I thought you said your mother's father?"
"I took his name. I didn't want my father's name. I never belonged to him."
"Nobody belongs to anybody." Cleve replied. "You're your own man."
"But that's not true," Billy said with a tiny shrug, still staring at the light on the wall. His certainty was immovable; the gentility with which he spoke did not undercut the authority of the statement. "I belong to my grandfather. I always have."
"You weren't even born when he -”
"That doesn't matter. Coming and going; that's nothing."
Coming and going, Cleve puzzled; did Tait mean life and death? He had no chance to ask. Billy was talking again, the same subdued but insistent flow.
"He was guilty of course. Not the way they thought he was, but guilty. He knew what he was and what he was capable of; that's guilt, isn't it? He killed four people. Or at least that's what they hanged him for." "You mean he killed more?"
Billy made another small shrug: numbers didn't matter apparently. "But nobody came to see where they'd laid him to rest. That's not right, is it? They didn't care, I suppose. All the family were glad he was gone, probably. Thought he was wrong in the head from the beginning. But he wasn't. I know he wasn't. I've got his hands, and his eyes. So Mam said. She told me all about him, you see, just before she died. Told me things she'd never told anybody, and only told me because of my eyes…" he faltered, and put his hand to his lip, as if the fluctuating light on the brick had already mesmerised him into saying too much.
"What did your mother tell you?" Cleve pressed him.
Billy seemed to weigh up alternative responses before offering one. "Just that he and I were alike in some ways," he said.
"Crazy, you mean?" Cleve said, only half-joking.
"Something like that," Billy replied, eyes still on the wall. He sighed, then allowed himself a further confession. "That's why I came here. So my grandfather would know he hadn't been forgotten."
"Came here?" said Cleve. "What are you talking about? You were caught and sentenced. You had no choice." The light on the wall was extinguished as a cloud passed over the sun. Billy looked up at Cleve. The light was there, in his eyes.
"I committed a crime to get here," the boy replied. "It was a deliberate act."
Cleve shook his head. The claim was preposterous.
"I tried before: twice. It's taken time. But I got here, didn't I?"
"Don't take me for a fool, Billy," Cleve warned.
"I don't," the other replied. He stood up now. He seemed somehow lighter for the story he'd told; he even smiled, if tentatively, as he said: "You've been good to me. Don't think I don't know that. I'm grateful. Now -” he faced Cleve before saying: "I want to know where the graves are. Find that out and you won't hear another peep from me, I promise."
Cleve knew next to nothing about the prison or its history, but he knew somebody who did. There was a man by the name of Bishop -so familiar to the inmates that his name had acquired the definite article – who was often at the Workshop at the same time as Cleve. The Bishop had been in and out of prison for much of his forty odd years, mostly for minor misdemeanours, and – with all the fatalism of a one-legged man who makes a life-study of monopedia – had become an expert on prisons and the penal system. Little of his information came from books. He had gleaned the bulk of his knowledge from old lags and screws who wanted to talk the hours away, and by degrees he had turned himself into a walking encyclopedia on crime and punishment. He had made it his trade, and he sold his carefully accrued knowledge by the sentence; sometimes as geographical information to the would-be escapee, sometimes as prison mythology to the godless con in search of a local divinity. Now Cleve sought him out, and laid down his payment in tobacco and IOUs.
"What can I do for you?" The Bishop asked. He was heavy, but not unhealthily so. The needle-thin cigarettes he was perpetually rolling and smoking were dwarfed by his butcher's fingers, stained sepia by nicotine. "I want to know about the hangings here."
The Bishop smiled. "Such good stories," he said; and began to tell.
On the plain details, Billy had been substantially correct. There had been hangings in Pentonville up until the middle of the century, but the shed had long since been demolished. On the spot now stood the Probation Office in B Wing. As to the story of Crippen's roses, there was truth in that too. In front of a hut in the grounds, which, The Bishop informed Cleve, was a store for gardening equipment, was a small patch of grass, in the centre of which a bush flourished, planted (and at this point The Bishop confessed that he could not tell fact from fiction) in memory of Doctor Crippen, hanged in 1910.
"That's where the graves are?" Cleve asked.
"No, no," The Bishop said, reducing half of one of his tiny cigarettes to ash with a single inhalation. The graves are alongside the wall, to the left behind the hut. There's a long lawn; you must have seen it."
"No stones?"
"Absolutely not. The plots have always been left unmarked. Only the Governor knows who's buried where; and he's probably lost the plans." The Bishop ferreted for his tobacco tin in the breast-pocket of his prison-issue shirt and began to roll another cigarette with such familiarity he scarcely glanced down at what he was doing. "Nobody's allowed to come and mourn you see. Out of sight, out of mind: that's the idea. Of course, that's not the way it works, is it? People forget Prime Ministers, but they remember murderers. You walk on that lawn, and just six feet under are some of the most notorious men who ever graced this green and pleasant land. And not even a cross to mark the spot. Criminal, isn't it?"
"You know who's buried there?"
"Some very wicked gentlemen," the Bishop replied, as if fondly admonishing them for their mischief-mongering. "You heard of a man called Edgar Tait?"
Bishop raised his eyebrows; the fat of his brow furrowed. "Saint Tait? Oh certainly. He's not easily forgotten." "What do you know about him?"
"He killed his wife, and then his children. Took a knife to them all, as I live and breathe."
"All?"
The Bishop put the freshly-rolled cigarette to his thick lips. "Maybe not all," he said, narrowing his eyes as he tried to recall the specific details. "Maybe one of them survived. I think perhaps a daughter…" he shrugged dismissively. "I'm not very good at remembering the victims. But then, who is?" He fixed his bland gaze on Cleve. "Why are you so interested in Tait? He was hanged before the war."
"1937. He'll be well gone, eh?"
The Bishop raised a cautionary fore-finger. "Not so," he said. "You see the land this prison is built upon has special properties. Bodies buried here don't rot the way they do elsewhere." Cleve shot The Bishop an incredulous glance. "It's true," the fat man protested mildly, "I have it on unimpeachable authority. Take it from me, whenever they've had to exhume a body from the plot it's always been found in almost perfect condition." He paused to light his cigarette, and drew upon it, exhaling the smoke through his mouth with his next words. "When the end of the world is upon us, the good men of Marylebone and Camden Town will rise up as rot and bone. But the wicked?; they'll dance to Judgement as fresh as the day they dropped. Imagine that." This perverse notion clearly delighted him. His pudgy face puckered and dimpled with pleasure at it. "Ah," he mused, "And who'll be calling who corrupt on that fine morning?"
Cleve never worked out preci
sely how Billy talked his way on to the gardening detail, but he managed it. Perhaps he had appealed directly to Mayflower, who'd persuaded his superiors that the boy could be trusted out in the fresh air. However he worked the maneuver, in the middle of the week following Cleve's discovery of the graves' whereabouts, Billy was out in the cold April morning cutting grass.
What happened that day filtered back down the grapevine around recreation time. Cleve had the story from three independent sources, none of whom had been on the spot. The accounts had a variety of colorations, but were clearly of the same species. The bare bones went as follows: The gardening detail, made up of four men overlooked by a single prison officer, were moving around the blocks, trimming grass and weeding beds in preparation for the spring planting. Custody had been lax, apparently. It was two or three minutes before the officer even noticed that one of his charges had edged to the periphery of the party and slipped away. The alarm was raised. The officers did not have to look far, however. Tait had made no attempt to escape, or if he had he'd been stymied in his bid by a fit of some kind, which had crippled him. He was found (and here the stories parted company considerably) on a large patch of lawn beside the wall, lying on the grass. Some reports claimed he was black in the face, his body knotted up and his tongue all but bitten through; others that he was found face down, talking to the earth, weeping and cajoling. The consensus was that the boy had lost his mind. The rumours made Cleve the centre of attention; a situation he did not relish. For the next day he was scarcely left alone; men wanting to know what it was like to share a cell with a lunatic. He had nothing to tell, he insisted. Tait had been the perfect cell-mate -quiet, undemanding and unquestionably sane. He told the same story to Mayflower when he was grilled the following day; and later, to the prison doctor. He let not a breath of Tait's interest in the graves be known, and made it his business to see The Bishop and request a similar silence of him. The man was willing to oblige only if vouchsafed the full story in due course. This Cleve promised. The Bishop, as befitted his assumed clerity, was as good as his word.
Billy was gone from the fold for two days. In the interim Mayflower disappeared from his duties as Landing Officer. No explanation was given. In his place, a man called Devlin was transferred from D Wing. His reputation went before him. He was not, it seemed, a man of rare compassion. The impression was confirmed when, the day of Billy Tait's return, Cleve was summoned into Devlin's office.