My Policeman

by Bethan Roberts

  Once in the interview room, it became clear who Laurence Coleman was. An unflattering photograph of the boy was slapped on the table. Did I know this young man? Had I, as he’d said in his statement, ‘tapped him up for a beefer’ outside the Black Lion conveniences? Had I committed acts of gross indecency in said public conveniences with this man?

  I almost laughed with relief. This was not about Tom, but the dark-haired youth at the Argyle.

  No, I replied. I had not.

  Slater gave a smile. ‘It will be better for you,’ he said, ‘if you tell the truth and plead guilty.’

  What I remember now is the number of tea stains on the chipped table, and the way Slater gripped the edge of his chair as he leaned forward. ‘A guilty plea,’ he said, ‘often saves a lot of trouble. Trouble for you. And trouble for your associates.’ The redness in his cheeks had drained and the creases around his mouth showed clear in the blast of the overhead light. ‘Family and friends are often hurt in these cases.’ He shook his head. ‘And it’s all so easily avoided. Breaks my heart.’

  A cold rush of panic spread through my chest. Perhaps this was really about Tom after all, and this was Slater’s way of saving a friend and colleague.

  I looked him in the eye. ‘I understand,’ I said. ‘And now I come to think of it, I did meet that young man, and we fucked right there in the lav and we both loved it.’

  A short smile crossed Slater’s face. ‘That’ll make the jury’s job very easy,’ he said.

  At nine this morning, a warder – Burkitt – arrived in my cell. Burkitt has a reputation for being something of a sadist, but I’d yet to see any evidence of this. He’s a slim, tall man with large brown eyes and a closely cropped beard, and would be handsome were it not for his non-existent chin. He said nothing for a few moments. Just stood there in front of me and slowly unwrapped a mint humbug.

  Then: ‘Hazlewood. Get a move on. Visit to the trick cyclist.’

  ‘Trick cyclist?’ I still don’t understand all the prison language. Some of it is impressively imaginative, if gruesome. ‘Dry bath’ for strip search seems particularly appropriate to me.

  Burkitt popped the humbug in his mouth, gave a little push on my shoulder and did not see fit to enlighten me. As we walked, he kept very close behind, saying, ‘You queers have it cushy in here, don’t you? Plenty of business.’ His mouth was so close to my ear that I could smell the sweet mint of his breath. So, I thought, this is where his reputation comes from: he knows how prison tobacco leaves our mouths with the taste and texture of a rough hound’s backside, and so he tortures us with his minty freshness.

  We walked out of D Hall, along a long corridor, through several locked doors, out into the yard, through a locked gate and into a miraculous place: the hospital wing. I’d heard rumours of the existence of this clean, new building, and know men who’ve tried everything – including burning their own arms with slugs of hot oil in the kitchen – to win a short stay there.

  As soon as we stepped inside the white walls, the smell of new plaster hit me. After the prison stench of boiled cabbage and the stale sweat of hundreds of terrified, unwashed men, this new smell brought tears to my eyes. It was a smell almost like bread. I wondered, briefly, what a recently plastered wall would taste like, if licked. Everything was brighter, too. Large windows ran the length of the corridor, washing the whole place with light.

  Burkitt jabbed a finger between my shoulder blades. ‘Up.’

  At the top of the staircase was a door with the words DR R.A. RUSSELL attached in modern silver script. Burkitt unwrapped another humbug and began to suck, staring at me all the time. Then he knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  A fire roared in the grate. Beneath my feet was a new carpet. Although it was a thin, synthetic monstrosity – multicoloured cubes on a royal-blue background – the feel of it beneath my boots was wonderful. Standing there, I felt suddenly lifted from the floor.

  A man rose from behind a desk. ‘Patrick Hazlewood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Dr Russell.’

  He couldn’t have been more than twenty-eight. Dimples on his ample cheeks. Wearing a boxy blazer, unbuttoned. Around his cushiony middle a very new-looking belt bit into his flesh. He didn’t look at all threatening, but I still had no idea what kind of treatment I’d been sent for.

  ‘Thank you, Burkitt,’ he said, beaming at the scowling screw.

  ‘Right outside,’ said Burkitt, slamming the door.

  Russell looked at me. ‘Sit down.’

  It was unexpected, this order. Seduced, I suppose, by the carpet, the fire and Russell’s schoolboy cheeks, I’d almost been anticipating the word please.

  He settled himself into his leather office chair and picked up a fountain pen. Despite the comforts of the room, my chair was the familiar wooden type. He must have seen me looking at it in disappointment, because he said, ‘I’m working on that. Ridiculous to expect a person to talk freely whilst perched on a school chair. No one tells teacher their secrets, eh?’

  Of course, I thought. He’s the psychiatrist. I relaxed a little. I’ve never believed they could offer any type of ‘cure’, but I’ve always been curious about what it would be like to visit one.

  ‘So. We start by you telling me how you are at the moment.’

  I said nothing. I was lost in the print of Matisse’s La Danse that hung above his desk: the first piece of art I’d seen for three months. Its bright colours seemed almost obscene in their beauty.

  Russell followed my gaze. ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ he asked.

  I couldn’t speak for a full minute. He waited, turning his pen over and over. Then I blurted: ‘Did you get it to torture your patients into a confession?’

  He flicked an imaginary piece of lint from his knee. ‘I’m not here for confessions. There’s a priest who will gladly hear them every Sunday. Do you believe?’

  ‘Not in any god who condemns so many.’

  ‘So many of – your kind?’

  ‘Of all kinds.’

  There was silence for a while.

  ‘I’m interested in why you find torture in that picture.’

  ‘I would have thought that was rather obvious.’

  Russell raised his eyebrows. Waited.

  ‘It’s a reminder of beauty. Of what’s outside these walls.’

  He nodded. ‘You’re right. But some can find beauty wherever they are.’

  ‘There’s not much in this place.’

  Another long pause. He tapped his pen three times on his notepad and smiled, very suddenly. ‘Do you want to be cured?’ he asked.

  I almost snorted. Checked myself when I felt the intensity of Russell’s serious gaze.

  It was an easy question to answer. Did I want to spend more time up here in this light, warm room, chatting with Russell by the fire? Or did I want to be sent back to my cell?

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Oh yes.’

  We are to meet once a week.

  I say I do everything possible to avoid thinking about Tom, but, of course, Tom is mostly what I think about. And it is hell. Not least because the more I think about him, the more I cannot remember the reasons why we could not be together. The more I think about him, the less I remember anything that was wrong, or difficult. All I remember is his sweetness. And that is the hardest thing to bear. Yet my mind keeps returning to it. Keeps returning to Venice. Most especially to the water taxi we took in the dead of night, over the lagoon to the city. We climbed into the shining wooden cabin, sat together at the back of the boat, and our captain closed the hatch to give us privacy. Then we sped across the waves, so fast we couldn’t stop laughing at the sheer daring of that little boat on the black water. Zoom, we went. Zoom. Our thighs touching. Our bodies forced back by the speed of the thing. And then the boat suddenly slowed, and the beauty of Venice unrolled itself outside the tiny windows. Tom gasped, and I smiled at his wonder. But to me the wonder was the touch of his hand on mine in that cabin which was ours
alone for the time it took to reach our hotel.

  Like most who experience these things, throughout the arrest and trial, and the first few days in here, I truly thought someone would appear to announce that there’d been a terrible mistake and ask that I accept the apologies of everyone involved. And all the doors that had slammed shut would open again and I would walk through them, out into the clean air, away from the strange piece of theatre my life had become.

  But thirteen weeks in, I’ve grown as used to the routine as most of the others. And I perform it with the same dead-eyed, accepting stare. 6.30 a.m. Buzzer signals it’s time to get up. 7 a.m. Slop out, being careful to carry one’s metal chamber pot with the utmost nonchalance. Fetch cold water and shave with allocated blunt blade. I’m now, since being on association, allowed to ‘dine out’ with the other men, rather than eating all meals alone in my cell. But it’s the same dishwater tea, stale bread, smear of marge and – almost tasty – bowl of porridge. Perhaps porridge is so vile there’s not much one can do to make it worse. Then it’s to work in the library. My position there has enabled me to gain access to exercise books and pens, but as a description of the place, the word ‘library’ is something of a joke – the books are all filthy (in strictly a literal sense) and obsolete. It’s impossible for a prisoner to obtain anything he really wants to read, save for the few paperback Westerns available on each of the corridors. The library is dingy, but at least it’s slightly warmer than the rest of the prison. One of the radiators actually works. The warder in charge – O’Brien – must be nearing retirement, and spends most of the day sitting in the corner barking for silence and refusing requests. However, he is rather deaf, so the noise must reach a certain volume before he barks. This makes it possible for the men to speak to one another quite freely, so long as they keep their voices fairly low.

  Much of the work involves dealing with new deliveries from public libraries. We always get the absolute dregs. In yesterday’s shipment, for example: a guide to the maintenance of Norton motorcycles from the 1930s, a history of the village of Ripe, a book on the coinage of the Middle East, another on the dress of the people of Latvia, and – the only slightly interesting volume among the whole lot – a biography of William of Orange, written in 1905.

  With me in the library is Davies, a large, quiet man with grey eyes, who is apparently in for causing his wife grievous bodily harm. Impossible to imagine anyone less likely to commit such a crime. But one learns not to question a man too closely on his conviction. Also with me is Mowatt, a young fair-haired lad festooned with freckles. A habit of licking his lips as he works. Mowatt was a Borstal boy, like so many of them here. Talks a lot about his next ‘twenty-two-carat doddle’, which I now understand to mean his next fantastically large-scale yet utterly risk-free robbery. He walks as though his feet are too long, picking them up and placing them down so carefully you want to offer him an arm.

  Yesterday Mowatt said nothing at all as we sorted through our shipment of books. At first I was glad to be spared the usual fantasies of how, on his release, he’d hook up with this gorgeous bird who’s waiting for him and make use of the ton he’s got stashed for a new life in Spain. But later I noticed that his hands trembled more than usual on the book spines, and he walked as if his feet were not only too long but also incredibly heavy. At last Davies shed light on it. ‘Family visit,’ he whispered. ‘Tomorrow. He’s saved enough for a bit of hair oil but he’s obsessed with the state of his boots. I told him. He can’t borrow mine. I’d never get them back.’

  And so this morning, whilst we were sitting together at the library table, I slipped off my boots, which I’d left unlaced, and kicked them in Mowatt’s direction. No response. So I shoved an out-of-date theology textbook towards him, deliberately nudging him in the ribs with one corner. ‘Oi!’ he began, making O’Brien look up. But I put my hand on his, very gently, to silence him, and the deaf old screw chose to ignore us.

  Mowatt looked down at my fingers, lost for words for a minute. I gestured beneath the table, seeking his boot with my foot. After a second, he understood what was going on. He looked at me with such warmth in his eyes that I almost laughed. I almost opened my mouth and roared with laughter in that stinking, cold room, amongst those useless, forgotten books.

  Another visit to Russell’s warm sanctuary.

  ‘Why don’t we start with you telling me about your childhood?’

  ‘I didn’t think psychiatrists really said that.’

  ‘Begin wherever you like.’

  My first instinct was to make something up. At the age of nine I was taken brutally over the nursery rocking horse by my Russian uncle, and ever since I’ve been drawn to other men, Doctor. Or: My mother dressed me in flowered smocks and rouged my cheeks when I was five, and ever since I’ve longed to attract a strong man to my bed, Doctor. But instead I told him a kind of truth: that mine was a happy childhood. No brothers or sisters to knock me off my perch. Many idyllic hours spent playing in the garden (with a sailor doll named Hops, but outside nonetheless). My father largely absent, like many fathers, but not overly mysterious or abusive, despite his later dalliances. Mother and I always got along well. Whenever I was home from school, we enjoyed our times together, going up to town to the theatre, museums and cafés … I ran away with myself rather, telling him about the time in Fortnum’s when a stranger at the next table had tried to buy Mother a glass of champagne. She’d smiled and very firmly turned him down. I’d been so disappointed. The man had a blue silk cravat, wonderfully waved blond hair and had worn a sapphire ring on his index finger. He’d looked to me as though he knew all the secrets of the world. As we left the place, Mother had commented hotly on his impertinence, but that afternoon her whole being had been lit up in a way I’d never seen before. She’d moved in an easier way, laughed at my silly jokes and bought all sorts of things that hadn’t been on our list: a new scarf for her, a leather-bound notebook for me. I still think of that man sometimes, remembering the way he’d sipped his coffee and shrugged at Mother’s rejection. I’d wanted him to weep or become angry, but he’d merely put down his cup, bowed his head and said, ‘What a shame.’

  ‘That’s our time almost up,’ said Russell.

  I waited for his comments about how I had projected myself into my mother’s situation and this was really most unhealthy and it was no wonder I was in prison for gross indecency. But none came.

  ‘Before you leave,’ he said, ‘I want you to know that you could change. But the question is: do you really want to?’

  ‘I told you last week. I want to be cured.’

  ‘I’m not sure I believe you.’

  I said nothing.

  He let out a long breath. ‘Look. I’ll be honest with you. Therapy can help some individuals to overcome certain … proclivities, but it’s very hard work, and it takes a lot of time.’

  ‘How much time?’

  ‘Years, probably.’

  ‘I only have six months left.’

  He gave a rueful laugh. ‘Personally,’ he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, ‘I think the law is an ass. What two adults get up to in private is their business.’ He was looking at me very seriously, dimpled cheeks aglow. ‘So what I’m saying is, if you want to change, then therapy could help you. But if you don’t …’ he held his palms upward and smiled, ‘then it’s really not worth the effort.’

  I held out a hand, which he took, and thanked him for his honesty.

  ‘No more fireside chats, then,’ I said.

  ‘No more fireside chats.’

  ‘That’s a great shame.’

  Burkitt took me back to my cell.

  I’m trying to keep the image of La Danse in my head.

  I don’t suppose a man of Russell’s integrity will last long here.

  In Venice we’d spend the morning in bed, have a long lunch on the hotel terrace, then walk through the city. Delicious freedom. No one glanced our way, even when I took Tom’s arm and guided him through the throngs
of tourists on the Rialto Bridge. One afternoon we stepped out of the summer fug and into the sweet coolness of the church of Santa Maria dei Miracoli. What I’ve always loved about the little place is its paleness. With its pastel grey, pink and white marble walls and floor, the Miracoli could be made of sugar. We sat together in a front pew. Utterly alone. And we kissed. There in the presence of all the saints and angels, we kissed. I looked at the altar with its image of the miraculous Virgin – reputed to have brought a drowned man back to life – and I said, ‘We should live here.’ After just two days of the possibilities of Venice, I said, ‘We should live here.’ And Tom’s answer was, ‘We should fly to the moon.’ But he was smiling.

  *

  Every fortnight I am allowed to receive and reply to one letter. So far, most of these have been from Mother. They’re typed, so I know she dictates them to Nina. She says nothing of her health, merely rattles on about the weather, the neighbours, what Nina has cooked for supper. But this morning there was one from Mrs Marion Burgess. A short, formal letter requesting permission to visit. At first I was determined to refuse. Why would I want to see her, of all people? But I soon changed my mind. The woman is my only link to Tom, whose absolute silence I hardly dare consider. I’ve heard not one word from him since my arrest. At first I almost hoped he would appear in the Scrubs, to serve his sentence, just so I could see him again.

  If she comes, perhaps he will come too. Or perhaps she will carry some message from him.

  The courtroom was small and stuffy, with none of the embellishments I’d expected. More like a school hall than a chamber of the law. Proceedings began with the public gallery being warned that the trial would contain material of a nature offensive to ladies, who might wish to leave. Every single one of them made an immediate bolt for the exit. Only one looked slightly rueful. The rest blushed to their hairlines.

  As the counsel for the prosecution, Jones – Labrador eyes, but the voice of a bichon frise bitch – presented the case against me, Coleman stood shaking in the witness box, never once meeting my eye. In his blue flannel suit he looked older than when we last met. When he was cross-examined it became clear – to me, at least – that he’d made his claim to get himself out of trouble; he admitted to being involved in a petty piece of thievery. But even this realisation did not wake me from my daze. Everyone in the courtroom seemed to be going through the motions, the police yawning occasionally, the judge looking on impervious, and I was no different. I stood in my box, all the time aware of a uniformed man sitting behind me, biting his nails absent-mindedly. I found myself listening to the sound of the saliva in his mouth, rather than the court proceedings, as he nibbled away. I kept telling myself: in a few moments I’ll receive my sentence. My future will be decided. But somehow I could not comprehend what was happening to me.