My Policeman

by Bethan Roberts

  Then everything changed. My barrister, the amiable but ineffectual Mr Thompson, began his presentation of the defence. And he called Marion Burgess.

  I was prepared for this. Thompson had asked me who I’d recommend as a character witness. My list did not include anyone who was both female and married, as he’d soon pointed out. ‘Don’t you know any really dull ladies?’ he’d asked. ‘Librarians? Matrons? Schoolteachers?’

  Marion was my only choice. And I calculated that, even if she did know the truth about my relationship with Tom (he’d always reassured me that she did not, although in my estimation she seemed too sharp to miss it for long), she would not risk denouncing me because of the damage it would cause her husband and, by extension, herself.

  She was wearing a pale-green dress, too loose for her. She’d lost weight since I last saw her, and this accentuated her height. Her red hair was set into an absolutely unmovable shape. She stood very straight and clutched a pair of white gloves as she spoke. I could hardly hear her voice as she stated the usual formalities – her oath, her name, her occupation. Then she was asked in what capacity she knew the accused.

  ‘Mr Hazlewood was kind enough to take my pupils for an art-appreciation afternoon at the museum,’ she stated. And suddenly her voice was not her own. Long ago I’d guessed her teaching had chipped the edges from her Brighton accent – which is not nearly as pronounced as Tom’s – but in that witness box she sounded as though she’d been to Roedean.

  She confirmed that I had performed my duties thoroughly, she would not hesitate to call on me again, and I was absolutely not the sort of man one might ordinarily find committing acts of gross indecency in a public convenience. Then the counsel for the prosecution stood and asked Mrs Burgess if she knew the accused in anything other than a professional capacity.

  A flicker of concern passed across her freckled face. She said nothing. I willed her to look at me. If she would only look at me, I might have a chance of staring her into silence.

  ‘Is it not the case,’ continued Jones, ‘that the accused is a close friend of your husband, Constable Thomas Burgess?’

  The sound of his name made me gasp. But I kept my eyes on Marion.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Speak up so the court can hear you.’

  ‘Yes. He is.’

  ‘How would you describe their relationship?’

  ‘It’s as you said. They’re good friends.’

  ‘So you know Mr Hazlewood personally, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you still say he is not the sort of man who would commit the crime of which he is accused?’

  ‘Of course he’s not.’ She was looking at Jones’s shoulder as she answered him.

  ‘And you completely trusted this man with your pupils?’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘Mrs Burgess, I would like to read an extract from Patrick Hazlewood’s diary to you.’

  Thompson objected, but was overruled.

  ‘Some of it is rather purple, I’m afraid. It’s dated October 1957.’ Jones spent a long time fixing his glasses to his nose, then cleared his throat and began, one hand waving airily about as he read. ‘And then: the unmistakable line of his shoulders. My policeman was standing, head on one side, looking at a rather mediocre Sisley … Magnificently alive, breathing, and actually here, in the museum. I’d pictured him so many times over the past days that I rubbed my eyes, as disbelieving girls do in films.’ A short pause. ‘Mrs Burgess, who is “my policeman”?’

  Marion pulled herself up taller, stuck out her chin. ‘I have no idea.’

  She sounded quite convincing. More convincing than I would have done, under the circumstances.

  ‘Perhaps another extract will help you to remember. This time dated December 1957.’ Another clearing-of-throat-placing-of-glasses-on-nose performance. Then: ‘We’ve been meeting some lunchtimes, when he can get a long break. But he has not forgotten the schoolteacher. And yesterday, for the first time, he brought her with him … They are so obviously mismatched that I had to smile when I saw them together.’

  I winced.

  ‘She is almost as tall as he is, made no attempt to disguise it (wearing heels), and is not nearly as handsome as him. But I suppose I would think so.’

  A long pause from Jones.

  ‘Mrs Burgess, who is “the schoolteacher”?’

  She made no reply. She was still standing very tall and straight, looking at his shoulder. Cheeks red. Blinking a great deal.

  Jones addressed the jury. ‘This journal contains many more intimate details of Patrick Hazlewood’s relationship with “his” policeman, a relationship that can only be described as deeply perverse. But I’ll spare the court any further account of such depravity.’ He turned back to Marion. ‘Who do you think the accused is writing about, Mrs Burgess?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Bite of the lip. ‘Perhaps it’s some fantasy of his.’

  ‘There’s an awful lot of detail for a fantasy.’

  ‘Mr Hazlewood is a very imaginative man.’

  ‘Why, I wonder, would he imagine his male lover to be engaged to a schoolteacher?’

  No response.

  ‘Mrs Burgess, I don’t want to embarrass you, but I must put it to you that Patrick Hazlewood was having an indecent relationship with your husband.’

  Her eyes dropped and her voice became very faint. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Do you deny that the accused is a homosexual?’

  ‘I – don’t know.’

  She was still standing tall. But I could see her gloves trembling. I thought of how she’d walked down North Street with Tom on the day we’d first met. Her pride and assurance emanating with every step she took. And I wanted to give those qualities back to her. Her husband she could never have, and I was glad of it. But I’d no desire to see her like this.

  Jones the bichon bitch would not give up, however. ‘I have to ask you again, Mrs Burgess. Is Patrick Hazlewood the kind of man who would commit acts of gross indecency?’

  Silence.

  ‘Please answer the question, Mrs Burgess,’ the judge interrupted.

  There was a very long pause before she looked straight at me and said, ‘No.’

  ‘No further questions,’ said Jones.

  But Marion was still talking. ‘He was very good with the children. He was wonderful with them, in fact.’

  I nodded at her. She gave a small nod back.

  It was a swift, unsentimental and wholly civilised exchange.

  After that, all I could think was: what will happen to Tom? What will they do to him now? And how can he ever forgive my stupidity?

  But my policeman was not mentioned again, despite his name being on the tip of my tongue during the rest of the trial, and ever since.

  On our last day in Venice, we went to the tiny island of Torcello to see the mosaics. Tom was quiet on the boat, but I imagined he was lost, like me, in the sight of the city disappearing behind us. One is never sure, in Venice, what is reality and what reflection, and when seen from the back of a vaporetto, the whole place looks like a mirage, floating in an impossible mist. The silence of Torcello was a shock after the continuous clanging of bells, coffee cups and tour guides that is San Marco. Neither of us spoke as we entered the basilica. Had I overdone it on the culture front? I wondered. Would Tom rather have spent the afternoon drinking Bellinis in Harry’s Bar? We looked at the glittering reds and golds of the Last Judgement. Those doomed to hell were pushed down by devil’s spears. Some were consumed by flames, some by wild beasts. The most unlucky did the job themselves, eating their own hands, finger by finger.

  Tom stood there for a long time, looking at the awful corner into which the sinners had been shoved. Still he said not one word. I felt myself begin to panic at the thought of going back to England. At the thought of being apart. At the thought of sharing him. I found myself clasping his arm, searching his face, saying his name. ‘We can’t go back,’ I said.

  He patted my h
and. Smiled a rather cool, amused smile. ‘Patrick,’ he said. ‘You’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘Don’t make me go back.’

  He sighed. ‘We have to go back.’

  ‘Why?’

  He looked to the ceiling. ‘You know why.’

  ‘Tell me. I seem to have forgotten. Other people do this. Other people live in Europe, together. They leave, they have happy lives …’

  ‘You have a good job in England. So do I. I can’t speak Italian. We both have friends, family … We can’t live here.’

  He sounded so calm, so conclusive. My comfort, still, is that he did not mention her. Not once did he say, Because I’m a married man.

  A letter from Mother.

  My dear Tricky,

  I have come to a decision. When you are released, I want you to come and live here with me. It will be like old times. Only better, because your father won’t be here. You can have EVERY freedom you desire. I ask only for your company at mealtimes, and for a glass or two after that. As for what the neighbours think – hang them, I say.

  Forgive the ramblings of an old lady.

  Your ever-loving

  Mother

  PS I hope you know I would visit were it not for doctor’s orders. But it is NOTHING for you to worry about.

  The terrifying thing is, at the moment this seems like a very good offer.

  Marion came to visit today.

  I’d spent all night wondering whether to stand her up. Let her come and wait, gloves trembling, perfectly set hair beginning to dampen with sweat. Let her wait with the painted wives of con men, the screaming children of cosh boys, the disappointed mothers of the sexually perverse. And let her be the one who has to turn and leave, her presence rejected.

  But in the morning, I knew I would do nothing of the sort.

  Burkitt took me to the visiting room at three. I’d made no effort to look decent. In fact, I shaved particularly badly that morning and was glad of my cuts and grazes. Some rather pathetic wish to shock her, I suppose. Perhaps I even wanted to gain her sympathy.

  As soon as I saw her – she was alone, face lined with fear – disappointment flooded me. Where is he? I wanted to scream. Why isn’t he here, instead of you? Where’s my darling?

  ‘Hello, Patrick,’ she said.

  ‘Marion.’

  I sat on the metal chair opposite her. The visiting room – small, fairly bright, but just as cold as the rest of this place – smelled of Harpic and stale milk. There were four other visits going on, Burkitt watching over each. Marion stared at me very intently, her eyes unblinking, and I realised she was trying to focus exclusively on the spectacle of Patrick Hazlewood, prisoner, rather than watching the scene unfolding next to us, where man and wife were desperately grappling at each other’s knees beneath the table. In a strange attempt to afford us privacy, a radio tuned to some inane quiz show on the Light Programme played at mid-volume. Fingers on buzzers, please … Here’s your starter question …

  Marion removed her gloves and placed them on the table. Her fingernails were painted a lurid orange, which surprised me. And now that I really looked at her, I could tell she was wearing much more make-up than was usual, too. Her eyelids were covered with some shiny substance. Her lips were a plasticky-looking shade of pink. Unlike me, she’d obviously made quite an effort. But the overall effect wasn’t much superior to that which the Scrubs queens manage. And all they have is flour paste and poster paint.

  She folded the sleeves of her mustard-coloured cardigan back and patted her collar down. Her face was pale and composed but a red rash spattered her throat. ‘It’s good to see you,’ she said.

  Just from the way she’d arranged her features – in a look of distant, respectful sympathy – I knew she’d no message from Tom. The woman had nothing for me at all. Rather, I realised, it was she who wanted something from me.

  ‘I don’t know how to begin,’ she said.

  I offered no assistance.

  ‘I can’t tell you how awful I feel about what’s happened.’ She swallowed. ‘It was a complete miscarriage of justice. Coleman should be in here, not you.’

  I nodded.

  ‘It’s a scandal, Patrick.’

  ‘I know that,’ I burst out. ‘I’ve already received a letter from the museum, relieving me of my duties. And one from my landlord, letting me know my flat has been rented to a very nice family from Shoreham. Only my mother swears she’s not ashamed of me. Isn’t that funny?’

  ‘I didn’t mean … I meant it’s a scandal that you should be in here …’

  ‘But I am a homosexual, Marion.’

  She stared at the table.

  ‘And I wanted to have sex with Coleman. He looked rather pathetic in the courtroom, but I can assure you on the night we met he was anything but. Even if we never actually managed to perform the act itself, the intention was there. That’s enough, in the eyes of the law, to condemn a man. I was importuning.’ She was still looking at the table, but I was in full flow. ‘It’s grossly unfair, but that’s how it is. I believe there are committees, petitions, lobbyists and the like who are trying to get the law changed. But in the British mind, intimacy between two men is right up there with GBH, armed robbery and serious fraud.’

  Marion rearranged her gloves. Looked around the room. Then said, ‘Are they treating you all right?’

  ‘It’s a bit like public school. And a lot like the army. Why did you come?’

  She looked startled. ‘I – don’t know.’

  There was a long pause. Eventually she tried: ‘How’s the food?’

  ‘Marion. For God’s sake tell me about Tom. How is he?’

  ‘He’s – all right.’

  I waited. Imagined grabbing her shoulders and shaking the words out of her.

  ‘He’s left the force.’

  ‘Why?’

  She looked at me as if I should know the answer without her having to spell it out.

  ‘I hope there wasn’t too much trouble,’ I mumbled.

  ‘He refused to discuss it. He just said he left before he was pushed.’

  I nodded. ‘What will he do now?’

  ‘Security guard. At Allan West’s. It’s not as much money, but I’m still working …’ She broke off. Studied her orange nails. ‘He doesn’t know I’m here,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’

  A brittle laugh, a lift of the chin, a flash of that metallic eye shadow. ‘About time I had my own secrets, isn’t it?’

  I said nothing.

  She waved a hand in the air as if wiping away what she’d said. Apologised. ‘I didn’t come here to – go over what’s past.’

  ‘Past?’

  ‘Between you and Tom.’

  ‘One more minute,’ barked Burkitt.

  Marion picked up her gloves and started fiddling with her handbag, gabbling something about coming again next month.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said, grabbing her wrist. ‘Ask Tom to come instead.’

  She looked at my fingers on her skin. ‘You’re hurting me.’

  Burkitt stepped forward. ‘No physical contact, Hazlewood.’

  I removed my hand and she stood, dusting off her skirt.

  ‘I have to see him, Marion,’ I said. ‘Please ask him.’

  She looked down at me, and I was surprised to see she was blinking back tears. ‘I’ll ask. But he won’t come,’ she said. ‘You must see that he can’t. I’m sorry.’

  Bert says: Talk, then.

  We’re in the Old Rec after supper. Some men are managing to play a limp game of table tennis, despite the freezing conditions. Others, like me and Bert, are leaning on the wall furthest from the stinking lavatory, talking. Most are hunched over with cold, clutching their capes around themselves or blowing futilely on chilblained fingers. Davies told me recently that the best way to deal with chilblains is to wrap them in a piss-soaked rag. I’ve yet to try this myself. The Light Programme blares from the set in the corner. Usually these sessions where I entertain Bert with my wit, er
udition and knowledge are the highlight of my day. But today I don’t feel like telling him about the plot of Othello, the Battle of Hastings (about which I know very little but have, on previous occasions, managed almost to re-enact for Bert, such was my enthusiasm), the works of Rembrandt or even Italian cuisine (Bert loves to hear about my trips to Firenze, and almost drooled when I described to him the joys of tagliatelle with hare sauce). I don’t feel like saying anything at all. Because all I can think about is Tom. Tom, who will not be coming to visit.

  ‘Talk, then,’ Bert says. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  There’s an edge to his voice. It’s a reminder of who this man is: the tobacco baron. The unofficial leader of D Hall. This man always gets what he wants. He knows nothing else.

  ‘Have you heard of Thomas Burgess?’ I ask. ‘The policeman from Brighton?’

  ‘Nah. Why would I?’

  ‘His is a very interesting story.’

  ‘I know enough about the filth already. What about a bit more on Shakespeare? The tragedies. I love tragedies.’

  ‘Oh, this is a tragedy. One of the best.’

  He looks dubious but says, ‘Go on, then. Surprise me.’

  I draw a deep breath. ‘Thomas – Tom to his friends – was a policeman with a problem.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘He wasn’t a bad policeman. He turned up on time, did his job to the best of his abilities, tried to be fair.’