Now I had to plan my next move, assuming Brissot came to the lecture. Freud had assured me he would, propelled by vanity and curiosity, but now vengeance too, given that I knew he was responsible for Sam’s death. He also needed to know what I had on him, if anything, before dispensing with me, although he might grow weary of that and simply decide to put a full stop to my life. I decided that because it was in a public place I could take a risk and show him the photograph of Marty and Andy and ask if we could discuss anything he knew about them. At first questions, then goading. He might let something slip. I also had a plan for tracking his movements.
At 7 p.m. Cass and I arrived at the Court Room. The sun had come out and the Thames sparkled to our right. The lectern was in front of a fireplace, white alabaster cherubs either side of me. I’d had a large Famous Grouse and was feeling hopeful that something would come of the occasion. I always get nervous before a lecture – it’s like going onstage. Cass fluttered around me, ran a hand through my hair, smiled, brushed whatever was on my shoulders away, and started to make me nervous. I wished I’d had a larger scotch.
“If you weren’t such a mess you’d look OK, in a beaten up sort of way,” she said reassuringly. Touchingly, she had really dressed up for the occasion in a purple dress and matching headband. She turned and the sun caught her profile and for a moment I was looking at Lizzie.
People arrived, chairs scraped and filled, voices buzzed, hummed and whispered. I knew instantly who Brissot was, not just because his lackey Darnel Thompson was with him but because he was the most expensively dressed and manicured man in the room. I wondered what weapons he carried. They sat at the back. Darnel glared at me. By 7.30 the hall was full. A motley collection of the idle, the genuinely curious, a smattering of academics who doubtless wished to humiliate me, and a few out and out nutters. A strange man at the back wearing a beanie hat, a clearly false beard and large plastic sunglasses. Philosophy brings all kinds of life forms out of the woodwork.
I stood and began.
“My premise is that the wrong people are in prison and the wrong people run our lives. I apologise to those of you who have just eaten, for what I am about to describe. In January 1757 Robert-François Damiens, a domestic servant, had tried to kill the king but only scratched him with a knife. He was tortured and then sentenced to death. On March 28th 1757 before the main door of the Church of Paris, a large and enthusiastic crowd watched as Damiens was mutilated and tortured for four long hours. One of the observers was the great adventurer and seducer Casanova, who said: ‘I was several times obliged to turn away my face and to stop my ears as I heard his piercing shrieks, half of his body having been torn from him…’ He was horrified at the indifference of his companions. At first the flesh was torn from his breasts, arms, thighs and calves with red-hot pincers, then his right hand was burnt with sulphur. While he was screaming, molten wax, molten lead and boiling oil were poured into his wounds. His arms and legs were then harnessed to horses, who were to pull them from his body, but despite numerous attempts, although the limbs broke and became disjointed, all the time Damiens watching and screaming, they remained attached to the body. Four executioners changed the horses around and tried again, then added two more horses. One of the horses was so exhausted it fell to the ground. Finally an executioner cut the flesh of his thighs almost to the bone with an axe and they tried again. Eventually his legs were torn off and then they cut his arms and they too were pulled off. All that remained was his head and torso, but he was still alive, his head twisting and his lips moving, crying out to God and saying that he forgave his executioners. The four dismembered limbs were thrown onto the stake and burnt, then the still living torso was covered with faggots and twigs and straw and set on fire. A soldier said it took another four hours to burn to ashes.”
I stopped and took a sip of water, wishing it was scotch. A scruffy bearded man at the front was taking notes furiously. A grey haired lounge lizard next to him yawned expansively to show me he was bored with this tale of carnage and would I please get to the point? Brissot stared impassively ahead. Darnel looked as if he wanted to throw a grenade at me.
“So Damiens was killed for something he failed to achieve. What was the purpose of this brutal and prolonged torture and murder of a man? To make, the authorities said, an amende honorable, to make honourable amends. The word honorable suggests that ordinary people can only make proper amends by becoming a gruesome spectacle of unspeakable pain and that it is crucial that this horror is public. It is a social event, a legal piece of theatre. And the purpose is to shock people into submission – either you toe the line or this is what you get. Michel Foucault calls it ‘Monarchical Punishment’, a top down social model of the repression of the general populace by its leaders through brutal public displays of executions and torture. It is not based on ideas about justice, but about control. Compare the spectacle to depictions of hell in western religious literature and paintings – often gruesome, always about suffering and physical torture. Hell is an eternal butcher’s shop where you don’t even have the relief of death. Whether it is God or the ruling class dishing out the horror, it has the same purpose: to scare people and thereby control them. Fast forward two hundred and fifty years and George Bush tells the world it is about to witness ‘shock and awe’ as a poor, largely weaponless country is then blasted back to the fifth century by the richest country in the world. It has the same intention of controlling people through a public spectacle of torture and murder – cross us and this is what you get. It is monarchical because it is a top down model – the few punishing the many. In fact the word crime derives from the Latin root cernō, meaning ‘I decide, I give judgement’ and the word crīmen meant ‘charge’ or ‘cry of distress’. The idea of crime here is always about the few, or even one, deciding who to punish and how to do it, which acts as a shock, a warning for the many. It is interesting that crime may be a cry of distress – I steal this loaf because my children are starving. The Church was partly behind this spectacle of suffering, because it was believed that the public expiation of crime, which was a sin, was a ritual of purification and atonement. But mainly, perhaps exclusively, it was always about power and control. It was society’s retribution against anyone who threatened the social order and the more gruesome the warning, the less likely others would offend.”
A woman put up her hand and I ignored her. Brissot studied his nails.
“Some began to realise that criminality and punishment are not divinely but socially created. One person who did so was the Marquis de Sade. Another critic of a legal system which simultaneously created and punished a criminal class was Jacques-Pierre Brissot de Warville. He was influenced by Enlightenment thinking, particularly that of Montesquieu. He criticised the fact that judges put themselves on a par with God as the true sovereign of justice.”
I looked up and Brissot was looking at me, a faint smile on his face, his genealogical vanity aroused.
“Brissot said that crime should be separated from sin and punishment from expiation. He argued that given that the church, along with the monarchy and the rich, were largely responsible for social inequities and political abuses, which were the main causes of crime, these privileged groups should not control the legal system. What is unique here is that he concentrated on the rights of the accused, and on the idea of prevention rather than punishment. He also argued that ‘the kindness of the government and the happiness of the citizen are the most secure defence of an attack’ on the laws of a country. Brissot questions the entire foundation of the penal system, arguing that distinctions such as good and evil or criminal and innocent should not be taken as given but that each case should be examined in its own extenuating circumstances. In an argument of symbolic reversal, he says that the real criminals are those who deprive others of their right to the free pursuit of happiness. This is not just a criticism of society, it is a revolution in thought…”
I stopped for another sip of water and looked up. At the back Brissot
was smiling broadly. I’d hooked him.
Chapter Eleven
Deception, flattering, lying, deluding, talking behind the back, putting up a false front, living in borrowed splendor, wearing a mask, hiding behind convention, playing a role for others and for oneself – in short, a continuous fluttering around the solitary flame of vanity – is so much the rule and the law among men that there is almost nothing which is less comprehensible than how an honest and pure drive for truth could have arisen among them.
Nietzsche
I was just getting warmed up. I talked for another half an hour, about the change from public torture and execution to a prison system based on mass surveillance and a modernist Big Brother world – spies, committees, experts, consultants, psychological and physical torture behind closed doors. The way society is organised determines the kinds of crime that are committed. In that sense criminals are a reflection of the world they live in, leaving aside the few absolute psychos. I finished by saying that what it all came down to was our imaginations – what sort of world could we imagine? How could we build it? How would it change the idea of crime? Whose interests would the law serve?
Then I stopped and there was the customary Q and A session. An academic from King’s pontificated simply to show that he knew more than me, then there were a few predictable questions – “What about paedophiles and murderers?” – “Shoot ‘em,” I said and got polite applause and a few titters. Then Cass, with a maturity beyond her years, stood and thanked everyone for coming, congratulated me for providing a stimulating talk, and people dispersed.
“I thought I’d stop before you got too prickly and ended up insulting someone,” she said. She knows me too well. I put my notes in my battered old brown briefcase and walked with Cass to the back of the hall. Brissot sat waiting with Darnel. Up close he was good looking in an oily way, clearly a full blown narcissist, intelligent small eyes full of strange lights that seemed constantly to be making decisions, as if behind them was a backlog of dilemmas to be weighed and decided upon. His immaculate clothes were alarming – anyone who spends that amount of time on his appearance is not to be trusted. I wished Cass wasn’t there, but there was nothing to be done about it. Darnel looked her up and down and smirked. I wanted to kill him as much as he wanted to kill me.
“Dr. Rook, let’s not play games. You have been making life difficult. You know who I am. I am related to Brissot on my father’s side. Is it fortuitous that you give a talk on my ancestor?”
“No. I wanted to meet you. But he’s an interesting man. Perhaps you are too. Unlike your dork of a henchman here who is clearly less intelligent than a cuttlefish.”
Darnel made a move but Brissot stayed him with a perfectly manicured hand. It was refreshing to dispense with formalities and cut to the chase.
“So far you have broken into my house, tried to contact me using lies and deceit, and now you insult my business associate. What do you want?” Brissot asked.
“I want to know who killed Andy Hebden, and where his brother Marty is. I already know who stabbed Sam – Dorky here or the guy in the silver Mercedes. Who is he, by the way?”
Cass looked at me open-mouthed. I could hear her thinking: Shit. What has he gotten into now?
Brissot smiled.
“Knowledge and proof are different things, Doctor Rook. You’re an intelligent man. Cut your losses. Back off. Otherwise life will be full of terrible surprises.”
“You realise Sam isn’t dead and he gave a description of his attacker to the police,” I said.
The lie worked. There was a flicker in his eyes, and a momentary look at Brissot that told me that Darnel was unsure. It all confirmed Brissot’s involvement. And why kill Sam unless he was connected to Andy and Marty Hebden? Suspicions were cementing into something more definite. I decided to push Brissot a little more.
“You’ve accused me of breaking into your house. Why don’t you contact the police?”
“As you’ve just explained in your excellent lecture, the law needs changing, now as then. Perhaps there’s a place for Natural Law – taking responsibility for things oneself?”
“That’s not what Natural Law means at all. If you spent more time reading and less on your wardrobe and oiling your hair you’d know that.”
There was a glint of pure bile in his eyes. He couldn’t bear insults – his vanity wouldn’t allow it. Now he really hated me and perhaps he might give something away. He smiled.
“I am very disappointed in you. Be vigilant, Mister Rook. There are dangers everywhere.”
“I find I’m at my most vigilant when I’m relaxed. This helps.” I took the bottle of 1982 Chateau Lafleur Pomerol from my briefcase and smiled at Brissot. He recognised it instantly.
“Congratulations on your good taste. I do hope you enjoy it. One never knows when a glass of wine will be the last.”
I took the RIP note from my pocket and gave it to Darnel.
“It’s careless to leave belongings on the train. Anyone could find them,” I said, then took a small brown paper packet from my pocket and gave it to Brissot.
“In exchange for the wine,” I said.
He took it and opened it: a good early French edition of Brissot’s Théorie des lois criminelles, published in 1781. He smiled and stroked the cover.
“You’re a strange man, Rook. This is very elegant. It changes nothing, of course, but you know that.”
I bowed and with that iterated threat he left, Darnel following like a chastened Rottweiler.
Cass shook her head.
“Dad, he just threatened you.”
“Sticks and stones.”
“Why did you wind him up?”
“To find out what he knew.”
“And?”
“He knows a lot.”
As we left the building someone came out of the shadows – the weirdo with the beanie hat, false beard and sunglasses. He took off the hat to reveal ropey salt and pepper hair. With a grimace of halitosis and bad teeth he pulled off the beard. It was Freud. I should have known; he still wore one tasselled golfing shoe and the battered suede boot. Cass recoiled from the smell. Unbidden, as before, like an electric shock in my mind I saw, in black and white, the same man in a big fedora hat rowing a boat towards me. Then a wave crashing violently over someone’s head, my head, and I choke and gasp, the saltwater filling my lungs. Then piercing sunlight through trees and the unsettling shriek of a bird. I stumbled slightly and Cass held my arm.
“Dad! What’s wrong?”
Freud smiled.
“He’s seen the Ferryman again. The unconscious is a strange cave that we come from and go back to. Sorry about the disguise, but I didn’t want Brissot to recognise me, even given my changed circumstances. He has laser eyes. Time to dig deep. Suivez moi, pilgrims,” he said and smiled.
Cass looked at me pleadingly, but I shrugged, introduced her and we followed. Freud walked between us and I could tell that she was horrified he might touch her. He knew exactly what she was thinking. People stopped to look at our strange little band as we trudged along the Thames bank towards dockland.
“Cassandra. In Greek mythology she had the power of prophecy and the curse of never being believed. Is that true of you?” Freud said.
“If I could prophesize I’d have won the lottery by now,” she said.
Freud tut-tutted disapprovingly. “Surely your aspirations are greater than that. Intelligent face. Curiosity. And you are doing a passable job at hiding your repulsion at my appearance and smell. You’re a student?”
“Yes. I’m doing a philosophy degree. Dad’s one of my tutors.”
“Ah. I see. A conspiracy of sorts. And what are you currently writing about?”
“Theories of laughter.”
Freud threw back his head and laughed loudly.
“Fascinating. My namesake Sigmund was an arch joker. You must read Freud. He said that humour is rebellious. It often expresses repressed desires – sexual and aggressive, but you have the get
out clause of saying ‘I was only joking’. It wouldn’t have worked for Hitler, would it? But Freud might say that this was precisely the psychological problem – Hitler had too little humour. He could not see his own ridiculousness, and so was doomed to failure. What do you think?”
“Sounds interesting,” said Cass.
Freud stopped and stamped his foot.
“No! No! No! Don’t patronise me. What you were thinking was ‘How can this nauseating, filthy tramp possibly have anything of interest to say to me?’”
Cass turned on him. “No, actually I wasn’t thinking that at all. I was thinking that yes, I would like to look at what Sigmund Freud said, so don’t patronise me!”
Freud roared a lion’s laugh.
“Good! Wonderful! You are your father’s daughter. Or… you would be a wildling but for the fact that you worry for his safety and occasional recklessness, so you sometimes have to be the parent. This is going to be interesting, Dr. Rook – good talk, by the way, although a bit dumbed down for the plebs – what does Nietzsche say about laughter?”
“That at its best the comical is therapy against the restraining jacket of logic, morality and reason. He also said that the gods laugh at the expense of all serious things. Gods delight in making fun: especially at our expense. He calls it Golden Laughter.”
“Golden. I like it. The gods. Yes, those bastards are always laughing at us. The trick is to pay them back when you can. Ah, home at last.”
Beyond Good and Evil Page 5