by Mark O'Flynn
Who were they? What appeal? Mr O’Neil could not answer him. The fact that Mr O’Neil had cracked a few heads during the riot was generally forgotten between them. (His were the eyes in the owl mask.) Edgar recalled that this nuisance of appealing had something to do with his fitness. Conspiracies or no, all the fitness in the world would be for nought if Indy or someone stuck a shiv in his neck once, twice, twenty times. Any number of ordinary things could happen. They had happened before.
Edgar ground the handle of his toothbrush against the cement floor of his cell until it was as sharp as a tentpeg. He practised jabbing it against the palm of his hand, his throat. Just having it in his cell gave him a sense of security. Yet having it also gave him a sense that he needed it. He wasn’t sure who he might need to use it against, there were so many to choose from. Edgar was not diplomatic. Whenever anyone in the compound called out insults to him, he threw them right back, according to the parlance—if they wanted to fight him, he would fight. He didn’t care which group he vilified. They were all coons, slopes, spicks, niggers, wogs, not to mention putrid dogs and gronks, spiders, chats and scum.
‘You better pull your head in, son,’ one of the officers took him aside. ‘It’d be nothing for twenty of ‘em to jump you, the shit you give them.’
‘What about the shit they give ter me?’
‘Are you making a complaint?’
Edgar said nothing.
The officer shrugged. He had performed his duty of care.
In a way this naive fearlessness was why they left Edgar in peace. They remembered what the papers said he had done to his victim. So their taunts rarely went beyond the verbal. Edgar also, truth be told, liked the banter. (‘Fuckyez all.’)
He was learning how to operate in a social world.
One day, as the members of Edgar’s unit were queuing past the trolley to receive their meals from the sweeper, Otto called out:
‘Hey, halfwit, lay a egg for me?’
There was laughter along the queue.
‘Fuckyer, rockape,’ Edgar called back. It was like a cockatoo saying hello.
Otto dropped his easy manner and, in front of everyone, marched across the floor to Edgar. Edgar felt his hackles rise. Zero to ninety degrees was a slow steady ritual. Ninety to one hundred happened in an instant.
‘What did you say, gronk?’
‘Say, suck my Paddle Pop.’
Edgar had the toothbrush in his hand, eased down from the rubber band around his wrist. Otto brandished his fist, but before he could strike Edgar rammed the toothbrush home, in out, in out, in, up to the bristles in Otto’s belly. Otto fell screaming to the floor, a pulse of blood between his fingers. Everyone moved off quickly. No one could reliably say they saw anything. Edgar also moved away and went, without his dinner, but with the music of Otto’s squealing in his ears, back to his slot. He knew it was only a matter of time before they figured out whose toothbrush it was.
Alone in his cell Edgar had plenty of time to work himself up into a state of preparedness. He heard the sound of the crime scene being secured; of the others being locked away, the bloodspill cleaned.
Eventually they came and stood in the doorway. Otto had given him up. Edgar would have to go to Segro while they sorted it all out. Would Edgar come quietly?
No, he would not. He was staying here and youse fat maggots could fuckorf as well…
Hmm.
‘Come on, Ed, we’re trying to help here. We’ve been watching Otto standing over you. We can see it was self-defence, is that the way it was?’
‘If yer been watchin’ then why din’t yer do somethin’?’
When they came into the cell Edgar threw his jug of boiling water over them, clouted the nearest with it. They quickly backed out, one of them holding his nose. There was some similar language to Otto’s. One pressed his duress alarm, then called on his radio for assistance with a cell extraction. They slammed the door while they worked out what to do. Edgar sat with his back against the wall, facing the door, so that when they opened the observation flap he was ready, staring them down. The kettle steamed. He might have scissors. They did not know what he had.
When the reinforcements arrived, the door was opened again and a pipper stood there, his underlings behind him.
‘Come on, Ed,’ said Mr O’Neil reasonably. ‘Don’t make it any worse for yourself. What if Otto dies?’
‘What if?’
‘Your life won’t be worth shit to his friends. Probably isn’t already. We don’t want another death in custody here. It’s for your own protection. You got plenty to argue in your defence.’
‘I don’t need protection.’
‘Yeah, mate, you do.’
‘Protection is fer rockspiders and dorgs. I ain’t no dorg.’
‘You know we’ve got to get you out of there, Ed. Otto could have had all sorts of diseases. We got to take a blood sample from you to see if you’re all right.’
‘You can try,’ said Edgar.
‘Have it your way. My tea’s going cold.’
Mr O’Neil closed the door and Edgar heard him say to the others:
‘Call the dogs.’
It was dark and cold outside before he heard the rattle of keys in the lock again. Edgar rose to his feet.
‘Is Otto dead?’
‘Still early days, but it looks like he’s gonna pull through, Ed. Not nearly as bad as it looked. I hear he squealed a bit.’
‘He squeal, all right.’
‘You’ll turn into a caveman if you stay in there.’
Edgar shrugged. ‘Plenty to look at.’
‘Are you gonna come quietly?’
‘Nup. This is too much fun.’
Behind the pipper a German shepherd was dragged into view. The dog’s handler jerked its short leash roughly, giving it little lovetaps with his knuckles on the side of its head. The dog curled its lip back and bared its teeth, as it had been trained, in a throaty growl. A part of Edgar admired its teeth.
‘Sorry, Ed, you call out when you’re ready.’
With that the dog was released into the cell, and the pipper closed the door.
The officers outside later reported how they heard fierce growling from both man and dog—barking, shouting, screaming, howling, yelping, growling. It was impossible to distinguish the sound of man from the sound of dog. For a long time it was ferocious, guttural, and for the screws, highly entertaining.
Then followed a long period of silence.
Inside, the kettle was dashed to the floor. Edgar wrestled for his life with the big dog. Everything happened very fast. Punching or kicking did not seem to hurt it. It had his arm, crunching it in its jaws. Edgar jabbed it in the eye with a finger, then shoved the finger hard up its nostril. It released his arm, but savaged him on every limb before he was able finally to get close enough to get his weight on top of it, his legs around its body, his hands around its throat. They came apart and together again. He had to make sure to keep his legs and lower body close, to avoid the scrabbling paws; to keep his face and upper body away from the fangs. They were on the floor, writhing, until they became partially wedged under the bunk. Edgar tried to cram them both further in. The dog was Dungay. Dungay was the dog. There was no room for the dog to manoeuvre. He used his elbows to prize the front legs apart and away from him. Still his torso was raked from throat to groin. The dog was Meacham. Edgar was Meacham. He wasn’t sure how long they remained like this, entangled, struggling, but in the not-so-subtle machinations of instinct it seemed to the man that the dog was now fighting to get away from him. The thrashing of its legs became more frantic. It twisted its head away from him, rather than trying to bite his face. Then he felt its strength begin to wane. The dog was turning to stone. He squeezed his fingers and thumbs even tighter. He had to admire the dog’s tenacity, for it was a long time before it was completely still. Edgar did not move. He squeezed his thighs hard around it. Suddenly it seemed that, there under the bunk, the dog was Ivy Cornish. He throttled unti
l his thumbs ached and his fingers locked. They continued to lie there under the bed. Ivy Cornish was the dog. The dog’s tongue lolled from the corner of its mouth. Edgar took the tip of it in his mouth and gnawed it off with the new dentures. He spat it out and when the dog did not react he knew he had won. In their stillness he felt how warm the animal was against his flesh. Ivy warm in his arms. He could smell the chemical perfume of the shampoo in its coat. Her blood was on his face. When he was certain it was dead he slowly disentangled himself, eased out from under the bunk. He found he was aroused.
Outside, the officers listened to the silence, looked askance at each other. It had been going on too long. The dog handler shrugged his shoulders. All along the length of the wing inmates stood on their beds looking out the grilles above their doors. They stared as the door swung open, as it had to, and Edgar slowly emerged with the dog draped limply across both arms. He came out and showed everyone what he had, before flinging the carcass of the dog at their feet. There were muffled cheers, and some laughter from along the wing. The screws stared in disbelief. Then Edgar turned and ambled back into his cell, closing the door behind him. Click.
Inside there was blood all over the floor. Ivy had gone. Edgar breathed. He went to the toilet and, reaching into what he had preserved for just this purpose, began to smear his own shit all over his body, his neck, his ankles, even to his armpits, so as to retain, as it were, when they came for him, a little dignity.
When the officers opened the door for the last time that night Edgar rose from his bunk and stepped out. He was weak and tired now, not as young as he once was. He carried his possessions before him in a single tub. No one tried to touch him. If anything they stepped back and allowed him to pass unobstructed.
FIVE
Edgar sat quietly in the dock. I know, I was there. The shiny railings before him reflected scratches of light. He did not understand what all the beaks were squabbling about, but he tried this time to behave himself; pulled his hands back when he saw his fingers reaching out to fiddle with something. Covered his mouth if he felt the need to belch. Once he stifled a loud yawn when he saw me looking at him. Edgar was called to the stand and answered yes, or no, politely, as far as he was able, when questions were put to him. It had to be explained that he was not on trial for hurting Otto. Otto had declined to press charges. This was a separate matter. He listened with all his might. He said it would help him if we could keep our questions short and simple. No, he did not have a full recollection of the original trial, only of being immensely tired. That was why he didn’t like court. And because they said bad things about him which weren’t true. Lynne had flown up again and sat at the back of the gallery smiling encouragement to him. She was wearing smart, new clothes, but looked like a scarecrow now, to Edgar.
In the intervening years she had undergone chemotherapy. Her hair was still growing back in soft tufts beneath a silk scarf. I had steeled myself against this vision that was not my mother. I’d chosen not to delve into the privacy of her illness, and had lost myself in study and work, symptoms, I think now, of a breaking heart. I am not good with medical nomenclature.
I had just completed my Articles and was a bright young solicitor with Pennington, Arnold and Gorse. I had a future. I had Emily who, I hoped, would one day become my fiancée. We went dancing and hiking and swimming at the beach; we enjoyed movies and music and restaurants. This was a life away from my mother’s disease, and the secret, weird uncle from her past. Each weekend now, as she pored over complicated legal judgements, and rang me with obscure questions, I told myself I would have a much better time if I only kept my nose out of her business. But I could not stay out of it.
My mother could not manage more than a rudimentary understanding of the legal technicalities which impinged upon her brother’s circumstances. Yet she had become determined to argue the injustice of his case. So I could not say no. It was either that or close myself up to her like a clam. This was the last good thing she had set herself to do. As she said, she had treated her own parents abominably by running away; this was some kind of gesture of atonement.
So the time came when I said to Emily one weekend that we could not go dancing as we had planned, nor spend all Saturday in bed, as was sometimes our custom. I took the files and papers into my study and closed the door to wrestle, as Emily so kindly put it, with my doppelgänger.
I was now assisting Mr Pennington, who had agreed to take the case pro bono. I did not tell my mother that Pennington had once taken a considerable fee to defend extradition proceedings against a Lebanese drug baron and then not even bothered to turn up in court.
The further I had read into Edgar’s case, the more I became disturbed. There was no doubt in my mind he’d been stitched up by sloppy investigative work, as well as sloppy jurisprudence. However, as Pennington pointed out, we were not at this stage appealing the conviction.
‘His guilt is neither here nor there, Tony, all we are attempting to do is free him from custody. We are exploiting a technicality, when perhaps the morally correct thing to do would be to leave him where he is.’
‘Or not.’
‘Or not,’ he agreed. ‘Morality is largely irrelevant.’
When I reported to Mum that Pennington had agreed to take the case, and that she should fly up to meet him, she hissed a sibilant ‘Yes!’ through the phone.
For the police at the time, the arrest of Edgar had been a quick result. Good work, lads. Good PR. As regards his fitness to plead, one of the stumbling blocks in our grounds to reventilate the matter, apart from the ancient precedent of R v Dyson (1831)—the deaf woman made mute by the visitation of God—was the case of R v Chad. As a young lawyer I was quickly learning to fathom the depths to which a man can sink. The Chad story was too bizarre to be concocted. I did not wish to relate it to my mother—but she found out for herself, looking through microfiche archives of old newspapers. As Pennington said, the subjectivity of truth was its only usefulness.
Young Chad had had a record of petty theft, and a string of other misdemeanours accompanied by short sentences. He was a thickheaded boy with no one to tell him what to do. One day in 1983 he killed a girl—or, as he claimed (as Edgar also claimed), he found the body of a girl. No one believed him, of course. What they believed was the physical evidence. Which said: That he had intercourse with the girl and tied a rope around her; that he anchored it to a tree and threw her body into a river. (The river as crime scene was another importunate coincidence.) That he returned the next night and fished her out and did the same. That, on the third night he returned and did the same. That, on the fourth night he returned with intent to do the same, only to be caught, as it were, on the job, when the police jumped out of the bushes.
Chad was sentenced as a ‘forensic patient’ and held at Touringa Hospital in the secure ward. That is, he was a person detained in a hospital, prison or other place pursuant to an order under both the Mental Health (Criminal Procedure) Act 1990, and Section 7(4) of the Criminal Appeal Act 1912.
‘Speak English!’ my mother snapped ‘What does all that gobbledegook mean?’
Well—if it had not been for the political push to close down many of the psychiatric and mental health facilities in the community, people like Chad, and Edgar for that matter, would have had somewhere to live, some prospect of treatment. Instead they had lived out on the street. Where the political climate then also worked a similar weather against them.
Next, Chad escaped from the hospital, having attacked and bound with gaffer tape three of the staff on night duty. He was out in the community for five days, though he made no attempt to disguise or conceal himself. After that, there was nowhere else to keep him other than in gaol.
You can imagine, Mr Pennington explained to my mother over coffee in his office, how popular that crime would make him in prison.
‘Your brother’s record of causing trouble whilst in custody would be regarded as too close a similarity to Chad’s case for the authorities to risk tra
nsferring him out of custody.’
‘But he shouldn’t be there to begin with.’
‘That’s what we’ll be arguing,’ Mr Pennington agreed, ‘but whatever the outcome of that course of action, it is still a possibility that your brother may be guilty. There was a similar debate about whether Chad was fit to stand trial: whether he was mad or not at the time of the offence, something had to be done with him. He is now regarded as an ordinary man.’
‘Chad is not my brother.’
‘Chad is serving thirty-five years. Your brother is looking good by comparison. Does that alter your thinking at all?’
‘No.’
My mother adjusted the scarf on her head. She smelled of chemicals.
‘To be blunt, Mrs Tindale, what I don’t understand is why you seem intent on martyring yourself.’
‘I’m not a martyr, Mr Pennington. I’m just doing what I believe is right. I ran away from Edgar once and left him in that dreary, godforsaken place. I didn’t even help when he was being born. All my life I have thought only of myself, although I’ve often wondered how he survived in the midst of all that awfulness. Perhaps it’s worse for a girl. I don’t want to turn my back on him again.’
‘Could you live with yourself if your brother were to re-offend?’
‘I don’t believe he has committed an offence in the first place.’
‘In that case, Tony,’ Pennington turned to me, ‘you had better arrange a meeting with Mr Hamilton.’
After the cold months of Segro, Edgar was escorted (he wasn’t frogmarched or dragged or manhandled in any way) down to the boneyard. No one had horns or cloven hoofs. They were just a variation of the same. Just as many tattoos. He recognised plenty of blokes from the Main who had bailed for one reason or another, unable to handle the rough and tumble any more. Meacham wasn’t there.