Stone Cold Dead

by Roger Ormerod

  ‘What the bloody hell!’

  He rubbed the palm of his right hand down the thigh of his denims. It was the hand that had held the beer can, and he’d crushed it in his automatic reaction to the slamming-back of the door. The beer had splashed back over his arm, and he stank of it.

  I now realised that he was not so big as I’d expected. Images are subconsciously assembled from items of information, and I’d envisaged a large and powerful hulk. But he wasn’t like that. Powerful, certainly, but two inches shorter than me, craggy, his shoulders wide and his neck short. He would roll as he walked, but he would roll straight into trouble and meet it head on. His expression now was of uncertainty. He shook his head from side to side in mystification, a shock of untidy, greasy hair moving with it. He had the large, scarred hands of a bricklayer.

  There came a point where he decided he’d had enough of the jolting, and he stood his ground. The half-open door was a yard behind him.

  ‘What y’ want? What yerrafter?’

  ‘In the other room,’ I said. ‘Then we can see what we’re doing.’

  ‘You coppers or somethin’?’

  ‘Not the police. We’ve come for Dennis.’

  ‘Who’s Dennis?’ But he’d slipped up, using the name. ‘He ain’t ...’

  ‘I want to go to momma!’ It was a weak and tentative voice from the rear room. He’d heard his name mentioned.

  It was all I’d needed to hear. The lad had made his own decision.

  I pushed past Pierce and swung open the door. He grabbed for my shoulder as I passed him, but I twisted free, hoping that a display of confidence and authority might stay his knife hand.

  Their rear room. Their living room. Beyond it would be a kitchen that I didn’t wish to see. I looked round for the location of the voice.

  The room was sparsely furnished. A table with a scrubbed surface stood in the centre, newspaper spread as a tablecloth on it, on that plates, used plates of more than one meal, and three cans remaining from a six-pack of beer. Knives were there, but no forks. Was it knives and fingers then? Beyond was the wall containing the fireplace. A meagre fire slumped in the grate. It was cold in that room, the chill of damp pervading it. On the mantelpiece were two vases, one at each end—no flowers, though. In its centre was poised a patterned plate on its edge. There was a single easy chair, its surface split in places, its padding leaking in sorrow. Two plain, rickety chairs stood at the table, facing each other.

  It was a sparse room, a room empty of spirit. Boredom and despair seemed still to hang heavily in the stale air. A window, overlooking a back yard I guessed, was tattily draped with faded, ancient velveteen. The single light bulb hung miserably naked from the centre of the ceiling, mourning its lost shade, if it had ever had one. The air was heavy, and restless to get out of there, if only a window would open, but it wouldn’t, being painted in solid. I doubted that it ever had. The neighbours might hear your voices, register the fear and the loathing, the cries for help that it was better not to hear.

  The lad was standing in the corner to my left, his palms flat against the two adjoining walls. His friends, those walls. From those two directions a blow would not reach him. He might, as had been suggested, have been between two and three years old, but his face wore the age of ceaseless distress and fear, whilst his left cheek bore the inflamed puffiness of repeated slaps from a heavy palm. Enough of that and you go deaf.

  ‘Are you Dennis?’ I asked him.

  ‘Want to go to momma.’ Fear was in his eyes, that this might promote another slap.

  It was clear enough. I glanced round for Gerald. He was just inside the doorway, and looked terrified.

  ‘What d’ya want?’ demanded Pierce. ‘You’re coppers...’

  ‘We’re not. I want to talk to you. You were along the canal, at the flight, yesterday evening. Late. Is that so?’

  ‘I ain’t talkin’ to you.’

  ‘Oh yes you are. You went there with Clare Martin, I’d say. Your wife’s sister. She knew where the lad was. So I’d suggest you put a knife to her ribs, the one you’re holding now, and forced her to drive you there.’

  ‘No! It’s a bloody lie. It’s stoopid.’ He gave a bark of derisive and empty laughter, which was more convincing than the words.

  ‘You were there.’

  Then he went for me. There was no warning. Usually you see it in the eyes, but his were empty. He went for me with the knife in his left fist, pushing himself away from the wall with his other hand, helping himself along with his spare foot back against the wall.

  I knew then that I’d taken on more than I’d anticipated. Pierce was a streetfighter, and he’d used that knife before, probably often. Suddenly, I was defending my life. He would know the law. He could plead self-defence, and in his own house, against intruders. I had to get inside his swing and disarm him, so I went at him head down, and got him in the chest. Then I twisted away, locking his knife arm in one hand round his wrist, the other at his elbow. He stumbled as he turned, dropping it. I kicked it along the floor towards Gerald.

  ‘Get the knife!’ I shouted.

  But Gerald was rigid with fear. It wasn’t what I’d promised him. To him, this was a hell wherein he had not previously ventured. He could no more have handled that knife than he would dive into one of the locks.

  I had wasted one second in that glance at Gerald, and it nearly cost me an eye, as splayed fingers were jabbing towards my face. I caught them on their way to my eyes, interlocking my fingers in his, and threw Pierce back against the wall. His hands were the stronger. A multitude of bricks had been hefted by them. But I could bear down on him, being that small amount taller, and I watched his eyes go blank with pain, his mouth fall open, gasping. Then I broke free and stood back. He was busy trying to make a fist, which I watched all the way, ducked under, and threw my own fist deep into his beer gut, up under his rib cage.

  ‘That’s for her cracked rib,’ I panted.

  His eyes were going blank. The punch he threw at me was slow. When I stepped back a little, seeking more room in which to operate, his head came forward, so I hit him on the nose. Blood spurted. He licked his lips like a wounded animal, and made a snarling sound.

  ‘That was for the teeth,’ I told him, and put another fist where the nose had been. ‘And that’s for the broken wrist.’

  He seemed to choke on his own blood.

  Now, I had to keep on the offensive. If he landed a lucky blow and had me down, or even temporarily confused, he would pounce on the knife. I had to prevent that.

  He managed a choked, burbling sound, and launched himself at me. I stepped aside. It would need a lucky blow to put him down. I flung a punch at his face again, staggering myself, and got him clean on the chin. He shook his head, and stood still for a moment.

  ‘And that,’ I gasped, ‘was for every damned bruise.’

  Then I stood back, exhausted, as his eyes went blank. Slowly he tilted, rigidly, like a wooden toy, then he fell with a crash on to his face, his arms spread. I stared down at him, surprised that such a poor blow had finished him.

  Panting, I turned my eyes to Gerald, who hadn’t realized how close it had been, and couldn’t, even now, bring himself to bend and pick up the knife. If he’d done that earlier, I might possibly have managed to end it more cleanly. I found I could barely speak, and knew I wasn’t steady on my feet. I turned my head to the boy. He was still there in the corner, standing stiffly, his face drawn and sallow, huge brown eyes in a mask of wonder.

  ‘Shall we...’ My lips were dry, and I licked them. ‘Shall we take you to your momma?’ My voice sounded strange to me.

  It was still there, inhabiting me, that distasteful monster of violence, which is in all of us to some extent. Sometimes it is let free—but is still there, waiting. I felt nothing but self-disgust.

  Dennis ran out of his corner, stopped, looked at me, then at Gerald and ran to him, clasping him round the knees. Gerald stared across at me, horror in his eyes. He couldn’t s
peak, but reached down, swept Dennis up into his arms, and turned away. I watched until he was out of the front door.

  Then I followed, treading meticulously on Pierce’s spread hands. It was like walking on gravel.

  ‘And that,’ I said for myself, ‘is for the despair in her eyes.’

  Then I followed Gerald, out to the car.

  Chapter Eleven

  He was waiting beside the passenger’s door. I reached past him and unlocked it, took Dennis out of his arms, and waited until he’d taken the seat.

  ‘Fasten your seat belt,’ I said.

  This he did, his hands awkward and fumbling. I reached inside and handed Dennis to him. ‘Hold him tight,’ I instructed him. I was having to tell him every move, as he seemed unable to think for himself.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to do any speeding,’ he said hoarsely.

  I took that as a rather pitiful attempt at humour, but to Gerald that was what we would be doing; fleeing from this house. I went round and slipped in behind the wheel, fastened my own seat belt, and started the engine. We did a three-point turn, and set off back to Flight House.

  I glanced sideways. In the poor light from passing street lamps, I could detect that huge, startled eyes were staring at me, Dennis’s eyes.

  ‘We’ll take you to your momma,’ I promised him. ‘Not now—but soon.’

  He relaxed limply against Gerald’s chest. Ten seconds later he was asleep. The sleep of the exhausted, and of a hint of hope.

  ‘Really, Richard,’ whispered Gerald, ‘that was quite uncalled-for. You told me—no violence.’

  ‘Self-defence,’ I explained.

  ‘Is that what it was?’

  ‘He drew a knife...’

  ‘You know very well that it was lying on the floor.’

  ‘Exactly.’ I was holding the car at a steady thirty, aware that the tension was gradually easing its way from me—but leaving me uncertain and shaky. My reactions would now be very slow.

  I said, ‘The knife was there, Gerald. Still available. If he’d got me off my feet, or even unsteady, he’d have pounced on it. And what would the odds have been then?’

  ‘All the same...that’s specious, Richard, and you know it.’

  ‘But we have the boy. That’s the point. We have him.’

  He was silent for a minute or two, then he said quietly, ‘You should not have done this to me, Richard. You should not.’

  ‘I thought it would be good experience for you. A solicitor practising in the criminal law area—you ought really to know about the people you defend in court.’

  ‘Is that your attitude?’ he asked with a hint of contempt. ‘That I defend criminals! They are not so until found guilty, and you know it. Know it damned well.’

  It had certainly shaken him, that he should have used that word. I said, ‘I’m sorry it was a bit rough. But perhaps you will remember this little incident—’

  ‘I’ll never forget it! I feel...filthy. Yes...filthy.’

  ‘I thought you might like to know about those mild, quiet and reasonably dressed people, who sit the other side of your desk. What they might be like in real life, I mean. Their real life. Such as you’ve run into this evening.’

  ‘It is my duty—’

  ‘Your duty to get them off on some vague technicality? Don’t you care whether or not they’re actually guilty? Do you ever ask them: did you do it?’

  ‘If I know they have...’ There was a little attack in his voice now. He was bitter. ‘Then, I tell them they must plead guilty. As you very well know, Richard. This boy is all wet. I find it most uncomfortable.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Not long now. But tell me...you said: if you know, you tell them they must plead guilty. But how do you know? Oh, Gerald, you’re living in a different world. That was why I wanted you to come with me. To see for yourself. Now admit it—you didn’t really believe that the lad’s mother—Helen—had been brutally assaulted. Not really. You thought...oh, not directly, but way back in the depths of your mind...you thought I was exaggerating. That Amelia and I were. Because you’d never been within a mile of violence. Well, now you know what people can be like. You’ll see, when you’ve got time to think about it quietly, you’ll realize why I took you along. For you to see. I didn’t guess he’d give you such a good demonstration, though.’

  ‘He!’ he cried. ‘He? It was you who were so violent. You, Richard. I’ll never be able to put it out of my mind.’

  ‘And so...you make my point. You didn’t know I had it in me. Admit it. So—in future—you’ll know you have to look behind things. Around them. Anybody, Gerald, is capable of pretty well anything. It depends on the motivation driving them. Literally anything.’

  He was silent. For two minutes, he remained silent. Then he said quietly, ‘Will you stop the car, please.’

  I glanced at him. ‘He’s wetter?’

  ‘No. It’s not that. But I can’t go home like this. I...I feel sick. Weak and shaky. I don’t know. They mustn’t see me like this, at home. I feel I might even faint.’

  ‘Hold on. That won’t do. But you get my point now? You’ve stated it. People present their own selected image. And yours has been…’

  ‘Tarnished,’ he whispered.

  I peered ahead. ‘There was a pub we passed, on the way here, I’m sure. We’ll stop and—’

  ‘I couldn’t go inside. Not like...like this.’

  ‘I’ll bring you out a drink. It’ll help you pull yourself together. All right? Ah—there it is. I’ll pull in.’

  He said nothing as I drew on to their forecourt. The little pub seemed dim. There were only three other cars there.

  ‘Whisky?’ I asked.

  ‘Brandy, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Right. Won’t be long.’

  The bar was cosy and warm. The conversation was a mere hum, punctuated by the click of dominoes. A large and cheerful bartender watched me approach. I wasn’t certain I was walking quite straight.

  ‘Two brandies,’ I said.

  ‘Two singles, or one double, sir?’

  He had assumed they were both for me. I tried to smile, but my face was stiff. ‘There’s somebody outside in the car. I’ll take one out, if that’s all right. Singles.’

  He nodded, and presented two brandies. My loose change was in my right-hand trouser pocket, as I’d left my wallet behind. My fingers fumbled money on to the bar, fortunately sufficient. Then I saw that there was dried blood on my knuckles and realized he had noticed it.

  ‘Anywhere I can...’

  He nodded towards my right. Gents, the sign said. At that specific time I didn’t really feel like a gentleman, but I headed there. They offered a wash-hand basin and liquid soap, but no towel or hot-air dryer. I used my handkerchief. Then I returned to the bar, trying a smile that felt a little stiff, and downed my own brandy. It hit me, way down, and I left it to get on with the repair work to my nerves.

  ‘Be a minute,’ I said, and took the other glass out to Gerald. He had the passenger’s window well down.

  ‘It’s beginning to smell not too sweet in here, Richard.’ His voice was, at least, a little more firm.

  ‘Here. Get this down you. No hurry. No hurry at all.’

  But they would be waiting anxiously, and they didn’t deserve to have to wait. He handed the glass back to me, and I took it inside. ‘Thank you.’ The bartender nodded. ‘Goodnight to you, sir.’

  I stood outside for a few moments, lit my pipe, and blew smoke into the night. It wouldn’t be fair to inflict Gerald with tobacco smoke in the car. He was already complaining about a smell. Well...tobacco might cover it. No? Right...no in-car smoking, then.

  I knocked it out and got in behind the wheel. He reached over and touched my arm. ‘A minute please, Richard.’

  I waited. He said at last, ‘You’re basing your remarks, of course, on what Ray told you concerning that episode in court. With Clare Martin.’

  It was not a question. He knew I was naturally on the side of the pol
ice, hence my lesson on the basics.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ I conceded.

  ‘But of course, that was quite a long while ago.’ He offered that tentatively.

  ‘So I understand. Months.’

  ‘And things change. But Ray knew very well that my court encounters with Clare Martin were not confined to that one belittling episode.’

  ‘Of course not.’ I was wondering what he was getting round to now. ‘She would’ve appeared many times as a police witness,’ I agreed.

  ‘And Ray deliberately didn’t recall that I evened the score.’

  ‘They’ll be worried about us,’ I said. That had been a strange phrase for him to use.

  He ignored what I had said. People did wait on Gerald. ‘More than evened. I got my own laugh in court. My own triumph—in spite of the fact that I lost the case.’

  I knew that he had to recall some episode of which he could be proud, and in that way retrieve his self-respect.

  ‘Tell me as we drive,’ I said, starting the engine. ‘It can’t be all that urgent.’

  ‘I’d like you to hear it.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ I assured him as I backed out. ‘I’ll go slowly.’

  There was a slight hesitation. He was wondering how to put it. Then he said, quite softly, ‘Of course, Ray was only trying to make me look a fool, to you and to Colin.’

  ‘Why would he want to do that?’ I asked easily, keeping it going.

  ‘Because he knows that I don’t approve of him as a husband for Mellie. And he knows why. But I’m allowing myself to wander off the point. There was another case, a month or so after that one, she again in the witness box. My client stood to lose his licence for driving under the influence of alcohol. Clare was telling the court that she’d asked him to use the breathalizer, and I felt I had to do something for my fee. This was a legal aid case, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ I echoed. Why didn’t he get on with it? My hands weren’t steady. Reaction was setting in.

  He went on, ‘I queried whether that breathalizer was reliable, and pointed out that all these wonderful modern instruments...you’d call it that, Richard? An instrument?’