“Fire away.”
“Indeed I will,” he said, muttering under his breath. “There’s more chance of Delia Smith being a terrorist than you . . .”
*****
There were plenty of questions after that, all of them utterly ridiculous when considered next to the downright humdrum of my life, though now that he’d explained the reason for asking, I did understand why he had to ask.
“Have you ever trained in the use of weapons or explosives?”
“Er, no, not unless Call of Duty counts.”
“Do you ever go paintballing, do laser tag, go to shooting ranges or participate in camping or survival trips?”
“Paintballing. Once.” I shivered at the awful memory. “Work day-out thing, you know . . .”
“Do you think it is ever acceptable to use violence in furtherance of a political ideology?”
“Er, what?”
“Have you ever considered that Britain might be better off without a system of parliamentary democracy?”
“What? You mean a dictatorship? Like President Trump?”
I got a little laugh from him for that, for which I was very proud.
“Have you ever accessed the dark web or used any other software to encrypt or hide your online activities?”
“Nah, I told them before.”
I had used incognito mode to watch porn now and again, but I didn’t consider that relevant.
“Have you ever been interested in the making of weapons, explosives and pre-cursor materials?”
“Course not! I’m not mental!”
“Do you ever feel like you are an outsider, that this society is not meant for you and that your interests and well-being would be better served by a completely different social order?”
“Er . . . no.”
I did sometimes get to thinking that we’d all be better off doing away with money and just loving and hugging each other, but that didn’t seem to be what he was getting at.
“Have you ever been to a political rally or gathering, and are you a member of any pressure groups or political organisations?”
“Nope,” I said. “Can’t see the point really.”
“Explain.”
I realised that, to explain it, I would need to talk about how I felt that all politics was pointless, that nothing ever got done, that however much people protested or voted for this and that, it would still be the same country the next day, but I thought better of it.
“No, I have not attended any rallies and I am not a member of anything,” I said. “Because I can’t be bothered.”
“Have you been approached by or made friends with anyone new recently, anyone you didn’t know previously?”
“Just Butter,” I joked. “But he’s not really a friend.”
“What?”
“Just kidding. He’s the policeman you just met. Continue please.”
“So was it yes or no? Have you been approach by or made—”
“The answer’s no.”
“Thank you. Have you ever taken illicit drugs?”
“Well,” I said slyly. “Haven’t we all?”
“Please give details.”
“Come on, mate,” I said. “This is a police station.”
“I need details if you have taken any illicit drugs.”
I thought about this for a moment.
“No then,” I said. “I’ve never taken drugs.”
Then, before I knew it, the whole thing was over.
“Okay, Dave,” said Max. “We’re finished.”
“Great,” I said.
He looked up to the CCTV camera and did a little hand signal. In moments, DCI Hollingsworth and Butter came in to escort me back to my cell.
On the way down, Butter whispered to me.
“President Trump the dictator,” he said, nodding his head with a little chuckle. “What are you like?”
CHAPTER 16
THE JUDGE KNOCKED HIS LITTLE HAMMER onto the tabletop to open the proceedings.
“All rise. We will now hear the case of David A Smith.”
I stood up, along with the handful of other people in the room. As I did so, I took one last look around. It wasn’t a proper courtroom at all, more of a meeting room, I’d call it, though the judge sat at one end while everyone else sat facing him behind rows of tables. We were in Crawley Town Council, on the first floor, and the windows on the left looked down on the busy High Street, cars and buses passing, reminding me that in all this time people had been getting on with their lives, ordering takeaways, drinking bevvies, those with girlfriends having it off. All the normal stuff that I had been denied in my boring little cell.
“This hearing is to apprise everyone of the full facts of the case and ultimately to decide on the future situation of the subject, Mr David A Smith. The subject is to be present, as are the relevant authorities, experts and any others designated to have a significant interest in the outcome of these proceedings.”
I looked around me at the people in the room. There was Butter, DCI Hollingsworth and the chief constable. The MI5 man was there too, as were some other men and women I didn’t recognise.
“Before we begin,” the judge continued, “I should reiterate that everything discussed here is a matter of utmost secrecy. Nothing divulged is to leave these four walls, on penalty of contempt of court. I trust that is understood.”
I took a deep breath. It had been several days since the MI5 interview, and in that time, I had become more and more convinced that no one had the foggiest what was going on with me. Moreover, they were completely stumped as to what to do. Also, quite frankly, it frightened them. And hence, I assumed, the need for this hearing.
“There are too many complicating factors to make a simple decision,” DCI Hollingsworth had tried to explain. “And this is England, not Nazi Germany. You have rights and protections. To a certain extent, it is your decision what happens to you, though of course since your condition does present some risk to society, it’s important that we have a say too.”
“And what are you going to be saying?” I asked.
Butter had laughed at that.
“Let’s leave that to the hearing, shall we?” said DCI Hollingsworth.
“Why not tell me now?”
“Look, Dave,” said Butter, who had thankfully stopped referring to me as Sonny Jim. “It’s quite simple, really. We just don’t want you going around bringing down buildings.”
I sighed.
“Yes, but how can I live with this?”
“That’s what the hearing’s for,” said DCI Hollingsworth.
“There will be others there too,” added Butter.
“We’re not sure exactly who,” DCI Hollingsworth quickly said. “Interested parties.”
That had sounded vaguely ominous to me, but I had not probed further.
And so now, here I was, in court, waiting for my fate to be decided.
“David Smith,” said the judge, “would you please stand up.”
I did so, looking the old codger in the eye. He was wearing robes and had a pudgy face with mousy, twinkly eyes. He looked like he enjoyed the odd whisky, I thought. Good bloke.
“Are you David Smith?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you understand that this court is in session solely to decide on your future? At any time, it is your right to request more information or clarification and to question those present, either yourself or through the medium of your appointed lawyer?”
“Yes,” I said, glancing down at the woman they’d appointed. Margaret, her name was. I’d only met her the day before and got the feeling she would much rather have been working on something else. In fact, I wasn’t sure she believed any of it, didn’t think the whole thing was all some sort of a hoax. She had read the case files but hadn’t seen my number one in action, and it was my impression that she had far too few questions considering the subject matter.
“I’ll do what I can,” she had said. “But this is
not a run-of-the-mill case. It’s not like you’re being tried for anything. To be honest, I am only there to hold your hand, make sure all the I’s are dotted and the T’s are crossed.”
I decided it might be better for me to ask the questions, not her, but I’d see how I felt and what everyone had to say.
With me still on my feet, the judge then proceeded to explain some of the circumstances of the case.
“Mr Smith, I should like to make it plain from the outset today that the police are not pressing charges against you at this time. The death of Philip Pence is being ruled accidental, as are the other damages caused on the second and third of September.”
I breathed a sigh of relief, looking over my shoulder at Butter and DCI Hollingsworth. Butter gave me a little wink.
“Moreover,” continued the judge, “special measures have been taken to ensure the secrecy and confidentiality of your condition, which also form an important context for today. Your next of kin have been informed of these proceedings, as have all known witnesses, including your personal friends, as identified during the course of the police investigation. Each of these people is aware that a severe penalty will be imposed on anyone breaking the media silence on your case. Whatever is decided today, it is entirely up to you what you divulge to your family and friends. However, the element of secrecy is a precondition that applies to you as much as anyone else. You are not being accused of committing any crimes, but your unique situation does place you in the care of the state, which has an obligation both to ensure your rights and to protect the public from harm. Do you understand?”
“I do, your honour,” I said.
Basically, keep schtum. And up to me what I told my parents, Martin, James, the lads. Fair play, really.
“Thank you, Mr Smith. You may please sit down.”
As I sat down, I heard the door open behind. I turned and got a little shock. Who should walk in but Mr Girlfriend Trouble himself, the doc’s son Daryl! He looked something smart too, in a flash pinstripe suit, and was carrying one of those large document case thingies, the kind art students use to carry around their latest masterpieces.
I looked at him, waiting for him to glare at me, and then I got a further shock ’cos he didn’t glare at all—or frown.
Instead, quite out of the blue, he gave me a little smile.
*****
In the end, it turned out that the whole thing sort of hinged on Daryl. That was strange to consider in the extreme, since up to that point, I had thought of him only as a random blip on the highway of my life, just another vaguely annoying contemporary doing pretty well for himself and choosing to whinge about it rather than simply appreciating his luck. But in fact, Daryl was a very clever chap, and what’s more, he’d been all this time actively researching about me. I was, quite simply, gob-smacked by his performance.
But that all came later on. First up, actually, was DCI Hollingsworth, who recounted the entire torrid tale—everything that had happened to me from day one, what I’d peed on, when, where and also, disconcertingly, why. In fact, since in each case significant damage was caused, that was actually crucial in deciding how they looked at things. A couple of times I went red as I realised the panicked idiocy of that first day, running from place to place. Not to mention the playground, which, looking back on it, was really nothing but drunken vandalism. And of course the part about that poor homeless guy. I still felt sick just thinking about that.
“Excuse me.” I put my hand up when DCI Hollingsworth got on to that part.
Margaret looked at me sharply, but I ignored her.
“Yes?” said the judge.
I stood up.
“I just wanted to say I feel really bad about that poor tramp. Really bad.”
“And?” said the judge.
“Just that, sir,” I said. “It was the worst day of my life. Really. I still can’t believe—”
“It’s quite alright, young man,” said the judge. “We do have a lot to get through today though. Do you have any additional points or questions at this stage?”
“Er . . . no.”
“Please sit down then. Thank you.”
*****
After DCI Hollingsworth completed her account, it was the turn of a forensic scientist, a tired-looking woman who constantly hugged her arms as if she was cold, even though the room was perfectly warm.
“The urine has been linked to the scene of each . . .” I could see her about to say “crime,” but looking at me, she said “location” instead. “It is the same urine and positively matched to David A Smith. A strange substance which we struggled to study due to its extremely corrosive nature. We have taken regular samples more recently, and the strong acidity does appear to be weakening, but only marginally so.”
“Is it still dangerous?” asked the judge.
“Oh yes, your honour,” said the woman. “Very much so.”
“At the current rate of weakening, when might we expect Mr Smith’s urine to return to normal?”
The woman looked at me nervously.
“I could only hazard a guess, your honour.”
“Do so please.”
“Well, in my professional opinion, we are talking decades. Possibly it will never become totally ‘safe.’ At least not within Mr Smith’s lifespan.”
I took a sharp intake of breath and heard a similar shock reverberating around the room.
“At least, going by the current trends,” added the forensic scientist. “I am not really an expert in this area, your honour, and since we do not know what caused this condition and considering the apparent suddenness of its onset, it is just as possible also that one day it will simply disappear and that Mr Smith will return to normal.”
“I see,” said the judge. “But—and let me be absolutely clear—having chemically analysed the samples you’ve collected so far, you are of the professional opinion that Mr Smith’s urine will never return to normal.”
“No, sir,” she said sheepishly. “I am afraid not.”
“Alright, thank you. You may sit down.”
She sat down.
*****
Next, they had a urologist up there, a slimy-looking man with a rambling sort of a manner. If I didn’t know better, I would have said he was drunk.
“Please tell us your assessment of the condition at hand with regards Mr Smith’s bodily functions and health,” said the judge.
“Quite frankly,” said the urologist, sounding rather fed up, “it’s impossible for me to say anything of meaning at this hearing. It is all pure conjecture. I have no idea what is going on inside Mr Smith’s body. I struggle even to believe most of what I have been told, and without doing thorough examinations, and I mean thorough, I might as well tell you my theory on the Loch Ness monster or the Abominable Snowman or—”
“Alright, Mr Nichols,” said the judge, clearly annoyed. “But can you extend us the courtesy of your professional opinion?”
“My professional opinion is as good as yours, your honour. Let me cut him open, do an autopsy, and maybe—”
“Mr Nichols!”
“Apologies, your honour.” He lowered his head. “I get carried away sometimes.”
He turned and looked at me. “Sorry, mate,” he said.
“Please continue in a professional manner.”
The urologist sighed, running his fingers through his hair theatrically.
“Professionally speaking, I have no idea, and I mean no idea, how what is apparently happening to Mr Smith is actually happening. How a man can urinate such a substance without himself being harmed, no less killed by it, is beyond me. How can his bladder function with extreme exposure to such a noxious liquid? Technically put, that is impossible. And I would be a fool to attempt to explain the process by which this compound is manufactured in Mr Smith’s renal system. As with everything else about this case, it is impossible. At least it should be.”
I stared at my hands on the table. It seemed hard to believe that this hearing could le
ad me anywhere but to oblivion. The more I listened to these people talk about me, the more I feared they might declare me to be an alien—or at least not human.
“Would you say, Dr Nichols,” said the judge, “that further study of Mr Smith’s condition would be warranted?”
“Oh yes, your honour,” said the urologist with a little laugh. “That’s all we can do, really, though when we’re working with existing materials and tools, as already mentioned, containment is going to be a huge problem. I’m honestly not at all sure how we would manage such a study.”
“Alright, please sit down.”
“Already?”
“Yes.”
“Alright, no bother.”
And the urologist sat down.
*****
Next, they had two people stand up together: a representative of Her Majesty’s Prison and Probation Service and a representative of the National Health Service.
“I would like your opinions on the most suitable arrangements for ongoing care and accommodation for Mr Smith,” said the judge. “Mr Wilde, please, you first.”
Mr Wilde was the prisons guy.
“Well, your honour,” said Mr Wilde, “from what I have heard, I am in agreement with the police. I do not believe Mr Smith to be of any harm to society, in and of himself. His condition, however, obviously does pose certain dangers. That said, your honour, I must point out that even if your honour were to decide he should be classified a criminal, Her Majesty’s prison service would not be able to accommodate Mr Smith within the present range of facilities we have available to us. At the least, we would need to provide him with round-the-clock additional assistance, which I must point out would come at considerable cost to the taxpayer.”
“Please explain what you mean, Mr Wilde. I am not sure I quite follow you.”
“May I be frank?”
“Please do.”
“Well, basically, we don’t have the toilets for him. So if we were looking after him, we’d have to provide an escort, and a car probably, though there may be a facility we could select which is located contiguous to a suitable”—he paused to consider his words, as everyone always seemed to do when having to directly refer to my wee—“location. There are also significant risks associated with such an arrangement. The other prisoners, your honour, may grow jealous of this freedom and resent Mr Smith. They would also soon discover the reason for it, so if secrecy was a requirement, I do not believe that would be possible. Also, entering and leaving the prison grounds as frequently as would be required does give rise to a whole range of security issues. Quite frankly, your honour, if we were to be responsible for Mr Smith, that would be asking for trouble.”
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