‘Thank you, Constable Cooper,’ said Pat. ‘I look forward to seeing you in the morning.’
‘I’ll be off duty,’ said Constable Cooper.
Then I’ll see you this time next year,’ said Pat without explanation, ‘and don’t forget to pass on my best wishes to your father,’ he added as the four-inch-thick iron door was slammed shut.
Pat studied the cell for a few moments: a steel washbasin, a bog and a bed, one sheet, one blanket and one pillow. Pat was reassured by the fact that nothing had changed since last year. He fell on the horsehair mattress, placed his head on the rock-hard pillow and slept all night — for the first time in weeks.
Pat was woken from a deep sleep at seven the following morning, when the cell-door flap was flicked open and two black eyes stared in.
‘Good morning, Pat,’ said a friendly voice.
‘Good morning, Wesley,’ said Pat, not even opening his eyes. ‘And how are you?’
‘I’m well,’ replied Wesley, ‘but sorry to see you back.’ He paused. ‘I suppose it must be October.’
‘It certainly is,’ said Pat climbing off the bed, ‘and it’s important that I look my best for this morning’s show trial.’
‘Anything you need in particular?’
‘A cup of tea would be most acceptable, but what I really require is a razor, a bar of soap, a toothbrush and some toothpaste. I don’t have to remind you, Wesley, that a defendant is entitled to this simple request before he makes an appearance in court.’
‘I’ll see you get them,’ said Wesley, ‘and would you like to read my copy of the Sun?’
‘That’s kind of you, Wesley, but if the chief superintendent has finished with yesterday’s Times, I’d prefer that.’ A West Indian chuckle was followed by the closing of the shutter on the cell door.
Pat didn’t have to wait long before he heard a key turn in the lock. The heavy door was pulled open to reveal the smiling face of Wesley Pickett, a tray in one hand, which he placed on the end of the bed.
Thank you, Wesley,’ said Pat as he stared down at the bowl of cornflakes, small carton of skimmed milk, two slices of burnt toast and a boiled egg. ‘I do hope Molly remembered,’ added Pat, ‘that I like my eggs lightly boiled, for two and a half minutes.’
‘Molly left last year,’ said Wesley. ‘I think you’ll find the egg was boiled last night by the desk sergeant.’
‘You can’t get the staff nowadays,’ said Pat. ‘I blame it on the Irish, myself. They’re no longer committed to domestic service,’ he added as he tapped the top of his egg with a plastic spoon. ‘Wesley, have I told you about the time I tried to get a labouring job on a building site in Liverpool, and the foreman, a bloody Englishman—’ Pat looked up and sighed as he heard the door slam and the key turn in the lock. ‘I suppose I must have told him the story before,’ he muttered to himself.
After Pat had finished breakfast, he cleaned his teeth with a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste that were even smaller than the ones they’d supplied on his only experience of an Aer Lingus flight to Dublin. Next, he turned on the hot tap in the tiny steel washbasin. The slow trickle of water took some time to turn from cold to lukewarm. He rubbed the mean piece of soap between his fingers until he’d whipped up enough cream to produce a lather, which he then smeared all over his stubbled face. Next he picked up the plastic Bic razor, and began the slow process of removing a four-day-old stubble. He finally dabbed his face with a rough green hand towel, not much larger than a flannel.
Pat sat on the end of the bed and, while he waited, read Wesley’s Sun from cover to cover in four minutes. Only an article by their political editor Trevor Kavanagh — he must surely be an Irishman, thought Pat — was worthy of his attention. Pat’s thoughts were interrupted when the heavy metal door was pulled open once again.
‘Let’s be ’avin you, Pat,’ said Sergeant Webster. ‘You’re first on this morning.’
Pat accompanied the officer back up the stairs, and when he saw the desk sergeant, asked, ‘Could I have my valuables back, Mr Baker? You’ll find them in the safe.’
‘Like what?’ said the desk sergeant, looking up.
‘My pearl cufflinks, the Cartier Tank watch and a silver-topped cane engraved with my family crest.’
‘I flogged ’em all off last night, Pat,’ said the desk sergeant.
‘Probably for the best,’ remarked Pat. ‘I won’t be needing them where I’m going,’ he added, before following Sergeant Webster out of the front door and onto the pavement.
‘Jump in the front,’ said the sergeant, as he climbed behind the wheel of a panda car.
‘But I’m entitled to two officers to escort me to court,’ insisted Pat. ‘It’s a Home Office regulation.’
‘It may well be a Home Office regulation,’ the sergeant replied, ‘but we’re short-staffed this morning, two off sick, and one away on a training course.’
‘But what if I tried to escape?’
‘A blessed release,’ said Sergeant Webster, as he pulled away from the kerb, ‘because that would save us all a lot of trouble.’
‘And what would you do if I decided to punch you?’
‘I’d punch you back,’ said an exasperated sergeant.
‘That’s not very friendly,’ suggested Pat.
‘Sorry, Pat,’ said the sergeant. ‘It’s just that I promised my wife that I’d be off duty by ten this morning, so we could go shopping.’ He paused. ‘So she won’t be best pleased with me — or you for that matter.’
‘I apologize, Sergeant Webster,’ said Pat. ‘Next October I’ll try to find out which shift you’re on, so I can be sure to avoid it. Perhaps you’d pass on my apologies to Mrs Webster.’
The sergeant would have laughed, if it had been anyone else, but he knew Pat meant it.
‘Any idea who I’ll be up in front of this morning?’ asked Pat as the car came to a halt at a set of traffic lights.
‘Thursday,’ said the sergeant, as the lights turned green and he pushed the gear lever back into first. ‘It must be Perkins.’
‘Councillor Arnold Perkins OBE, oh good,’ said Pat. ‘He’s got a very short fuse. So if he doesn’t give me a long enough sentence, I’ll just have to light it,’ he added as the car swung into the private carpark at the back of Marylebone Road Magistrates’ Court. A court officer was heading towards the police car just as Pat stepped out.
‘Good morning, Mr Adams,’ said Pat.
‘When I looked at the list of defendants this morning, Pat, and saw your name,’ said Mr Adams, I assumed it must be that time of the year when you make your annual appearance. Follow me, Pat, and let’s get this over with as quickly as possible.’
Pat accompanied Mr Adams through the back door of the courthouse and on down the long corridor to a holding cell.
Thank you, Mr Adams,’ said Pat as he took a seat on a thin wooden bench that was cemented to a wall along one side of the large oblong room. If you’d be kind enough to just leave me for a few moments,’ Pat added, ‘so that I can compose myself before the curtain goes up.’
Mr Adams smiled, and turned to leave.
‘By the way,’ said Pat, as Mr Adams touched the handle of the door, ‘did I tell you about the time I tried to get a labouring job on a building site in Liverpool, but the foreman, a bloody Englishman, had the nerve to ask me—’
‘Sorry, Pat, some of us have got a job to do, and in any case, you told me that story last October.’ He paused. ‘And, come to think of it, the October before.’
Pat sat silently on the bench and, as he had nothing else to read, considered the graffiti on the wall. Perkins is a prat. He felt able to agree with that sentiment. Man U are the champions. Someone had crossed out Man U and replaced it with Chelsea. Pat wondered if he should cross out Chelsea, and write in Cork, whom neither team had ever defeated. As there was no clock on the wall, Pat couldn’t be sure how much time had passed before Mr Adams finally returned to escort him up to the courtroom. Adams was now dressed in a long black gown, looking like Pat’s old headmaster.