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 burned 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 laboring 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 curb, “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 toward 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 laboring 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.
“Follow me,” Mr. Adams intoned solemnly.
Pat remained unusually silent as they proceeded down the yellow brick road, as the old lags call the last few yards before you climb the steps and enter the back door of the court. Pat ended up standing in the dock, with a bailiff by his side.
Pat stared up at the bench and looked at the three magistrates who made up this morning’s panel. Something was wrong. He had been expecting to see Mr. Perkins, who had been bald this time last year, almost Pickwickian. Now, suddenly, he seemed to have sprouted a head of fair hair. On his right was Councillor Steadman, a liberal, who was much too lenient for Pat’s liking. On the chairman’s left sat a middle-aged lady whom Pat had never seen before; her thin lips and piggy eyes gave Pat a little confidence that the liberal could be outvoted two to one, especially if he played his cards right. Miss Piggy looked as if she would have happily supported capital punishment for shoplifters.
Sergeant Webster stepped into the witness box and took the oath.
“What can you tell us about this case, Sergeant?” Mr. Perkins asked, once the oath had been administered.
“May I refer to my notes, your honor?” asked Sergeant Webster, turning to face the chairman of the panel. Mr. Perkins nodded, and the sergeant turned over the cover of his notepad.