It didn’t take long. Some fatuous praise for the defence lawyer’s arguments, but it was a veneer. These three wigs were direct descendants of Judge Jeffreys. They would have needed sworn testimony and photographic proof from Jesus Christ himself before they would even think of overturning the original sentence. It was in their eyes, their well-fed cheeks, their couth tongues. Before them was a pitiful creature who’d done vile things to wee boys. He even looked like a creature from hell. How could he not be guilty – of something? The fact that he’d acquired his melted face in heroic endeavours on their behalf gave rise to some token words of sympathy. But in the same breath they speculated that his harrowing burns had not only given him monstrous features but monstrous propensities. A sad business but society needed protection.
It was no surprise then to hear the lead judge – Lord Justice James Edgar Stewart – pronounce that the appeal had not been upheld and that the original sentence would be carried out forthwith. Forthwith meant in four days’ time. Next Tuesday.
This time neither the usher nor the judge himself could quieten the crowd; the smell of sulphur was in their nostrils. Hugh was led out, head bowed, leaving Samantha Campbell staring after him. The Procurator Fiscal’s man came up to her and muttered something platitudinous. She smiled grimly at him and took off her glasses and her wig. Her blond hair was kirby-gripped to her scalp and damp with perspiration. She pulled out a few pins and ruffled her hair to release the pressure. She put her papers together and waited till the court was emptied before leaving the now echoing room. I waved down at her and she caught the movement and looked up at me with eyes so despairing I nearly jumped over the rail to join her and hold her. We met outside. Her eyes were red from rubbing.
‘Justice was done, wouldn’t you say? Take me home, Brodie.’
We went to see Hugh on Monday, the day before the deadline – was there ever a more apt word? He was calm; too calm. It was clear the prison authorities were topping him up with morphine to make the whole thing easier – for them, I suspected.
It wasn’t much of a conversation. He was back in his prison drabs and shackled at wrist and ankle. Just in case he made a run for it. Sam and I muttered some apologies for our failure to get him off. Hugh was magnanimous in his exoneration.
‘You did your best. Both of you. More than onybody could. Forbae, it disnae matter, Dougie pal. I’m past it. I should have died in that bomber. This is all borrowed time.’
The phrase shook me. It’s how I’d initially felt lolling in the waves off Arran. All the bullets and bombs that had missed me during my campaigns across Africa and Europe were surely storing up the certainty of a violent death. But the survival instinct runs deep. I didn’t care about such fatalistic claptrap. I wanted to live. I couldn’t accept Hugh’s stoicism.
‘Bollocks, Shug! You might as well say you shouldn’t have been born.’
‘Even better, old pal.’
Suddenly a guard came over and whispered to Sam. She turned to me and Hugh. ‘Hugh’s got another visitor. We need to go.’
For a moment I wondered, then I knew who this was. I got up and regardless of the guard’s admonishment, reached out for Hugh’s hands. I gripped his claws. He tried a smile.
‘Well, we’ll soon ken who was right, ya Proddie sod.’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling.
‘I hope it’s you, Shug.’
‘Naw you don’t. Where would that leave a’ you unshriven Orangemen, come the day?’
It was a brave face. We both knew he’d be buried by the wall outside D Hall in unconsecrated ground. The thought of not getting a proper Catholic burial and what that might mean in the afterlife must have been unbearable to him. That and knowing that his own priest wouldn’t be around to guide him over. And probably wouldn’t be there to welcome him on the other side; if there was any justice in heaven. I hoped they would double his morphine tonight.
Sam and I left him sitting there. He waved as we got to the door. I gave him a thumbs-up. In the waiting room outside, stood Fiona. She’d made an effort. Her hair was better cut and shining, held back by an Alice band. She’d put on makeup and good red lipstick. The coat looked new but too big. Borrowed? She clutched a black purse. Her eyes were bright with fought-back tears. She raised her head, ready for another challenge. She looked smashing.
‘Hello, Fiona.’
‘Hello, Douglas. How is he?’
‘Better than us. And he’ll be better for seeing you, Fiona.’
She nodded. ‘I had to come.’
Sam said, ‘Mrs Hutchinson? We’re here in a car. We can wait. Give you a lift.’
Fiona shook her head. ‘No. I’m fine. Thanks. Just go.’
She squared her shoulders and fixed a smile on her lips. The guard opened the door for her. As she stepped through Hugh spotted her. He began to struggle to his feet. The door closed.
Sam asked me to drive us back to her home.
‘Will you stay till tomorrow, Douglas?’
Douglas? I hadn’t thought about it. Hadn’t wanted to. To do so was to accept we’d lost and Hugh would hang. I hadn’t drawn that line yet.
‘Of course. But then I suppose I need to get back. See if I have still have a job.’ I joked, but in truth it was no joke. I’d been away a month and it would be a struggle to pick up the pieces. My long-suffering editor had stopped taking my calls. There was no chance of a full-time position now. I’d lost all momentum.
*
That evening became a bit last-supperish. In this case, Sam had had enough of my steaming newspapers filled with salt and vinegar and fat and cooked some stringy chicken and vegetables. We tried to eat it but it was more about pushing the food around the plate than getting it into our mouths. After her days of abstinence, Sam joined me in a glass or three of single malt. Glenlivet, smooth and soft on the tongue like molten heather. It was a taste I couldn’t afford to acquire, and it would be back to Red Label in London. Back to my old habits. My mouth went dry. Would the dark days and long nights start again? Would I fall back into the pit? Though it had ended badly this quest had forced me to think outside myself. I couldn’t see what would replace it, where I would find a purpose compelling enough to keep the black dog at bay.
By unspoken agreement we talked about anything and everything except the trial and the impending hanging. At least we tried; it always crept back in.
‘Would you ever come back here and live?’
‘Some day, maybe. It depends on my mother. How she is. But I have to say it’s warmer down south.’
‘Getting soft.’
‘I had a taste of the real south. I’d like to see what Sicily’s like without someone shooting at me.’
‘You haven’t mentioned it before. Is that what gives you the nightmares?’
‘Christ! You heard me? I thought I’d been better.’
‘It was just the first week or two. I didn’t want to say anything. Do you want to talk about it?’
‘What is there to say. It’s not unusual. I was a soldier. You see a lot of things. Best forgotten.’
‘My dad was the same. Never a word. But sometimes you have the same look.’
I poured another glass. ‘What about you, Sam? What’s next? You’ll have made a name for yourself. The judges were impressed, even I could tell.’
‘I might take a wee holiday. Go up north, spend time in the Highlands. My folks loved Skye. I might rent a cottage in Portree for a few weeks. Blow the cobwebs away.’
Suddenly that seemed a highly attractive thing to do. I almost said so. We drifted though dinner, on into desultory conversation in the library and called it a night as the clock struck eleven.