I suppose I should have felt relieved, but all I felt at that moment was an utter incompetent fool.
“So,” I said wretchedly, “I got the wrong man and I made a dud bomb.”
Then cheering up a little because it’s not in my nature to be down for long, I went on, “But if my bomb wasn’t really a bomb and no one actually got hurt, I can’t have committed a crime, can I? Certainly not a terrorist crime. In fact, nothing more than a slap on the wrist, ASBO, two weeks community service kind of crime!”
He laughed.
If Bloody Judge Jeffreys laughed as he was handing down sentences, it probably sounded like that.
“Never believe it, sunshine. We’ve got you bang to rights. That’s another little error you made. A pro knows that you burn all the stuff that could be evidence against you as you go along. But with you we’ve got the lot. All them notes you made planning out the attack, the hard disk from your computer showing the terrorist sites you accessed, not forgetting the bomb itself. OK, it might be a Mickey Mouse device with as much chance of working as a chocolate teapot, but it’s got your prints all over it. This government may not have done much but they did pass some legislation that makes the intention as culpable as the deed. As the very old bishop said to the actress at the third time of asking, ‘it’s intent that counts, darling’. Way people feel about terrorist threats these days, I’d say you’re looking at ten years minimum.”
The shock nearly made me faint. It’s intent that counts. That’s what my dad used to say about sin. I never knew it applied in law too.
Ten years… I’d be fifty by the time I got out… I’d be an old man!
Gospill’s phone rang.
He growled, “Yeah?”, then suddenly sat up to attention and said, “Yes, Commander! I’m with him now, Commander. No, I haven’t started the interrogation. Definitely not. Yes, I’ve collected all the physical evidence, and I’ve put it on your desk so that you can take a look at it before you start. Yes, sir, it’s confirmed the device is quite safe. Commander, can I suggest… yes… what I meant was… thank you, sir. See you soon. Look forward to it, sir. Goodbye.”
I got the impression the Commander had cut him off short and the last few phrases were for my benefit.
He caught me looking at him and snarled, “That’s happy hour over, Lachrymate. Commander Grisewood’s just coming into the building and he’ll be along here soon as he checks out the evidence bags on his desk. And that’s when your troubles are really going to begin, believe me.”
I believed him. So much so that for the first time since I was a child, I found myself saying a little prayer to God. To Dad’s God. Something on the lines of, “OK, God, after the crap you heaped on my mum and dad, you owe the Lachrymate family. I’d really appreciate it if you could come through now.”
My lips must have moved.
Gospill said, “What?”
I said for the want of anything else to say, “So how did you get on to me so quick?”
“Easy,” he said. “That sermon title you pasted on the lid of the box. Divine Retribution by DLP Lachrymate DD. Not many Lachrymates in London, believe me. In fact, you’re the only one. With the same initials in a different order. And as soon as you opened the door, I saw you were our boy.”
He looked so smug and self satisfied, I offered another little prayer, this time for a thunderbolt to come down and destroy him.
At the same moment we both heard a distant bang, like a birthday balloon being punctured. Perhaps God had taken aim and missed.
For a moment nothing happened, then came the distant shrill of an alarm bell.
Gospill sat looking at me for a moment then he rose.
“Wait there,” he commanded and went to the door.
He closed it firmly behind him but I didn’t hear a lock click.
After a little while I stood up, went to the door and opened it a crack.
I could see Gospill at the end of the corridor. He was talking to a uniformed sergeant who had a phone to his ear.
I opened the door a little further so I could hear them.
“What’s going on, sarge?” I heard Gospill ask.
“Not sure, sir. Just checking it out. Think there’s been an explosion.”
“I gathered that!” snapped the DI. “Where?”
“Hang about, sir, I’m getting something now… yes… yes… you’re sure? So no evacuation… that’s good… that’s very good… OK, thanks.”
He switched off his phone and said to Gospill, “It’s OK, sir, Seems a device went off, and there’s been a bit of a fire and quite a lot of damage, but it’s all been confined to one room and no one’s hurt. So no panic and we can stay put. Reckon someone’s head’s going to roll though. Doesn’t look good, letting a bomber get right into the heart of the Yard!”
A pause, then Gospill asked too casually, “Whose room?”
Even at a distance I could here the tremolo in his voice.
“Not absolutely sure, sir, but they think it was Commander Grisewood’s. Made a right mess from the sound of it. All those lovely water colours his missus did and he was so proud of, they’ll have gone. Oh, someone’s in real trouble, believe me!”
I closed the door quietly and went back to my seat.
Things were looking better. I’d been very stupid but there wasn’t a commandment saying Thou shalt not be stupid. And now with nothing of what I’d said so far on tape, and all the physical evidence against me probably burning merrily away with the Commander’s desk, all I needed to do was continue to look stupid and say nothing.
Thank you, Dad’s God. You came through!
The Ghote novel Gospill had produced still lay on the table.
I picked it up and looked at the author photo.
No longer could I see much resemblance to the plausible crook who all those years ago had touched on my family’s life then gone on his way. Probably he’d been dead for years.
IN SOME COUNTRIES by Jerry Raine
The day’s work was over and the sun was sinking on the horizon. Inside the kitchen Woody Granger was eating supper on his own. He usually ate with the Cutter family but he’d been late coming back from the field where he’d been fixing fences all day and the family were next door in the living room playing cards. Woody preferred eating on his own though. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist. Never had been, never would be. He was a sixteen-year-old orphan drifting through Tennessee, getting work where he could.
He finished his cup of coffee and carried his dishes to the sink. The living room door opened and Harold Cutter came in. He was a large red-faced man with thick hairy arms and a belly that hung over the belt of his jeans. Woody was a bit scared of him because he could never tell what kind of mood his employer would be in. Sometimes they would joke together, and other times, when either the work was too hard or the sun too hot, they would nearly come to blows.
“Do you want to come with me tonight Woody?” Harold asked, as he made his way to the pantry.
Finishing his dishes, Woody said over his shoulder, “Okay,” when he really wanted to be going back to his room.
Harold came out of the pantry carrying a bucket with a chopper and two large knives inside. Woody’s heart dipped. He dried his hands and Harold pointed to a lantern that was sitting on the table. “Carry please,” he said, then they walked out into the yard.
At the sound of the screen-door slamming, six dogs sprang out from under bushes and chairs and came running towards their master with heads bowed low and tales wagging. Woody smiled at them and patted Mickey, the eldest.