I’ll be jiggered.

I’ll be jiggered.

Jerome MacDonald

Well, I'm glad that’s over. Another day in Court, and my case gets worse and worse. I know I'm a-gonna.' My brief told' me that this is the penultimate day. I had to ask him what penultimate meant; it seems that tomorrow, the Jury will be sent to consider their verdict.

Lying back on this springless bug-infested bed, well, it might not be bed bugs, but something makes my skin so itchy. My nose twitched, offended by the blocked loo in my cell, then shuffling my head on the flat hard pillow, I thought back about what had occurred. Visions cloud my brain, reminding me of the disastrous events that occurred.

I lit up a spliff, remembering that a couple of weeks ago, me and Dad had words; he knew I disapproved of Zelda, his Girlfriend. But I have to say he always surprises me and did it again when he asked me to step up and become his lieutenant.

He explained that he and a few colleagues are buying up properties," Developing a property portfolio " were his words, “I want the business to become more legitimate,” he said, “And I can’t afford to be seen being involved with the supply of white powder…so I want you to take over the management of the drug supply chain and in particular ensure the active Joeys and Mules meet their sales targets.”

 I love these ‘legit’ terms. It makes me believe I'm some kinda’ of thrusting entrepreneur, although, to be honest, I feel more like a two-bit Handsworth gangster.

Shuffling my prone body, I eased myself up by elbows to sit on the edge of the bed and ran a finger over the picture of my mom. God, I wish she were alive now. Oh, I do miss her. Dad hasn’t bothered to see me. No surprise there.

I won’t go into details, but he told me he had a scoreboard of enemies invading our territory and said I was to sort it out pretty damn quick.

A few days later, a friend of a friend told me that Mikhail Skopje and his foot soldiers had been seen gliding into our territory selling pebbles. Well, I had no option but to confront him. Just a gentle word in his ear, nothing too tasty, not the first time, a word to the wise telling him to keep to his own patch if he liked living.

The following day, I got a bell from a lookout who told me Skopje was seen entering the Erdington Road Billiard Hall alone. It’s a place where we do a lot of business. But he was taking the piss, denigrating me. So, me and three associates went there to sort him out once and for all.

Standing inside the hall, a deathly hush fell as the customers, a nefarious bunch of no-hopers, old lags, druggies, and assorted down-at-heel losers, all put down their cues, stabbed out their f**s, swallowed their drinks and vanished.

Standing up off the bed, I take a quick sip of bottled water, hoping to taste something that isn't stale or foul. Looking around the cell, I feel despair; it’s a cell tattooed with lewd graffiti and reeks of loss, lost hope, lost love, and death.

Next, I walked towards the barman, old Joey; he stared at me, and then his eyes swivelled towards the khazi. Entering the lav, I watched a little guy blatantly buying a tab or two off Skopje. Seeing us, he took off and bolted through the door, but Gary Robinson, one of my goons, caught hold of him, gave him a good cuffing, and appropriated the tabs, which taught him a lesson.

 

Crew cut Skopje was at first stunned looking, then took the cigarette out of his mouth, sent a puff of smoke into the air, and stared at me with a sneer. Me, big Gary, Jag and Zadok, who was looking aggressive, his face flared angrily seeing me. His lips went white, and his eyes became a blend of rage and fear. Tying up his arms behind his back, we showered him with dire threats, and his dark face turned a whiter shade of pale. Then, using wooden coshes, we hit him in the ribs and arms. It was so easy, like shooting fish in a barrel.

Suddenly, he yanked his arm and snapped open the plastic ties from around his wrist and, with a snort, darted away, but big Gary halted him with a left hook and smacked him with a right-handed blow. Anger seized me; my blood was throbbing in my temples. Grabbing him, I pushed him hard with the palms of my hands. He tottered on trembling legs, falling backwards. There was a moment of silence as he collapsed and sat on the wooden toilet seat, face cringed in pain; I watched him piss in his pants; it wasn’t a pretty sight. His face was thick with hopelessness.

 

I said to him, “Mikhail, this is a warning…okay…just keep out and don’t mess around on our territory or else …next time… if there is a next time …it will be your last cos’ I’ll put you in a coffin along with the rest of your gang…understand dickhead.” Mikhail Skopje nodded slowly, gulped, and moved his hand as if waving away an annoying blue bottle fly.

 

Abruptly, my musings are disturbed by noises coming from beyond my cell; it's a blend of Guards talking, the echo of squeaking shoes upon the metal floors, the sound of voices coming from loudspeakers and the musical bleating of a close-by transistor radio. I really do hate this place and everyone in it, morons.

 

My brief said to me at the very beginning I should dress conventionally and look demure. He bought me a grey suit for the first day, which was nice, but it smelled of mothballs. A Court clerk told me that it was a Charity shop cast off. I didn't know what demure meant, so I asked a screw; he said, "A pansy,"

 

Today, I gave the Jury a gander. Oh, heaven forbid some look bored; one or two have notepads in which they constantly write; I watched a Juror member flirting; another spent her time staring at her Smartphone. None of them can look me in the eye. With that lot, my chances of getting off are lower than zero.

 

Now, where was I in this story? Oh yes, I was giving Skopje a nice friendly bollicking when I heard the gruff voice of one of my soldiers say, “Time to split, Boss. We ought to go…there’s a cop car cruising the road outside. “

 

The next moment, having made our point, we turned and slowly left, but not before I slipped a tenner to Old Joey. I was on the doorstep when our car, driven by Spider, drew up. Skopje appeared and ran towards me as I was about to get in. He began spewing out a torrent of swear words, some questioning my dead mother’s profession. That got my goat, and I felt hot anger and choked in rage. Well, I had no choice. He was also disrespecting me and my mom in front of my men. That’s just not on; mi’ gander was up.

 

I got out my pistol, waving it around in his face. I wasn't going to shoot, but my trigger finger twitched; without warning, the gun exploded. I heard a muffled, grasping cry, and then all went still and silent. Next, I saw Skopje’s crumpled figure lying on the floor, dead; my shots had struck him in the chest. Big Gary pushed me onto the rear passenger seat; I remember turning my head just before the door closed and seeing the C.C.TV. Camera, “Oh no, s**t,” I bawled out loud. Days later, I was arrested.

 

Barry Olton

It was late in the evening when a red fingernail hand gently tapped on the front door of one seven one Millennium Apartments. Exhaling impatiently, Barry Olton, half overcome by a depressingly unsuccessful day at the Betting shop, raised himself to his feet and padded heavy-legged across the room to open the door. Standing there was Zelda Rotherham, fur coat dropped over her naked shoulder.

Taking a deep breath, Barry was once more captivated by Zelda’s perfume and her blonde tumbling locks that provocatively fell over her shoulders as she gave him one of those looks, the sorta' that aroused in him a deep desire and God did she know it,

“Zelda,” he said, “What an unexpected pleasure. “Her violet-coloured eyes simply mesmerised him.

“Would you like to kiss me?” Zelda whispered almost inaudibly, glancing up at Barry, smiling. Then, stepping inside, he pulled her against him, and both mouths began kissing each other hungrily.

“Mmmm,” It’s been a long time …does Tyrone Paine know you’re here.”

“I’ve missed you, Barry. “Zelda’s eyelids drooped, paused, then opened wide.

“No, you haven’t, Zelda, that’s just baloney.” Then, face devoid of emotion, he motioned to a sofa with a wave of his hand.

“You dumped me for Olton, “anger abruptly coloured his tone, “You even married him…now …now, ten months afterwards, you're here in my flat …what’s up, doll.”

“It’s about Jerome, isn't it?” Answered Barry as his eyebrows arched.

 “Look, Rod, I'm your saviour, “Zelda replied, " Tyrone was gonna’ send some of the boys around to strong-arm you, but I spoke to him, sometimes softly - softly, and promises are more persuasive and distracting.” She paused to light up a cigarette.

Leaning back, Barry scrutinised his visitor, “Does Tyrone know the meaning of the words softly - softly ...eh? “

Zelda stamped her foot with impatience, then giggled and made a gesture with a manicured finger.” Barry, “Zelda’s expression momentarily darkened, “You're up to your neck in debt with Tyrone Paine, and you ain't got the money to pay him back, have you…eh."

“Just a bit of bad luck betting on the horses, darling, “he pinched the bridge of his nose, “Nothing that I can’t fix, doll. “He looked away, shuffling keys in his pocket.

Making a face, Zelda quipped, “Don’t you doll me …we know you’ve been asked to do Jury duty.”

Barry felt a shiver tingle his spine, “How?”

"Don't ask, "Zelda replied as she stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray.

“The thing is, “said Zelda in a quiet but forceful tenor, “According to the newspapers, it doesn’t look good …the evidence is damning, so we are going to nobble the Jury, okay…this is where you come in “.

  “But, "Barry said, "Nobbling the Jury, no. That’s illegal, Zelda? “

“Only if your caught, “he replied, staring at Barry, giving him a dismissive shrug.

Barry didn’t respond. He just smiled a little, watching her, then moistened his lips and stared at her.

The silence was broken when he said, “So, Zelda, what’s the deal? “Taking her by the arm, they walked over towards the sofa, eyeballing each other with suspicion.

“You’re going to make sure Jerome is found innocent," Zelda said carefully, enunciating her words.

Face slightly crumpled with worry; Rod replied, “You know… I know; everyone knows that Tyrone’s son Jerome is a vicious sadist.” He grinned at her; Zelda responded with a thin, beseeching look on her face.

“Anyway, “continued Barry, “Why do you care? He ain't your son…so why does the Trial’s result bother you?”

“Paine is upset, and when he’s upset, I’m upset, and anyway, I don’t want your pretty face damaged ...let’s say Tyrone aint ‘as active as he used to be in the bedroom.”

“Oh sweet,” Barry replied sarcastically, standing up. “Heart trouble ...so I heard Zelda.”

Zelda stood up and walked unhurriedly over to the wall mirror, glancing at her reflection as she tossed her hair side to side.

She turned back to stare at Barry, giving him a cool, half-smiling glance. “More like an overindulgence of booze, but that's another story. I thought that sometime in the future when you get bored, “she paused as her tongue wetted her index finger, “And I get bored…we could kinda’ get together and.” She went silent.”

“And ", Barry replied, grinning, “As Gus Khan wrote…’makin' whoopee’ …you want this place to be our little love nest…down where the roses cling.” Then he drew a deep, quivering breath as he sat upon the sofa, rifling through his pockets.

Licking her lips again, Zelda sat down beside him. Then, she gently tantalised Barry’s ear with her tongue, “Rod, “Zelda whispered, “If yer ’play yer cards right.”

Barry shot her a grin. “Let’s talk business, Zelda ...what do I get if he’s acquitted.”

“You mean when not if…for your sake…well, all your debts will be written off, and you’ll receive a bonus.” Zenda saw Barry’s eyes widen and crinkle.

“Look, Rod, this ain't some Egyptian souk, and we ain't haggling. Say yes and do it …then you’ll be debt-free…say no ...well, you know Tyrone; he isn’t exactly a patient man, is he? And you’ve upset too many people in the past. People who would enjoy giving you a good kicking...do yourself a favour.”

“You’ll need two more jurors to vote for Jerome’s acquittal," Barry replied as he shrank back, suddenly terrified.

Zelda looked away from him, looked around the room, then looked back at Rod, a smile twisting the corners of her red-lipsticked mouth, “Barry…of course …also, we know that your very dating Marge Cadbury …a court clerk, you two are very friendly.”

“Jealous…Zelda?”

“Don’t be daft …It’s convenient …for us, “Zelda’s voice then became suddenly angry, “Don’t be a moron, Barry,” she barked, “Have a day off, eh."

She pointed her finger, snarling, “Your gonna’ find out the home addresses of two jurors...an’ include the Foreman …okay."

Zelda passed Barry a scrap of paper, “Phone this number with the details by midnight tomorrow...otherwise, you will get a visit from Paine’s gorillas …okay.”

Barry leant forward, touching Zelda’s forearm. “What you gonna do?” He asked as a look of concern crisscrossed his eyes.

Fixing an indecipherable gaze upon Barry, she responded, “With the Jurors …. you ask no questions…you get no lies.”

Barry nodded, replying, “Shall we seal the deal with a drink, Zelda.”

Wrinkling her pert nose, “No, “Zelda answered in a commanding voice, then she stopped for a few seconds, “Now, “she continued in a husky Katherine Hepburn sort of tone, “Kiss me again, “so he did, and their kissing grew frantic setting them both afire.

  He kissed her face while his hands slid up and opened her thin white silk blouse, releasing her front-fastened black bra. Then abruptly, he picked her up and carried her towards the bedroom; kicking the door to a close behind him, they began hastily undressing each other. Zelda left just as the sun rose.

Clara Maria Casey

 

Arriving at the Court’s front entrance, I passed a motley crew of people whom I presumed were Court staff milling with smart-suited professional Legal people �" lawyers and that sort of thing, some pinstripe-suited with cut-glass accents and others who spoke like market traders along with heaps of Journalists, Policeman, and many odious looking louts. I joined the queue where, after what seemed like an age, I was frisked, which was exciting, and my large Davenport bag was scanned by something whatsit.

 

‘Stuff and nonsense ‘. I thought before asking a nice young man, Bob, who had a name badge that read Robert, where I should go, as I'd be called, no, ordered to attend as a potential Juror. I am seventy years old. It was for the very first time. The very first time, oh, I was so excited.

 

He pointed towards a side room door where hovering in front stood a young blonde, high cheek boned bimbo, who said a hesitant “Hello,” and then pursing red-lipsticked lips stared confusedly at her Tablet and purred, “Please sit over there. The Court clerk will be here in a moment. ".

 

The room was peppered with people of all ages, sizes, and persuasions, reminding me of the sort you see on the top of the number eleven bus, well, not all. Some were very toffee-nosed and affluent and no doubt subscribed to the Thatcher view that only failures are forced to utilise Public Transport. Make that as you will. In the corner was a young Asian guy talking heatedly into his mobile phone every five minutes; okay, I exaggerate.

 

Inside the room, it had morphed in line with class structure; the middle class, or those with pretensions, were trying to lord over us, plebs. I watched them share business cards and Masonic-style handshakes.

For the first three days, I stayed in that room knitting a claret and blue bobble hat: it's for my favourite nephew, my sister's eldest son. He's a hush-hush undercover policeman, and I sat there imagining what he would look like wearing the bobblehat when undercover. Strange, I know, but Jury service can be so boring.

 

Oh, it was really so very dull, and I was relieved when I was dismissed at noon each day. Then, on the fourth, I found myself participating as a Jury member deliberating upon a juicy murder case, 'oh goodie,' I thought.

 

Later, I discovered the Juror's names were put in a bowl, and on each day, numbers were selected, and the chosen few were nominated as Jurors; what an odd system, arcane, almost medieval. The waiting room was haphazardly furnished with chairs of varying styles, coffee tables, and stools dotted here and there confusedly.

 

Now the Trial, the Trial where I found myself part of the Jury, had been going on for three weeks, and it's ten times more harrowing than the weepiest emotional Hollywood film I'd ever seen. But it's real, and our decision would affect lots of people and, for some, not in a nice way. Truthfully, this was the grimmest experience of my life; at times, I felt so inadequate. One or two of my fellow Jurors said the same thing but in different ways.

 

I soon realised that Mister Fry, the Jury Foreman, was very confident of a guilty verdict, and he let everyone know of his strong views. When we met at the end of each day's proceedings, he went through the evidence, discussing what was said on the accused’s behalf and pointing out its deficiencies with a wagging finger. However, equally as forceable and unpleasant was Derek Pratt, who seemed to take the opposite view, volubly supporting the defendant actively.

 

I just watched them verbally confront each other, reminding me of two absurd and unfit Roman Gladiators. I found it such a pleasure to see them both fail to convince the other of the error of their views. I wondered what it would be like between them when we started deciding the final verdict. I suspected a storm of unpleasant insults and metaphorical bloodletting.

 

Listening to the Prosecution’s evidence and the witness's contradictory and often confusing replies, I was frequently overwhelmed by different feelings and thoughts such as he's lying,' Look at his body language,’ ‘He’s definitely guilty,’ and ‘But he looks like such a nice boy.’

 

 I’m so confused by the language used in the court proceedings. At times, they employed Latin terms; I ask you who in the world speaks Latin, just the Pope and Roman clergy, that's who. Oh, and they kept using street slang expressions, which they had to translate for us fuddy-duddies, which confused me, and I lost the thread.

 

Occasionally, I took out my make-up and, with the mirror, peeped at my fellow Jurors; some appeared to be listening intently, leaning forward with wide eyes. Others looked downright bored. One was a low-cut, bloused middle-aged woman, obviously on the hunt for a husband. You could see it in her eyes. She often mixed closely with the men and looked in seventh heaven when, on the final day, she left accompanied by a handsome Barrister/ Lawyer/ Solicitor / Brief.

 

Another young Jury member, a woman, peered down into her lap the entire time, her hands fiddling over the keyboard, not once glancing up. Sitting behind her were two male and female Jurors in their mid-twenties who just seemed to flirt with each other, occasionally touching hands, and forearms, making cow eyes at each other. I’m surprised no one has complained. It was obvious their mind was not on the case at all; I had a shrewd idea what it was, don’t you?

 

I nodded off for a few minutes one day, and when awoken by the Jury foreman, Edgar Fry, he gave me a look that could kill, and I felt back in the School Headmaster's office being admonished. Fry reminded me of Arthur Lowe; you know him, he played the bank manager, Mr Mainwaring, in 'Dad's Army.' So why do we say ‘Mannering’ when it's spelt so differently?

 

When the Barrister, is it Barrister, Lawyer, Solicitor or Brief? I get muddled. One morning, the accused’s Barrister, Lawyer, Solicitor or Brief (delete as appropriate) was politely haranguing his opposite over some unfathomable point of law. I stared at my fellow Jurers members' faces by their looks; they were as confused as me.

 

My memory isn’t good, so I used a notebook. It’s full of observations about what was said and how they looked. Some of the witnesses had a nefarious appearance. Nefarious, is that the right word? It's a word I roll out around my tongue; it tastes like a good red wine, not as though I'm a wine lover, although I was, once, in my younger days. Hey, ho, that was a long time ago. At home, I worry most nights as I don’t want to get it wrong when we finally decide if the accused is innocent or guilty; heaven help us if we choose the wrong verdict.

 

The evidence is stacking up against the accused, and I found the C.C.T.V. evidence quite damning, although some of the faces are indistinct and unclear, but as sure as eggs are eggs, the person seen on camera is certainly Jerome Paine, the Defendant, and by the look on his face yesterday seeing it, he must have thought, ‘im a-gonna.’ So, it's a thumbs-down for him. We've been told to convict if the evidence was convincing, and, what was the word. �" beyond reasonable doubt, whatever that means; it doesn't sound English.

 

At the end of each day, we retired to the Jury Room, a dinghy room equipped with an oval wooden conference table and plastic four-legged chairs, some dotted around the table, and others packed up four chairs high leaning against the far wall like drunks after Pub closing time. The walls were covered in Jack Vettriano paintings. Along one was a row of windows; on another wall was an electric clock and a photo of Her Majesty, God bless her.

 

I noticed that the Courtroom was jam-packed every day, and in the public gallery, separated by uniformed men, were two sets of supporters, each haranguing the other or opposition witnesses and legal team. It's a bear pit similar to when a boyfriend once took me to a boxing match held at Bingley Hall; oh my, that was yonks ago. Finally, the Judge, who looked at us through beady eyes, waved his gavel and gave a warning about witness intimidation.

 

Later, during a recess, I reckon recess is the time when the Judge goes for a pee, we were told again, in crystal-clear words,  not to tell anyone outside about anything that occurred in Court, not to family or friends, but I've been a bit naughty as each night I ran through the day's proceedings telling Pompeii, my cat, everything,  in vivid details I think he enjoyed listening as he curled his left ear and swished his tail excitedly as if he was interested then fell asleep.

 

Two days in, a juror went missing; it seemed he had spoken to a witness in the Pub opposite after the end of the previous day's Trial and was seen by a defence team member who complained. As a result, the poor man was given a red card and removed. Before the Trial started that day, a scowling Court clerk told us superciliously that the Judge was in the right strop; he heavily emphasised that such occurrences should not occur at all. 'Pompous oaf,’ I thought.

 

Finally, we took our seats; knowing it was the last day of the Trial, we'd seen all the evidence and heard every witness and were ordered by the Judge to decide upon a verdict. The Usher took us back to the Jury room and, in a mildly bored tone, explained the rigmarole, the rules, and etiquette, you know, the sort of thing, and with a sigh and a hand gesture, he locked the door behind him. 'Now the fun begins', I thought, only it's not really fun, and now we're left to choose the final outcome, 'what a daunting prospect', I thought.

 

The conversation went around in circles; I heard comments such as, “Look at his guilty body language,” “I reckon he’s being set up,” “He looks such a nice man,” “He looks as guilty as sin,” and I heard James Avon say, "It stinks…it's a setup…I reckon that Copper's bent."

 

Mister Fry said in his bossiest tone, “Let’s have a vote on it …it’s so obvious he is guilty we don’t need to mess around wasting time …I have a meeting at the Lodge tonight, okay? “

 

“Vote secretly or by hand, “asked someone hidden between the two young Jurers. By their behaviour, I'd say they were now lovers." A verbalised mix of approval and disdain met the comment.

 

"By way of hands, "Fry said in a manner that meant his word was an order, not a polite request. Then he harrumphed in a middle-class Solihull way, dismissively, ‘thank god,’ I thought, ‘they got rid of hanging.’

 

I looked around at my fellow Jurors; some were concentrating with intent, shuffling through notes, and others looked bored; you could see their minds were wandering in all different directions.

 

“Let’s talk this through," Fry said, “and he signalled to each member in turn to offer their decision. Five were unsure and abstained, and two acquitted him. Fry and one other argued MacDonald was guilty, a woman piped up, “No bloody idea", and finally uttering in a loud voice, Derek Pratt said, “It’s so obvious…innocent …innocent of all wrongdoing.”

 

Well, that ruffled a few feathers. Egos were punctured and soon followed by a verbal hurley burley, a bit of a hullabaloo, so my mum would have called it. Angry words were exchanged, and views shared that were best unshared.

 

A deflated-looking Mister Fry put on his Jury Foreman hat and, grimacing at each of the members individually, left hand flapping, said, "Look …it's getting late…the clock is showing five-fifteen. I suggest we reconvene again tomorrow “. And with that, he knocked upon the door and spoke to the Usher, who replied, “Wait here.”

 

 Twenty minutes later, he returned saying, “The judge has agreed to a majority verdict," then he went away whistling.

 

Now, if I go on about each day’s performance, this will become a story longer than ‘War and Peace,’ can you name one person who can honestly say they have read that book cover to cover �" no, nor can I, so let’s skip to the juicy bit, shall we.

 

Since day two of our deliberations, the vote remained at six 'unsures', two guilty and two for acquittal, and the third day replicated the same. As the afternoon went into the evening, I heard Fry's mobile ping repeatedly as he received a stream of text messages. He was sitting opposite me, and I noticed his forehead became heavily lined, his distraught appearance becoming more accentuated with each message he read. Finally, he got up, mumbling embarrassing excuses, and left; we all followed. Well, it was gone at five p.m.

 

I watched him and Derek Pratt on the Court steps. They were speaking softly together, their faces just inches apart. Fry looked frozen with fear and anxiety; his pale face was a picture of horror and had aged years. Walking past, I began rummaging in my Davenport bag and spotted his shoulders slump; I caught hold of snatches of their whispered conversation, hearing words such as,” Kidnapped, " “What,” “You Know why,” “If you don’t ...you’ll regret it, “, “Her life’s in the balance,” “Well it’s your call …I hope you can live with yourself if -.”

 

The next day, we started as we did every day with a hand vote, only this time, instead of the usual count, the accused had gained a vote as Fry had experienced a sudden Damascan conversion and surprisingly voted to free the accused.

On the bus returning home, I cogitated upon the frightening words I'd overheard. After Dinner, I lifted the telephone with more than a degree of foreboding and rang my favourite nephew using his secret private number. Malcolm is a Policeman and something high up and important, a Chief Inspector or something like that.

 

“Hello…auntie, “he replied.

 

“How do you know it’s me ...eh.”

 

“You’re the only family member who knows my private number …not even the missus knows it.”

 

"I'm honoured…I have something to tell you…something very important.”

 

“What,” he answered.

 

“I think the Jury foreman has been nobbled.”

 

“Well, I’ll be jiggered, not exactly a surprise… a little bird whispered in my ear bout’ it …you mean mister Fry…tell me all about it.” And I did.

 

“We know all about it, “he said, “ I have a man on the inside… were one step ahead of them…his wife has been kidnapped…but a plan is in hand ...in fact, it’s all actions go…I have a call on the other line …the game is afoot … someons will  tell the Judge tomorrow…Gotta’ go, things are reaching boiling point, don’t worry, I will tell you about it all when I can…goodbye.”

 

Paul Boswell

I drove Eric Neville and Harry Brandon to the Printing House Street arms pub parking near the Crown Court. I saw Dave Davis waiting for us outside. Dave looked almost handsome, but for the 'Z 'shaped scar on his cheek, dull grey gunmetal cold eyes, and sullen-looking mouth.

The steps to the Pub looked worn and cracked. We four entered to find it nearly empty; the jukebox played Roy Orbison. Staring around, I could see it was done out as a mock Hollywood bar with two walls covered in black and white pictures of famous actors like Hepburn, Bogart, Tracey, Carey Grant, Grace Kelly, and John Wayne �" John Wayne, well perhaps their idea of an actor differs to mine, whatever.

 

The far wall was floor to ceiling with Edward Hooper paintings, 'The Nighthawk,' 'Automat,' Chop Suey,’ plus others I didn’t recognise. So, you're wondering how an old lag and ex-boxer like me knows such things. You’re thinking I'm just bullshitting ya.’ Well, in the good old days before I did time having been fitted up by the police, I was at Uni’ doing a degree in fine art, which I completed in Prison, gaining a first, do you believe it? No, I suppose you don't.

Eric turned to me, saying, “Paul…Paul Boswell …you’re here to put on the frighteners on James Avon, okay, “Eric gritted his teeth as he turned to gaze at me. I shuddered.

Looking up, he muttered, “Now you see those yobs in the corner and the girl leaning across the jukebox,” I nodded, “I don’t like the look of em’ …chuck em’ out …don’t worry, I'll square it with the Landlord …oh and no blood on this carpet it's new …okay.”

The next moment, Eric sashayed over to the bar, where he started chatting with Sandra, the bleach-blonde busty barmaid. I wandered towards them casually, passing James, sitting in a private booth hugger-mugger with a young girl, black hair, a cute face, maybe five-foot-four, and a little on the plump side with rosy cheeks. She wore a purple-coloured school uniform and a skirt that had crept up her thigh. Perhaps aided by Avon’s palms, she was displaying an awful lot of her stockinged adolescent thigh.

  "Hello, "said a voice; it was Eric. Eric stared at James, whose face was drained of blood. He looked a ghostly white. Then James tried to ignore them and took out his wallet from his inside jacket pocket and began riffling through it. Without looking at Eric, he turned towards the schoolgirl, who nestled up beside him in a lovey-dovey way," Get yourself a taxi," he said, "Okay, honey, "then he waved her away. A flush crept up her face, and I watched her depart, lips quivering, head down. I think she was crying.

James shot us each a glance. His face was going red as he rubbed his nose and ears, hands shivering.

Eric sank into a chair beside Avon with a double whiskey in his hand as Harry, in harmony, plopped himself on the other side. James looked like a sandwich filling between two thick wedges of bread. He smiled; it was a ghost of a smile.

A nervous tick pulled at James’s cheek. Then, leaning back, Harry Brandon began multi-tasking by munching pork scratchings while supping a pint of Mitchells and Butler’s mild.

Eric smiled; it was a thin, almost but not quite smile. I liked Eric and found him loquacious, garrulous, long-winded, but in his own way good-natured; almost everyone liked Eric except when he had too much to alcohol, then became the quick-tempered fierce, almost sadistic Eric. An Eric to be feared and certainly not crossed. By the smell of his breath, I suspected the latter persona was hovering on the brink and felt deeply sorry for James Avon trapped in this Spider's web. Apprehensive, I kept my eyes and ears open to the palaver being performed in front of me.

“Paul, “He said pleasantly. “Do me a favour an’ get those b*****d youths out …gently, gently, let’s not upset the customers, “he shrugged as a look of disinterest crossed his face.

  “Don’t make a fuss but let them know that we don’t like Skopje’s men trading on our territory...tell them if they...or anyone of em’ …comes here again…I will personally make sure they live to regret the day they were born…you understand, “I nodded, “That’s a good boy.”

The next moment, I made my way to sort out the youths Eric had taken offence to. We had a polite and meaningful conversation; they were white and scared and left in a hurry. Well, you can’t blame them.

I followed out as they departed and returned to Eric. I stood close to him, subtly sending a message to anyone watching that he wasn’t to be disturbed interviewing poor twitching James.

“We understand, James, “Eric murmured, “You’re a Jury member of the Jury for Jerome’s trial.”

Harry was sitting a little way off but watching the one-sided conversation with intent; he leant forward sniffling; he lifted his head as if he intended to speak but immediately began to hum to himself. Then, minutes later, he took a deep breath and got up on his feet, “Same again, Boss, “he said to Eric, stuck his tongue in his cheek, bowed his head as if saying ‘yes,’ and then his eyes swivelled as he shot Avon a scowl. James, to his credit, grinned and then wrinkled his forehead.

 

Staring at Avon, I could see he was terrified and giving me the appearance that fear was coursing up and down his spine.

Smiling, Avon replied cocking his head, “Yeah, but the trial has only just begun.” Then, he began to knead his shoulder.

“You know I'm not allowed to talk bout' it …we've been told not to.”

“The cops have set him up, “Eric responded through tight lips, “You know they’re prejudiced…it won’t be a fair trial.”

“Now be a good boy and do as we ask, okay, “Eric said, tugging at his shirt collar, “For your own health and wellbeing …wellbeing.”

“A jury verdict is just a guess - a well-intentioned guess, “James said in a voice an octave higher than usual.

“It’s in your own interests to help...James.”  Eric replied, sounding displeased.

James Avon stared at him with a look of disgust, “Do you read, mister, err."

“You know my name ...numskull, "Eric answered, tapping his fingers on the table, “Stop acting like a little dick.”

“You remind me, “responded James, ignoring the insult, “Of a Dashiell Hammett quote.”

“Dashiell…who? “Eric responded, frowning, leaning forward, fingers laced tightly together.

“Hammett…he wrote ‘the cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter’ …words that remind me of you and - “he stopped dead, seeing the terrifying glare on Eric’s face and James’s expression paled to a milky white.

“I’ll put that down to the booze talking, “Eric said in a small voice brim-full of anger, “If I don’t, I could get kinda’ upset…and “he waited, “You wouldn’t want that to happen.” Anger flared across Eric’s face.

“Bull s**t,” Eric retorted heatedly, “Now let’s get down to brass tacks, eh…if you don’t help us “. His expression darkened, and his eyes were like two angry black points. “Things might turn out nasty for you, be sensible.”

James slunk forward with his face and hands shaking; he looked around, shoulders jerking and his fingers curling and uncurling.

“What’s your job, James? “Eric asked, sighing heavily. I saw his fists close, and knuckles whiten.                             

"I'm a salesman. I sell cars.”

“Well, “the corners of Avon’s eyes crinkled, “You must know that the art of sales is good negotiation … which means both parties feel like they’ve agreed on a good deal…they call it ...a win-win situation."

“The Boss doesn’t want his son to be sent to prison, and you're gonna help us…which you will do ...won’t you.”

“How are you getting on with Lucy?” Eric asked in a fierce tone of voice.

 “And whose Lucy, “James replied.

Eric started at him through tight, almost closed eyes, turning towards Harry. Eric said, “Harry, show him the video.”

Grabbing James by his tie, Harry pulled his head down as Eric pushed James’s Smartphone into his face. The phone lit up, and James saw a naked Lucy doing things with her mouth to him and giggling. “His face went claret red, and he replied in a series of mumbled indistinct words.

“That’s fake, “mumbled James in a voice that sounded at odds with his words.

“Don’t be a moron, James, “replied Eric coolly,” Look, it’s your private life which we don't want to go public...but.” He paused, “Now, “Eric said, “In the cold light of day, it kinda doesn't seem such a clever thing to do…but you both look you were havin’ a good time “.

Then Eric let out a dirty laugh,” If you don't play ball with us, this little video clip will be uploaded onto your Facebook page and as well as being emailed to your work colleagues,' Boss, friends, enemies,' lovers, and "he paused again, "Sent to your missus.

Mouth set in a hard line, Avon responded, "Bloody hell, no, no, no ...I don’t do that...please.”

He waved a hand in the air abstractedly, “You want me to influence the Jury for Jerome …well, you got me by the goolies,” Avon slumped in his seat, eyes half-closed, forehead furrowed, then glared at Eric with an open mouth.

“What choice do I have,” James uttered, then shook his head sideways back and forth.

Mouth twitching into a rueful smile, Eric replied, “None …none at all.”

James leant back, “Just one thing…you’ll need at least two Jury members to vote to acquit him, “he mumbled as he drew a deep, quivering breath.

 " Two? " Replied Eric.

 " Yes, then you'll have a majority. "

“Don’t worry yourself…you ain't on yer' own there," Eric replied. Avon sagged lumpy down on the chair and put his shaking hands over his face.

” We’ll be watching you, “Eric said, “Its simples’….do as we ask, and everything will be cushty.”   “Don’t be a whack job…Nuff said, don’t act a knob, “Eric then slapped the palm of his hand hard against the tabletop.

Seconds after abruptly, Eric stood up, knocking over a stool which crashed to the floor; he growled, “James…don’t even think of letting us down.” James shrank back visibly.

“Remember, “said Eric quietly, "We're keeping an eye on you…so don’t be silly…we will know if you rat on us.” Avon’s face went white. Then, completely calm, the three of us turned and walked out.

ROY BELCHER

“Belcher …Roy, “the Boss said as I was driving him home from his nightclub, the Bird of Paradise, “Tomorrow, " he paused,” I want you in earlier.”

“Can I ask why…sir.”

“Remember the lock-up garage we saw last week.”

“In Nechells.”

“Got it in one…it seems we have to up the ante…cos’ the Jury foreman, so I understand, is playing hardball, and it doesn't look good for my son…not by the way he was talking to his Jury members …so were gonna' apply some pressure …you know I told you to follow that old biddy.”

“Yeah…course I do, mister MacDonald."

“Well, “MacDonald said, “She’s the Jury foreman’s missus, and were gonna’ snatch her off the street tomorrow morning...thanks to you, we now know where she lives."

 He turned his hand into a fist like a Roman Emperor with his thumb pointed down.

“That way, “he continued, “We will be able to bend him to our views else,” I watched him from the corner of my eye, seeing him make a cutting gesture across his Adams' apple with his hand.

" Crafty, Sir…as Nixon said, grab em' by the balls, and their hearts and minds will follow.”

He laughed, then the next minute his mobile rang, and hushed words could be heard with him talking to someone I didn’t know who …nor did I ask, well it doesn’t do to be too nosy, that would be life-threatening, to me.

Easing the Rolls into his driveway, I came to a halt in front of the marble steps that wound up to his front door. God, his gaff' is enormous. It’s one of Erdington's hidden mansions once owned by the duke of somewhere or other. Apparently, the Duke got into debt gambling, and the house was given to MacDonald as a down payment.

MacDonald, the Boss, leant forward, “Here’s the keys to the Ford Transit, “he hesitated and glanced at me, “I want you here by eight in the morning…okay.”

Suddenly, the front door opened, and standing there was Zelda wearing an ear-to-ear lascivious smile and a black negligee that left little to the imagination.

Minutes later, as I started up the Rolls engine to the Garage, the upstairs lights lit up, and I caught a glimpse of naked shoulders, Zelda's naked shudders in the Bosses bedroom.

The words ‘Gotta’ tell Hemming, ‘This is it,’ ‘this is it,’ ‘Hemming will be cocking a hop when I tell him ‘, reverberated around my head as I made my way towards my grotty Washwood Heath bedsit. In this line of work - undercover �" you get pretty sensitive and felt I was being watched and followed, so I drove up and down side streets, jumped red traffic lights and twice went the wrong way up a one-way street.

Pretty confident I was not being tailed, I pulled into a garage forecourt where I took my time filling up the tank as I scanned the place, but it seemed safe, and, as mother nature had called, I went to the loo.

It smelt of cheap disinfectant and piss, no surprise there. The mirror above the chipped Belfast sink was cracked in two places, stained with something a greenish-yellow- I didn’t investigate �" well, would you?

To my left were three urinals, opposite three green-painted wooden doors, doors that hid ceramic toilet bowls, 'Thomas Crappers' we called the toilets when I was at school.

Tentatively, silently, I pushed open each of the doors; all were empty. Then, sitting down upon the urinal, I locked the door and snatched from my jacket a mobile phone, then tapped in Malcolm Hemming's number.

Without any warning, I heard a noise and shoved the mobile back in my pocket. Then the toilet door wheezed open loudly, and in trailed a man. He was part humming, part crooning, but it was more of a cacophonous alcoholic-induced racket undeserving the word singing.

Opening the latch, a fraction of an inch - inches in my world, not foreign measurements. I peered through the gap at the outline of the intruder as he leant over the sink and retched; the smell was nauseating. He hesitated, stared about, and swore. His thick Glaswegian accent spiced up his fruity and imaginative use of the English language. His ire was probably irritated because the establishment didn’t run to provide soap, towels, or even mere paper tissues, and I saw him run his dirty hands down the front of his trousers.

The next second, he staggered towards the urinal, and eventually, it seemed like a long lifetime, completed his ablutions. I ain't gonna' describe what he did; you can add that in if it pleases you. The door closed with a loud bang.

Plucking out my mobile, I sent a text to Hemming telling him about MacDonald's plans for us to kidnap the Jury foreman's missus, plus the hows and whens and wheres. Almost instantly, he replied with an emoji; it was his way of saying, ‘received and understood.'

I arrived the next day at MacDonald's around eight-ten a.m. I was late; the Boss was none too happy. You could see the guy was uptight and nervous by the look on his face.

I said to him, " Sorry, but the traffic between Sebastopol Road and Nechells High Street was bumper to bumper … there are road works on the corner of Duddeston Manor and Churchill Broadway. “

MacDonald sighed and rubbed his lips together, then gave me a right rollicking, but that was like the water of a duck’s back in one ear and out of the other.

“I snorted, “It’s always the same when a copper is trying...badly to control the traffic.”

Then, like a man possessed, he stormed off muttering; I found him sitting in the passenger seat of the Ford Transit van. He pulled out a Zippo lighter from his pocket and lit up a cigarette. Minutes drifted past with a word spoken between us.

For a long while, MacDonald was shooting me angry looks when his mobile phone erupted, and he flicked it on. Immediately. he began arguing angrily, peppering his words with juicy insults; I supposed it was Jerome’s brief; MacDonald was no happy bunny that morning.

 Inching away down Lode Lane, we stopped in front of the ‘Olton Tavern’ where Otis Harborne was waiting.

" You took yer' time," he growled at me; I ignored him, knowing I would have the last laugh,’ I manoeuvred the Van around a parked car. Bloody parents driving their kids to school, it gets on my wick. Squinting at the mirror, I saw a car registration number. It was not one of ours.; I guessed it belonged to an unmarked Police car.

" Where are we going to, Boss, " I asked; he looked at me disgusted and then stared away. Clicking on the radio. A Mark Knopfler guitar riff engulfed our vehicle.

 “That man plays the guitar like an angel, " I burbled. Well, I am one of his greatest fans.

“Nah, “responded the Boss, MacDonald ", I prefer Hendrix any day or Santana …Django Reinhardt, or Robert Johnson.” I nodded in complete and false agreement.

" Look, that’s her over there, “he yelled. His face was creased, and his arm pointed towards the opposite side of the road, “There she is.”

“Who…Boss.”  I replied.

“That old grey-haired old biddy, “MacDonald said jerkily, “Its missus Edna Fry…the Jury Forman’s wife ...she’s holding a dog lead …an’ gonna’ cross the road wait until she’s this side then pull up beside her …block her way…okay.”

I stared at the old woman, head down, looking at the ground balanced on the edge of the kerb holding the lead to a dog; it was a peke ' I hate Peke's. The dog jumped up and down with unbridled enthusiasm. Then the pedestrian traffic lights changed, and she crossed, staring down, and jabbering away to her pooch walking beside her. Mrs Fry was a   veritable vision of green and orange tartan. For some strange reason, heaven only knows why. I saw in my mind's eye an image of Celia Johnson's 'Brief Encounter' and heard strains of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto.

Slowly I eased the vehicle forward until I pulled to a halt; she was standing right beside our tranny'. The side and back doors slid open; MacDonald leapt out of the side doors, and Otis exited the rear.

 I saw MacDonald smiling and chatting with Mrs Fry and noticed Otis creep up behind her and, in one rapid, rhythmic, free-flowing stroke, stab her with what looked like a hypodermic needle. Then, he forced a hessian sack over her head and thin shoulders moments before her legs gave way. In the reflection of the Driver's mirror, Moments later, I observed Otis scoop her up and throw her carelessly through the Van's open rear door. I heard a cracking noise. I suppose Mrs Fry must have been unconscious as not a word or a whimper from him was heard.

Climbing back into the Van, the Boss and Otis appeared nervous and worried. MacDonald bawled," Drive away ...now…let's get off here …get shifting. I want you to go to the lock-up…now …fast."  Then he pointed a stiff index finger towards me and folded the other three fingers. Its meaning was lost on me.

 

The throbbing of the idling Van's engine exploded with a clash of gears, and I pressed the accelerator to the floor. I saw a gap in the traffic next instant. I did a quick three-point turn. Then I turned right, left, and left again as I dodged and weaved through the peak time traffic. Soon, before you can say, Jack Robinson, we are out of sight and far away from the kidnap scene.

My hand crept into the glove compartment, searching for the tracking device, hoping it still worked. Then I produced a packet of 'Fishermen's Friends ‘proffering them to the Boss and Harborne.

" Boss, " I say, "the lock-up garage is on Sebastopol Street.”

“No, you dummy, “he replied, letting out his breath in a soundless whistle, “Go right at the end of Alma Grove…then next left along Nightingale Road …it’s in a cul-de-sac. “I bobbed my head in agreement.

Arriving, I saw the doors open and standing in front was a tall, mean-looking man named Taras Zilentsky. Taras was an East European; I never discovered which country. He exuded menace like his natural body odour. Taras was, so it was said, a man with blood on his hands. He spoke very little and seemed to have his face set in a continual grimace. If he wanted to give the impression of evil, he succeeded, aided by his cold blue eyes, rugged look, and perpetual greyish five o'clock shadow. Taras did a lot of McDonald's dirty work, so I found out later.

I discovered later that they bundled Missus Fry into the Garage, seating her roughly upon a four-legged metal chair.

Mrs Edna Fry

Random pictures of that day still flash through my mind, like when I came round in the Van, my throat was constricted. I was gasping for air, smelling a stink of sweat and garlic. I go days without remembering much about that day. Yet, I still get sudden glimpses of me standing on the curb with Freddy, my dog; he was being naughty, pulling at his leash. I heard the traffic lights bleep and crossed the road. The next instant, so I recollect, was of a van pulling up beside me, and then I felt a pain in my arm. Sometime later, I woke up in a garage, or maybe some lock-up. The place smelt of something nasty and unpleasant.

It was dark, you see. I was hooded, and my wrists hurt where I'd been tied up. I thought to myself, ‘How had I got here and why… what had I done to get myself into this mess? How long had I been here? Got to think. Got to a plan. I'm all right. Calm down. Get your breathing under control. It’s going to turn out okay. ‘

The door opened, and someone switched on the lights. I awoke with a start, realising that I was sitting on a chair with my arms and legs bound, and then I saw three people enter, one after another.

They moved away almost silently and began chatting together, hands over mouths; the only words I heard c were " Taras Zilentsky " and " Roy"; I guessed they were just names.

My head ached, and I felt pains shooting up and down my body. “Who are you? I cried. “Why have you brought me here? “

One person was sitting opposite me. He was thick-set, puffy-faced, and looked like a heart attack waiting to happen; he said as he removed my hood, " You’ve been kidnapped.”

          “Why, “I replied.

" Mrs Fry…Edna, " he continued, “Your Husband can do you ...and me a favour...I understand he's the Jury Foreman."

“I can’t discuss that.” I retorted.

“Do yourself a favour, “he shouted, “Look, he's gonna' get you back…safe and well...if he…if he gets the Jury to acquit my son.”

“Your MacDonald …I’ve heard of you.”

He gazed at me blankly at first; then anger seemed to redden his already red face, " Look, " he said, "you have no choice ...I want you to text him now." The word ' now', he thundered angrily. I shivered when he said it.

“And say what? " I said.

“He’s to convince the Jury to acquit my son, or else he will become a widower.”

I vividly recall a dryness in my throat and a fluttering in my stomach as I punched in Edgar's mobile phone number.

“What shall I say, " I said.

" Nothing, " he responded, " I'll do it, " and I watched him text Edgar.

" It says, " he licked his lips, then growled at me fiercely. " We have kidnapped your wife …you are to acquit the innocent defendant, and if you don't, my men will slit her gizzards, and you'll get the blame ...tell me you agree, and I will get her to phone you later." He paused; his face was strained, cold, not scared, with dark eyes.

“She will be freed, " he said, " Only when the judge delivers his verdict...don’t tell the police.”

 He grinned at me �" a mocking grin and continued, “Beware…I have people on the inside who will know if you have. And if you do…you’ll never see Edna alive ...again.” I sat their frozen stock still, paralysed.

I gasped as one of his men, toying with a knife, stood in front of me, running a sharp blade over my cheek. He was a slender man with bristles of grey hair; his face looked coldly grim. He smiled; his grin sent shudders down my body. My hands shook with terror. There was a pain in my side. I felt tears streak down my cheeks, cheeks that felt bruised. I watched his eyes and quivered. I was at a loss about what to do or say.

Suddenly, three cars pulled to a halt in front of the Garage. Out jumped a load of men dressed in black vizors and black vests, all carrying machine guns. There was a bizarre and sudden silence just before they entered the Garage, shouting, screaming warnings; it was such a ruckus. The armed squad was shadowed by two anonymous-looking men wearing cheap tatty suits; they could have been Police or God knows what can't say in the commotion and fuss I paid them much attention.

The place burst out in such a loud racket, with armed Policemen shouting aggressively, “Get down ...or we shoot…on the floor...arms behind your back “. I was terrified and vulnerable, sitting on my chair tied up. My head swam. I stayed that way for a bit with my head hanging.

Looking up the next moment, I saw the little one, Roy; he did a runner, and surprisingly, they didn’t pursue him. Then, there was a flurry, an eruption of action. I watched a policeman throw all of his weight against the one they called Boss. They fell back on the floor; he took a deep breath, rose to his feet, found himself thrust backwards, and was grabbed abruptly and held in a wrestler's grip by another copper. Minutes later, arms bent behind his back, he lay face down and handcuffed on the floor.

I heard a wild shout and, twisting my head, I saw Taras, shoulders hunched, hostile looking; he had raised a knife in the air and violently threatened one of the cops.

Abruptly without warning, Taras was grasped and wrenched back; a fist struck his face, and he bent double. Raising himself up, he twisted about to face the Copper, who, without a second thought, chopped his neck with a vicious rabbit punch. Taras fell to the floor, face first. He didn’t move at all after that.

Seconds later, “Oh, God, " he shrieked. “I am in... pain…it is unbearable, " his words dried up, and only a brief moan escaped his lips.

I must have become unconscious because next, I remember lying in a bed in a hospital with my Husband beside wearing a hangdog expression as if I'd died and then what seemed like only a few minutes, it was days actually, the B.B.C. and that nice woman Fiona thingy was interviewing me.

Derek Pratt

  I knew from the beginning that the Trial would be tasty and watched proceedings with extraordinary but understandable intent following the surprising discussion I'd had with, well, let’s keep schtum about that thing for the time being, okay?

As a colleague commented, Jerome wasn't the brightest penny, more of a sandwich without bread. Heaven only knows what he meant, but Jerome gave me no trouble. Much quieter and shyer than the local rag described him, but there again, the Courthouse is not the most comfortable of places at the best of times, as I could see in his eyes.

Who am I? My name is Kevin Pratt, and I work in the Court as a security guard. I'm the guy who stands next to the defendants in the dock. A job that is quite dangerous. I’ve been punched, bitten, and even had one guy try to chuck acid over me. It’s a job not good for your health or nerves. But overall, it can be a cushy number. In fact, you could call it a soft touch.

I bet you've seen T.V. dramas where the defendant is standing in the dock surrounded by hardnosed security �" well, that's me, only I ain’t ‘hardnosed, or at least that’s what the missus tells me.

Over the months, Jerome and I have built up a good rapport, as good as you can under the circumstances; I sympathised with him and recalled he once told me that after appearing in Court, he would often not return to Prison until very late and missed his mealtime. Then he would be taken directly back to his cell, where he would lie awake worrying until he was woken up before dawn, and once more, the cycle would repeat itself with him returning to Court.

As the Trial proceeded, he became more and more bedraggled, dishevelled looking. His whiskery skin was red and spotty, and he seemed poorly sick. He would often slump in his cell, looking glassy-eyed and confused, coughing his wheezy chest. Once, he seemed so ill a medic was called to see him. They gave him a clean bill of health, to my surprise.

On the third day of the case, I left work in the evening and was walking down Corporation Street, head down and no doubt worried looking; you see, my mind was mulling on the call I’d just received from Jean, my wife. She told me that earlier that day, she had attended the Hospital and was told by her consultant that the cancer was spreading around her body at an alarming rate and needed immediate surgery; only no beds were available, and the waiting queue was a mile long.

With tears in my eyes, I paused, standing on the pavement curb, waiting for the pedestrian lights to go green. Two men suddenly encircled me. They were small squat Slavic looking, with gruff, fiery faces, wearing oversized black leather jackets. They none too gently grabbed me and twisted my arms behind my back, frog-marching me up an alleyway. There I was confronted by a Ray-Ban-wearing tall, high, cheek-boned, pin-striped guy closely resembling the many ethically challenged Defence briefs I see every day at Court. He silently examined my every feature from head to toe and back and probably noticed I was shivering with fear. At that moment, he took out a cheroot, lit it up and blew the smoke into my face.

“Hello, mister Pratt, “he said in a foreign-accented baritone voice.

“Err, how do you know my name, “I replied and heard a faint tinge of Welsh in my voice.

“Taffy, I ask the questions, “he said aggressively. Nervous, I shuffled from foot to foot.

He turned, shaded his eyes, looked away and then back at me, “Let’s get down to brass tacks; I'm so sorry to hear Jean, your wife ...is suffering from the big ‘C’… who knows when she can be treated…if at all.” He laced fingers behind his head.

“Yer’ what…how do you know,” I responded angrily.

Humour danced in his eyes, and he twisted smooth lips into a smile, "I just know…leave it at that," he paused, stared around before speaking, then stepped closer to me until his face was just inches away. I could smell the aroma of his aftershave; it smelt expensive. Then, lowered his voice, “It’s your lucky day, Mister Pratt … I…we have a proposal.” He stopped talking and leant towards me. His lips were close to my right ear.

His mouth tightened, and brows drew together, “Play ball with us, and we'll make it worthwhile for you…. okay? A smile eased across his lips, displaying a single gold tooth.

“What’s your name?”

“I ask the questions…okay. "The voice replied.

I felt a shiver of fear and replied boldly, "Stop, if you're related ...or connected with anyone involved like a witness…or defendant…  I shouldn't be talking to you."

“Loosen up, “he responded with an exasperated sigh, “What’s more important to you ...Jean…or work. We both know the answer to that.” He shot me a malicious look, and I cringed.

"I have a proposal," he said, running his hand through his coarse black hair, tinged with grey.

“What kind of proposal? What is it you want, “I asked.

He put his fingertips together. Help Jerome to escape.”

My face creased, and I said, “What…you don’t ask a lot.”

His lips twisted into a wry smile.

 “That’s madness. There’ll be an investigation, “I said, “Fingers will be pointed at me…an’ accusations made of me."

He beckoned me to a side chair, but I ignored it.

“They’ll throw the book at me…I’ll be investigated.”

"No, they won't, "he insisted belligerently, "That's sorted… don't ask how…okay, Muppet." They let out a horrible, sarcastic laugh.

.” Relax, relax, my friend … well, give you enough money for your wife to go private.”

“How do you know about that? I was staggered, he knew.

“We know everything.”

Shrugging my shoulders, “I see,” I replied, “You’re asking a lot from me.”

His eyes narrowed to slits; his wide mouth knotted viciously x

“You need to shut off the electricity, “I said, “otherwise your plan won’t work, what with the alarms and C.C.T.V you stand no chance of success if you don’t “.

” We know, we have a man inside to sort that out … when the lights go out, that is your signal to take Jerome down to the Courtyard…leave the rest to us.”

He took the cigarette out of his mouth and sent a puff of smoke into the air.

Your wife, Mister Pratt…we are the answer to your problems. “He said, squirming a hand into his jacket,

He pulled out a business card and handed it to me with an outstretched hand, written in green ink, yes green was, ‘Dr Samuel Zachery MD private cancer treatment specialist ‘and a host of other letters plus a mobile phone number, which for self-preservation I won’t tell you.

“Ring him …when the job is done, he will arrange a bed and perform the necessaries …soon…better than waiting forever with the N.H.S…yes “.

 I nodded,” It’s a deal,” I replied, putting a hand to my face, feeling my eyes well up in tears. Then, in a small thin, tired voice, I mumbled, “What happens if it all goes tits up? “ 

“Make sure it doesn’t…okay…please don’t let us down, “he growled, “For your own health…cos’ if you do…we will be worse than any nightmare ...worse than you can ever imagine," he paused, glaring at me.

“Pratt….one more thing…we need you in Court on that day … if you take time off, they might replace you …we don’t want that…understand. In this matter, we not haggling, “the corners of his eyes crinkled, “look at it from your own perspective; we are offering to save your wife's life …how on earth can you possibly say no ...and live with yourself.”

“I have no alternative, do I.”

“No, “he answered, sitting down and shooting me a terrifying stare, “just don’t let us down he said, making a cutting gesture with a hand across his Adam’s apple.

"You just make sure the electricity is cut off, "I said, "if it's not, the escape will go tits up." I began to chew a fingernail.

He stood up abruptly for a moment, his hand hanging loosely down beside him with his eyes looking at me curiously, “It will be, don’t worry. “He said.

A strange look traversed his eyes. He brushed his mouth and looked away.

 

Moments later, a substantially sized black painted black window tinted Range Rover braked to a halt beside us, and the passenger door swung open; easing his bulky frame inside, he hesitated, took off his dark glasses, and shot me a smile. I trembled.

 

"All rise," said the Usher as the Judge entered the Court. Shuffling his papers, he squiggled the spectacles upon his nose and began making a few notes, face grimacing. He coughed, and I eased Jerome onto his feet, who leant forward with his rumpled hair falling across his haggard face. A face looked deathly white with his fingers shaking like a leaf.

The next moment, as if he came out of a dream, his head rose, and he squared his shoulders and stood erect. I noticed his eyes scan the Jury for the very first time with his stare focusing on each member one at a time with a look that gave the impression of searching their very souls; some looked away, one put a hand to his forehead, another cowered but most blanched or went scarlet.

The Judge looked up at the ceiling, seeing its Pre Raphaelite-painted ceiling with throned Britannia incongruously in the centre. Then, narrow-eyed, he looked about the Courtroom and its panoramic preponderance of exotic woods in various hues with gold-coloured motifs of grapes, chevrons and strange flying birds which soared around the figure of justice, a pair of scales encircled by ivy leaves. Finally, he paused, eyeing the wooden sculptured statues that occupied several wall recesses and corner niches.

The next moment, he poured himself a glass of water from a Waterford crystal goblet, coughed, looked at the Jury and in a booming Willard White operatic voice, said, “I do not intend to waste many words on you. The sentence I pass is one of seventeen years' imprisonment. You're going to serve half of that, and then you will be released on licence. You will be returned to Prison if you are found guilty of any offences during this period. Any time that you spent on remand will be subtracted from the period you have to serve.” He removed his glasses and cleaned them with his cheeks and jaw churning. “Take him down, “he said.

Poor Jerome fell to the floor, crumpling on the floor, his tears cascading down his thin face as suddenly the whole place erupted in turmoil with the Victim’s supporter’s ecstatic hullabaloo and the defendant’s adherents booing and whistling in annoyance. I was immediately reminded of the final bloody moments of a Roman Gladiatorial fight.

Quickly, I pulled him aside and evacuated the dock, escaping through the steps leading down to his cell. Standing at the cell door, I gently shoved in distraught Jerome, his shoulders shuffling in time with his falling tears as he staggered in short steps and, with a sigh, he lowered himself upon the edge of the metal bed, mumbling to himself under his breath whilst closing and unclosing fists. I looked around the cell, with its offensive graffiti engraved walls, the aroma of boiled cabbages and a pervading atmosphere of no life, no freedom, no future.

 

Halfway down, I found two white overalled workers hemmed in by large pots of paint and assorted brushes; one was up a ladder carrying out repairs. We moved towards the basement exit, which led to an outside Courtyard. An exit-only infrequently used mainly to dodge journalists and r T.V. cameras or transfer surly aggressive prisoners throwing their weight about excessively.

 The steps squeaked, and the Bannister rail wobbled precariously. Spiders’ webs hung here and there, occasionally clinging on to us as we passed. My hand wiped them away as we proceeded farther towards the cells below.

I noticed the walls were oozing with dampness, and the steps were covered in faded age, tainted carpet, or lino. Seeing the last three bottom steps were naked of both, I grasped Jerome's sleeve as he almost tripped up, and I righted him before he fell; I couldn’t afford to c**k it up now the finishing tape was in sight. I felt a sudden nervousness, realising I’d reached the point of no return enmeshed as I was in a Mephistophelian contract.

 

Reaching the very bottom, I pushed Jerome in front of me as we passed the exit door. I paused and slipped open the lock and bolt with my left hand. My heart quivered, and acid burnt in my stomach as I recalled the earlier text message I’d received from Ray-Ban man reminding me of the devil’s pact and the punishment promised if I failed to deliver. T together, we entered hastily into the courtyard. It was overlooked on all four sides by grimy brick walls covered in a tangled ivy web that reached the roof above. The yard was paved in pigeon-dropping shambles of strewn grey slabs, overlooked by dirty, tight, shut Venetian blind windows. In the middle of the Courtyard stood me and Jerome. The next minute, the double gated entrance flew open and drove a Ford Transit van. I secreted myself against a wall and watched Jerome escape.

 

Making my way back, I paused at the door before entering when a flash of light caught my eye, and I looked up; I glimpsed up to see the lens of a snooping C.C.T.V. camera pointing in my direction. I shivered and smiled, hoping they were out of order. Minutes later, in a hot, panicking fret- I felt uncomfortable being unused to this nightmare of lies and deceit. I arrived in Jerome's now empty cell.

Bracing myself, I whispered a little prayer, then, taking in a deep breath, my eyes closed. I banged my face hard against the cell door three times; God, that hurt. On the third time, I fell to the cell floor, my right hand exploring my face, and I discovered blood pouring from heavy cuts to my cheeks and forehead. In the darkness, I counted to a thousand and then, snapping on my radio, I reported the escape, and as I expected, all hell let loose as the s**t hit the fan big time.

 

I was soon occupying a room being interviewed, and not pleasantly, four times. The first was with the top Court management honcho, after that by three Police Officers, all of descending levels of prominence. After him by a very senior Police commissioner or summat’ like that. Then, separately by two hang dog-faced, angry appearing C.D. I. Detectives, each, as I said, of diluted importance. I kept to the same story, never wavering one bit from my script, and many hours later, I was allowed to go home to my wife.

 

The atmosphere for the next few days was rank. Suspicious eyes followed me everywhere; they even took away my computer, laptop, Tablet and work mobile phone. H.R. interviewed me numerous times, and my Boss gave me a right rollicking, but they decided in their wisdom that I used the term loosely, deserved a mere verbal warning, and demoted to desk duties �" big deal. It was a reprimand with insignificant effect compared to the weeks-long, guilt-ridden, sleepless nights I experienced. But at least I had the satisfaction that the missus health was improving. What surprised me the most about the whole shebang was that no one could explain who arranged the workman we passed on the staircase and why it was extraordinary.

 

Out of the blue, mister Ray-Ban phoned me at home not long after, “Your numbers have come up… It's your lucky day. “He said, chuckling, “My associates were very pleased with your contribution, family honour has been satisfied, and they’ve decided…as a token of their esteem, to send you a little something…check tomorrow’s post. “With that said, the phone went dead. The next day, an envelope arrived containing a cheque; I was gobsmacked, seeing it had quite a number of zeros. Who said crime does pay?

The following weeks lacked the excitement of Jerome's Trial; thank God, excluded from Prison escort duties, I was demoted to menial tasks. I was just a bloody filing clerk.

One morning, after an early bout of rumpty pumpty with my now-healthy wife, she said," I notice the bank statement is very healthy...don't say anything… it's best I don’t know…but as your bored… let's use it soon…like now!”

I handed in my resignation shortly after, hinting to the personal girly in coy words that I wanted to stay at home to care for my dying wife. Okay, it was a little white lie, but that's allowed, ain't it, it is in my world. They didn’t know we’d bought an apartment on the Costa Brava and left for it the day after. So now it’s all sun, sea, and sangria.

 

 Look, I know my Faustian bargain misdemeanours will catch up on me, and I will one day be boiled alive in a red-hot cauldron warmed by the fiery embers of hell…but not too soon, please. I’m having the time of my life.

 

Reviews

[Angelina]

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