G03 - Resolution (5 page)

He thought back to the Northern Psychiatric Hospital, to all those mute girls, provocative, defenseless, and their goading blank eyes. His dick warmed and twitched. He almost hoped the lawyer would talk about them, show him pictures of the cupboard or the girls or something. He blinked and remembered the sluice cupboard, the grimy darkness and stinging air, thick with the smell of urine. The lawyer wouldn’t talk about the rapes — they hadn’t charged him with the rapes, just the murders. It would be better to go to prison as a murderer. The rapes would give him a shorter sentence but he’d be held in segregation and would be afraid for his life most of the time. Labels matter most on the margins. The ideal outcome would be no conviction at all.

At the far end of the room a door buzzed. An officer pushed through it and the tone rose to an urgent whine until the lock clicked shut behind him. The door was made of yellow pine with small glass windows, like an outside door, sturdier than Maureen O’Donnell’s close door.

The door beside Angus opened and Alan Grace looked out, inviting him into the room with a raised eyebrow and a forced smile. Grace was a thin man, bald, his uneven pate glinting under the fluorescent light, the hair too long at the sides. The guard stood up and nodded deferentially, standing Angus up with an authoritative pat to his elbow, guiding him with a hand on his shoulder forward into the room. Angus glanced up just once. It was a small room, painted two shades of gray, dark to shoulder height, lighter above. There was no partition, just a table bolted to the floor and two chairs. In two of the high corners black cameras watched, hungry for action. The officer stopped at the door behind him as if he were waiting for a tip. “Will I come in with yees?”

“I think we’ll be fine,” said Grace, and the guard left, shutting the door after him. “Perhaps you might like to sit, Mr. Farrell.” Grace always maintained a cheery voice. It sounded less like conviviality than egging himself through an unpleasant task. “We can start to go over what happened to you yesterday.”

As Angus sat down the legs on the chair splayed beneath him, thin plastic that wouldn’t snap or give an edge. Behind Grace’s head an air vent hummed softly, wafting the fringe of hair back and forth over his ears. He seemed very young. Young but tired.

“Are you well, Mr. Farrell?” Grace was trying to catch his eye.

“Fine.”

“They treating you all right?”

“Fine.

Grace nodded. “I understand you had a visit from the Crown Office yesterday,” he said quietly, “at which they charged you with the murders of Mr. Douglas Brady and Mr. Martin Donegan.”

Angus stared at the table. “I don’t know what they’re talking about,” he whispered urgently.

Grace looked at his notes. “You know who Mr. Brady is?”

“Of course I know him,” said Angus, sitting up and coming alive. His accent was clipped and clear. “I worked with him for years. They interviewed all of us in the clinic about it. He died in Maureen O’Donnell’s living room. But the porter, Martin, I didn’t even know he was dead until yesterday.”

Grace made a consolatory face. “You have been ill for quite some time, I’m afraid.”

“Dr. Heikle tells me I was given a massive dose of LSD.”

“So it would seem. He’s surprised that you recovered. Do you remember anything about the time leading up to your admission here?”

Angus looked at him. “I remember nothing,” he breathed, his eyes flickering around the gray tabletop as if he were trying to reassemble the events. “I told the police yesterday that I remember meeting the woman, Maureen O’Donnell. She’s an ex-patient of mine. We had coffee together in my office. After that I remember nothing but fire and being scared and being here.” He stabbed the table, as if his presence in this room was the only thing he had been sure about for a very long time. “I remember being here. I don’t know what happened to me to get me here.”

Grace paused, writing a note to himself in his pad. “Did you know,” he said eventually, “that Miss O’Donnell was having an affair with Mr. Brady?”

“The police told me. I was disappointed in Douglas for that.”

“Did you know that O’Donnell’s brother is a drug dealer?”

Angus sat forward, and the broken veins on his nose came into focus. “No, I didn’t know that. She could have given me the LSD. Can you do that with coffee?”

“I don’t know, we’ll find out. But it does suggest a knowledge of drugs and a potential source. Incidentally, you were writing threatening letters to Miss O’Donnell while you were still … under the influence. Do you remember that?”

Angus cringed and sat back, sliding his flat palms back across the table, his fingers leaving snail trails of sweat on the scarred gray plastic. “Vaguely.” He shrugged apologetically. “She’s my last memory before I went under. Maybe I got stuck …”

Grace sat forward, tapping the table with his pen. “Can you pinpoint the date on which Miss O’Donnell came to see you with the coffee?”

Angus shook his head. “I was at the clinic in the morning, briefly. She came in to see me after Douglas’s death.”

“Would that be the last day you went into the clinic before disappearing?”

Angus sat back as if startled by his acumen. “I expect it was. I honestly have no idea.”

Grace scribbled something on his pad. “We can check that out.” He looked up. “The evidence they have links you to the murder of Mr. Donegan. They have only circumstantial evidence linking you to the murder of Douglas Brady. Realistically they would have to prove the second case to get a conviction on the first.”

“What evidence do they have?”

“Your bloody fingerprints on the back of Mr. Donegan’s neck.” Grace dropped his voice in embarrassment. “He was stabbed … in the face.”

Angus shrank. “Could I have done that?” he muttered urgently.

“The evidence suggests that you did, Mr. Farrell.”

“How could I?” he whispered, and let his head drop to his chest. “Why would I do such a thing?”

“I really don’t know,” said Grace, and turned back to his notes. He seemed uncomfortable.

“Is there any hope at all?” whispered Angus, wondering as he did so whether he was overplaying it. He was suddenly overcome by the desire to smile. He covered his face with his hands, and slipped his fingers under the lenses of his glasses, rubbing his eyes roughly with his fingertips. His specs jiggled up and down.

Grace cleared his throat. “I don’t want you to get too excited about this,” he said seriously, “but we have a potential defense. It’s speculative at the moment.” He spoke slowly. “It would be very difficult for the prosecution to get a conviction on the Brady charges without a guilty on the Donegan charge. Let’s just say that you were under the influence of LSD at the time of the Donegan murder, yes?” Grace waited, and Angus looked at him and nodded that he understood.

“Yes,” he said.

“And if we can show that someone else gave you the LSD, yes?”

Grace waited again. Angus considered bludgeoning him with the chair but nodded instead.

“Yes?” said Grace. “Well, we can plead that while you physically did the act you were not mentally responsible for it.”

Angus decided that he had shown enough interest in the plea. He crumpled his chin at the table. “Did I do it?” he asked.

“It would seem so. But we may be able to argue that you didn’t have the mental intent to do it, if you were given the drugs without your knowledge.”

“What does mental intent mean?”

“Well, if you didn’t mean to do it,” said Grace patiently, slipping into Ladybird law-book language, “even if you did the physical actions, then the law says you’re not guilty. We’ll have to check the sightings of you, make sure the dates match and so on. If the plea is successful — there are a lot of conditions on that, I should stress—well, you’ll be going home, Mr. Farrell.”

“But did I do it?” muttered Angus.

“It would seem so, Mr. Farrell,” repeated Grace.

Angus Farrell rubbed his eyes hard again and his mouth dropped open. The crooked lower teeth were worn down to dark, ringed stubs from the months he had spent grinding them when he first came here. His head ached all the time. He rubbed his eyes harder. “God almighty,” he whispered. “I did it, didn’t I?”

It was a warm evening but the room felt damp. it always felt damp. The gray carpet squares were beginning to curdle in protest. Ten group members were sitting in a circle, sipping tea and coffee from Styrofoam cups and nibbling at the lovely chocolate biscuits Liz bought from Marks & Spencer every week.

Sheila, a tall woman in her fifties with an eating disorder, was the Incest Survivor Group’s convener. She wore her graying brown hair up in a leather clasp and dressed in shapeless shirts and long skirts, as if trying to deny that she had a body. She raised her elegant English voice and cut across the chatter. “Let’s convene this week’s meeting with a reminder.” She held up the laminated page and read through it. It was a poetic rendition of a series of group rules. No directional advice would be given by members of the group unless requested, no one would interrupt another member while they were sharing.

Maureen zoned out and took out a cigarette.

“I want to speak tonight.” Colin leaned forward into the circle as he ran a hand through his hair. Behind him, tall Alex sighed and folded his arms. Colin always wanted to speak first. He spoke every week, and every week he said the same thing: he wasn’t coping. His ex-wife wanted him to look after their child but he couldn’t. Colin had only realized that his abuse was still a live issue when his son reached seven. When he got angry he wanted to hurt the boy. He could control the urges if he saw him during the day and didn’t spend too long with him. His ex-wife wanted him to take his son for weekends. If he told her why he couldn’t do it she’d stop him seeing the child altogether. He stared at the carpet, wringing his hands, the anxious sweat on his palms smacking noisily, making him even less likable. He was going to have to stop seeing him, he knew that — he was afraid for him. He loved him. That was all he had to say. Any advice would be welcome.

When she was sure he had finished, Sheila thanked him and asked whether someone else would like to come in. Tall Alex lunged forward and began his tirade against whoever had pissed him off that week. He was angry. The focus of his fury changed from week to week but the content was always the same. Everyone was picking on him, they underestimated him, he wasn’t going to stand for it. Every week he had a new revenge fantasy — he was going to show them. The revenge was always small, a slight or a slap, spreading a rumor. A blind dog in a drunken stupor with no clinical training could have identified the pattern: Alex was just angry and he was angry because he was afraid, but no one was allowed to say that. Every week he finished by saying that advice would not be welcome. If anyone attempted to talk to him afterwards he’d speak from the body of the hall the next week, railing against know-all bastards, glancing pointedly at the offender, threatening petty Armageddon.

Hugh McAskill had told her about the group during the investigation into Douglas’s death. She hadn’t really understood why he was so kind to her at the time; it was only afterwards when she came to the group that she realized how much his experience matched hers.

She didn’t associate Hugh the policeman with Hugh the responsible group member. The damp room felt separate somehow, like a grubby gray antechamber to real life where each member’s darkest moments could be touched on and safely left behind, lingering in the smell of moldy dust, waiting for next week.

Although the group was composed predominantly of women the men always spoke first. The usual form was that Hugh would speak next, calming everyone down with his soft voice and sad demeanor, talk about aspects of his own struggle that reflected the previous speakers’, but Hugh wasn’t there tonight. The silence lasted longer than was comfortable and they began to look around at one another expectantly. No one wanted to come in before Hugh had set the atmosphere right.

“Anyone else?” asked Sheila, and sat back.

The meeting room was on the third floor of a small building, abutting a large red sandstone chapel in Partick. The outbuildings had developed chaotically, and twenty feet across the lane a newer hall had been built. It was used on Thursdays for Irish dancing classes and they could hear a skirl of tinny music through the open fire exit. Of a sudden, a hundred tiny feet simultaneously stamped about the distant pine floor.

“Surely someone else wants to speak tonight?” said Sheila.

Maureen found herself coming in. “I’ll speak, Sheila,” she said, and Sheila sat back gratefully, giving her the floor.

Maureen hadn’t thought about what she was going to say and it all fell out in a jumble. “I’ve been trying to enjoy the weather today,” she said, following Hugh’s style of sharing and starting with something positive, in the present. “I’ve been working really hard at enjoying everything I can. Feeling good, happy, spending time in the house and at my work and not being sad or frightened.”

She had wanted to say that she was happy and coping, that she was getting on with her life, but knew she sounded miserable and confused, as if she was lying to herself. “I’m getting the money together for my debts because I don’t want to leave debts …” She hadn’t meant to say that. She sounded as if she were going to die. “Not that I’m leaving.” Trying to lighten up, she let out a hollow, lonely laugh that smarted off the damp walls. She looked around but no one was looking back at her: they were nodding at their laps, picking their nails, everyone frowning heavily except Alex, who was watching her with his arms crossed, sucking his cheeks in, looking amused.

“I dreamed about my dad last night. It was the same dream and I was sweating.” She wasn’t thinking about suicide, she should make that clear. She looked up. “I’m not going to kill myself,” she said. Sheila looked worried. Alex sniggered because someone else was making a tit of themselves. Maureen gave up the attempt at sounding cheerful and her chin sank to her chest. “I think bad things are about to happen,” she said, and her hot eyes dripped tears, her face slackened. “Now my dad’s back in Glasgow, I can’t think about anything else. Nothing else seems real or …” She sat forward, letting her tears fall onto the soiled carpet. The group had heard it all before but she couldn’t stop saying the same things. “When my sisters brought him back from London I couldn’t believe it. They paid for him to come here even though they knew, even though I’d told them what he did.” Her chin crumpled and she couldn’t speak. She breathed in, fighting the pressure from her heavy heart to sob. “They don’t believe me. I can cope with that. But Una, she’s having a baby soon, next few days. She’s chucked her husband out. She’ll give the baby to Michael, to prove that she believes him, to prove I’m wrong. I’m the only one who can do anything about it. No one else is going to do anything. I feel as if I’m dying.”