The Three Most Wanted Page 15

  “Hunger strikes!” snorted Jon. “One way to put it.”

  “Plenty of hunger and much striking, I imagine,” I said darkly.

  “If he got away with as little as that, he’s lucky,” said Bane, more soberly.

  The door behind the dock opened, and two guards hustled out a figure even more slender than I remembered. They stood him in the middle of the dock and took up positions on either side of the closed door, nonLethal truncheons in hand. NonLethal, but most definitely not painless. The ReAssignees Welfare Board had got them banned from Facilities, thank you Lord for small mercies.

  The figure remained motionless, head down, like a dog expecting to be kicked if it so much as twitches. The camera zoomed in, but couldn’t see much. The fair hair was clean and neatly trimmed, mostly hidden by the officer’s cap, the rest of the uniform similarly neat, but the lack of some degree of exacting crispness suggested—at least to me—that the Major hadn’t been responsible for his appearance.

  As the guards behind him remained still, the Major finally began stealing looks around court, wary as a snared bird. A glint of green as his gaze darted over the camera without registering it—then his eyes came back, narrowed in an apparent struggle for comprehension—stared right into it.

  Ah yes, those green eyes… So like mine. It gave me a weird feeling of kinship with him. Bit creepy, really.

  “All rise, all rise,” came from the TV—jury, lawyers and viewing gallery all got to their feet as the judge swept in.

  The Major’s head rose all the way and the camera zoomed eagerly back to his face as he stared at the judge. One hand crept to his chest, touching the uniform. Sudden anger blazed in his eyes—he snatched the cap from his head and hurled it with scant strength but good aim at the judge, who had to duck to avoid it.

  The two guards raised their truncheons, but the officer of the guard standing beside the dock gave his head a small, angry shake. The Major had gone motionless again, and I suppose everyone was aware they were on live TV. The guards stepped back again hastily and the hat was returned to the dock, but placed to one side. Afraid of a repeat performance?

  Various formal court proceedings took place, then the prosecution read out the charges in a bizarre mixture of emotive language and legalese—show trial, what did one expect? Apparently the Major had betrayed his uniform, betrayed his department, betrayed his subordinates, betrayed the young expectant mothers who might lose their unborn child or their own life as a result of his despicable actions… blah, blah, blah. The prosecutor repeated himself freely, gesticulating and talking himself into a frenzy.

  The camera quickly got bored of him and went back to the Major, who was now clawing at his uniform with bony fingers. “I hate this uniform,” he was muttering. “I hate this bloody uniform.” Several buttons came to grief before his hands dropped again, tiredly, but he didn’t shut up. “Haven’t made me wear this bloody uniform for months, why now? Why now?”

  The officer of the guard shushed him, but he took his head in his hands, messing up his hair, shaking his head like a man trying to come fully awake. Had they given him something to make him more cooperative or was he just struggling to throw off the mind-destroying effects of almost three months of torture? In fact... there would have been no point torturing him after he’d signed the confession, so maybe he’d already had a week or so to recover…

  “Why?” he said, apparently to himself. “Ask a stupid question, you know why.” His attention shifted to the prosecutor, still in full flow. “What the hell are you going on about?” he demanded. “The EGD kill unborn children every day. Born children too. Grown-up children. Everyone knows that. Are you a raving idiot?”

  The judge banged on his desk with his hammer thing. “Order. The defendant will remain silent unless spoken to.”

  The two guards twitched their truncheons slightly and the Major’s shoulders hunched; he said nothing more. His hands clenched into fists—frightened? Angry? Both?

  The prosecutor wound up his ravingly idiotic speech and proceeded to a quick summary of the evidence. Mostly completely made up, as far as Jon and I could tell. My two barely-five-minute meetings with the Major in his garden were expanded into lengthy half-hour conferences. No mention of Finchley—apparently the Major had provided the card used in the actual escape and made most of the arrangements himself.

  “What a load of utter nonsense!” I reached for what was left of my own coffee. Stone cold. They’d been at it that long already?

  The prosecutor announced the clincher: the defendant had signed a full confession. Then fell smugly silent.

  “And how does the defendant plead?” asked the judge.

  The defense lawyer stood, appropriately grave-faced, though no doubt being paid to fail. “I believe my client has something to say.”

  Silence from the dock.

  “Major Everington, do you have something to say?” demanded the judge.

  “Doesn’t the lawyer just enter a guilty plea?” I asked.

  “Not at this sort of trial,” grunted François.

  “They want everyone to hear it from his own lips,” said Bane.

  “I expect they think it sounds more convincing,” agreed Jon.

  The Major stood, head down, his hands twisting together. A desperate look on his face, like a man wrestling with a momentous decision. It was hard to identify this pale, jumpy individual with the man I’d feared for four months. The man who’d come far, far closer than the EuroGov to breaking me, in the end.

  “Major Everington,” repeated the judge, more harshly. “Do you have something to say?”

  The Major raised his head again. Sweat beaded his brow—with his torn shirt and messed-up hair, he looked half-mad. His eyes flicked fearfully in the direction of the guards behind him, then he drew a long, long breath and spoke very quietly. “Yes, I have something to say.”

  The cameras cut back to the judge’s smile of satisfaction.

  The Major drew another breath, stepped forward to the very front of the dock—moving away from the truncheons? His thin fingers hooked over the wooden barrier like talons. “I have something to say…” His voice strengthened. “I retract my confession. I signed it under extreme duress and it is all lies. I met Margaret Verrall in private twice and that is the only truth in the entire thing.”

  His voice rose still further over the babble of noise from the gallery.

  “We spoke for five minutes—there’s my confession, you bastards!”

  ***+***

  14

  NOT GUILTY

  “Oh my word.” Jon sounded stunned.

  François whistled, long and low.

  “Wow,” said Bane. “He’s either insane, or some sort of masochist.”

  An angry movement from the guards had sent the Major skittering into the corner of the dock, but his eyes blazed with defiance.

  “Now they have to lay it all out,” I crowed. “Every flimsy stitch of evidence!”

  “No,” said Bane, “only until he can be persuaded to retract his retraction. So no doubt the trial will be over tomorrow morning, latest.”

  Better not to think about what sort of night the accused would have.

  “Still. You tell me you’re not enjoying the looks on their faces!”

  The judge’s flabbergasted expression gave way to fury; he glowered at both the prosecution and the defense. The lawyers quailed, jaws sagging in dismay, and glared in turn at the detention officer. He was the only one who remembered they were on live television, because he remained expressionless, except for a tiny shake of his head to quell the guards.

  “Am I to understand,” snarled the judge at last, “that the defense is entering a plea of not guilty?”

  The defense lawyer stared at the man in the dock, looking appalled. “Major Everington, you must reconsider…”

  “You heard me, you aphid!” The Major leant over the edge of the dock as though he’d like to spring at the man. “Not guilty. Tell them!”

 
; Wilting under the combined glowers of Major, judge and prosecution, the lawyer spread his hands to demonstrate his helplessness. “The defense enters a plea of not guilty.”

  So the scowling prosecutor, after a hasty whispered conference with his colleagues, began to lay out the evidence, which clearly hadn’t been intended to see the light of day in anything other than summarized form. He spent as long as possible on each item, and the defense lawyer dragged things out for all he was worth as well.

  The judge sat and tried to smile—occasionally he forgot himself and started scowling again.

  “Bet they’re wishing they’d chosen the Menace as a scapegoat,” I remarked, as they prepared to wrap things up for lunch. A very late lunch was probably what François had slipped out to attend to, actually...

  “Yeah,” snorted Jon. “The trial would be done and dusted months ago. Don’t think stubborn was one of her qualities.”

  “Why’s this guy bothering?” asked Bane. “He must know he’s had it.”

  “I know you bit my head off before for comparing you with him, Bane,” I said, “but seriously, you’d make it drawn-out and messy and embarrassing for them too, I know you would. I mean, he worked for them for fifteen years, and they turned around and stabbed him in the back. Of course he knows he’s had it, and he’s pretty pissed off about it.”

  Bane shrugged. “Still, there’s a limit to how much pain I’d be prepared to take, just for revenge.”

  “True. Well, I don’t know, perhaps he has a fondness for the truth.”

  “In EGD Security? You’ve gotta be particularly good at lying to yourself to do that job.”

  I shrugged as well, attention drawn back to the screen as the judge invited Major Everington to speak before they adjourned for half an hour.

  The Major had been prowling up and down the front of the dock like a caged tiger, paying no attention to anything, but now he stopped and gripped the wood again.

  “What do you want me to say?” His voice was low but fierce. “Oh, yes, you want me to tell a pack of convenient lies. Well, I’m so sorry, but you never ordered me to write the security protocol, only to stick to it. Which I did. And it wasn’t me who decided a young lady capable of winning an internationally-recognized prize whilst simultaneously writing a bestselling novel and organizing a mass breakout wasn’t fit to live. So I don’t even think your useless security procedures are the real issue, do you?”

  A bark of laughter from the doorway—François was back. “You tell them, dead man.” That grudging respect in his voice again.

  The judge turned purple and in a few choked words adjourned the court for the lunch break. The camera went back to the Major as judge and jury filed out. The guards were unlocking the door behind him and the Major’s hands were trembling. No food or rest would await him after this morning’s performance.

  “The lunch is ready,” François informed us.

  “Come on, let’s eat quickly,” said Bane. “This is proving even more entertaining than I expected.”

  “Don’t be so ghoulish, Bane,” I objected. “A man’s life is at stake, y’know.”

  François snorted, muttered something that sounded rather like ‘good riddance,’ and headed back towards the kitchen.

  “It’s not at stake!” said Bane. “He’s been a dead man since the day they arrested him. It’s just taking them a long time to work out the funeral arrangements.”

  His levity might bug me, but he was right. There’d be no funeral for Lucas Everington, though. He’d be dismantled, his brain burned, the ashes placed in a storage facility for a few years, after which time, no relative having stepped forward to claim them, they’d be scattered on the fields as fertilizer. A bleak end.

  But then, I barely knew the man, let alone his family. The only living things I’d seen him care for were his precious plants. The press had tracked down only a sister—who apparently hated him so much she wouldn’t even say his name, let alone why. So my gut feeling was probably right: that all the man’s nearest and dearest had chlorophyll running in their veins instead of blood.

  We helped François wash up in double-quick time after we’d eaten, then sat down and switched to the live broadcast. They hadn’t adjourned for the day yet. The Major stood there in the middle of the dock, shaking. He looked exhausted. Had he been stood there, shaking, since lunch? Before long, he sat down on the floor, scooting into the front corner where only the two guards—and the cameras mounted on rails all around the ceiling—could see him, sitting there with his forehead on his knees. The judge ignored his disappearance from view: nothing was going to affect the outcome of the trial, so he clearly couldn’t care less.

  The phony evidence hadn’t improved. Jon and I booed and hissed at the worst bits, and eventually I snapped and threw a biscuit at the prosecutor’s head, which was apparently the funniest thing that’d happened all day, in Bane’s opinion. But soon it was almost five o’clock and the judge was again asking—demanding—that the Major speak.

  The guards pulled him up and stood him on his feet, but to start with he just went on staring at the hideously geometric blue and yellow carpet.

  “Major Everington,” persisted the judge, “this is your opportunity to speak, I most strongly advise that you do not waste it.” Translation: last chance to spare yourself a night at the tender mercies of Reginald Hill and the Department for Internal Affairs.

  The Major shuddered and raised his head at last. “What can I say?” His voice was very low, now. “Why don’t you just have them take me out the front, put me up against a convenient wall and shoot me? Save the taxpayers so much money. How about that, your honor?”

  His tone was mocking, but there was something deadly serious in his face, as though riddled with bullets was a highly attractive way to end the day. Of course, considering his alternative...

  “Very well,” said the judge coldly. “Get a good night’s sleep, Major. We’ll see what you have to say for yourself tomorrow.”

  After a rather quiet evening meal that followed closely on the heels of our late lunch, we went back to the sitting room with coffees. Were Juwan and Doms in a place rather like where the Major had been taken? No, François was right: they wouldn’t want any suspicion of torture. Not with New Adults.

  Hugo thrust his head onto François’s lap, whining. The old man stroked him without looking down, gazing at a framed photo on the table by the sofa just beside me. It showed the twins, François standing behind them, his face less lined, less tired, hair less grey, his arms around a much younger woman, made beautiful by her shining smile.

  “Is this your wife?” I asked.

  François nodded. Added calmly, “Yes, she was younger than me,” as though to spare us from coming up with any polite comment to this effect.

  “Doesn’t matter. If you were happy.” Bane peered around me at the photograph. “Y’look happy.”

  “She had a beautiful smile.” I had to say something.

  François nodded wordlessly; his nostrils quivered.

  “Could you… describe her?” asked Jon softly.

  François swallowed hard and it was a moment before he could speak. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can. It… it has not been long enough.” After a moment he leant across, touching a finger to each figure as he spoke their names like a caress. “Marie… Philippe… Jean…”

  “There was nothing you could do,” I said, remembering Juwan’s guilt. Repeated in how many homes and hearts across the EuroBloc?

  At least one. François sighed and glanced at Bane. “How to even know where to begin? No Resistance contacts, me. Always sought to keep my hands clean. So much for that. I’d take… I’d’ve taken help from the devil himself.”

  “Never a good idea, that,” remarked Jon, in a tone of theological certainty.

  Bane rolled his eyes and kicked him in the ankle. “We entirely understand, I assure you. I do, anyway. I did, so Margo would have it.”

  “Not quite the devil,” I said, “some o
f his lesser minions, certainly.”

  “Are you complaining?”

  “No. I’m not a saint, I’m afraid.”

  François looked sunk in bleak thoughts, so I added, “I wish there’d been a way, François.”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes. Me too. Me too.”

  We went to sleep in crisp clean beds for the first time in… well, in a long time. Still hadn’t got around to asking Bane what the date was. François remained so quiet and strained… shame the conversation had to end up on his lost ones, but... probably inevitable.

  I felt safer, but not quite safe enough to ask for a separate bed for myself, and Francois hadn’t offered. I arranged an extra sheet between me and Bane, not bothering trying to sleep top to tail again, but it took me ages to settle down, even after Bane was snoring. I must’ve caught up on my sleep better than I thought. Eventually I said a rosary—the Sorrowful Mysteries—for all those suffering under torture that night. Especially stubborn green-eyed bastards. And slept at last.

  ...Broad daylight filtered around the curtains. We’d slept late again. Bane’s forehead was normal temperature, good; his arm—still hot but less so.

  “Am I on the mend?” he murmured.

  “Doctor Margo would say so.”

  He slipped a hand behind my head and tried to draw me down for a kiss but I squirmed free and sat on the edge of the bed, yawning. Sharing a bed for protection was one thing, but I couldn’t just lie around praying, “lead me not into temptation, Lord”: I had to keep myself out of it as well! He smirked at me, correctly feeling flattered rather than rejected by my hasty withdrawal.

  “Had your pill yet?”

  Bane screwed up his face. “No. I’d better go down and get it.”

  “When are we going to carry on to Rome?”