Resolution

Chapter 9

Angus Farrell sipped his cold tea, closing his eyes tight, trying to shake the sore head that had plagued him since breakfast. He had taken a painkiller bought from the trustee the night before because he wanted a sleep but there had been something wrong with it – maybe it clashed with his other medication. A shrill, hot pain had been flaring up behind his eyes since morning. Drug taking was the central recreation of the ward but he couldn't give himself to it. He pushed aside the sandwich.

A clatter against the metal door made him jump, and as the door swung open into the bright, sunny corridor Angus sat upright, straightening his face, getting ready to be seen by the warden. "Solicitor's here," said the officer. "You're going through to Alpha block."

Angus picked up his cup of tea and the food tray with the uneaten sandwich on it and stood, looking at the guard.

"Is that you ready?" said the guard.

"Aye," said Angus.

"Ye not eating your lunch?"

"Not hungry."

The guard hesitated. "Well, look, leave it down," he said, gesturing to the bed, "and I'll give it in to Hungry George down the row."

Angus turned and placed the tray on the bed. They would be in here when he was away, searching. He was glad he'd taken the pill the night before. They wouldn't find anything in his room. He stood up again and the guard stepped away from the door, let him pass. They walked the length of the corridor, passing door after door, hearing men strain to shit or talking to themselves. The warmth in the corridor heightened the acrid smells of unwashed men, of feces and piss, and the flashing pain behind Angus's eyes made him flinch again. Davie, the trustee, looked at his feet as he rolled the trolley by and banged on the next door, calling for the trays back.

The strip-lights and high whir of the cameras burrowed behind his eyes and he leaned forward to make it worse so that when he sat up it would feel like a relief. The pain started to recede, to feel like a flashback to pain from another time, pain from Maureen O'Donnell. In his mind, Angus looked around the little room in Millport: twin beds with matching covers, a sink in the corner and the terrible heat, his hand cuffed to the bed and his legs bare, trousers somewhere else, Maureen O'Donnell standing in front of him, her outline watery through the hot air. He told her she'd been having the dreams because her father had raped her and she'd head-butted him, breaking his nose. He liked making her do that to him. He smiled to himself and sat up slowly, folding his hands in his lap as he looked around the waiting room. Maureen's pale blue eyes, livid and angry, panic at the edges, hoping to God that he was wrong about her father.

He imagined a courtroom. A witness box with Maureen in it, dressed in cheap clothes – she always wore cheap clothes. Hair tidied, some makeup on. If he was near to her he would smell cigarettes from her clothes, smell her shampoo, see her never-quite-clean fingernails. No – he rewound – he'd be across the room. They'd put the witness box far from the dock. A witness box with Maureen in it, dressed in cheap clothes, she always wore cheap clothes. He'd look at her, let his eyes fall to her tits, and she'd get that look again, panic at the edges of her pale blue eyes.

He had written to Maureen from hospital, when he first came out of the acid haze. A volley of letters, nonsensical notes that only she would understand about her father and the bleeding. He liked to imagine her getting each letter and opening it, reading it, and her first reaction, avoiding the letter during the day and rereading it at night, reviving the revulsion. He had sent the letters through the official post. They couldn't stop him writing to her because she wasn't part of his case and she wouldn't complain: he'd mentioned Millport often enough to make it tricky for her. He'd known all along that the hospital censor read the mail and would have notified the police. They'd have traced the letters to Maureen, and her reluctance to hand them over would only serve to convince them that he was sincere.

He looked around the waiting room. The guard next to him was yawning repeatedly because the room was airless. Angus closed his eyes. A witness box with Maureen in it, dressed in cheap clothes, she always wore cheap clothes. Hair tidied, some makeup on. She'd have to point him out, have to look at him. He imagined her being calm and denying giving him the acid-laced coffee. She was a bad witness, had a history of mental illness, a problem with authority, but she could be quite together sometimes. She had a university degree and a pleasant manner. He remembered her coming into his office, smiling for him, asking after him in her heavy, smoky voice, her dark ringlet hair falling over her face. Angus opened his eyes. She couldn't be like that at the trial. She couldn't be credible at his trial. None of it would work if she was.

Grace sat at the table and talked through the details he had gleaned from the police statements. Times and places, Maureen's known movements and when she came to the clinic. "She's got to be a rotten witness," said Angus. "She's got a history of hospitalization, and I'm a trained psychologist."

Grace looked up at him. The fringe of hair fell back over his ears. "We want to avoid bringing evidence about her personal reputation if we can."

"Why?"

"Because if we do that," said Grace quietly, "then they can bring evidence about your reputation."

Angus shrugged nonchalantly. "So?"

"They'll bring evidence about the rape allegations at the Northern Psychiatric Hospital," said Grace. Just for a moment Angus saw a shiver in his eyes, saw what he really thought about him. "You realize, Mr. Farrell, that if this case fails they'll be bringing a rape case against you?"

Angus frowned, as if he hadn't known that, as if he hadn't orchestrated the whole play himself. "That's a ludicrous allegation," he said nervously. "The Northern hospital rapes were nearly a decade ago now. Certainly I worked there but that doesn't make me guilty. They can't have any witnesses."

"They do have one witness," said Grace softly.

Angus drummed his nails on the table. He looked at Grace and laughed abruptly. "Do you know what I'm really worried about?"

Grace shook his head.

"I'm worried about what I'm going to wear." He snorted. "My mum's got my suit in the dry cleaner's. I haven't got any phone calls left to tell her to get it out and bring it."

"Well," said Grace, reaching into his inside pocket, "that's one problem I can alleviate." He pulled out a mobile phone and flicked it open. Angus watched him hand it over the table and he smiled. He knew the number by heart, tapped it in and grinned up at Grace as he listened to it ring, pressing it tight to his ear so that Grace couldn't hear it. It rang twice. "Mum, it's me-you know my suit and shirt and things?" he said to the ringing, pausing for breath as the operator picked up and asked him for his message. "Send them now."

"Is that all, sir?" asked the operator.

Angus hung up. "Left a message on her pager," he said, knowing Grace might get an itemized bill and check the call. He handed back the phone. "Thanks for that, you've really helped me."