Ian Rankin - Dead Souls

He started whistling a Beatles song: ‘Good Day, Sunshine’, wondering if any of the guards would know it. Potential for another reaction. But then the door opened and his attorney came in. His fifth lawyer in sixteen years, not a bad average, batting.300. This lawyer was young — mid-twenties — and wore blue blazers with cream slacks, a combination which made him look like a kid trying on his dad’s clothes. The blazers had brass-effect buttons and intricate designs on the breast pocket.

‘Ahoy, shipmate!’ Oakes cried, not shifting in his chair.

His lawyer sat down opposite him at the table. Oakes put his hands behind his head, rattling the chains.

‘Any chance of removing those from my client?’ the lawyer asked.

‘For your own protection, sir.’ The stock response.

Oakes used both hands to scratch his shaved head. ‘Know those divers and spacemen? Use weighted boots, necessary tool of the trade. I reckon when I lose these chains, I’m going to float up to the ceiling. I can make my living in freak shows: the human fly, see him scale the walls. Man, imagine the possibilities. I can float up to second-floor windows and watch all the ladies getting ready for bed.’ He turned his head to the guards. ‘Any of you guys married?’

The lawyer was ignoring this. He had his job to do, opening the briefcase and lifting out the paperwork. Wherever lawyers went, paper went with them. Lots of paper. Oakes tried not to look interested.

‘Mr Oakes,’ the lawyer said, ‘it’s just a matter of detail now.’

‘I’ve always enjoyed detail.’

‘Some papers that have to be signed by various officials.’

‘See, guys,’ Oakes called to the guards, ‘I told you no prison could hold Cary Oakes! OK, so it’s taken me fifteen years, but, hey, nobody’s perfect.’ He laughed, turning to his lawyer. ‘So how long should all these... details take?’

‘Days rather than weeks.’

Inside, Oakes’s heart was pumping. His ears were hissing with the intensity of it, the swell of apprehension and anticipation. Days ...

‘But I haven’t finished painting my cell. I want it left pretty for the next tenant.’

Finally the attorney smiled, and Oakes knew him in that instant: working his way up in Daddy’s practice; reviled by his elders, mistrusted by his peers. Was he spying on them, reporting back to the old man? How could he prove himself? If he joined them for drinks on a Friday night, loosening his tie and mussing up his hair, they felt uncomfortable. If he kept his distance, he was a cold fish. And what about the father? The old man couldn’t have anyone accusing him of nepotism, the boy had to learn the hard way. Give him the shitty-stick cases, the no-hopers, the ones that left you needing a shower and change of clothes. Make him prove himself. Long hours of thankless toil, a shining example to everyone else in the firm.

All this discerned from a single smile, the smile of a half-shy, self-conscious drone who dreamt of being King Bee, who perhaps even harboured little fantasies of patricide and succession.

‘You’ll be deported, of course,’ the prince was saying now.

‘What?’

‘You were in this country illegally, Mr Oakes.’

‘I’ve been here nearly half my life.’

‘Nevertheless...’

Nevertheless ... His mother’s word. Every time he had an excuse prepared, some story to explain the situation, she’d listen in silence, then take a deep breath, and it was like he could see the word forming in the air that issued from her mouth. During his trial, he’d rehearsed little conversations with her.

‘ Mother, I’ve been a good son, haven’t I? ’

‘ Nevertheless ...’

‘ Nevertheless, I killed two people .’

‘ Really, Cary? You’re sure it was only two ...?’

He sat up in his chair. ‘So let them deport me, I’ll come straight back.’

‘It won’t be so easy. I can’t see you securing a tourist visa this time, Mr Oakes.’

‘I don’t need one. You’re behind the times.’

‘Your name will be on record...’

‘I’ll walk across from Canada or Mexico.’

The lawyer shifted in his seat. He didn’t like to hear this.

‘I have to come back and see my pals,’ nodding towards the guards. ‘They’ll miss me when I’m gone. And so will their wives.’

‘Fuck you, slime.’ Saunders again.

Oakes beamed at his lawyer. ‘Isn’t that nice? We have nicknames for each other.’

‘I don’t think any of this is very helpful, Mr Oakes.’

‘Hey, I’m the model prisoner. That’s the way it works, right? I learned a fast lesson: use the same system they used to put you where you are. Read up on the law, go back over everything, know the questions to ask, the objections that should have been made at the original trial. The lawyer they had representing me, I’ll tell you, he couldn’t have presented a school prize, never mind my case.’ He smiled again. ‘You’re better than him. You’re going to be all right. Remember that next time your pop is chewing you out. Just say to yourself: I’m better than that, I’m going to be all right.’ He winked. ‘No charge for my time, son.’

Son: as if he was fifty rather than thirty-eight. As if the knowledge of the ages was his for the dispensing.

‘So I get a free flight back to London?’

‘I’m not sure.’ The lawyer looked through his notes. ‘You’re from Lothian originally?’ Pronouncing it loathing .

‘As in Edinburgh, Scotland.’

‘Well, you might end up back there.’

Cary Oakes rubbed at his chin. Edinburgh might do for a while. He had unfinished business in Edinburgh. Was going to leave it till the heat had died down, but nevertheless... He leaned forward over the table.

‘How many murders did they pin on me?’

The lawyer blinked, sat there with palms flat on the table. ‘Two,’ he said at last.

‘How many did they start with?’

‘I believe it was five.’

‘Six actually.’ Oakes nodded slowly. ‘But who’s counting, eh?’ A chuckle. ‘They ever catch anyone for the others?’

The lawyer shook his head. There were beads of perspiration at his temples. He’d be making a detour home for a shower and fresh clothes.

Cary Oakes sat back again and angled his face into the sun, turning his head so every part felt the warmth. ‘Two’s not much of a tally, is it, in the scheme of things? You kill your old man, you’ll only be one behind.’

He was still chuckling to himself as his lawyer was led out of the room.

Younger runaways tended to take the same few routes: by bus, train or hitching, and to London, Glasgow or Edinburgh. There were organisations who would keep an eye open for runaways, and even if they wouldn’t always reveal their whereabouts to the anxious families, at least they could confirm that someone was alive and unharmed.

But a nineteen-year-old, someone with money to hand... could be anywhere. No destination was too distant — his passport hadn’t turned up. He took it with him to clubs as proof of age. Damon had a current account at the local bank, complete with cashcard, and an interest-bearing account with a building society in Kirkcaldy. The bank might be worth trying. Rebus picked up the telephone.

The manager at first insisted that he’d need something in writing, but relented when Rebus promised to fax him later. Rebus held while the manager went off to check, and had doodled half a village, complete with stream, parkland and pit-head, by the time the man came back.

‘The most recent withdrawal was a cash machine in Edinburgh’s West End. One hundred pounds on the fifteenth.’

The night Damon had gone to Gaitano’s. A hundred seemed a lot to Rebus, even for a good night out.