James Craig - The Enemy Within

A sudden commotion in the corridor outside caused Millicent Olyphant to turn wearily away from her client and gaze towards the cell door.

‘Looks like they’re bringing in tonight’s flotsam and jetsam,’ she mused to herself. ‘Judge Jefferies is going to be busy in the morning. The poor soul is rushed off his feet. The wheels of justice have never moved so swiftly around these parts. It’s a miracle that he can keep up.’

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, his hands clasped as if in prayer, Ian Williamson said nothing. Indeed, the boy gave no indication that he realized his lawyer was still present. Staring blankly at the far wall, saying nothing, he rocked gently backwards and forwards, an occasional incomprehensible mumble stumbling from his lips.

To all intents and purposes, Williamson had been mute for the last sixty minutes. During the whole of their meeting, he had offered nothing apart from a hesitant ‘Hello’ when Olyphant arrived in his cell. Even then, he gave no indication of remembering their previous meetings. The boy was clearly in a state of shock.

In almost forty years as a lawyer, Millicent liked to think that she had seen it all. In particular, she prided herself on knowing when someone was faking a mental disorder. However, she was convinced that this was no act. As a result, she was extremely worried about Ian Williamson’s mental health. The trauma of being charged with Beatrice Slater’s murder had sent the young man into some kind of catatonic trance.

Innocent or guilty, it was clear that the authorities had a duty of care to her client. The lawyer had demanded that he be sent to hospital for tests and some proper treatment. So far, Inspector Holt had robustly refused any medical intervention ahead of Ian Williamson being remanded in custody by the judge. When that happened, it was most likely that he would end up in HM Ranby, a former World War II army camp where conditions were basic, to say the least. Olyphant feared that if the boy went in there, he would come out in a box.

On a self-imposed mission to save her client, the elderly lawyer had shouted, screamed and, literally, stamped her feet. It was embarrassing and also ineffective. Inspector Holt had remained immovable in the face of her desperate protests. Olyphant had no doubt that his hands had been tied by the rather vacant young man that she now thought of as his MI5 ‘handler’. The idea of the police being manipulated like this irritated her intensely. The inspector was a grown man; surely he was capable of independent thought and action?

Apparently not.

The shouting outside the cell finally abated. Olyphant looked at her watch and groaned. At her age, sleep was increasingly hard to come by. Tonight, she would be lucky to get as much as a couple of hours of genuine rest. Tomorrow was set to be a long and trying day. Exhaustion nibbled at her bones. Despite the anger that drove her on, Millicent knew that her reserves of stamina were limited. However much she hated it, the truth was that she was getting on. She had to pace herself.

Standing up, she put a comforting hand on Williamson’s shoulder. ‘Look, Ian,’ she said gently, ‘I know that this is all very stressful for you. It would be stressful for anyone.’

Williamson’s gaze remained fixed on the brick wall. Painted a dirty cream colour, it was covered in graffiti — initials, dates and a random selection of swear words and abusive slogans — that had been scratched into the paint over the years with a selection of random instruments.

‘I need to go now,’ the lawyer explained carefully, like a teacher talking to a five-year-old, ‘and you need to sleep too. I will be back in the morning. When I come back, we’ll need to discuss the basics of your defence. It is essential that what you tell the judge tomorrow is both clear and credible. Your alibi may not be the best but if it’s the truth, it’s the truth. Milton Jeffries is a decent enough man but, if we don’t give him anything, he will simply go with what the police and the DPP tell him and we’ll be sunk.’ You’ll be sunk. ‘That’s just the way these things work. At least, it is how these things work around these parts at the present moment.’

No response.

She shook her head sadly. ‘It’s not quite “innocent ’til proven guilty”, I know, but there’s no point in pretending it’s otherwise. So. . we have to be on the top of our game.’

Did she detect the slightest of nods from the boy in response? Perhaps. She wanted to believe so, but it was impossible to be sure. One thing seemed certain; she wasn’t going to get anything useful out of him tonight. All that she could really hope for was that Ian Williamson might, somehow, be better able to function after a good night’s sleep.

‘Okay. . good.’ Stepping over to the door, she hit it twice with the side of her fist and called for the guard. ‘Do try and get some rest. We will talk again tomorrow.’

Out in the corridor, the lawyer stifled a yawn as she watched the duty sergeant lock the thick steel door behind her using a large, gap-toothed key that looked like it belonged in a museum. The sergeant was a slothful oaf by the name of Elliot. Millicent was convinced he should have been pensioned off years ago. Dropping the key into his trouser pocket, he looked at her warily under the harsh strip lighting.

‘That was a long meeting,’ he grumbled.

‘Am I keeping you from your dinner?’ Olyphant snapped.

He gave her a sweaty shrug. ‘Just sayin’, love.’

Don’t ‘love’ me. She gestured towards the locked door. ‘You need to keep a very close eye on him,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘Mr Williamson is under great strain. He really should be receiving medical attention.’

He raped and killed an old woman — fuck him. Pushing past the lawyer, Elliot began making his way down the corridor. ‘Don’t worry, love,’ he said, making no effort to keep the scorn from his voice, ‘we’ll make sure that your Mr Williamson is properly looked after while he’s in here.’

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever. Sitting up in bed, Dom gave his balls a vigorous scratch as he watched the naked girl sashay over to the ghetto blaster sitting on the bedroom floor by the far wall. Bending over, she flipped open the tape deck, turned over the cassette and hit play. After a few clicks and some hiss, Ultravox’s ‘Mr X’ kicked in. Dom smiled. He wasn’t a great fan of Midge Ure; Samantha Hudson, however, was another matter entirely. Closing his eyes, he let the image of her perfect arse burn itself onto his retinas. It was something that he would never forget as long as he lived.

‘Got another joint?’ she asked, straightening up.

‘Sure.’ Opening his eyes, Dom gestured towards the clothes strewn across the floor. ‘In the breast pocket of my jacket. Under the jeans. Help yourself.’

‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’ Discarding his genitals, Dom leant out of the bed to grab a newspaper lying on the floor.

Retrieving the joint, Sam picked a disposable lighter off the bedside table and fired it up. Taking a deep drag, she gave him an indulgent smile before blowing the smoke across the bed. ‘Want some?’

‘Nah,’ Dom shook his head. ‘I’ve had enough for one night,’ he yawned. ‘Anyway, I’m on duty in the morning.’

‘Mm,’ Sam grinned, taking another puff, ‘you really are a strange copper, aren’t you?’

‘Not really. .’ Dom began flicking through the paper. ‘Socialist Worker,’ he snorted. ‘Time to bring down the corrupt capitalist system. . General Strike now!’ Tossing the paper back on the floor, he flopped back on the bed. ‘You actually read this kind of stuff?’

Turning to face him, Sam put her hands on her hips and pouted. ‘This is a strike of the rank and file,’ she parroted through the haze. ‘The workers are taking action into their own hands — hit squads, scab watches, community support. . food kitchens, the whole lot.’ The accent was pure Bedales, with a dash of St Trin-ian’s thrown in for good measure. The girl was a trust-fund revolutionary, no doubt: a little wannabe taking a walk on the wild side. Dom started to laugh, then thought better of it. ‘We need to mobilize mass support for their action.’