James Long - Sixth Column

‘She accidentally hit her head?’

There was another odd silence.

‘Serve her bloody right, I say,’ Hayter declared loudly.

The judge’s eyebrows went up to meet the fringe of his wig, putting lines in his forehead that made him look exactly like a Hogarth print. The prosecuting barrister jumped in.

‘Sergeant Hayter, we all understand, I’m sure, that you were very shocked by this attack and in considerable pain, but you bore no personal animosity towards the accused, did you?’

‘Animosity?’ Hayter seemed to have trouble with the word. His head was hanging low and he was shaking it slowly from side to side, looking at Heather from under his lowered brow. He spoke slowly in a fuddled voice, ‘I hate the fucking bitch.’

There was a buzz in the court-room. Some of the jurors looked shocked. The judge banged his gavel.

‘SERGEANT HAYTER. I would remind you to keep your language clean in my court room.’

‘Fuck you, four-eyes,’ said the Sergeant, getting to his feet swaying, ‘I’m going to sort that tart out once and for all.’

‘Sergeant Hayter, please sit down and compose yourself,’ said the barrister desperately, but to no effect. The Sergeant turned and got up out of the witness-box. The usher, an old man with grey hair, went valiantly to stop him. Hayter shook off his restraining arm and swung a fist, sending the usher collapsing backwards over the jury bench with a horrid cracking sound.

The judge was bellowing. Two of the jurors stood up. The prosecuting barrister had his arms up, flapping at the oncoming policeman, and took another fist full in the face. Sweat was pouring off Hayter. Johnny looked at the expression of fear on Heather’s face and realized there was no one left between her and Hayter who could be relied on to stop him. There was pandemonium right through the court.

He swung himself over the rail of the public gallery, hung by his fingers for a second above the long drop then let himself fall to land hard on the floor below, rolling with the impact.

He reached Hayter as he got to the dock. He was yelling incoherently now, clearing people out of his way with wild haymakers: One Group 4 guard was sent crashing backwards. Heather, white faced, was trying to get past the other one, who stood dithering, caught between preventing his prisoner leaving and getting out of the way of the oncoming madman.

Johnny jumped on Hayter’s back, got an arm round his throat and tried to bring him down. Hayter twisted and bucked like a fairground ride, banging him backwards into the stout woodwork at the edge of the dock so that his ribs flared with sharp pain.

That was when the jury finally came into its own. The three men in leather jackets decided they’d seen enough to make up their minds. One of them cut Hayter’s feet out from under him and he fell with Johnny still on his back. The others piled on top so Johnny found himself crushed and struggling for breath until a policeman, summoned from outside, got handcuffs on. Even then it took them all to force Hayter, struggling every inch of the way, down the steps to the cells.

It took five minutes to get the court back into some sort of order again. The prosecuting barrister had a bloody nose and a cut lip, the usher had been taken away for attention, one Group 4 guard had a swollen eye and the judge was looking very pale and breathing extremely rapidly. The jurors in the leather jackets sat there looking smug as if they’d had Hayter’s measure all along, pleased to be the heroes of the hour. Johnny had gone back up to the gallery, nursing his ribs. Heather looked dazed.

The judge sounded as though he was advancing into new and uncertain territory.

‘Mr Reynolds,’ he said, ‘I think it best if I give the jury the opportunity at this stage to consider whether they wish to hear any more of this case. I take it you have no objection?’

The barrister, leaning on the table in front of him for support, merely waved a weak hand in assent.

‘Members of the jury,’ said the judge, ‘you have witnessed a most unusual and shocking scene. Some of you indeed have played a valiant part in restraining the witness. It would seem that you have been given the most direct evidence conceivable that Sergeant Hayter is a man prone to violent and uncontrollable temper and that it is not possible for you now to take his evidence in this case seriously. Will you now go to the jury-room and consider whether you wish to hear any more evidence in this case or whether you are now in a position to find the accused not guilty?’

It took them under two minutes and the women in the gallery broke into cheers that the judge seemed unable to bring himself to halt. Heather walked from the dock, looking up at them and then at Johnny and only then did he start to understand.

He went down the steps from the gallery and out to the front of the court. Diagonally across the square stood a big four-wheel-drive – the Shogun. He looked towards it and an arm waved out of the open window.

Unsuccessful experiments, Sir Greville had told the inquiry. Rage had been discontinued, he’d said. The Americans had bought Chempropa.

He walked up to the vehicle and looked in at Ray Mackeson, alone in the driver’s seat.

‘How was the show?’ said the American.

‘Violent.’

‘Your girl friend got off?’

‘Yes.’

‘Guess you got something for me, then?’

‘It was you?’

‘Hell, I just made sure the guy had a good breakfast.’

‘Rage? You gave him Rage?’

‘I gave him orange juice. You complaining?’

Johnny reached into the lining of his jacket, brought out the papers and handed them over.

Mackeson looked at them. ‘No copies?’

‘No copies.’

‘Don’t sound like that. It’s simpler this way.’

‘You’re going to sell that horrible stuff?’

‘Not me, son. Anyways, your stepdaddy was a little free with the truth there. That stuff has side effects like you wouldn’t believe. You want some fun? Go back and see what the Sergeant’s doing now.’ Mackeson broke off and looked past Johnny. ‘Uh oh,’ he said, ‘your girl friend’s coming looking for you. Time I was gone.’

Johnny turned as Mackeson sped away. Heather was walking towards him.

He ran to meet her, stopped, held his hands out smiling, but she stepped back, staring at him with an expression he didn’t like at all.

‘That was the American. The one from last night.’

‘Yes.’

‘You gave him something. What did you give him, Johnny?’

‘I did it for you, Heather. They had us over a barrel. It was the only thing I could do.’

‘You did it for me ? I don’t remember you asking me.’

‘There was no chance.’

‘There was this morning.’

‘I had to say yes or no last night.’

‘Yes or no to what, Johnny? What did they do?’ Then she too got it. ‘So that wasn’t just Hayter blowing his cool.’

‘I think they must have helped him.’

‘Rage?’

He nodded.

‘Oh, God,’ she said, ‘and you gave that man the plans we found?’

‘There wasn’t any other way. It was the only way I could stop you being put in prison. It was worth it, Heather.’

Her voice was very cold. ‘No, it was not,’ she said, ‘that was your decision, not mine. That piece of paper gave us the chance to prove what Ramsgill Stray is doing for the first time ever and you gave it away.’

‘For you.’

‘No, not for me, for you. Because you think you want to be with me. Don’t you see, you stupid spy? I would happily have served two years for those plans and what we could have done with them. You didn’t have the courage, damn you, so you decided for me.’