This Is How Part 30

'Do you want your jacket back?'

'I suppose you'd better keep it for a while.'

'Could I have some food?'

'After the interview.'

He writes something and then takes his time putting the lid back on his ballpoint pen.

'I'm going to try and sleep now,' I say. '

If that's what you want.'

I lie on my back and look up at the dirty porridge ceiling.

I don't sleep.

There's somebody at the cell door.

Davies gets up, speaks in a whisper through the hatch, turns back to me.

'We're set to go,' he says. 'I've got to cuff you.'

I hold out my hands. 'Okay.'

'And you'd better give me my jacket.'

We go to a small, grey-walled interview room.

My brief's sitting at a small white table opposite two middle-aged men. There are four chairs, no window, and the dark brown carpet's scarred with cigarette burns. It smells like a chicken pen.

I smile at the men, smile like a man about to be interviewed for a job, forget that I'm cuffed, reach out to shake their hands.

'Just sit,' says Davies.

I sit at the table next to my brief.

Davies leaves.

'I'm Detective Inspector McCrossan,' says the man with a thick grey moustache sitting opposite me. 'h.e.l.lo,' I say.

He pulls his chair in closer to the table and I get a whiff of the ashy stink that's caught in the bush of hairs over his lip.

'And I'm Senior Investigating Officer Watts,' says the other man sat opposite. This one has a thin mouth and small teeth like a row of dirty pebbles.

'You're being held and questioned on suspicion of the murder of Ian Gordon Welkin,' says McCrossan. 'Is that clear to you?'

My arms go cold, a blast of fear up from my gut, all the way to the ends of my fingers.

'I'll take down the exact words as spoken by you,' says McCrossan, 'and I'll only ask you questions which seem necessary to make the statement coherent, intelligible and relevant to the material matters. I won't prompt you.'

'Okay.'

'When the statement's finished,' he says, 'we'll ask you to read it and then we'll type it up and make three copies.'

'I just want to say-'

My brief puts his hand on my arm, a light touch, like he doesn't want his hand on me, and he says, 'My client will be exercising his right to silence.'

'Is this what you want?' says McCrossan.

'Yeah,' I say.

'If you do decide to make a statement,' says McCrossan, 'you can make any corrections, alterations or additions that you wish. Then you'll be asked to write and sign a certificate.'

My brief takes a sheet of paper from Watts and writes: Patrick James Oxtoby has elected to exercise his right to silence.

He dates the page and gives it to me to sign then pushes his chair back as though he means to stand, but doesn't stand, just puts himself further back, away from me, away from the table.

'No, wait,' I say. 'I want to say that I didn't mean to kill him. I just hit him once and not hard.'

My brief sighs. 'It's up to you,' he says. 'It's entirely up to you. Are you sure you want to make a statement?'

'Yeah,' I say. 'I want to tell you what happened. I'm not a killer.'

Watts takes out a new sheet of paper.

'Write your name in the blank s.p.a.ce and sign,' he says.

'I PATRICK JAMES OXTOBY wish to make a statement. I want someone to write down what I say. I have been told that I need not say anything unless I wish to do so and that whatever I say may be given in evidence.'

My brief folds his arms across his chest and I tell McCrossan and Watts what I've already told him.

When I stop to take a sip of water, my brief puts his hand on my arm, same as before, like he's afraid if he touches me properly he might get a disease off me.

'Are you satisfied with that?' he asks.

'Yeah,' I say. 'That's all I want to say.'

McCrossan shows me the adjustable wrench. It's wrapped in plastic and it's clean.

'It doesn't even have blood on it,' I say. 'Isn't that some kind of proof I didn't crack his skull open?'

'All we need,' says McCrossan, 'is for you to identify this wrench as belonging to you.'

I lift my cuffed hands to scratch my head, then put them back on the table.

If I say it's mine, is that like admitting to murder? Is it a trick?

I look at my brief.

'If it's yours,' he says, 'go ahead and say so.'

'Yeah, it's mine,' I say.

'What, for the record, am I holding in my hand?' says McCrossan.

'You're holding my adjustable wrench,' I say.

Davies comes in with four mugs of tea and a tin of biscuits on a tray.

The interview stops and we drink tea and eat the stale biscuits. When we're finished, the room's dark and the lights need to be switched on so I can read and sign this doc.u.ment:

I have read the above statement and I have been told that I can correct, alter or add anything I wish. This statement is true. I have made it of my own free will.

'Patrick James Oxtoby,' says McCrossan, 'you are formally charged with the murder of Ian Gordon Welkin.'

'That's it?' I say.

'We're finished,' says Watts. 'Take the prisoner back to his cell.'

My brief puts his business card on the table, stands, goes to the door, opens it and walks straight out. I look at his card. I'd forgotten his name was Keith Pearl.

Davies shakes his head, nice and slow, back and forth. 'He could have at least wished you luck.'

Davies takes me to the cell and uncuffs me.

'So I'm not going to be let out on bail then?' I say.

'We'll be taking you to the magistrate's on Monday morning.'

That's nearly two days away.

I sit on the rubber mat.

'I'll get you something to eat,' he says.

He leaves and comes back with two sandwiches, two shortbread biscuits, and a cup of tea in a polystyrene cup.

'Thanks,' I say. 'I'm starving.'

'You'll get a hot breakfast in the morning.'

'Thanks.' He leaves. I want him to stay.

After I've eaten one of the sandwiches, I go to the hatch and look out into the corridor. The wall opposite is covered in pictures of the wanted.

I call out through the wire mesh.

'Can somebody put the heating on?'

There's no reply.

There's a red b.u.t.ton on the wall to the left of the door. I press it long and hard.

There's no reply.

I press it again, longer and harder.

There's no reply.

I press it again, keep it held down.

The desk sergeant comes. 'Stand back,' he says.

I stand back and he opens the cell door.

'Here's a blanket.'

He gives me a grey blanket and I take it to the bench. He stands by the cell door and watches.

The blanket's got four big holes in it. Somebody's burnt the holes with cigarettes and then stretched the holes good and proper.

'It takes a bit of getting used to,' he says. 'Best eat all your food. It'll make you feel better.'

'Yeah,' I say.

He leaves and after he's out the door I say, 'Thanks for the blanket.'

There's enough air for breathing but I'm short of breath. I want the cell door to open and for Davies to walk in and tell me they've decided to release me.

But n.o.body comes and the pain in my neck and shoulders is getting worse.

I lie down, try for rest, but there's cold air coming in through the crack in the window and the blanket's too small to cover me.

I stand and do some star-jumps, the kind I've not done since I was in school and then I pace a while, count my steps, five across, seven from the cell door to the back wall, back and forth I walk, fast as I can, but when I lie down again I'm as cold as I was before.

I get up and look through the hatch.

It's dead quiet out there.