Cat O'Nine Tales: And Other Stories (13 page)

The sergeant
turned round to find Pat still standing with the brick high above his head.

“OK, Pat, hand
it over and get in,” said the sergeant, as he held open the back door of the
police car.

Pat smiled,
passed the brick to the fresh-faced constable and said, “You’ll need this as
evidence.”

The young
constable was speechless.

“Thank you,
Sergeant,” said Pat as he climbed into the back of the car, and, smiling at the
young constable, who took his place behind the wheel, asked, “Have I ever told
you about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool?”

“Many times,”
interjected the sergeant, as he took his place next to Pat and pulled the back
door closed.

“No handcuffs?”
queried Pat.

“I don’t want
to be handcuffed to you,” said the sergeant, “I want to be rid of you. Why
don’t you just go back to Ireland?”

“An altogether
inferior class of prison,” Pat explained, “and in any case, they don’t treat me
with the same degree of respect as you do, Sergeant,” he added, as the car
moved away from the curb and headed back toward the police station.

“Can you tell
me your name?” Pat asked, leaning forward to address the young constable.

“Constable
Cooper.”

“Are you by any
chance related to Chief Inspector Cooper?”

“He’s my
father.”

“A gentleman,”
said Pat. “We’ve had many a cup of tea and biscuits together. I hope he’s in
fine fettle.”

“He’s just
retired,” said Constable Cooper.

“I’m sorry to
hear that,” said Pat.

“Will you tell
him that Pat
O’Flynn
asked after him? And please send
him, and your dear mother, my best wishes.”

“Stop taking
the piss, Pat,” said the sergeant. “The boy’s only been out of Peel House for a
few weeks,” he added, as the car came to a halt outside the police station. The
sergeant climbed out of the back and held the door open for Pat.

“Thank you,
Sergeant,” said Pat, as if he was addressing the doorman at the Ritz. The
constable grinned as the sergeant accompanied Pat up the stairs and into the
police station.

“Ah, and a very
good evening to you, Mr. Baker,” said Pat when he saw who it was standing
behind the desk.

“Oh, Christ,”
said the duty sergeant.

“It can’t be
October already.”

“I’m afraid so,
Sergeant,” said Pat. “I was wondering if my usual cell is available. I’ll only
be staying overnight, you understand.”

“I’m afraid
not,” said the desk sergeant, “it’s already occupied by a real criminal. You’ll
have to be satisfied with cell number two.”

“But I’ve
always had cell number one in the past,” protested Pat.

The desk
sergeant looked up and raised an eyebrow.

“No, I’m to
blame,” admitted Pat, “I should have asked my secretary to call and book in
advance. Do you need to take an imprint of my credit card?”

“No, I have all
your details on file,” the desk sergeant assured him.

“How about fingerprints?”

“Unless you’ve
found a way of removing your old ones, Pat, I don’t think we need another set.
But I suppose you’d better sign the charge sheet.”

Pat took the
proffered biro and signed on the bottom line with a flourish.

“Take him down
to cell number two, Constable.”

“Thank you,
Sergeant,” said Pat as he was led away. He stopped, turned around and said, “I
wonder, Sergeant, if you could give me a wake-up call around seven, a cup of
tea, Earl Gray preferably, and a copy of the
Irish Times.”

“Piss off,
Pat,” said the desk sergeant, as the constable tried to stifle a laugh.

“Which reminds
me,”
said
Pat, “have I told you about the time I tried
to get a job on a building site in Liverpool, and the foreman...”

“Get him out of
my sight, Constable, if you don’t want to spend the rest of the month on
traffic duty.”

The constable
grabbed Pat by the elbow and hurried him downstairs.

“No need to
come with me,” said Pat.

“I can find my
own way.” This time the constable did laugh as he placed a key in the lock of
cell number two. The young policeman unlocked the cell and pulled open the
heavy door, allowing Pat to stroll in.

“Thank you,
Constable Cooper,” said Pat. “I look forward to seeing you in the morning.”

“I’ll be off
duty,” said Constable Cooper.

“Then I’ll see
you this time next year,” said Pat without explanation, “and don’t forget to
pass on my best wishes to your father,” he added as the four-
inchthick
iron door was slammed shut.

Pat studied the
cell for a few moments: a steel washbasin, a bog and a bed, one sheet, one
blanket and one pillow. Pat was reassured by the fact that nothing had changed
since last year. He fell on the horsehair mattress, placed his head on the
rock-hard pillow and slept all night–for the first time in weeks.

Pat was woken from
a deep sleep at seven the following morning, when the
celldoor
flap was flicked open and two black eyes stared in.

“Good morning,
Pat,” said a friendly voice.

“Good morning,
Wesley,” said Pat, not even opening his eyes. “And how are you?”

“I’m well,” replied
Wesley, “but sorry to see you back.” He paused. “I suppose it must be October.”

“It certainly
is,” said Pat climbing off the bed, “and it’s important that I look my best for
this
mornings
show trial.”

“Anything you
need in particular?”

“A cup of tea
would be most acceptable, but what I really require is a razor, a bar of soap,
a toothbrush and some toothpaste. I don’t have to remind you, Wesley, that a
defendant is entitled to this simple request before he makes an appearance in
court.”

“I’ll see you
get them,” said Wesley, “and would you like to read my copy of the
Sun?”

“That’s kind of
you, Wesley, but if the chief superintendent has finished with yesterday’s
Times,
I’d prefer that.” A West Indian
chuckle was followed by the closing of the shutter on the cell door.

Pat didn’t have
to wait long before he heard a key turn in the lock. The heavy door was pulled
open to reveal the smiling face of Wesley Pickett, a tray in one hand, which he
placed on the end of the bed.

“Thank you,
Wesley,” said Pat as he stared down at the bowl of cornflakes, small carton of
skimmed milk, two slices of burned toast and a boiled egg. “I do hope Molly
remembered,”
added
Pat, “that I like my eggs lightly
boiled, for two and a half minutes.”

“Molly left
last year,” said Wesley “I think you’ll find the egg was boiled last night by
the desk sergeant.”

“You can’t get
the staff nowadays,” said Pat. “I blame it on the Irish, myself.

They’re no
longer committed to domestic service,” he added as he tapped the top of his egg
with a plastic spoon. “Wesley, have I told you about the time I tried to get a
laboring job on a building site in Liverpool, and the foreman, a bloody
Englishman...” Pat looked up and sighed as he heard the door slam and the key
turn in the lock. “I suppose I must have told him the story before,” he
muttered to himself.

After Pat had
finished breakfast, he cleaned his teeth with a toothbrush and a tube of
toothpaste that were even smaller than the ones they’d supplied on his only
experience of an
Aer
Lingus flight to Dublin. Next,
he turned on the hot tap in the tiny steel washbasin. The slow trickle of water
took some time to turn from cold to lukewarm. He rubbed the mean piece of soap
between his fingers until he’d whipped up enough cream to produce a lather,
which he then smeared all over his
stubbled
face.
Next he picked up the plastic
Bic
razor, and began
the slow process of removing
a four
-day-old stubble.
He finally dabbed his face with a rough green hand towel, not much larger than
a flannel.

Pat sat on the
end of the bed and, while he waited, read Wesley’s
Sun
from cover to cover in four minutes. Only an article by their
political editor Trevor Kavanagh–he must surely be an Irishman, thought Pat–was
worthy of his attention. Pat’s thoughts were interrupted when the heavy metal
door was pulled open once again.

“Let’s be ‘
avin
you, Pat,” said Sergeant Webster. “You’re first on
this morning.”

Pat accompanied
the officer back up the stairs, and when he saw the desk sergeant, asked,
“Could I have my valuables back, Mr. Baker? You’ll find them in the safe.”

“Like what?”
said the desk sergeant, looking
up.

“My pearl
cufflinks, the Cartier Tank watch and a silver-topped cane engraved with my
family crest.”

“I flogged ‘
em
all off last night, Pat,” said the desk sergeant.

“Probably for
the best,” remarked Pat. “I won’t
be needing
them
where I’m going,” he added, before following Sergeant Webster out of the front
door and onto the pavement.

“Jump in the
front,” said the sergeant, as he climbed behind the wheel of a panda car.

“But I’m
entitled to two officers to escort me to court,” insisted Pat. “It’s a Home
Office regulation.”

“It may well be
a Home Office regulation,” the sergeant replied, “but we’re short-staffed this
morning, two off sick, and one away on a training course.”

“But what if I
tried to escape?”

“A blessed
release,” said Sergeant Webster, as he pulled away from the curb, “because that
would save us all a lot of trouble.”

“And what would
you do if I decided to punch you?”

“I’d punch you
back,” said an exasperated sergeant.

“That’s not
very friendly,” suggested Pat.

“Sorry, Pat,”
said the sergeant. “It’s just that I promised my wife that I’d be off duty by
ten this morning, so we could go shopping.” He paused. “So she won’t be best
pleased with me–or you for that matter.”

“I apologize,
Sergeant Webster,” said Pat. “Next October I’ll try to find out which shift
you’re on, so I can be sure to avoid it. Perhaps you’d pass on my apologies to
Mrs. Webster.”

The sergeant
would have laughed, if it had been anyone else, but he knew Pat meant it.

“Any idea who
I’ll be up in front of this morning?” asked Pat as the car came to a halt at a
set of traffic lights.

“Thursday,”
said the sergeant, as the lights turned green and he pushed the gear lever back
into first. “It must be Perkins.”

“
Councillor
Arnold Perkins OBE, oh good,” said Pat. “He’s
got a very short fuse. So if he doesn’t give me a long enough sentence, I’ll
just have to light it,” he added as the car swung into the private
carpark
at the back of Marylebone Road Magistrates’ Court.
A court officer was heading toward the police car just as Pat stepped out.

“Good morning,
Mr. Adams,” said Pat.

“When I looked
at the list of defendants this morning, Pat, and saw your name,” said Mr.
Adams, “I assumed it must be that time of the year when you make your annual
appearance. Follow me, Pat, and let’s get this over with as quickly as
possible.”

Pat accompanied
Mr. Adams through the back door of the courthouse and on
down
the long corridor to a holding cell.

“Thank you, Mr.
Adams,” said Pat as he took a seat on a thin wooden bench that was cemented to
a wall along one side of the large oblong room. “If you’d be kind enough to
just leave me for a few moments,” Pat added, “so that I can compose myself
before the curtain goes up.”

Mr. Adams
smiled, and turned to leave.

“By the way,”
said Pat, as Mr. Adams touched the handle of the door, “did I tell you about
the time I tried to get a laboring job on a building site in Liverpool, but the
foreman, a bloody Englishman, had the nerve to ask me...”

“Sorry, Pat,
some of us have got a job to do, and in any case, you told me that story last
October.” He paused. “And, come to think of it, the October before.”

Pat sat
silently on the bench and, as he had nothing else to read, considered the
graffiti on the wall.
Perkins is a
prat
.

He felt able to
agree with that sentiment.

Man U are
the champions.
Someone had crossed out
Man U
and replaced it with
Chelsea.
Pat wondered if he should cross
out Chelsea, and write in Cork, whom neither team had ever defeated. As there
was no clock on the wall, Pat couldn’t be sure how much time had passed before
Mr. Adams finally returned to escort him up to the courtroom. Adams was now
dressed in a long black gown, looking like Pat’s old headmaster.

“Follow me,”
Mr. Adams intoned solemnly.