surgeons.’ His glass was halfway to his mouth. ‘And I doubt it’ll be the last.’
The conversation entered a lull, and Devereaux looked over his shoulder at the doorway through which the girl had been taken. I felt drained. I had drunk a lot over the course of the night without eating, and I felt queasy. I thanked both men for their aid, and told them I wouldn’t forget it. Holt said men in our profession had to look out for each other. His chin slumped forward to nod farewell. Devereaux offered his hand. As I shook it, he said he would be in touch. Then he rose as well and went towards the back room, leaving Holt with the last of the whiskey.
I left the establishment, wandered the narrow streets for a few minutes, lost, then emerged into South King Street and back on to the Green. I stretched my sore arm. It wouldn’t lift above the height of my shoulder, and there was an unpleasant sensation that it didn’t sit snug in its socket. But ultimately I felt relief. I was free of pursuit, and free of responsibility. Back home, I tidied up the parlour and the kitchen. I placed the poker back in its stand with a clink, and took the stained cushion up to my room. By the time I climbed into bed, the first light of a new day was filtering through, taking the edge off the darkness.
4
Sleep is wasteful, and its absence from the last few days provokes odd thoughts and waking dreams. Throughout the night I lie quite still, and fix upon the semi-circle window high in the cell. In the pre-dawn, its contour emerges from the black as the barest light shows through the thick, scratched glass and metal grille. At that hour I get up, keeping the thin blanket around my shoulders, though the weather has mercifully become warmer. Not quite the clemency I require. These are the pangs I feel most keenly, the thought of walking in a walled garden on a warm day, free of labour’s demands and dark thoughts, and with no risks to run. Actually, I struggle to think of a time I experienced that.
Each morning, I retrieve the manuscript from beneath my mattress and take it to the desk, then light a candle from my dwindling supply. I’ll have to inveigle more from the cleric, on the pretence of nocturnal Bible study. I flipped through the pages this morning, but I won’t read over what’s written, unless I manage to complete it in time.
The routine continues when Turner brings me in a bowl of oatmeal along with the post. I’ve received two or three letters a day since my trial began. By the time they reach me the seals are broken, the pages have been unfolded, and all metal clips and pins are removed. My correspondents can be divided into three categories. The first implore me to turn with a contrite soul towards God and seek the extension of His grace; they counsel that salvation is still possible. The second assure me that God relishes the prospect of my punishment, and they pray for my perpetual torment. I find each category equally amusing as I read them flattened on the desk beneath my breakfast bowl.
The third class of letters are from people who wonder why I did it. Some are doctors who specialize in mental disorders, and they ask me to describe the symptoms of monomania that took hold of me. One such letter was among the latest batch, from a Dr Whitley, whose questions were not couched in flattering terms: ‘Is your mental condition so wretchedly low, or so extensively muddled, as to render it totally unconscious that you were acting wrongfully in giving loose even to the wildest gratifications of your animal propensities?’ I appreciated his letter though. It was particularly longwinded and he only used one side of the stationery. I’ll be able to use the blank pages for my statement.
Another letter came from a Montfort Sweetman. I knew what that was about so I set it aside for later. The missive at the bottom of the pile was written by my sister Cecilia. She began as she did in every letter: ‘My dearest John, I hope you’re
The conversation entered a lull, and Devereaux looked over his shoulder at the doorway through which the girl had been taken. I felt drained. I had drunk a lot over the course of the night without eating, and I felt queasy. I thanked both men for their aid, and told them I wouldn’t forget it. Holt said men in our profession had to look out for each other. His chin slumped forward to nod farewell. Devereaux offered his hand. As I shook it, he said he would be in touch. Then he rose as well and went towards the back room, leaving Holt with the last of the whiskey.
I left the establishment, wandered the narrow streets for a few minutes, lost, then emerged into South King Street and back on to the Green. I stretched my sore arm. It wouldn’t lift above the height of my shoulder, and there was an unpleasant sensation that it didn’t sit snug in its socket. But ultimately I felt relief. I was free of pursuit, and free of responsibility. Back home, I tidied up the parlour and the kitchen. I placed the poker back in its stand with a clink, and took the stained cushion up to my room. By the time I climbed into bed, the first light of a new day was filtering through, taking the edge off the darkness.
4
Sleep is wasteful, and its absence from the last few days provokes odd thoughts and waking dreams. Throughout the night I lie quite still, and fix upon the semi-circle window high in the cell. In the pre-dawn, its contour emerges from the black as the barest light shows through the thick, scratched glass and metal grille. At that hour I get up, keeping the thin blanket around my shoulders, though the weather has mercifully become warmer. Not quite the clemency I require. These are the pangs I feel most keenly, the thought of walking in a walled garden on a warm day, free of labour’s demands and dark thoughts, and with no risks to run. Actually, I struggle to think of a time I experienced that.
Each morning, I retrieve the manuscript from beneath my mattress and take it to the desk, then light a candle from my dwindling supply. I’ll have to inveigle more from the cleric, on the pretence of nocturnal Bible study. I flipped through the pages this morning, but I won’t read over what’s written, unless I manage to complete it in time.
The routine continues when Turner brings me in a bowl of oatmeal along with the post. I’ve received two or three letters a day since my trial began. By the time they reach me the seals are broken, the pages have been unfolded, and all metal clips and pins are removed. My correspondents can be divided into three categories. The first implore me to turn with a contrite soul towards God and seek the extension of His grace; they counsel that salvation is still possible. The second assure me that God relishes the prospect of my punishment, and they pray for my perpetual torment. I find each category equally amusing as I read them flattened on the desk beneath my breakfast bowl.
The third class of letters are from people who wonder why I did it. Some are doctors who specialize in mental disorders, and they ask me to describe the symptoms of monomania that took hold of me. One such letter was among the latest batch, from a Dr Whitley, whose questions were not couched in flattering terms: ‘Is your mental condition so wretchedly low, or so extensively muddled, as to render it totally unconscious that you were acting wrongfully in giving loose even to the wildest gratifications of your animal propensities?’ I appreciated his letter though. It was particularly longwinded and he only used one side of the stationery. I’ll be able to use the blank pages for my statement.
Another letter came from a Montfort Sweetman. I knew what that was about so I set it aside for later. The missive at the bottom of the pile was written by my sister Cecilia. She began as she did in every letter: ‘My dearest John, I hope you’re
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