McLeery, seated slightly askew from the table now: his face in semi-profile; his hair (as Stephens had noticed earlier) amateurishly clipped pretty closely to the scalp; his eyes behind the pebble lenses peering short-sightedly at
The Church Times;
his right index finger hooked beneath the narrow clerical collar; and the fingers of the left hand, the nails meticulously manicured, slowly stroking the short black beard.
At 10:50 A.M. the receiver crackled to life and the Governor realized he’d almost forgotten Evans for a few minutes.
Evans:
“Please, sir!” (A whisper)
Evans:
“Please, sir!” (Louder)
Evans:
“Would you mind if I put a blanket round me shoulders, sir? It’s a bit parky in ’ere, isn’t it?”
Silence.
Evans:
“There’s one on me bunk ’ere, sir.”
McLeery:
“Be quick about it.”
Silence.
At 10:51 A.M. Stephens was more than a little surprised to see a grey regulation blanket draped round Evans’s shoulders, and he frowned slightly and looked at the examinee more closely. But Evans, the pen still between his teeth, was staring just as vacamtly as before. Blankly beneath a blanket … Should Stephens report the slight irregularity? Anything at all fishy, hadn’t Jackson said? Mm. He looked through the peephole once again, and even as he did so Evans pulled the dirty blanket more closely to himself. Was he planning a sudden batman leap to suffocate McLeery in the blanket? Don’t be daft! There was never any sun on this side of the prison; no heating, either, during the summer months, and it could be quite chilly in some of the cells. Mm. Stephens decided to revert to his earlier every-minute observation.
At 11:20 A.M. the receiver once more crackled across the silence of the Governor’s office, and McLeery informed Evans that only five minutes remained. The examination was almost over now, but something still gnawed away quietly in the Governor’s mind. He reached for the phone once more.
At 11:22 A.M. Jackson shouted along the corridor to Stephens. The Governor wanted to speak with him—“
Hurry
, man!” Stephens picked up the phone apprehensively and listened to the rapidly spoken orders. Stephens himself was to accompany McLeery to the main prison gates. Understood? Stephens personally was to make absolutely sure that the doorwas locked on Evans after McLeery had left the cell. Understood?
Understood.
At 11:25 A.M. the Governor heard the final exchanges.
McLeery:
“Stop writing, please.”
Silence.
McLeery:
“Put your sheets in order and see they’re correctly numbered.”
Silence.
Scraping of chairs and tables.
Evans:
“Thank you very much, sir.”
McLeery:
“A’ right, was it?”
Evans:
“Not
too
bad.”
McLeery:
“Good … Mr. Stephens!” (Very loud)
The Governor heard the door clang to for the last time. The examination was over.
“How did he get on, do you think?” asked Stephen as he walked beside McLeery to the main gates.
“Och. I canna think he’s distinguished hissel, I’m afraid.” His Scots accent seemed broader than ever, and his long black overcoat, reaching almost to his knees, fostered the illusion that he had suddenly grown slimmer.
Stephens felt pleased that the Governor had asked
him
, and not Jackson, to see McLeery off the premises, and all in all the morning had gone pretty well. But something stopped him from making his way directly to the canteen for a belated cup of coffee. He wanted to take just one last look at Evans. It was like a programme he’d seen on TV—about a woman who could never
really
convinceherself that she’d locked the front door when she’d gone to bed: often she’d got up twelve, fifteen, sometimes twenty times to check the bolts.
He re-entered D Wing, made his way along to Evans’s cell, and opened the peep-hole once more.
Oh no!
CHRIST, NO! There, sprawled back in Evans’s chair was a man (for a semi-second Stephens thought it must be Evans), a grey
The Church Times;
his right index finger hooked beneath the narrow clerical collar; and the fingers of the left hand, the nails meticulously manicured, slowly stroking the short black beard.
At 10:50 A.M. the receiver crackled to life and the Governor realized he’d almost forgotten Evans for a few minutes.
Evans:
“Please, sir!” (A whisper)
Evans:
“Please, sir!” (Louder)
Evans:
“Would you mind if I put a blanket round me shoulders, sir? It’s a bit parky in ’ere, isn’t it?”
Silence.
Evans:
“There’s one on me bunk ’ere, sir.”
McLeery:
“Be quick about it.”
Silence.
At 10:51 A.M. Stephens was more than a little surprised to see a grey regulation blanket draped round Evans’s shoulders, and he frowned slightly and looked at the examinee more closely. But Evans, the pen still between his teeth, was staring just as vacamtly as before. Blankly beneath a blanket … Should Stephens report the slight irregularity? Anything at all fishy, hadn’t Jackson said? Mm. He looked through the peephole once again, and even as he did so Evans pulled the dirty blanket more closely to himself. Was he planning a sudden batman leap to suffocate McLeery in the blanket? Don’t be daft! There was never any sun on this side of the prison; no heating, either, during the summer months, and it could be quite chilly in some of the cells. Mm. Stephens decided to revert to his earlier every-minute observation.
At 11:20 A.M. the receiver once more crackled across the silence of the Governor’s office, and McLeery informed Evans that only five minutes remained. The examination was almost over now, but something still gnawed away quietly in the Governor’s mind. He reached for the phone once more.
At 11:22 A.M. Jackson shouted along the corridor to Stephens. The Governor wanted to speak with him—“
Hurry
, man!” Stephens picked up the phone apprehensively and listened to the rapidly spoken orders. Stephens himself was to accompany McLeery to the main prison gates. Understood? Stephens personally was to make absolutely sure that the doorwas locked on Evans after McLeery had left the cell. Understood?
Understood.
At 11:25 A.M. the Governor heard the final exchanges.
McLeery:
“Stop writing, please.”
Silence.
McLeery:
“Put your sheets in order and see they’re correctly numbered.”
Silence.
Scraping of chairs and tables.
Evans:
“Thank you very much, sir.”
McLeery:
“A’ right, was it?”
Evans:
“Not
too
bad.”
McLeery:
“Good … Mr. Stephens!” (Very loud)
The Governor heard the door clang to for the last time. The examination was over.
“How did he get on, do you think?” asked Stephen as he walked beside McLeery to the main gates.
“Och. I canna think he’s distinguished hissel, I’m afraid.” His Scots accent seemed broader than ever, and his long black overcoat, reaching almost to his knees, fostered the illusion that he had suddenly grown slimmer.
Stephens felt pleased that the Governor had asked
him
, and not Jackson, to see McLeery off the premises, and all in all the morning had gone pretty well. But something stopped him from making his way directly to the canteen for a belated cup of coffee. He wanted to take just one last look at Evans. It was like a programme he’d seen on TV—about a woman who could never
really
convinceherself that she’d locked the front door when she’d gone to bed: often she’d got up twelve, fifteen, sometimes twenty times to check the bolts.
He re-entered D Wing, made his way along to Evans’s cell, and opened the peep-hole once more.
Oh no!
CHRIST, NO! There, sprawled back in Evans’s chair was a man (for a semi-second Stephens thought it must be Evans), a grey
Similar Books
