The Good Provider (47 page)

‘I suppose he does,’ said Craig. ‘Got your stick handy?’

‘Right in my fist.’

‘All right; down we go.’

A sprinkle of light from a candle in a bottle marked the bottom of the well, for Sammy Reynolds, as if to lure an audience to his first performance, had left the cellar door ajar.

The cellar was narrow, windowless and cold. No fire smouldered in the sodden ashes in the hearth, no cooking-pot bubbled. There was no table in the room, only one wooden chair and two beds, fashioned of straw and tattered blankets. A bottle had been shattered on the hearthstone and shards of glass littered the floor. On a tin plate, smeared with gravy fat, was a heel of bread upon which fed a one-eared cat, quite undisturbed by the clack of stolen clogs or the thumping of a stolen drum. In the drab cellar Galletti’s little toy cart looked anomalously gay and new.

‘Sammy Reynolds?’ said Craig.

It was as if he had been expecting them, had rehearsed the dance for their benefit. He pressed his knees together, splayed out his feet and bounced the painted wooden shoes hither and thither while he accompanied himself with a daft wee
yee-yaw
chant upon the mouth organ. The instrument was attached to a harness of leather and soft wood that presented the harmonium to Sammy’s lips and left his hands free. The drum, of no great size, was strapped against his left hip. He beat on it unrhythmically with a stick feathered in sheepskin and at the same time waved a flag, the Scottish standard, one of three that were stuck in his belt. A popgun of painted tin and stained boxwood hung from a string down his back.

‘Dear God!’ said Archie. ‘Reynolds, stop that bloody—’

‘Wait, Archie,’ Craig said.

They watched the boy who, eyes crinkled with merriment, watched them in turn. He blew harder, beat harder and danced more furiously as if he had put his agility on trial and might earn by it not money or approval but discharge from his crime. Winded at last, he twirled the flag and stabbed it into his belt, fumbled the toy gun into his hand and with a final loud chant on the mouth harmonium fired off a salvo of one cork – and bowed.

Craig applauded. ‘Very good, Sammy. Very good. Did Mr Galletti teach you that?’

Sammy shook his head. He was slender and his complexion reminded Craig of Kirsty; freckles too. He looked pale but not unhealthy, though his teeth were bad. When he nodded his auburn-reddish hair bobbed with natural curls.

‘How did you learn?’

‘Watchit him,’ said Sammy. ‘Good, eh?’

Craig said, ‘Did Mr Galletti lend you his gear, Sammy?’

Sammy frowned. He looked down at the buckle of the drum strap and began to pick at it with a bitten thumbnail.

Archie said, ‘Where’s your mother, Sammy?’

‘Deid,’ said Sammy.

‘Your father?’

‘Oot.’

‘You did wrong, Sammy,’ said Craig.

‘It was good. I done it good.’

‘You shouldn’t have kicked down the door.’

‘Wouldnae talk t’ me.’

‘Did you take any of his money?’

Surprised, then outraged, Sammy stared at them, the drum trailing on a loosened strap. ‘Naw. Aw naw.’

The colour of his hair, the texture of his skin, and that expression of unabashed innocence – it was Kirsty, Kirsty long ago when he had first noticed her at school. Irked at the bizarre memory Craig spoke sharply. ‘You stole Mr Galletti’s gear, didn’t you?’

Sammy concentrated on another buckle, worked at it with his fingers. In his left hand the popgun’s cork dangled impotently from its string.

‘He’s an old man,’ said Archie. ‘A hunchie-back.’

‘He’s a dancer,’ Sammy shouted. ‘He’s the best dancer in the whole toon.’

‘Take that stuff off,’ said Archie.

‘You’ll have to come with us to the police station,’ said Craig. ‘It’s a charge, Sammy. Do you know what that means?’

‘Aye,’ said Sammy dismissively.

‘You can’t steal—’

‘It was good,’ said Sammy Reynolds. ‘I done it, an’ it was good.’

‘It’s theft, Sammy.’

‘Tell me it was good.’

‘You danced just fine,’ said Craig.

‘Good.’

‘Yes, Sammy,’ Craig said. ‘You were very, very good.’

Greenfield Police Court convened on Thursday morning with Bailie Smith on the bench. Bailie Smith was an iron merchant, a well-to-do and compassionate Christian familiar with all the ins and outs of criminal behaviour at ground level. He was a severe-looking man, however, and had that day a full bill of hearings to get through. He was not about to stand for eloquence or hair-splitting in the case of Samuel Reynolds. Craig was no longer nervous about giving evidence. Amid the unruly bustle of a court coppers were expected to be calm, concise and laconic. Mr Galletti was positioned in the public pews. He was called first before the Bailie. He would have given a performance of great flourish, dance and all, perhaps, if Bailie Smith had not curtailed it, drily remarking that he did not require the facts set to music, thank you.

Constable Nicholson came before the bench, told what he had found in Madagascar Mews and in the cellar of Rae’s tenement.

‘Did Reynolds deny the theft?’

‘No, sir. He did not.’

‘Did he make a confession?’

‘At the station, sir, he admitted all.’

‘Mr Galletti’s possessions?’

‘Returned to him, sir, intact an’ unharmed.’

‘There was no attempt to resist, Constable Nicholson?’

‘None, sir.’

The proceeding lasted no more than six or seven minutes. Samuel Reynolds had been kept in a cell at Ottawa Street overnight. His father, Robert Reynolds, had not returned to his place of residence the previous evening.

‘Has he been found now?’ the Bailie asked.

It was Sergeant Drummond, who had accompanied his constables to the court, who answered. ‘Robert Reynolds has been found, Bailie. He was in a partially intoxicated condition and appears to have spent the best part of the night in the company of a woman of loose moral character.’

‘What does he do – Reynolds?’

‘He is an occasional labourer,’ said Sergeant Drummond, consulting a notebook on his hand. ‘What’s known as a “tar-macadam man”.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Not here, Bailie,’ said Sergeant Drummond.

‘Because of work?’

‘Because of refusing, sir.’

‘I see,’ said the Bailie.

He summoned Sammy to stand before him and lectured him briefly upon the seriousness of stealing away a man’s source of earning.

Craig listened, for he had not been dismissed, and wondered if Sammy was taking in any of the points that the Bailie was making.

‘Do you understand me, Reynolds?’

Sammy nodded, glanced round at Craig and grinned innocently. He had been well fed at Ottawa Street, had not been beaten. He had slept in a clean dry cell. He had been given breakfast and Sergeant Drummond had stood over him while he had washed his face and combed his hair. It had been an eventful morning and he had been the centre of attention. Even Mr Galletti had noticed him, had shouted at him.

‘I will not have it, Reynolds,’ the Bailie said. ‘I have witnessed the penalty of leniency in young boys of your calibre. For that reason, for your own good, I sentence you to receive six strokes of the birch before release.’

Sammy frowned.

‘Will you see to it, Sergeant Drummond?’

‘I will, sir.’

‘Let the usual protections be taken.’

‘Yes, Bailie.’

‘That is all for this case.’

For a moment Sammy had nobody to turn to. He shuffled aimlessly in front of the bench. He had not been given an opportunity to offer explanations or reasons and Craig knew that he did not really comprehend the nature of his punishment. A beating would be nothing to Sammy Reynolds, hardly punishment at all.

Sergeant Drummond gave Craig a dig. ‘We take him.’

‘Where to?’

‘Next door.’

Craig took the boy’s arm and drew him away. Sammy was still smiling at the Bailie who, though not disconcerted, had chosen to ignore the dealt-with offender and was signalling to the court clerk to usher in the next petty criminal.

‘Come on,’ said Craig.

He led Sammy to the side door. Archie, who had not been called, and Sergeant Drummond followed on.

From the corner of his eye Craig sighted Galletti in the short tiled corridor. Bow-legged, crouched, Galletti beamed and winked and shouted out in a soft hoarse voice, ‘Gi’e him bloody licks, the bastard. Make him wriggle.’

The punishment room was situated in the basement of Police Headquarters in Percy Street. That building shared the site with the court and the warren of chambers and storerooms and cells below street level were all burgh property and served the ends of justice indiscriminately.

Craig had never been there before. Sergeant Drummond knew the way well enough. He went a step ahead of the constable and the delinquent, pushing doors, stepping down staircases and, somewhere en route, shed Archie who was dismissed to return to his usual duties.

Sammy did not like the basement. His step faltered and he might have shrunk back if Craig had not kept him firmly in motion, giving him a little push with the flat of his hand. The odour of disinfectant, or something more sinister, impregnated the walls here, for, Craig realised, they were in the vicinity of the morgue. They turned a corner into a long gas-lit corridor. Sammy’s steps faltered again. Ahead, by a pebble-glass door, waited the police surgeon, the same elderly terrier who had attended Craig’s injuries on the night of Malone’s capture. He gave no sign of recognition, however, but fell into step with Drummond and marched to a dark wooden door, unlocked it with a key and pushed it open.

Craig said, ‘Do I—?’

‘He’s your prisoner, Constable Nicholson,’ the sergeant told him.

High on the far wall of painted brick was a slot of a window, an iron grille fixed over it. The room was not spotless by any means but had traces of dust here and there, motes swirling in gelid daylight. The floor was of unmatted stone. There was little by way of furniture in the room, only a big cabinet on the right wall and a series of devices whose purpose was immediately obvious to Craig; a wooden triangle with leather straps, manhigh; a padded bench, raked to an angle, with more straps; a stool, a wooden chair and four metal pans like those used for milk in a dairy which, Craig supposed, were used to catch blood or urine. He suppressed a shudder. His mouth was dry as cotton and his stomach muscles knotted tight. He eased Sammy Reynolds forward, though the boy struggled a little and cowered back against the uniform.

‘How many strokes?’ said Deedes, the surgeon.

‘Six,’ said Sergeant Drummond.

‘Do you have a signature?’

The sergeant handed the surgeon the slip that he had been given by the Bailie but, Craig noticed, the surgeon hardly glanced at it.

The surgeon said, ‘Are you Samuel Reynolds?’

Sammy nodded.

‘Speak out, lad.’

‘Aye, sir.’

To Drummond: ‘Where is the parent?’

‘Not present.’

‘The father has the right to be here, to administer the strokes if he chooses,’ said the surgeon. ‘I presume he’s been informed of the privilege?’

‘Let us just say that the father has waived the right.’

‘I see,’ said the surgeon. ‘So the constable will do it.’

‘What?’ said Craig. ‘What’s this?’

‘No,’ said Sergeant Drummond. ‘I will be doing it myself.’

Craig heard himself say. ‘I thought there was a—’

Softly Drummond told him, ‘Punishment of a juvenile is a matter for the arresting officer.’

‘I – I can’t—’

‘I’m not expecting it of you, Constable Nicholson. Nonetheless it’s you who must hold the lad.’

‘Dear God!’ said Craig.

Surgeon Deedes said, ‘He should have been told. Did nobody tell him?’

‘He’ll know next time,’ said Sergeant Drummond.

‘Reynolds, take off your clothing,’ said the surgeon.

For some reason Sammy looked at Craig.

Swallowing, Craig said, ‘Better do it, Sammy. Get it over with.’

It was so grey in the basement chamber, so still and silent. Blue serge and brass buttons, the polished belt, seemed to draw Craig on to the cruel side of the law. He tried not to look at Sammy as the boy peeled off his ragged shirt and unbuttoned his trousers. He stepped out of them, out of his soiled drawers, left them in a pool of grey on the grey floor, like shed skin.

‘Boots and stockings too, please,’ said Deedes.

Sammy stood naked in the down-fall of light from the slotted window. He was not mature. In shame he covered his genitals with his hands. He shivered with cold and fright. His fair skin was bruised about the shoulders and Craig, staring at the boy’s nakedness, could even make out the welt of a strap down the side of his slender neck. Deedes came forward with a doctor’s sounder, moved Sammy this way and that. The boy was unprotesting. He appeared to be utterly malleable, vulnerable, innocent. Once again Craig experienced that strange sickening sensation of identification with Kirsty. He rubbed his palms against his trouser leg and watched Sammy bend, heard him breathe to the surgeon’s orders.