bring the poor lad back to life. Mr. Bryant said that he would probably not go to prison, though he would be sentenced. Sentenced to what then? To not going to prison? It didn’t make much sense, but he supposed they all knew what they were doing. It was fair in a way – he was willing to assume his part of guilt in the tragedy. In fact he was even looking forward to the trial as he would get to see them all again. Apparently they would all have to attend, all of them except Andrea, who would be excused on medical grounds. They could catch up with the gossip, and maybe even be able to sort it all out. Joe Stein was a bright man, so he might come up with something. And Luz, with her amazing memory. Pet was shrewd in her own way too and knew how to read signs that most people overlooked. Brendan wouldn’t be much help as he wasn’t even there. So why did he have to go? Odd. That left Harvey, the boss, Mr. Paulson himself. Surely he could throw some light on what had happened? Yes, it would be a great day. He imagined the courtroom, the high-seated judge, the incisive lawyers, the forensic experts and their fantastic methods to glean the truth from a drop of blood or a thread of fabric. He imagined a jury of earnest, sincere men and women from all walks of life. He imagined a verdict – guilty but not guilty according to Stephen Bryant. Justice would be done, just as his mother liked to say.
Wednesday the seventeenth, ten thirty, courtroom six, first floor. Best suit and tie, hair slicked down, no silly gadgets, no fidgeting, no speaking unless spoken to. Manners at all times.
Once through the security scan the building was impressive, at least on the ground floor. There were portraits of great men, high ceilings, and a double staircase that lead to the upper floors. Everybody wore their finest clothes as if attending a funeral, and some even had gowns like teachers in the old days. They took the left hand flight to the first floor. A wide corridor awaited them. There were his old colleagues, each one forming a tiny group of their own. They came forward one by one and shook his hand, wished him the best, grimaced, then backed away, relieved that that part was over. Ambrose didn’t pick up on the negative aspects and greeted each one enthusiastically as if they truly were long lost friends. The police escort suggested he sit down on one of the wooden benches. They waited.
‘This won’t take too long’,
encouraged Bryant.
Ambrose thought he meant the wait.
Forty-five minutes later the case was ready to be dealt with. Stand up, follow me, sit there, now stand up, now sit down again. The trial began.
Bryant was right. There was a crisp parade of witnesses who basically had to ratify their earlier statements. Then Ambrose was made to stand and say ‘I swear’. He had to answer some questions about being an electrician and if he could categorically state, beyond all doubt, that he was not responsible for the loose wire being in the pool. He stammered at that point, and there was a generalised sigh. Rosaline Gerard then went into a long and wordy speech which Ambrose found difficult to follow but which appeared to have been very well taken by the presiding judge and by Harvey. Then Stephen Bryant read a brief text which seemed to say basically that it was all a terrible accident and that no-one was really to blame. After that, they had to stand up again before milling back out into the corridor. Ambrose hoped that now he would get a chance to have a chat with his old colleagues, but they all disappeared down the stairs in a flash leaving him to wait for the guard to take him back to the police van. Bryant shook his hand and said he would be in touch.
‘But what did he say? Have I been sentenced yet? I didn’t hear anything...
‘No, Mr. Ork, the verdict will not be through for a few days yet. Try not to worry, I will naturally keep you informed, let you know as soon as the sentence is communicated to me.’
Twenty minutes later he was back in custody.
Seven years. Bryant was clearly stunned and mumbled something about appealing the decision, though he never followed that through. He commiserated with Ambrose, and tried to cheer him up by pointing out that seven years was not ten years, and that damages had been waived. And with good behaviour... He would make sure the penitentiary was an open prison as there was no threat involved, no violence, no fear of escape. He oozed incompetence even when dealing the blow, but Ambrose just felt sorry for him. The poor man had lost his case, and that was not something easy to swallow. Ambrose bore him no grudge; he would go meekly.
It was this meek, docile man, convinced of his inherent innocence yet at the same time convinced of his portion of guilt, that so fascinated and infuriated Richard ‘Spotty’ Dodd.
On paper they looked like they should have a lot in common. Both were in for manslaughter, both had drawn the short straw socially, both of them were without capital in a capitalist designed society. But in practice they were two very different breeds of men. Spotty was a survivor; he would do whatever was necessary to remain alive and kicking, preferably in relative comfort. He had seen that over the centuries humanity had suffered war, famine, plagues and mutually assured destruction. It had not only overcome those obstacles, it had proliferated, and Richard ‘Spotty’ Dodd had inherited that survival instinct. That did not mean that he would steal food from a hungry child’s mouth, though he would have to admit that he might stoop to persuading that child to give him half. Unlike Harvey he did not want it all, but he certainly demanded his share. Bro didn’t even seem to realise that he was entitled to a share at all.
For a time Spotty watched Ambrose from afar. He saw how the other inmates cajoled him and fooled him into running errands, into lending them his things which he was too reserved to ever claim back, how they made him take the rap for minor breakages or irregularities of all sorts. Ambrose was not alone in being used like this; there were droves of them both inside and out. They had the mentality of dogs before the alpha male, meekly accepting all abuse as if it were part of a natural process. They accepted their lot almost as if they were robots. Do this. Alright. Do that. Ok. Empty heads.
So Spotty looked on, taking mental notes on Ambrose as if he were part of an anthropological study. The man was unquestioning obedience with a smile, the perfect minion, the ideal servant. There appeared to be no limit to his ingenuity and good will. The temptation was too great for most of the other inmates and Bro soon became the general dogsbody, either immune or deaf to insult, always ready to please, always so easily fooled.
Spotty had not received a full education and would be the first to admit that his general knowledge was full of holes, but he was a bright man with an inquisitive mind, and he was determined to make amends. He read extensively if chaotically in prison, and used the limited access to the internet as often as he could. Finding that he tended to get bogged down with long, erudite texts, he developed a love of quotes, of matchbox and crisp packet axioms, and became a notorious name dropper. He liked to push his glasses back up his nose and say, in a learned way even the layman could understand, ‘as Nietzsche said’, or ‘A man who won’t die for something is not fit to live, now who said that, eh?’ The other inmates laughed at him, called him ‘the professor`, or ‘smart arse’, and sneered at his apparently useless information, though they secretly admired him too and would seek his advice over ‘deeper’ issues such as religion, family affairs, or sexual orientation.
He had always seen the world as Us and Them, the Haves and the Havenots. But observing Ambrose he began to wonder if there was not a third class, an underclass, the delta and epsilon workers, an exploited layer of slow, dim-witted mortals whose sole purpose was to supply the rest of humanity, the other two rival factions, with loyal manpower. There was a mass of people who did not strive for more, or prey on others, or fight or ask awkward questions. They could be manipulated without fear of them rising up against you, without fear of them ever even realising they were being used. A tool to be employed, a weapon even. It was fascinating. He had to get to the bottom of it and find out what, if anything, made the likes of Ambrose Ork tick.
So one day he stopped him in his tracks.
‘Spotty. Richard ‘Spotty’ Dodd
. Manslaughter.’
He held out his hand which Ambrose took eagerly. Spotty urged him to respond.
‘Oh, yes, Ambrose, Ambrose Ork. Negligent manslaughter. They call me Bro usually, though.’
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Ork. Bro!’
Now Spotty had his laboratory rat the experiments could begin. First, the specimen’s IQ had to be established. That took about two minutes. Under par was the result. The next step was to discover exactly what had happened to Mr. Ork to lead him to his present predicament. Ambrose said he didn’t understand the question. Spotty could not resist the temptation to bedazzle his patient with hard learnt terminology, and for a while kept Bro in total confusion by bombarding him with words he knew Ambrose had never used in his life. Very often they made no sense anyway, that was not the idea. It was just a perverse game that Spotty liked to play, harmless fun that helped him maintain his superior status.
‘Analogous as it may doubtless appear to the anterior, the encroachment of tragicomedy on your destiny would you say was casual or causal?’
How he loved the look on Bro’s face! Any of the others would have realised he was taking the piss and told