Lonie 78

Lonie’s trial provoked a media storm. For once Lonie would have liked to have been outside the storm, leaning against one of the pillars in the Greek Doric portico of the High Court, having a fag. Instead, he was in the tranquil eye of the storm, in the holding cells, sitting on a thin mattress with his back against the back wall, waiting to be huckled through the atrium to Courtroom One. His Queen’s Counsel, Mr Richardson, wearing his court robes and silk, was standing in his cell, nervously shuffling papers before the trial. He cleared his throat to give him a pep talk.

‘Judge Davidson is a stickler for formal protocol.’ He looked at Lonie crouched in a corner looking up over his shoulder at a spider’s web. He braced his shoulders. ‘You should try to stand up straight and speak clearly, when spoken to…You do understand?’

Lonie’d been a six months on remand in Barlinnie. He’d already done his time in the children’s home system. And it was just a school for big boys. Despite, or perhaps because of, his charge sheet, he’d been in a few scraps and fitted in right away. He thought nothing could surprise him now, but he was wrong. His QC was telling him if he spoke properly, like he and the other chaps did, stood up straight, and behaved properly in court, like a good egg, he’d see justice done. He looked at his QC as if he was sighting a gun, right between the eyes, before speaking. ‘Aye. Ah understand aw right.’

The turnkey banged on the door to show they had five minutes.

‘Have you any questions?’ Mr Richardson covered his mouth before he rifted.

‘Aye. You any fags?’

Mr Richardson’s hands scrambled into the pockets of his gown and pulled out his cigarettes. ‘I’m afraid it’s only Kennsington I’ve got.’ He held one out.

Lonie stuck it between his lips and stood up to get a light off the QC. He was about two inches bigger than him. A nimbus of fag smoke settled between them before he spoke. ‘Remember whit I told you?’ It wasn’t a question, but a statement. ‘Ah’m pleadin’, Not Guilty. Not because Ah think Ah’ve got a hope in hell of gettin’ off, but so we can draw the trial out. Every time the prosecution asks me a question Ah don’t want you to act like a defence lawyer Ah want you to act like a prosecution lawyer. Ah want you to ask me about names, dates and times. And Ah’ll name names. Ah’ll tell you whit Ah know. And all the while Ah’m telling you this that wee woman stenographer will be putting it down in her wee machine. And the more times Ah mention Mr MacDonald’s name, Chief Inspector Bisset’s name and our good Lord Provost’s name then the more doubt there’ll be. And it’ll all be in that wee machine. My life’s finished now. But somewhere, somehow, somebody ‘ill pick up on that and run with it. There’ll be no justice for the likes of me, but someday those wee boys and girls can be properly buried. You understand?’

The rattle of the keys were heard in the cell door. ‘That’s you?’ The turnkey looked in. Lonie’s escort was waiting.