The Walking Dead

He closed the notebook. It was his rule, however great the provocation of what he had read, never to skip forward.

Precious few pages remained, but it was the discipline of David Banks that he had not — ever — turned to the last.

Overwhelmed by what he had read, he lay half dressed on the bed and gazed up at the ceiling light.

Obsession had hooked into him — the barbs of the triple hooks slung under a copper spoon that his father had tied to the line when they had gone together to find a pike in the big pool below the weir. Always that excitement when his father had made ready the tackle, always that massive sense of disappointment and shame when a fish had been dragged to the bank and was found to have taken the hooks too deep for them to be extracted, and his father had killed it with a hammer blow to the head, and the lustre had gone from the scales, and the carcass was left for the rats or for a heron's feast.

He reflected on the twisting moods his great-uncle's war had evoked in him: hatred of Cecil Darke and admiration. Loathing and fascination. Loyalty to the man and betrayal of him. Self-examination and self-destruction…At the weekend, incarcerated, with the jurors in the barracks camp, he would read those last pages — from compulsion — and would curse again his great-uncle for what had been inflicted on him. Then he would write his letter of resignation.

In his mind was a man who was not a conscripted soldier, was a volunteer, was far from home…who had faced his enemy, yet was most afraid of fear.

Abruptly, Banks turned on his stomach, his head buried in the pillow. He sought to block out the images of Cecil Darke, who had no face to him, but all he saw was the river and beyond it a shallow hill on which howitzer shells fell, over which aircraft wheeled, into which bullets spattered, a killing ground…and he knew he would not sleep.

Another bloody day beckoned tomorrow. Another bloody day of his own worthlessness, and he thought respect was irretrievable.

Chapter 16

Friday, Day 16

An hour before, Mr Justice Herbert had closed his foolscap notepad with finality, pushed it away across his desk, leaned forward, let his elbows take the weight and said, with practised earnestness, 'It is time now for us, ladies and gentlemen, to adjourn for the weekend. You will be taken back to the location where you have, so very patiently, stayed these last several nights. I am assured that recreation and outings have been arranged for you. There are many places, I imagine, that you would prefer to be but I want to put on record that your maturity and dedication have been noted, and I am confident that you will understand the necessity for the privations that you are required to suffer. We will resume at ten o'clock on Monday morning and then you will deliberate on your verdict. I wish you well for a quiet and pleasant weekend. Thank you.'

'All rise,' the clerk had shouted, in an unnecessarily full voice. Banks had stood, had seen the judge dive for his side door, had seen the impotence and anger writ large on the brothers' faces, had noted the sullen, helpless expressions creased on the jury's — all except his Principal's, had filed out of court eighteen to oversee the loading of the coach.

Wally had said, 'Quite envy you, Banksy. Me, I've a kid's birthday party to organize. Want to swap? Eighteen kids, twelve-year-olds, at Legoland. It'll be bloody chaos. You're a lucky sod, and don't forget it, tucked up with those deadbeats for, like the man said, "a quiet and pleasant weekend".'

He had stood in the yard, as the soft rain dribbled on his shoulders, and had watched the brothers led to the Be]marsh van, hemmed in with prison guards and the uniformed guns. When they had been loaded, and their convoy had pulled out through the opened gates, he had gone to round up and move his jurors.

Settled at the back of the coach, alone, he had closed his eyes, had started to think of being free.

'Mind if I sit here?'

A Protection Officer did not gripe — should not have scowled, but probably Banks did. He moved his coat off the seat beside him. He said curtly, the minimum of politeness, 'How can I be of help, Mr Wright.'

'It's just that I have a problem.'

Banks saw the smile and the shrug. His reply was brisk: 'Where we can, we try to sort them out — where's this one on the scale?'

The juror was beside him and Banks looked into his face. Wright's eyes did not meet his. The tongue skipped over the lips. He said, 'The problem's the weekend.'

'Everyone has a problem with the weekend.'

'I can't stay there, shut in, not this weekend.'

Banks was formal, distant: 'The instructions of the judge were pretty clear. You stay under guard together.'

'I am afraid that's not possible.' Wright had his arms folded tight across his chest, like that was a defence posture. 'It's my problem.'

'I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do about it.'