Sid knocked on the door, which was already half open, and sauntered in.
''Hey.''
''Hello.'' Sullivan mumbled, hunched up on the bed.
''How are you?'' He asked, suddenly feeling slightly uneasy. This was his first conversation with the newly lucid Inspector, and he was struggling to find a topic of conversation. He sat down on the end of the bed, and when Sullivan did not immediately kick him away, he dubbed this a success.
''Can I ask you something, Sidney?''
A question, a direct question, directed at him, addressed by his first name. Most unexpected.
''Yeah,'' He agreed, clasping his hands over his knees and shuffling sideways to look properly at the other man. ''Ask away.'''
Sullivan himself shuffled slightly, so that he was staring directly at Sid. The intense eye contact was really rather scary.
''When you're... Say you're in the cells for a night.'' He began.
Sid raised his eyebrows; ''Happens often enough.'' No point in arguing with the truth. This was the first time Sullivan had brought up his profession and their usual interactions since he'd arrived at the presbytery.
''Yes, well - how do you do that?''
''What?'' Sid scrunched up his face in confusion.
''How do you cope? Being locked in there, on your own?''
''Bit of a weird question coming from you,'' Sid remarked, the first hints of a chill creeping into his voice, ''You tend to be the one that locks the door.''
Immediately he knew he shouldn't have said that. How stupid of him to say that, with Sullivan being like he currently was. Already the man's eyes were threatening to well up and he was having to look away.
''Oh, but - I'm usually drunk, so I just lie down and sleep.'' Sid offered, attempting to correct his earlier mistake, ''I can sleep anywhere, so I ain't bothered. Never that cold in 'em either, and since you got them new blankets - ''
''I didn't get a blanket.'' Sullivan suddenly recounted.
''You - you didn't?''
Sullivan slowly shook his head. Hell, that was cruel. Or was it because he was a suicide risk from the moment Albert died?
''They didn't give you a blanket?'' Sid repeated, in a question aimed more at himself than his companion, ''Weird. But yeah, Kembleford nick ain't really that bad, but don't go round telling folks that,'' He added in a jokey tone, ''Else they'll want you to start licking us with cat 'o' nine tails and feeding us gruel.''
''You really mean that?'' Sullivan persisted, ignoring the joke. Somehow he'd reached out and had an iron hold on Sid's wrist, as if he feared the man might suddenly bolt and leave his questions unanswered forever. ''You swear to that? They're not that bad?''
''Yeah, yeah I'll swear, you're not too bad to me, I guess.'' Sid agreed uneasily. Sullivan's tormented gaze was rather eerie, and the squeezing fist around his wrist was starting to hurt a little. ''Still not that great, but it's a cell, so can't really expect much.''
''How do you do it?'' Sullivan hissed, his voice gaining more and more desperation, ''How? How come you cope and I couldn't?''
Sid, who was now really uncomfortable, shrugged. ''I'm sorta used to it.'' He mused, slowly starting to pry Sullivan's fingers off of his wrist, "You're not.''
''I hate being locked up, I hate it, hate it.'' Sullivan suddenly started talking faster, ''I've always hated it, it was alright for you, never even seemed to bother you, but I, I can't bear-''
''Whoa,'' Sid suddenly interrupted. The man had been in such a half-possessed rant he gave a tiny jump, as though he'd forgotten Sid was there. ''What do you mean you've always hated it? Have you been lifted before?''
Sullivan's face fell. Pure terror, that's all he displayed. ''Uh, well...'' He started before tailing off, ''Well, I... not arrested, no.''
''Then who locked you up? You kidnapped or something?''
''My - it doesn't matter.'' He said, alarmingly brightly, almost falsetto, before changing the subject, ''Thank you for-''
''No, no no no.'' Sid dodged the distraction and hastily eased the conversation back on track. ''Who used to lock you up?''
Dead silence.
''Did it happen at school? Was it bullies?''
Another beat. No reply.
''Did it happen at home?''
Sullivan flinched. He couldn't have made it more obvious if he had shouted, so immediately he launched into a hasty explanation.
''My father - it really doesn't matter, I'm sure every family does the same - it was this little room off the utility and the kitchen, just a cupboard really, we used to keep coal in the back of it, or anything else that was sort of dirty, like scrubbing brushes - or the cupboard upstairs, beside the bathroom, it should have been an airing cupboard but the heating never worked properly, so we just kept coats and stuff in it- but he used the downstairs one more, I was really scared of it, I saw something scuttling about in the coal once and it was pitch black and-'
''You're sayin' your old man used to lock you in cupboards?''
This didn't fit, this didn't fit at all. Anytime Sid had imagined Sullivan's background (and he really hadn't given it much thought) it had been a clearer picture; posh school, adoring relatives, spoilt brat. Not a kid locked in the coal store.
''He... yes.'' Sullivan breathed, still frantically searching for justification, ''But it makes sense! Children get sent to their room if they're bad - ''
''And you get sent to your cupboard.'' Sid finished, ''That ain't right.''
"Yes, well - why are we talking about this?"
"You're scared of being locked up?"
"Right, yes. That's fine."
Sullivan was clamming up again, obviously feeling that he had revealed too much, and wanted to close the subject in haste.
"How are you?"
"Wha - I'm - I'm same as always." Sid spluttered, "Why are you asking this?"
"I... Its a conversation."
"Can I ask you a question then?"
Sullivan looked flustered but before he could nod, Sid was talking again.
"See when they arrested you," Sid stated, ignoring Sullivan's involuntary shudder, "Would you say that you were scared enough of going to prison, that you might've... did something, to yourself, to get out of it?"
The police officer's eyes widened.
"Who told you that?" He snapped.
Now it was Sid's turn to look surprised.
"You did do something? I was just wondering, thought you might have thought about it -"
"No, no, not exactly." Sullivan was shifting about awkwardly, "But I was very... upset, about the whole thing."
Sid, having been raised partly by Mrs McCarthy, failed to realise that now would be the time to employ some 'tact'. He instead, he simply asked,
"Did you start shouting and screaming like you did in here?"
"I..." Sullivan whispered, "I might have done, yes."
It was bizarre, a process he'd overseen so many times. He knew every inch of the sacred act of the arrest, yet now that he was going through it himself, he felt nothing akin to understanding.They took his jacket, waistcoat and tie (covered in blood and whiskey) and sat him down in the interrogation room, where he was not so much interrogated, but just told he would be charged.They took his fingerprints, his mugshots, and led him to a cell.
" Hang on, could I -"
The door closed.
He'd glanced at the clock in the foyer; it was twenty past eleven.The cell was completely bare. No pillow, no mattress, no blanket. Just a bench.It was unusual to leave a prisoner in a cell as stark as this, but he assumed it was just for that night. They would probably realise their mistake, find some form of non-incriminating evidence and release him in the morning
Or they could just leave him here, charge him, convict him.
Hang him.
He'd felt a strange solace, and slept like a baby.The next morning, (at least, he assumed it was morning) a uniformed constable arrived, bearing a food tray."Constable, could I speak to-"The door closed, closed before he even got a chance to ascertain which man he was talking to.He paced the cell in his sock soles, bored, lonely. There were only so many times you could count the bricks in a wall, or scuff marks on the bottom of the door, or read the amusing vandalism someone has scribbled about... You?
He was still stooping over examining the limerick when the door opened and another tray arrived. Lunchtime?
"Please, I want to talk to -"
Door closed again.
He started smarting.
"I know my rights," He said aloud, "You have to allow me a phonecall, and a solicitor's conference. I'll wait."
"What do you mean I'll wait?" Sid interrupted, "Why didn't you ask for it right away?"
"You're not entitled to it immediately - we've had this conversation." Sullivan said, in a tone of exasperation. "I knew I'd get it at some point. Usually get it on the second day."
"And did you?"
The constable came and withdrew again. Sullivan fought off the mad desire to hurl the tray at the wall.
"Can I talk to someone?" He called, into the silence of the station.
"Someone? Anyone? Please?"
He tried to sleep, but the bare bench offered no comfort. He was getting quite cold, and he had no blanket. He huddled himself together as best as he could and squeezed his eyes shut, attempting to convince himself that he was asleep, at home, in his own bed.
"You can come in, Father."
The priest appeared sheepishly around the door.
"Sorry," He said, "I often underestimate how creaky my floorboards are when I'm listening at doorways."
"Maybe you ought to stop listening at doorways." Sullivan suggested.
"Did they get you that phonecall?"
Why weren't they allowing him his phonecall?
While it was true that he hadn't the faintest idea about who to call, he wanted to call someone.
Did it have to be a phonecall?
Couldn't somebody just say a few words to him?
He took to rapping the door with his knuckles, but that hurt, so he flattened his palms and knocked that way. The metal echoed in a metallic ring around the empty room. It was so quiet.
"Hello! "
Desperate times called for desperate measures."
I want to see a priest!"
"They refused you spiritual guidence?"
"It was a long shot." Sullivan confessed, rubbing the side of his neck. "They all know what I think of Catholicism."
"Could'a wanted to convert," Sid reasoned, "If I was in your shoes I'd be angling for any religion to help me out."
Father Brown looked rather disapproving at this statement, but it could have been a deep thought. "That's completely unethical. I've visited atheists before, to offer advice-"
"I knew it!" Sullivan suddenly shouted, making them both jump, "I always said you were going in those cells to meddle! Bloody hell, I can't belive you finally admitted it had nothing to do with religion!"
Sid stifled a laugh. Father Brown looked very regretful indeed at his slip up.
"All the same," He argued, after a considerable pause, "You never denied me entry."
"Of course not." Sullivan sounded offended, "That's an infringement of the prisoner's rights."
Silence, while the irony of that statement started to sink in.
"What happened then?"
The fear, the panic, the uncertainty.
His throat was raw from shouting:
"I didn't do it! Why won't you believe me! Can I please talk to somebody! I didn't kill him!"
Albert was probably in a morgue now, being slotted into a dress uniform and neatly placed in a coffin.
A small coffin.
The man was a boy, only a baby really.
He couldn't have killed him, he couldn't.
Who could hurt a child like that? He'd been irritated, but he never would have hurt him. Yet they thought he'd killed him - how could they think that?And now they were going to hang him, and he'd be dead, like Albert.
He shouted louder, kicking the door while knocking as well. He never got his phonecall. No one told him what was happening. It had been days now, and nights too, and he couldn't bear to live without knowing any longer.
He screamed and roared and threw himself at the door, regardless of how much it hurt when his body met the unforgiving metal. His words were indecipherable. He ran back and jumped again, slumping down, pounding the door with his fists, ears defeaned by the sound of his own screams.
"Sir; - you need to calm down, sir."
He couldn't hear him. He wasn't real. He'd been holed up in this concrete box so long he'd started hallucinating."
Sir, please -"
He sobbed on, crouched on the floor, leaning against the door. The door opened and he tumbled out, onto the floor, blinking in the strange new light.
He was lying on his stomach at someone's feet."
Oh sir - let's get you back to bed -"
Gentle hands were supporting him, lifting him, carrying him back into the cell."
Come now, let's get you settled."
"I didn't do it."
"You're all upset, you'll be better after a night's sleep. Try and rest."
"I don't want to rest. I want to know what's happening."
His saviour put him back on the bench, easing him into a lying position. He felt something soft under his head, and grabbed hold of it, seeking comfort.There was a blanket now too, and he pulled it over him, even though he felt warm.
" Listen sir - you're going to court tomorrow afternoon. You'll be able to get cleaned up before that; that spare suit you keep in the office, you can wear that -"
"I didn't do it."
"Rest, sir.""
"You don't believe me. Nobody believes me. Why won't they believe me?"
The saviour was quiet. Sullivan could barely see, but he didn't really want to know who it was. It was someone he knew, someone he trusted. Or trusted once.
"Try and sleep, Sir. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Why are you - you're leaving, don't leave me in here..."
He was gone. The cell was empty. He was alone again. Had he dreamt the whole thing? Had he gone mad?
"Come back!" He sobbed.
The room stayed quiet, stayed empty.
"Help me!"
"Inspector?"
Sid was shaking him.
"You alright?" He looked scared. Father Brown looked concerned.
"You went off into your own there." He explained. "What happened in the cells? When they didn't give you the phonecall?"
"I..." The light seemed to be swimming above his head. Sullivan felt like a lost child, and he didn't want to talk. He kept staring at the lampshade casting the yellow glow over the ceiling.
"I don't want to talk... Don't want to talk about it..."