My Learned Friend

"Problems?" He asked.

"Yes. If we had offered that as a justification or provocation it would the same as you admitting you did kill him. We could argue it as justifiable but under English Law there is no such thing as justifiable murder. The jury though may have been swayed and may have returned a verdict of manslaughter instead of murder. Even so the Judge could still sentence you to life if he disagreed with the jury."

"Life! Good job I wasn't guilty." He complained.

"Yes, and the jury agreed with you."

I now felt far more confident. With his confession of conspiracy in the murder he had given me a degree of security. "When should I pass over the money?"

"If it's ok with you I will call and collect a week today."

"Fine."

After Brian had left, Jean came in with another pot of tea. She sat down and poured the tea, then she startled me into nearly dropping the cup. "You're doing the right thing, Clem. That bastard needs to suffer more for what he has done."

"Jean were you listening?"

"Of course I was. Good thing too, if you are going to get involved in something I need to know, so if it's necessary I can say the right thing."

CHAPTER SEVEN

The days of waiting for news after I had handed over an envelope, containing five hundred pounds to Brian were excruciating. My mood seesawed from satisfaction of revenge for Chrissie to grabbing the phone in panic to call the whole thing off. I supposed I still had some remnants of filial affection. Jean watched me carefully and would remind me at those moments of the horror that Chrissie had suffered. The news came from an entirely unexpected quarter. My mother phoned. "Clem! I have some terrible news to tell. Ramsay is dead; he fell down the stairs at Winson Green and broke his neck." I didn't know what to say as I was shocked and scrambled thoughts rushed topsy-turvy around my mind. Was this an unexpected accident or was this the plan; a plan I had not been told about. Mum told me all that the prison authorities had told them and we agreed there could well be further information as soon as they had investigated the accident. Mum used the word accident, yet I was convinced that this was anything but an accident and I had touched the flame to the blue paper.

Brian phoned to tell me. "Clem, I am so sorry. It all went wrong. They were only supposed to trip him and accidentally tread on his arm to break it. I am not sure how it happened but when he was tripped he stumbled and then went head first down the stairs."

My barrister head asked the next question. "Are the authorities setting up an enquiry?"

"I don't think so. From what I have heard, they are treating it as an accident. I suppose it depends on the papers. If the news people start to make a fuss, they will have to. You know what the media are like, anything to bash the authorities."

"I will make enquiries myself, Brian. He was my brother and if I don't make any attempt to get to the truth that will be suspicious in itself."

"You're right. Don't get in barrister mode though. If you start pecking at the detail as you usually do, it could go pear-shaped."

"I hear you Brian. Don't worry; I shall play the part of the concerned relative, nothing more."

There was no enquiry apart from an inquest. That returned a verdict of accidental death. My enquiries of the authorities were expected and I was treated with courtesy, probably because of my standing as a Q.C. However, they did not see any anything but the accidental death of a violent rapist, who cares? My mum called again to tell me that the funeral was arranged. "Your father would not take kindly to your being there, Clem." she paused. "You know your dad, son. Hard as a rock if need be. Hopefully after this we can get back to being a family again."

"What family, mum? It's not this thing about Ramsay; dad's attitude to Chrissie has blighted any chance of us being family. It will be a long time before I can be in the same room as him." Mum was weeping as she put down the phone.

Jean as always was on my side. "If I had gone to his funeral I would be hard-pressed not to piss in his grave."

I told Dan Millington not to accept any more briefs for me, although I continued working on the few I had accepted. When they were done, I would not practice as a barrister any more. In all conscience, how could I carry on with the weight of guilt on my shoulders? Every time I looked at the prisoner in the dock, I would see myself there. Accident or not I had conspired in the death of my own brother. It wasn't intended but in law, I was as guilty as if I had held a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. I would be a hypocrite in court. My leaving chambers for the last time wasn't the joyous occasion it should have been. My colleagues thought that Chrissie was the reasons for my decision and request for no party. Instead, I went around my colleagues and took my farewell of each of them. I got handshakes from most against tradition, but it could be argued that I was no longer a barrister so handshakes were permissible. Better than a handshake was the kisses I received from some of our lady barristers and clerks. That was one change for the better. When I started no lady would have been allowed to work in chambers. Samira was very upset, and extracted from me a promise that if she needed it she could call upon me for advice.

Jean was indefatigable, she would not let me sit and relax for more than an hour before she was badgering me to do something; ignoring my complaint that I was retired and she would reel off a list of things I could be doing. One thing she didn't have to put on pressure was my Sunday routine of getting the Rover out, cleaning, waxing it thoroughly, and then taking the car out for a few miles to charge up the battery and let the oil heat through. It was a time of pleasure and sadness as Chrissie loved the car as much as I did. On those remembered Sunday mornings Chrissie would come out as I was polishing the car, bringing with her two mugs of coffee. We would drink the coffee companionably with Chrissie usually relaxing in the front passenger seat enjoying the scent of leather and real wood. Our chatter was idle and humorous. Chrissie had always been a giggler and she demonstrated her dexterity as we chatted. Then she would take the empty mugs indoors and return to join me in the drive around. Those were such happy days the remembrance was a pleasure tainted with the sadness of loss.

Brian would call occasionally and I would join him in the business of fettling both cars the work enlivened with badinage of the relative merits and demerits of the saloon and the coupe. I learned a lot from him particularly the danger of sending items to the Auction Houses. "If you are lucky you get an assessor who does know what you are offering for auction, but most times you get someone with a smattering of the whole spectrum who can seriously undervalue or overvalue the item. Then of course are those who will deliberately undervalue and in league with an antique dealer will knock it out for what you consider a reasonable price when it is worth possibly five times that. They will eventually split the profit when it's sold on."

"So what category do you fit in, Brian?"

"The latter." He had the good grace to blush.

I saw Samira quite often. At first it was advice she needed and I was happy to help. Over time her visits segued into being just social. I was quite happy to see her and so was Jean. For some reason Samira and Jean got on very well, so much so that her visits were more about seeing Jean than seeing me. Samira showed Jean how to make some Iraqi national dishes and apart from them being quite highly spiced they were very tasty. Jean only made the mistake once of serving pork when Samira was dining with us. Jean was effusive in her apologies. "Samira, I am so sorry, let me get you something else. I have some lamb cutlets; they won't take long to grill."

"Jean. Please do not worry. I will make my meal from just the vegetables. That will be sufficient."

"I thought it was the Jews who can't eat pork." Jean was a little confused.

"Halal and Kosher are basically the same." Samira told her. "Jews are of the Semitic race just as Iraqis are. We are like two faces of the same coin; we can never see each other face to face."

It was unfortunate that Jean made a mention of what really happened to my brother. It wasn't malicious, just an unguarded slip of the tongue. Samira didn't react immediately, but I was certain that it had registered with her. I was therefore prepared when some weeks later when Jean was out, Samira tackled me. "Clem. Was your brother's accident as simple as the authorities agreed?"

"Not quite, Samira." I saw little point in lying.

"Was your involvement direct or indirect?"

"Samira. You know you shouldn't ask a question to which you don't know the answer."

"Don't get barrister with me, Clem, and I am not in court now. Somehow I believe you created the situation where your brother could have an accident."

"It was supposed to be just an accident, a broken arm or leg, but you cannot control everything, or the victim's response. His falling down the stairs was totally unexpected." I watched her face as my words percolated into her barrister's mind.

Suddenly her face cleared up and she smiled. "If we were in the jurisdiction of Sharia law, you would be completely exonerated. In fact you would be expected to punish the rapist with serious bodily harm up to and including killing. So I, as a Muslim can do no more than respect you for taking your personal justice."

"Your duty in English Law would be to report what you have learned."

"My duty, Clem is to my friends, to those I respect and love. When I asked you, all those years ago if you would consider me as a wife respect and admiration moved me. Now Clem I am a little bitter as I find myself moved by emotions, feminine emotions that want you as a physical partner. It seems I have become too westernized. No Muslim woman should feel that way about a man to whom she is not married." She held her hand up as I opened my mouth. "Don't say it, Clem. Your fidelity to Chrissie moves me and I would be overwhelmed if I could inspire such loyalty in a man."

I knew where that loyalty, if that's what you want to call it came from. It came from Chrissie her steadfast attitude all those years of waiting, waiting for me to get through university, waiting for me to pass my BVQ, waiting as I did my year of pupillage, and still waiting as I established myself and could command sufficient income to buy us a home. She never complained, she was happy to see me whenever I had time away from my studies, and seemingly understanding of the times I could not see her. Such devotion inspired my reciprocal devotion. When we married I didn't understand love, over the years together, it crept up on me almost unacknowledged, yet it was there. I could not be untrue to her without spurning the love that she gave me. That was impossible.

My mum called a few weeks later to tell me my dad had died. She had wondered why he hadn't got up that morning and she went to wake him. She still slept in my old room. "He looked very peaceful, Clem. The doctor said it was an aneurism of the aorta, and it would have been very quick. He asked if he had complained of chest pains. He hadn't but I did mention that your dad had complained for a quite a few years of indigestion. He thought that it wouldn't have been indigestion it was small fissures in the aorta seeping blood and then clotting. Dad always said my cooking gave him indigestion and now it seems it wasn't my cooking at all." Same old dad. Once he had came to a conclusion, right or wrong he would never change his mind. I went to see mum and took over the arrangements for his funeral. I could see mum looking at me worriedly. I put her mind at rest. "Mum, I shall be there to support you. Don't worry." The funeral was a sparse affair with few people to see him laid to rest. Mum had phoned quite a few of people with whom she thought he was friends. It turned out that they may have been friends at one time, but dad's dogmatic and belligerent approach had them find friends elsewhere.

Dad was seventy- eight when he had his heart problem. Mine came shortly after when I was sixty-two. To be correct I didn't have a heart attack, it was what they called a Myocardial Infarction. One of the smaller arteries that provided blood for the heart muscle had split. It was relatively easy to fix, the surgeon inserted a stent into the artery and that stabilised the artery. I was able to watch the whole procedure as I wasn't anaesthetised and as he watched what he was doing on a big screen I was able to watch as well. As usual, the medical people want to blame your problems on your lifestyle. I think I puzzled them. I had never smoked; I couldn't afford it until I was twenty-six and Chrissie didn't smoke so I had never taken up the habit. I had never been a fan of alcohol except for a mere tipple on special occasion and I appeared not to be overweight. My profession was quite sedentary but I had always countered that by taking a walk of a couple of miles most days.

I was discharged from hospital with a huge list of do's and don'ts, which I immediately threw in the bin. I also had the prescriptions, Clopidogrel, to be taken for twelve months, that would thin the blood. Atorvastatin to lower chloresterol, although my chloresterol count was five point two. Ramipril to lower my blood pressure and daily aspirin, which I would have to take for life. Of course, I was fussed over as if I was a dying man. Jean nursed me every day. I wasn't allowed to do anything for myself. Samira and my mum visited frequently and they would vie with each other as to who could make me the most comfortable. Men like to have their womenfolk caring for them, but as in everything, too much of a good thing gets irritating eventually. I put my foot down and proved my fitness by dabbling in the garden. This concerned Jean and Samira and also annoyed the gardener who came twice a week. I was able to prove to them that I wasn't an invalid and I was able to go back to my life before the M.I.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I was seventy-one when the second M.I. hit me. The treatment was the same although the site of the problem was not the same. Again, the doctors talked long and often about lifestyle, yet at the end of these discussions, they concluded that my arteries were susceptible to weakness. These attacks kill a little of the heart muscle, so you cannot ask too much of the remaining healthy muscle. Although the doctors had not said as such, I was sure that another would finish me. I had to admit to myself that my life was in a delicate situation although I didn't say anything to Jean or Samira. I walked whenever the weather was clement but my gait was now slower, also I found when walking that a straight line was now an achievement. It wasn't as if I was walking like a drunk, I just found it most difficult to walk for a ten yards without veering to the right or left.

My life was now a pattern of taking my gentle exercise, eating the healthy but boring food that Jean prepared for me. The highlight was the evenings when Samira was back from chambers. She always had juicy gossip to share and we would discuss the cases on which she was working. It kept my mind alive. I still drove the car from time to time, but had to have Samira with me. She had learned to drive some years ago because of her burgeoning practice and she was with me just in case. She rarely wore hijab now, dressing instead for work in dark suits with a white blouse buttoned up to the neck and a skirt that came down almost to her ankles. At home she would wear big sweaters and jeans. The solemn Muslim woman had gone now and she would laugh as she described herself as a liberated Muslim. She caused a great deal of laughter one evening, when she announced that she had given up on me. "All these years of lusting after you have been wasted. If I managed to get in your bed, Clem. I would probably kill you with my demands."

The chest pains are becoming difficult to hide now. I don't like them but I am not afraid. Should the big one hit me I have made up my mind to let it take me. I don't need another operation and the half-life that I would have to endure afterwards. I am seventy-six and reason that I have not done too badly. I regret many things and feel happiness far more than I regret, although Ramsay does loom large in my regrets. My Will is updated, the house will go to into a Trust and Jean will receive an income from the trust and tenancy for life. The trust will maintain the property. I made sure that when her time comes the house will pass to Samira, who it seems is living here full time. When that happened I am not really sure, but I couldn't complain, as she has been a good friend to Jean and companion to me. Of course, one of my regrets is that Samira is living a life unfulfilled. I could have changed that by denying the vow I made to Chrissie but that was something I couldn't do. Making sure that Samira will have something is my way of making it up to her.

AFTERWORD - JEAN

It is now three months since Clem died and it is time. Samira and I are going to carry out his last wishes. We have two caskets of ashes, the one has been on a shelf in the sitting room for nearly twenty-five years, and it is made of walnut and inlaid with ivory befitting Clem's love for Chrissie. The second casket is very plain and utilitarian. This second casket contains Clem's ashes.

Samira holds the second casket and I brought the ornate casket from the shelf. The table had been cleared and covered with plastic. We opened both caskets. Their ashes, similar to grey granules were packaged in plastic bags. We opened the bags and poured the contents into the ornate casket. We then mixed the granules so that Clem and Chrissie were indivisible, as they had been in life. I wondered for a moment if handling the ashes of the dead would be forbidden for Samira; if it was, she showed no distaste.

"Tomorrow?" Enquired Samira.

"Yes. The weather forecast seems right. We shall take Chrissie and Clem one last journey in their beautiful Rover. I think they would like that. Will you be ok driving it?"

"It shouldn't be a problem, I have driven it before and it being automatic helps."

These last three months have been fraught with grief and memories. Samira and I had tried hard to keep a positive face for those last couple of days. Clem knew he was dying and so did we. I made tasty snacks for him of which he would only eat a mouthful, declaring that it was delicious, but unable to stomach much. We were both by his bedside as his breathing became worse. His mouth was open and painfully dragging what little air his lungs could cope with. I talked endless rubbish, reminding him of the days when we were young and the silly things we did. Samira, fighting the tears would relate some of the amusing episodes of their court appearances. He was not talking anymore; he didn't have enough breath for that, except right at the last he gasped. "I can see her, she's smiling and waving." Then he collapsed like a punctured balloon, one last breath of anguish and he was gone. He was with Chrissie again.

We knew what Clem's Will said, he had told us everything, although I was astonished when the solicitor filed the probate. He had amassed quite a goodly sum. The Trust was accepted by the Inland Revenue. According to the solicitor, they couldn't find any loophole to exploit. Well you would expect a barrister, a legal authority to dot every 'i' and cross every 't'. Samira asked me if I was going to move from my room over the garage to one of the proper bedrooms. There were four bedrooms plus the garage room I occupied and three bathrooms. One was ensuite to Chrissie and Clem's bedroom. I thought about it and decided against moving. I had lived here for the last twenty odd years and had made it comfortable, why change?