Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [32]
“Piss off, Pat,” said the desk sergeant, as the constable tried to stifle a laugh.
“Which reminds me,” said Pat, “have I told you about the time I tried to get a job on a building site in Liverpool, and the foreman—”
“Get him out of my sight, Constable, if you don’t want to spend the rest of the month on traffic duty.”
The constable grabbed Pat by the elbow and hurried him downstairs.
“No need to come with me,” said Pat. “I can find my own way.” This time the constable did laugh as he placed a key in the lock of cell number two. The young policeman unlocked the cell and pulled open the heavy door, allowing Pat to stroll in.
“Thank you, Constable Cooper,” said Pat. “I look forward to seeing you in the morning.”
“I’ll be off duty,” said Constable Cooper.
“Then I’ll see you this time next year,” said Pat without explanation, “and don’t forget to pass on my best wishes to your father,” he added as the four-inch-thick iron door was slammed shut.
Pat studied the cell for a few moments: a steel washbasin, a bog and a bed, one sheet, one blanket and one pillow. Pat was reassured by the fact that nothing had changed since last year. He fell on the horsehair mattress, placed his head on the rock-hard pillow and slept all night—for the first time in weeks.
Pat was woken from a deep sleep at seven the following morning, when the cell-door flap was flicked open and two black eyes stared in.
“Good morning, Pat,” said a friendly voice.
“Good morning, Wesley,” said Pat, not even opening his eyes. “And how are you?”
“I’m well,” replied Wesley, “but sorry to see you back.” He paused. “I suppose it must be October.”
“It certainly is,” said Pat climbing off the bed, “and it’s important that I look my best for this mornings show trial.”
“Anything you need in particular?”
“A cup of tea would be most acceptable, but what I really require is a razor, a bar of soap, a toothbrush and some toothpaste. I don’t have to remind you, Wesley, that a defendant is entitled to this simple request before he makes an appearance in court.”
“I’ll see you get them,” said Wesley, “and would you like to read my copy of the Sun?”
“That’s kind of you, Wesley, but if the chief superintendent has finished with yesterday’s Times, I’d prefer that.” A West Indian chuckle was followed by the closing of the shutter on the cell door.
Pat didn’t have to wait long before he heard a key turn in the lock. The heavy door was pulled open to reveal the smiling face of Wesley Pickett, a tray in one hand, which he placed on the end of the bed.
“Thank you, Wesley,” said Pat as he stared down at the bowl of cornflakes, small carton of skimmed milk, two slices of burned toast and a boiled egg. “I do hope Molly remembered,” added Pat, “that I like my eggs lightly boiled, for two and a half minutes.”
“Molly left last year,” said Wesley “I think you’ll find the egg was boiled last night by the desk sergeant.”
“You can’t get the staff nowadays,” said Pat. “I blame it on the Irish, myself. They’re no longer committed to domestic service,” he added as he tapped the top of his egg with a plastic spoon. “Wesley, have I told you about the time I tried to get a laboring job on a building site in Liverpool, and the foreman, a bloody Englishman—” Pat looked up and sighed as he heard the door slam and the key turn in the lock. “I suppose I must have told him the story before,” he muttered to himself.
After Pat had finished breakfast, he cleaned his teeth with a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste that were even smaller than the ones they’d supplied on his only experience of an Aer Lingus flight to Dublin. Next, he turned on the hot tap in the tiny steel washbasin. The slow trickle of water took some time to turn from cold to lukewarm. He rubbed the mean piece of soap between his fingers until he’d whipped up enough cream to produce a lather, which he then smeared all over his stubbled face. Next he picked up the plastic Bic razor, and began the slow process of removing a four-day-old stubble.