Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [132]
There was Haskins, the bully who had fought with Pitt, a sad, shallow man who had won the few victories in his life through violence; he was respected to his face but mocked behind his back. There was Ross, a handsome, genial man who lived off the earnings of prostitutes and was in for some stupid theft. Ross saw nothing wrong in either occupation: one fulfilled a need, the other was merely making the best of an opportunity. When he was released he would do precisely the same again. The concept of right and wrong in anything except personal loyalties was unknown to him. In spite of himself, Pitt could not dislike him.
Pitt also noticed Goodman, who was small, overwhelmingly greedy, but an excellent raconteur, even if it was probably all lies. He was in for embezzlement from his father-in-law, and like most of the others, proclaimed his innocence, if not of the fact then of any moral fault in the matter. His weasellike face was full of indignation. On the other hand, his fertile imagination, and some education, made his company, on the few occasions they were permitted to speak, a relief from the corroding boredom.
And there was Wilson, a man so savage in his rage he lashed out at everyone; Wood, ignorant and angry with a world which had no use and no place for him; fat Molloy, who had spent most of his life in prison and feared the outside world in spite of his repeated longing for it; and poor little Raeburn with drooping eyes and mouth, who stole simply because he was hungry and incapable of earning his way.
At first Pitt hated them all because they were part of the Steel, and everything that trapped and held him, all the ugliness and the perpetuity of the place.
Then through small acts, glimpses of pain, he was reached. At first these incidents seemed trivial; a brushing of the surface of his mind, more an irritation because he had no emotion to spare than any real empathy.
Then a stupid and pointless tragedy involving Raeburn jerked Pitt violently out of his self-pity. Raeburn was a purposeless, simpleminded little man who seemed inadequate to face the world. He had only one thing of which he was proud: though he was promiscuous and he stole, he did not tell lies, not even to escape punishment. Now and again he boasted of it and no one minded; it was boring and they took for granted that he was harmless, and he challenged no one’s territory. There was a tacit understanding that one did not victimize Raeburn. He filled the role of a house pet.
On this occasion, when Pitt was sunk deep in his own misery, the permanent cold, the hunger, and the emotional loneliness and fears he was being forced with every succeeding day to face more openly, a jailer’s watch was mislaid, and by some mischance Raeburn was accused of having taken it. He swore he had not, but the jailer, who did not know him, did not accept the denial. Raeburn was removed to solitary confinement. He was terrified of being alone, he had no thoughts to fill the silence and it threatened to obliterate him. When they came for him he lashed out, and for that he was undeniably guilty. They dismissed the charge of thieving as no longer important; now he had assaulted a warden. He was put in a cell in isolation, uncomprehending, still swearing he had not taken the watch.
At night in his bunk, shivering in the dark, Pitt could hear Raeburn crying out, sometimes loudly, “I didn’t do it! Tell ’em I didn’t do it!” Other times it was only a confused babbling that sank away into silence.
He was a weak little man, and the one thing he valued had been removed. His only worth was that everyone knew he did not tell lies, but now someone had not believed him. His solitude was vast, like annihilation itself, and he had nothing to cling to. He either would not