18 THE SOLICITOR

He might be in serious trouble by now.

“If I had my way we’d be throwing the book at you, but it seems that nobody at the school or out of it wants to press any charges,” almost shouted Inspector Piggott to Ivan Bramble, and Sergeant Smethson looked at his superior with unusual admiration. “God knows why, because if it was my son who’d been half beaten to death I’d want the book thrown at the beater!”

“Maybe they understand,” muttered Ivan, reluctant to say anything. “Maybe they think it’s quite wrong for a fifteen year-old schoolboy to sit, half drunk, in a sleazy pub with his thuggish mates and assault every other woman who chances to go anywhere near him.”

“The woman you say he assaulted...” began Smethson.

“I told you it was me!” rasped Ivan. He’d not slept much in the past twenty-four hours, a goodly part of it, the darkest hours, spent on his own in a cell with only a passing spider for company. He was feeling far from bright enough to answer questions, especially the sort of questions asked by men who were just going through the motions of finding out the truth. They had made their minds up and just wanted something on paper to make their opinions more incontrovertible.

“But you’re not a woman,” Piggott told him, with controlled patience. “You’re a man pretending to be a woman and you don’t wear a brassiere. The only men who where such ladylike garments are either drag queens or loonies, and you’re not the former.”

“Meaning I’m a loony, I assume,” growled the prisoner. “Well, sir, I might be but I’ll tell you this: I’ve got one hell of a lot more humanity and understanding about me than you have! For a start I’d never dream of using words like loony when talking about unfortunate people who’ve suffered the kind of desperate experiences you’re incapable of understanding. ”

Smethson thought, for a moment, that he might applaud, but decided it wouldn’t do his future career one ounce of good if he did, so he remained discreetly quiet. But there was a corner of his mind that was open to Ivan Bramble and his account. After all, it had been he who had gathered up the beautiful blonde hair, hair that had seemed real enough and that Dearie had said, in her professional opinion and under the microscope, was as real as human hair could be.

“Humanity enough to beat up little school boys?” demanded the Inspector, replying to what he perceived as an accusation.

“Maybe not, but humanity enough to know when a fellow human being’s feeling desperate enough to want to melt into a puddle and drip through a hole in the floor,” snapped Ivan. “And that’s where I am now!”

“Ah, so that is you, is it? A weasel wanting to drip into Hell, where you properly belong? That’s your excuse, is it?” grated Inspector Piggott.

“I’ve had traumatic experiences, the worst possible kind, and all I’ve wanted is help,” replied Bramble quietly, forcing self-control to mask his anger. “But when I try to tell you exactly what’s happened to me all I get is a wall of disbelief and prejudice. You even took a second lot of DNA samples from me because you said the first lot had gone wrong, and I assume they were wrong because they confirm what I’ve been telling you ever since the bloke in the flat next door was discovered...”

“The bloke who happened to be your brother,” sighed Piggott. “I reckon if my brother was found dead I’d know about it, and demand answers.” he added wearily.

“I didn’t know that I had a brother,” sighed Ivan. “Apparently, and you discovered this, I didn’t know anything about it, I was born one of triplets that were separated at birth. Not one of us knew of the existence of the other two. I suppose he might have looked a bit like me, but so do lots of other completely non-related people. I’ve not got any particularly memorable features.”

“And the woman in the field?” put in Smethson.

“What woman?”

“Evana Craddock, she was called. But then, you must have known her to call yourself Evana when you were a woman because I don;t believe in coincidence when it’s a mile long … if you ever were a woman, that is.” barked Piggott.

“She was found dead in a field down Quarryvale way,” added the sergeant.

“Worked in the chippie near your flat. Till she died, that is. Of a heart attack, the pathologist said, just like your brother and, wait for it, she was your actual and very real sister! The DNA can’t lie.” hissed the Inspecor.

“DNA can’t lie, you say? Apparently it can,” muttered Ivan Bramble, “I suppose you needed a second sample of my own DNA because you reckon that the first one lied! What sort of men are you? The sort that gets a bit of a chance to guess make-believe answers to impossible questions up front and reckons that’s all there is in the world? As if everything can be guessed? Like those who still believe that the world’s flat and someday they’ll fall off the edge if they go close enough, or those that are convinced and that somewhere in the bright blue sky there’s an invisible being controlling everything?”

“Well, we’re not satisfied about anything, so we’ve got an expert to chat to you, someone who might believe that black is white if you’re convincing enough, and he’s coming this way this afternoon,” said Piggott standing up. “It might do you some good, or it might not, depending on how much wool you can pull over his eyes. Meanwhile, you can enjoy our hospitality and a nice quiet cell until he gets here.”

“You can’t do that!” snapped Ivan Bramble, “I know my rights! I want a solicitor!”

“Oh, you can have one. Any time you like. You’ve already been told that. And the joy of it is, we’ve got a couple on call. Wait here.”

The two officers left Ivan Bramble all alone in the interview room.

When the solicitor was brought to him, holding a beige file in which there were apparently notes concerning his recent activities, Ivan’s heart leapt.

He’d been expecting a dowdy elderly man in a grey suit and instead he was greeted by a young woman in a skirt that looked to be far too short to belong to any member of the legal profession, and a smile that held within it no notion of predetermined innocence or guilt.

“It’s good to meet you, Mr Bramble,” she said, “the plods don’t believe a word that you’ve said to them, but I do. You see, something of the sort happened to me not so long ago, and it does leave the body confused and very, very delicate and make it open to all sorts of abusive interviews.”

And she sat down opposite him, crossed her legs, and smiled like an angel.

“Let me see,” she said, quietly, “when you woke up as a woman, what was the first thing you thought?”

He couldn’t help it. It had to be said because it was the honest answer to her question.

“My balls had gone, and my whatsit, and I could have wept for ever,” he said.

© Peter Rogerson 02.01.19