18. The Interview

In the interview room at the police station

The Interview room in Midcomfort police station was an uncomfortable place to be in, largely because the bearded Mr White refused to give his name even when Major Cedric Witherington was allowed in as his adviser and bellowed at him until the DI begged him to stop. Mr White, though having indicated a tendency to violent resistance, was still handcuffed. A uniformed officer was seated by the door as a barrier against escape shoud White somehow release his bondage.

DI Florence Winthorpe eyed her prisoner with a frown. “Tell me, Mr White,” she asked, “are you intent on overthrowing the elected government in this country? Is that why you entered the home of an agent of that government and attempted to murder the woman you found peacefully living her life in there?”

“What she means is, are you a loony,” growled the Makor.

“Please,” Florence eyed the Major with a great deal of understandable ferocity, “if you intervene again I will have you removed…”

Not “ask you to leave” but “have you removed”, noted Mr White. Maybe he was winning after all.

“Sorry,” muttered the Major with assumed humility, “I was out of order.”

The DI returned her gaze to he prisoner, who had a half-smirk on his face, giving the impression that somewhere in his head he had an idea he might be winning a battle of words, even though one hadn’t started yet.

“So with your permission I’ll call you Percival,” smiled Florence, though she didn’t feel remotely like smiling.

“Call me what the heck you like,” responded Mr White, “but I ain’t no Percival and won’t take any notice of it.”

She nodded. “Then Sebastian,” she told him, “that must be your name…”

“Sebastian died, woman!” snapped Mr White, “In his mother’s womb he was, and the b***h couldn’t keep him alive! Think of that, harlot! A mother who as good as killed her infant before it could even get a lungful of air! So if you call me Sebastian then you are most certainly doing your damnedest to offend me!”

“Is that why you’re so offensive, Mr White?” she asked, “or shall I abbreviate it and merely refer to you as White?”

“Call me what you like, but never, not ever, call me Sebastian,” he growled ”Then White, was it you who entered Mr Newby’s cottage, registered as Emerald Cottage, with the intention of murdering Miss Smithson?” asked Florence, “and think hard about your answer: your future life on planet Earth may depend on it!”

“Why’s that? Have you brought capital punishment back into this god-forsaken little backwater of a town, have you?” he sneered.

The DI shook her head, “Not at all, as you know, White, but there may be a comfort difference between a Victorian gaol and a modern insane facility,” she said firmly, “you must understand: either a bare-walled cell with a piss-pot in the corner and the stink of urine in the air, or a warm and comfortable bedroom with attractive young nurses ready to fulfil your every decent dream? Or maybe you’re the sort of man who finds more acceptable comfort in the presence of horny old fellow jailbirds sharing your facilities with you than dedicated health professionals with, may I presume, a gentle attitude to your particular illness.”

White forced himself to strain against a restraint, trying to stand up. “I am not suffering from any illness!” he shouted, “Mummy told me that when the teacher at school suggested I ought to have my mind looked at! Then when I was a man I became a teacher myself and I never told any boy or girl that they were mad, though in my mind most of them were! Bring back corporal punishment! That’s what I believe! Spare the rod and spoil the child, that’s the greater truth!”

“And give full licence to the occasional sadistic bully with a degree to mutilate the flesh of sweet youngsters?” she asked, and the Major visibly shuddered.

“I had one of those at private school,” he muttered, and then “I’m sorry for the interruption, ma’am” he added.

“That’s all right, Major,” she said with an understanding smile, “there were still some sadists with rulers in their hands when I was learning how to avoid them.”

“You see!” gloated White, “in my world everyone would be scared to death of doing wrong! There would be executions! Hangings! Lines of wrong-doers by a brick wall pock-marked with bullet holes, and joyously many new graves in the cemetery!”

“Is that what your gloopy is all about?” asked the DI with a shudder, “terrifying the population so that you can have your will and do whatsoever you please? So that nobody would object if the odd man or woman ended up, dead in the gutter, scarred by your torture?

“No!” shouted White, “the world would be at peace with itself! Everyone would say what I say and do what I do. They would make me King! That’s what I ought to be, me and my brother, a double king on a throne fit for a perfect world.”

“So you did attempt to murder Miss Smithson in Emerald cottage?” asked Florence.

“Of course I did!” he shouted, “there’s no place in a perfect world for a woman like that!”

“Like what?”

“Like the w***e who lived in a house with a lonely twin in it! The poor boy, forcibly separated from his better half… living in another town, even… What chance would he have when the last trumpet blares out?”

“Twaddle!” put in the Major, “a tragic mixture of insanity and pseudo religion! Last trumpets indeed.”

“Please,” scowled Florence, “I have warned you, Major.”

“Then I’ll wait outside,” grunted the Major, and he made to stand up in order to walk to the door. “There’s no need for then,” smiled Florence, “just keep your own counsel.”

“Look at you! A Major with medals cow-towing to a harlot!” jeered White. “See, I’m right? Mummy told me to watch out for harlots keen to touch me where they never ought to! Yes she did! Because they’re after touching my precious twin, and I must stop them! Our lives are treasured, and all women should be kept at bay and well away from us! Mummy said that, too. It’s dirty women who would want to touch my brother… harlots the lot of them.”

“That’s almost enough,” interrupted Florence, and she smiled sweetly at the prisoner in front of her. “You know, White, it’s my opinion that you are the result of mental ill-treatment by a mother mourning for the loss of your twin, and that everything you think or say is distorted by what amounts to insanity woven into your head during the long years of your childhood.. That, as I say, is my opinion, but I’ll let the courts decide whether I’m right or not. Take him away!”

The constable who had been seated near the door for the duration of the interview released White from his place at the table and, not gently, forced him out, through the door and towards the cell block.

© Peter Rogerson, 18.07.24