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They would not allow me to see Keane the morning of the trial, under the excuse he was meeting with his solicitor. No amount of cajoling, threatening, or (to my shame) pleading gave me entrance through his cell door. Instead I was firmly thrust out into the rapidly filling courtroom. Fingal had managed to find room enough between the rows of busibodies to settle ourselves in the palm of fate, and the mercy of a man pompously seated above the rest. The murmurs of ogling curiosity seekers swelled forth into the lashing tongues of Judas’ kin. Thirty pieces of silver had they swallowed for the recreation of Salem’s darkest hour. Now, rather than nineteen haggard witches, there was one; one noble soul among a thousand lost.
My spine became painfully stiff as the trail of people entering the gallery not only thickened, but swelled to enormous proportions. Certainly there were not that many people in the town. A great many of the younger women, all bearing wedding rings and sobbing babes, felt obliged to fight their way through the crowd to greet me in the most sombre of tones. They wished me well, though they also expressed empathy was useless without ceaseless weeping. When the tear-laden social insects scurried off to their seats, the second wave surged upon me. This time it was the men, many of whom were either a member of The Society, or a direct client of Keane’s. Their words, unlike those of their wives and daughters, were suitably subdued with the meaningless drabble I had come to expect from those male counterparts who lost their tongues upon marriage. This was at least bearable, until—
“Good God,” I hissed to Fingal. “What the hell is he doing here?” But it was too late, for the great obtuse buffoon clumsily stumbled up to my seat; his overbearing bulk pressing others out of his way as his voice shot out in one, irritating squeak.
“Miss Lawrence.”
“Lord Billington.” I woefully outstretched my hand, wanting only to rip it away as his meaty fingers began pumping it up and down vigorously with a smile that found no purpose but to expose a revolting amount of brown teeth.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“I thought it appeared rather dreary, myself.” It was, in fact, a bright day, startlingly warm in spite of Devon’s sobriety, but I believed even Billington to bare the slightest intelligence as to understand my meaning.
Which he did.
Barely.
“Oh. Yes. Well it isn’t a very nice day for you, perhaps. The sun is out, though. Quite lovely really.” The fat man leaned forward to peer around my head. “I don’t suppose there is an open seat—”
“No. I’m afraid there isn’t; however, there seems to be a space near Mrs. Groves.” Billington glanced at the raggedy old woman sitting near the back of the enormous room and shuddered. While it was believed Mrs. Groves had a tendency to leak vomit from between her dentures, few actually found truth in the theory.
And even less were willing to attest to excess stains along their trouser leg. I gave Billington no sympathy as he gradually disappeared, and I returned to my seat. Fingal leaned toward my ear.
“That man sounds like a fecking pain in the arse.”
When it comes to that blasted buffoon Lord Billington, such words are necessary.
I fought down a smile at my mind's ironies, merely nodding as I fingered the pocket knife settled in my pocket, and with it, the photograph. Suddenly, a hush settled over the room. Two uniformed officers, each suitably tidied and polished, marched toward the stand. There has always been a great awe of power, and yet, I was not so much struck by the two strapping young gentlemen as I was the figure between them.
Fingal gasped.
“Christ! He’s a skeleton!” The man thrust before the crowd lifted his head, allowing me to meet Keane’s eyes for the first time in an eternity. He looked dreadful. More than that.
He looked dead.
His blue irises stared out emptily within their jagged, red pools. His skin hung as pale sheets from his bones, and his grey hair stuck out rebelliously from a thin layer of water, which, I guessed, was to serve in place of the much-used pomade. He was poorly shaven, this tattered individual, if he had shaven at all. His tie was straight, though his collar bore several unorthodox creases, and his waistcoat had been entirely abandoned.
With his jacket unbuttoned, I could see why.
Keane was no longer merely thin, but concave; imploding gradually at the world’s cruelties. I squelched my urge to react so strongly as the good doctor at my side indeed had, but it was a battle more easily lost than won. How could I not have noticed the extent of his ruin? How could I miss that bleak hopelessness in his eyes or the dry set of his encrusted lips? Had he even been given a drink of water that morning? I rose to my feet deftly as the magistrate entered and sat with the same habitual disdain; my eyes never leaving Keane. This did not; however, exempt me from the prosecutor’s opening remarks.
“Ladies and gentlemen, today we look upon the most despicable of crimes with a heavy heart. Treason. A crime which, by definition, can turn a nation of strength and peace into one of war and ruin. Ladies and gentlemen, you will recall that this is a hanging offence. Not only that, but such a horrid show of hatred towards His Majesty caused the very war of which we have only just beridded ourselves. Think of the valiant young men who died on the field of battle. Think of your husbands, your brothers, your sons. Many of them lost, with many still wounded.” The prosecutor swung an arm wildly toward Keane’s place at the top of a wooden tower. “And this man—this man, who claimed to help those staggering back from the frey—has acted against his government only to send those brave soldiers back into the very face of death.”
Here the solicitor paused as the weeds of slanderous whispers took root and flourished around him. Many of those surrounding myself gathered only general remarks about the great tragedies that had shadowed their households, but there were others—people who had indeed been born out of scorn, rather than acceptance—who’s phrases were a good deal more personal and cut deeply into the pit of my stomach.
Satisfied with the crowd’s response, the room was silenced by the magistrate, and the opening remarks were continued.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I put it to you. Ought we let a friend of the Soviets—a communist country—be free to jeopardise the integrity of our own nation? Shall we allow the consequences held fast for the past hundreds of years to crumble at the illusion that this man is beyond human punishment? Or shall the full force of the law follow its due course and fulfil the fate befitting those treasonous scoundrels? Death, ladies and gentlemen. The choice is yours. Should this man live, or die.”
A starting gun was fired and the competitors instantly shot along the track. Keane’s own solicitor gave an equally striking opening; however, much of the crowd had already been spoiled by the prosecutor’s corrosive lies. Gradually the trial moved sluggishly forward. Witnesses were sworn in and stationed. Questions were asked. Answers were given or cajoled. And, in the end, the party momentarily thrust into the spotlight rose from the wooden rail and once more took their seat.
The only one who couldn’t was Keane.
I carefully observed each juror’s face as evidence for each side was put forth; some remaining more stolid than others. The mention of a young boy piqued their curiosity, while the insistence that my companion had never seen the lad before was immediately thrust aside. With each passing hour, Keane seemed to fade further ash. His jaw was set as his teeth ground together.
How dare they.
How dare they marr the life of a man far better than any in the room. All they wanted was a story—a tale to pass onto their children—that might entertain their dreary existence for a year or so. But then where would they be? Would they search for another innocent man to give reason for Europe’s moral degradation? I glanced again at Keane’s solicitor as the sweat dripped down from beneath the horrit, white wig and over his face. The balance was fairly well unyielding toward either side. Keane was neither doomed, nor free. The next witness was called.
“Your honour, I now call Major Daniel Burke to the stand.” A figure shifted a few rows ahead of me, pushing himself to his feet and tottery toward the stand. He refused an officer’s assistance, but instead climbed the short flight of stairs unaided.
Hand on the Bible.
Unbreachable promises made.
The prosecution began.
“Major Burke, are you aware of the pretences under which you were brought before this court today.” The near ninety year old man nodded grimly.
“I am to serve as a character witness for the defendant, am I not?”
“You are. Now, in understanding the circumstances, I ask the court’s patience as I do my best to clarify the major’s relationship with the accused.” A stack of paper was shuffled between his hands before he continued. “How long would you say you have known the professor? Ten years?” The major scoffed.
“More than that. I have known Brendan since he moved to Devon.”
“And would you say that he is a respectable man?”
“Without a doubt.”
“You trust him then?”
“With my life.” How simple an answer, one I myself had put forth a thousand times, and yet, to hear it come from another, forced Keane’s head to raise and the slightest sign of awe to once more enter his face. Of this; however, neither barrister took note.
“You also know a great deal of his life before he found permanent residence in Devon, is that also true?” Major Burke leaned forward; eyes drilling down into the men stationed on the floor.
“I know of it, which is hardly the same as witnessing the best years of another man’s life.”
“But you know he was born in what is now the Republic of Ireland?”
“I was aware.”
“I see.” The prosecutor’s face was momentarily obscured from the magistrate, but that did not mean neither I, nor Keane himself, missed the joyous twitch of his lips. “You were also aware, then, that the defendant actually took up arms against His Majesty and fought alongside the rebels to create the very republic we have formerly mentioned?”
“I was.” The barrister nodded once to the noble veteran before turning to the awaiting jurors. “I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, what sort of man do we have who would dare endanger his own nation for the sake of violence and uprising?” Again the room grew still, and might even have agreed with the energetic solicitor, had it not been for a strong voice arising through the fog.
“A good one, I’d say.” The barrister spun around to face Major Burke, but the elderly man continued on. “What would you do, Sir, if your family was in danger? What did you do when the Nazi’s waved their Swasticas near our boundaries?”
“Mister Kent is to be the one asking questions, Major, nor yourself.” The magestraid warned, glaring down from his mahogany perch. But the question had already been asked and answered in the like. Keane’s youth was excused indefinitely for just that.
Youth.
I had seen the photographs, though not the man himself. The remnants of dark blonde hairs were still hinted at the nape of his neck; therefore, imagining the shade overtaking the grey was hardly difficult. The lines and creases on his face were easily washed away, as were the dark shadows that had crept forth during the last several days.
For an instant, I saw the young Brendan Keane.
And instantly feared I would not do so again.
The trial continued, faster then, as though every member of His Majesty’s court had grown restless by the Major’s empathy. A list of witnesses that would have lasted several days were immediately pressed into one, that Pilat may wash his hands and be free of his blood. Sweat dripped from Keane as he leaned heavily against the rail. How could they place him on a turret, so high above the rest, and still ridicule him so?
Hours we sat silently as both God and Lucifer stabbed forth into the jurors' limp minds. And then it came—that moment of damnation—when all twelve men and women filed through the door and escaped from our sight. Keane too was taken down to one of the temporary cells. I rose from my seat to chance a mere brush of words with him, but Fingal’s hands kept me still. It was useless; no longer enough that two people had known each other for a decade. Time mattered not to His Majesty, and, to me, there was no longer enough time indeed to be had.
The jury returned with less than an hour among themselves, and Keane was dragged in by the shoulders. He had aged a hundred years since last he stood on the podium. His brow glinted a pasty white as a sheen of sweat covered his body. The front of his shirt was plastered against his chest; accentuating the grim outline of his ribs and the near concavity of his stomach. His eyes seemed to bugg from his head with an almost feverish light. When I tried to discuss as much with Fingal; however, the magistrate entered and took his seat.
“Has the jury come to a verdict unanimous among all its members.” A heavyset, balding man heaved himself to his feet.
“They have, your honour.”
“And what is the verdict?” The man’s eyes flitted upward toward Keane for a moment before falling once more to the floor.
“Guilty, your honour.” A large, bear-like hand caught mine. But it was not over. Not yet. The magistrate turned to the wooden turret.
“Would the accused please stand.” Keane was pressed against the rail by the two officers; knuckles bleached as he clung desperately at the wooden edge. “Brendan Edward Keane, I hereby sentence to the most severe punishment known to His Majesty’s Court: to be hung by the neck until determined dead. The date of said hanging will be decided in due course. Have you anything to say before the court?” Keane’s back went rigid and I immediately expected a monologue befitting that of such a magnificent man. Something suitably Shakesperian. A wrenching reflection similar to the tragedies of Hamlet, or indeed Macbeth.
To my woeful surprise, and bitter disappointment, my companion made no effort at a carefully constructed speech. Instead, he physically sagged against the rail, his eyes flickering to mine and catching them instantly and willingly.
“By God, Lawrence,” He moaned. “What has this world come to?” And, with the final declaration of woe, Keane swayed violently, wretched copious amounts of vomit and blood down his shirt, and collapsed soundlessly to the floor.