Chapter 22 – The Trial

For as long as there have been wars there have been iconic images that define them.

Stretching back through time to the pale golden profiles of warriors on black Attic pottery, to the naïve stitches on the Bayeux Tapestry with the dying English king holding the fateful arrow and

Joe Rosenthal’s raising of the flag at Iwo Jima. Then the video age with the shocking execution of a POW by General Laon on the streets of Saigon, the awful, heart rending image of Kim Phuc, stripped of her clothes and most of her flesh, fleeing from her recently napalmed village, to the most recent computer-game images from the Gulf and the trails of twisted bodies on the Basra highway.

The video reel of the killings of Corporals David Howes and Derek Tony Wood became the abiding images of the conflict. On 19th March 1988 two British soldiers accidently drove into the path of the funeral of an IRA terrorist. What terrible bad luck brought them to the Andersonstown Road that afternoon can never be known but, as the newsreel captures the mob swarming over their Volkswagen Passat the viewer can only watch in silent horror. Suddenly Derek Wood looses off a single round from his pistol and the crowd flees with the suddenness of flies disturbed from a carcass. But with the same thirst for blood that brings the flies back, the crowd closes in again enveloping the car and dragging the soldiers into the street, beating and stripping them, then dragging them to waste ground where they are summarily executed.

The footage lasts no more than a minute or two. Eventually the crowd, fearing that their murderous actions will be captured and used against them, turn on the cameraman and the filming stops but what was been recorded is played back that evening at the top of every news bulletin for some days to come. The film shocks all sides and somewhere, so it is alleged, it also moves certain people within the British establishment to a desire for revenge. Three weeks later the bodies of six senior members of the South Brigade of the IRA were found in a barn in a field near Derrynoose in just inside the Northern Ireland border. The British

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Army and the British Government maintained that the killings were as a result of factional in- fighting and the six dead were executed by a rival IRA members in a power struggle. The IRA vigorously denied this and claimed that the men had been captured by an SAS team south of the border, brought into the North and shot in retaliation for the Corporal killings.

As with so many of the claims and counter-claims during the conflict little was made of it.

There was no public appetite for an enquiry into this or any other killings of IRA suspects, as the public believed that each death only avenged another amongst British civilians or the British armed forces. It was only as the peace process began in earnest in the 1980s that some of the incidents that most incensed the Republicans began to develop into causes célèbre and chief amongst them was the Derrynoose killings. It was widely believed that a relative, possibly even a brother, of one of the Ulster politicians most prominent in the peace process had been amongst the dead and gradually it became apparent that an independent investigation was critical if the peace process was to thrive.

In March 1994 John Major, the then British Prime Minister, announced to the House of

Commons that an independent enquiry into the Derrynoose killings was to be set up led by a senior High Court Judge. It was no doubt hoped that the mere announcement of the enquiry would be sufficient to appease the Republicans and in a sense it did. The peace process progressed and in October of that year all the major Para-military organisations declared a cease- fire. Unfortunately for the British government their handpicked High Court Judge turned out not to be the stooge they had hoped. The enquiry continued through 1994 and into 1995 calling witnesses from both sides whose tongues had been loosened in the new atmosphere of entente.

There was a force about the process of justice that just could not be stopped and when the findings were announced in late 1995 the results were so sensational that there was no kind of news day in which they could be buried. The unequivocal conclusion was that a mass murder had

2 Chapter 22 – The Derrynoose Trial taken place in the barn in South Armagh and that the perpetrators of the crime were indisputably

British soldiers, almost certainly members of the Special Air Service.

Although the story rumbled on for a few weeks the news circus moved on. 1996 was the year in which the Thatcher Reich, which appeared to have lasted for a thousand years, was finally beginning to crumble. The kind of sleaze, upon smut, upon rotten corruption that accompanies the demise of most great empires was devouring the Conservative party and Britain, whilst raking over the Tabloid entrails of the Conservative implosion with prurient fascination, was more than ever ready for change. The news hounds forgot Derrynoose but, in the way of all injustices, those most closely involved did not. A small group of devoted campaigners for justice remained.

Composed almost entirely of mourning parents, they harried and cajoled and hassled for a trial.

There were names in the report that had not been made public and these names, so the campaigners believed were the names of the soldiers who had shot dead their relatives.

After the Labour landslide in 1997 they saw what the thought was their best opportunity.

The Derrynoose killings had taken place on Thatcher’s watch and a trial of the soldiers responsible would make a perfect piece of symbolism for the slaying of the Thatcher dragon by cool New Labour. They were right, after a fashion, but they were still several years from any kind of justice.

Twelve years in fact but eventually, in late 2008, that it was announced that a prosecution was to be brought against one of the soldiers, a Sergeant (now retired) Geoff ‘Buster’ Wilkins.

Part of the great delay had been the enormous task the Director of Public Prosecutions had in deciding not only whether a trial would be in the public interest but whether, after the passage of twenty years and with so much Press, there could be a fair trial. Of the four SAS soldiers who had been implicated in the Enquiry report, two were dead, insufficient evidence could be gathered on the third but they believed with the fourth, Sergeant Wilkins, they stood a fair chance of achieving a conviction.

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The trial was to take place on May 5th 2009 and it was the week before that Dorrell learned that he would be presiding. When he learned of the appointment he had mixed feelings, he didn’t deny that he always enjoyed being involved high profile in trials, he was not vain particularly but he was always pleased by the notoriety that such trials gave him. However, he was also aware that there was every likelihood that this trial would become bogged down in a morass of procedure with claim and counter-claim on matters of the trial’s legality destined to occupy more of the court’s time than any investigation of the facts or any attempt at uncovering the truth. No

Judge would especially relish this. As it happened, however, far from achieving notoriety he would achieve oblivion and far from the trial becoming a procedural marathon, there would, in fact, be no trial at all.

Two days before the start of the trial Dorrell received a visitor in his rooms at the Old

Bailey. He had been announced by his secretary who had told that there was a gentleman waiting to see him on an urgent matter relating to the case of R v Wilkins. Ordinarily Dorrell would accept visits unless they had been prearranged, but the gentleman had been rather insistent, so his secretary told him, and had therefore agreed.

When the man entered Dorrell had lit a cigarette and was making the pretence of studying some papers on his desk, he motioned to the man to take a seat in front of his desk. Dorrell was childishly amused by his habit of always appearing to be busy whenever anyone entered the room, he liked to think that it added to his sense of superiority; it would never do for visitors to believe they had the upper hand in some way. After a few moments and a deliberately long drag on his cigarette, he placed the top back on his pen, sat back in his chair and asked how he could help.

‘My name is Alex Chatham your Honour, I work for MI5.’

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Dorrell frowned. He had been half expecting a visit of this nature, the trial if Buster

Wilkins was freighted with political implications both above and below the waterline. It was not at all surprising that he should be hearing from the Intelligence services and would, of course, not be the first time that third parties had attempted to influence the outcome of a trial that they did not wish to see proceed. It was a wonder, he thought, that no one had ever studied his record on such matters.

Alex Chatham lifted a leather attaché case onto the desk and span it round so that when he opened it Dorrell could see the contents. Inside was a laptop which Chatham brought to life by tapping one of the keys with his middle finger. On the screen was an indistinct image, it was dark and blurred and Dorrell could not make out any detail. In the middle of the image was the transparent white triangular ‘play’ button. Chatham moved the cursor with the track ball until it rested over the triangle and clicked.

The quality of the video was not good taken, as it was, through a narrow gap in a zipped bag that had been placed on a table in the corner of a room. The content however was entirely clear and the indistinct image now sprang into life and resolved itself into a scene with which

Dorrell was horribly familiar. He sat motionless, his lips were dry and although his heart rate had increased he felt his hands and feet grow cold.

The room was windowless and empty. Apart from four bare walls the only feature was a single wooden cross that had been attached to one of the walls. There was a sudden commotion as the door opened and two men, dressed as Roman soldiers but bare chested, dragged another man across the room towards the crucifix. The man between them was limp. He was stripped naked and there were obvious signs that he had been flogged. His back was bleeding and marked with vivid red wheals. As he was dragged his feet trailed out behind him and his head hung loosely from his shoulders. The figure was flung to the floor falling on his side and revealing his face to the camera.

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In spite of the ridiculous hope that it would turn out to be a nightmare, Dorrell knew that the face was his own and that the two men who had hauled him to the room were male prostitutes that he had hired that evening. Dorrell leant forward to stop the video but Chatham shot forward and grabbed his wrist. Dorrell slumped back into his chair.

Once on the floor one of the soldiers planted a firm kick in Dorrell’s ribs causing him to double up. The other soldier, wearing the brush plume of a Roman Centurion then began to drag

Dorrell to his feet, once upright both men grabbed Dorrell and flung his back hard up against the wooden upright of the cross. Then, as one of the soldiers held Dorrell in place by supporting his naked and limp body by the throat, the Centurion disappeared from the shot returning with a canvass hold-all from which he removed two lengths of rope. At either end of the crosspiece were two staples, grabbing one of Dorrell’s arms the Centurion fed the rope through them and drew it tight over Dorrell’s wrist repeating the process until the arm was securely fastened in position.

He then moved to the other side and did the same with the other arm. Fixed as he now was the two soldiers stood back and began to talk between themselves, suddenly one lashed out with his boot and knocked Dorrell’s legs from under him causing him to wince in pain as he found himself supporting his entire weight on his wrists. He was left helpless in this position for several moments before one of the soldiers stepped forward and dragged him back upright again and held him position. The other soldier then took something from the leather pouch that hung around his waist. As he held it up to Dorrell’s arm it became clear that it was a nail which the soldier proceeded to push against the yielding flesh of Dorrell’s wrist. Steadying the nail with his left hand and then swung an iron headed masonry hammer with his right, punching the head of the nail and driving it deep into Dorrell’s wrist. Where his head had been limp and his body lifeless he now stiffened, his head shot backwards and smacked against the upright of the cross, his teeth were clenched in a pained grimace and the fingers on both hands splayed out as they had suddenly gripped a hot coal.

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The Centurion punched the head of the nail again and this time the tip found wood. A stream of blood ran down the inside of Dorrell’s outstretched arm and drips fell to the floor pooling at the soldier’s feet. Dorrell’s head had fallen back to his chest and now the only movement in his body was the involuntary twitching of his left hand, which jerked as if it was being touched by an invisible electrode. The centurion struck the nail one more time and then stood back. Letting the hammer fall to the floor he smoothed the blood into a smear down

Dorrell’s arm with his fingers and then ran his had up the back of Dorrell’s neck and pulled his head upright. Leaning forward he kissed Dorrell roughly on the lips whilst massaging Dorrell’s genitals with his free hand.

The second soldier meanwhile had lifted his tunic and was pissing onto a sponge that he held in front of him. When he had finished he let the tunic fall back down and hefted the sponge in his hand as he did so the Centurion lifted Dorrell’s face by the hair so that he could see what was happening. He then moved his hand from the back of Dorrell’s head and with a swift movement squeezed the cheeks with his thumb and index finger dragging downwards and forcing

Dorrell’s mouth to gape open. The sponge was thrust between Dorrell’s teeth and then the

Centurion placed one hand on Dorrell’s head and the other on his jaw and clamped his mouth shut. Once again Dorrell’s body arched as he gagged and struggled for breath. The Centurion held on. Dorrell’s eyes began to widen, his face was taught and flushed and his veins were visible in his neck.

Finally the Centurion let go and Dorrell coughed and spat in an attempt to eject the sponge from his mouth. The shock of being gagged in this way had made him forget the pain in his wrist where he was pinioned to the cross but as he pulled forward in an attempt to free his airway a white hot pain shot down his arm causing him to cry out. Finally he succeeded in forcing the sponge out of his mouth and to steady himself on the tips of his toes temporarily relieving the pain.

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The soldiers then left the room passing, as they did so, a youth in a white tunic that left his shoulders and legs bare. The boy proceeded to kneel at the foot of the cross and began gently kissing Dorrell’s feet. Next to him on the ground was a clear glass tear-drop shaped bottle containing a pale bronze coloured liquid. The boy turned and tipped some of the contents into his hands, rubbing them gently together and working the oil between his fingers, he then stepped forward and began to massage Dorrell’s testicles kneading them firmly but gently with both hands. When he had done this for a few moments he picked up the bottle once again and tipped more liquid into his palm. Now he began to work on the shaft of Dorrell’s penis which had grown stiff from the boy’s attentions. He worked his hands up and down Dorrell’s cock which now stood proud of his body; firmly tumescent. For the first time since entering the room Dorrell’s body became properly animated, he rolled his head from side to side and his chest was rising and falling as his breathing became more rapid. The boy now pushed both his hands down to the base of Dorrell’s penis exposing the tip.

At this point the video came to an end. With an involuntary movement Dorrell leapt out of his chair and slammed the lid of the laptop shut. His next impulse was to grab the Agent by the neck and strangle the life out him but instead he slumped back into his chair. With the blood drained from his face he was a deathly white. He looked defeated and deflated, pathetic even, like a child waiting for a punishment.

Alex Chatham leant forward and closed the briefcase before placing on the floor beside him. He then turned to Dorrell and explained why he had come to see him ‘Tomorrow morning, as I think you already know, you have a meeting with Sergeant Wilkins’ Defence Counsel.’

Dorrell nodded ‘He is coming to make representations to you concerning the validity of the trial and to suggest, based on the time that has elapsed and the amount of media coverage that the case has already received, that Sergeant Wilkins will not receive a fair trial. Your reputation is well known Mr Dorrell and, based on this, it is felt that there is a strong likelihood that this request

8 Chapter 22 – The Derrynoose Trial will fall on deaf ears. It is our belief that you see a great deal of merit in the Prosecution’s case and that you wish the trial to proceed.’

At this Dorrell remained motionless. He had recovered at least some of his composure. He would be lying if he thought that, at some point in his life, this was bound to happen. Whereas he believed that he had successfully kept his darker side a secret it would have been naïve of him to believe that, at some point, it would come to light, especially when the fate of so many passed through his hands. There was a point in his life when he had spent a good deal of time looking over his shoulder so to speak. He knew that when he drank, although he was for the most part in control, he had occasionally been careless even casual, especially when visiting the club in

Deptford – where the video had been made. On other occasions, his choice of partners had been perhaps unwise; in his thirst to satisfy his urges and disinhibited by a surfeit of whisky he had often chosen the first boy who was willing. He had always known that this was foolish but, as the years went by and he avoided exposure, he became, if anything somewhat gung-ho.

Ironically he had always felt safe at the club. The owner was a man who he felt he could genuinely trust, for no better reason than what they knew about each other. The other members too were handpicked. Each one, like Dorrell, had been carefully vetted and monitored for some months before they were allowed to ‘join’ and, in the way of all good clubs, entry was strictly on the recommendation of a minimum of two existing members. Although this may have been a pact between the entirely dishonourable it nevertheless worked as no one had any interest in anything other than seeing that it did. Who had betrayed him was impossible to say but, in his present circumstance, knowing the truth was somewhat academic.

Chatham continued ‘What we would like Mr Dorrell is, in spite of what your personal feelings may be, that you see Sergeant Wilkins’ Barrister’s and consider his representations favourably. Then, after the twenty-four hours that you would reasonably request to consider them, you will agree and make a ruling that the trial will not proceed.’

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It was the very least that Dorrell had expected and naturally he recognised that he was in no position to refuse.

‘And the…?’ Dorrell pointed at the attaché case.

‘I shall be in touch as soon as you have seen Sergeant Wilkins’ Brief and as soon as we are all satisfied that the trial will not proceed.’

•

At this point Dorrell stopped speaking and addressed Father Ignace directly.

‘You may recall Father, that when I started my story I told you that my name was not

James Dorrell?’ Father Ignace nodded. ‘Up to this point in my life and for now more than a few days following, my name was, in fact, Edward Broome. Counsel for the Defence did come to see me and I naturally dismissed the case. The following day Chatham visited me again. I was offered a choice; I either agreed to disappear or the video and other evidence would be passed to the DPP.’

‘Why did they not just simply proceed with prosecuting you?’ Father Ignace asked.

‘It’s a good point. The fact is that, whether they liked it or not, the deal was not entirely one-way. Whoever I was being sacrificed to protect and whatever crimes I may have committed,

I was being blackmailed. It was a considerable risk that I wouldn’t bring them down with me.

They would have considered that I might, even though I stood to gain nothing but a malicious satisfaction in doing so. No, the one way that they could reasonably guarantee that the matter would remain a secret was to offer me a deal – in effect my life for my silence.’

‘And so here you are now.’

‘Precisely. I was told that my death would be faked. Some unfortunate soul – an unclaimed itinerant I suspect, there are a surprising number – was placed at the wheel of my car. A crash was then staged in which it would appear that I had perished either in the crash itself or in the

10 Chapter 22 – The Derrynoose Trial subsequent fire. I was never given the full details as there was no need for me to be told but I suspect it was no great difficulty to trump us the records so that all who needed to really know were satisfied that it was me who had been driving. After that I went to South America for a few months and then I came here.’

‘When you began you said you needed someone with a wise head. I cannot, of course, to be any such thing but now I have heard your story, what is that you want?’

‘I suppose I just want to know how it should end. I know whom I was protecting when I was blackmailed and it grieves me that he should be allowed to get away with what he has done.

It’s not me I care about me you understand, I got no less than I deserved, but my actions have allowed a thoroughly bad man not only to escape justice but to continue to do so and to continue with his activities unchecked. I am uncomfortable about this to say the least but I do not know whether I have forfeit the right to see that justice be done?’

‘If it’s not an indiscrete question, how do you know who blackmailed you?’

‘Sometimes having a good friend with a very high security clearance in the CIA has its uses.’

‘Hogg?’

Dorrell nodded.

‘So He explained that his name was me about him, the blackmailer that is.’

Dorrell sketched in the details for Father Ignace, relating the story of life that strangely mirrored the two sides of his own. He explained that his name was Aaron Hampshire a military hero, a highly successful businessman and now a powerful and respected politician. He also explained that there was another, hitherto unexposed, side. Hampshire was a man for whom there were no limit to the lengths that he would go to amass fortunes and enhance his reputation; lengths that included murder, corruption, extortion and the immiseration of millions of lives across most of the surface of the globe.

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When Dorrell had finished Father Ignace sat back in his chair and thought for a while before replying ‘But you are still troubled?’

Dorrell half smiled and nodded.

‘Before you pronounce judgement there is one more part of the story that you should know.’

•

Although it had been over ten years, the first thing that Dorrell did when he arrived in

Panama City was to have a drink. It was as if all the chicks had been knocked away from under him. All the reasons that kept him sober had vanished and so, as he sat looking out over the

Ocean from the balcony of his hotel in Panama City he ordered a bottle of Rum and drank it. By the time he reached Provence eight months later he had returned to his old habit with just as much enthusiasm as he ever had. The house that he had chosen had been selected for a number of reasons, its remoteness, its views and its deep and extensive cellar which Dorrell spent the first weeks filling and subsequent weeks emptying.

The isolation shocked him. Even from the moment that he arrived he began to realise how heavily he had relied on the company of others. He had always thought of himself as a solitary animal; happy enough with friends but happier still in his own company. He had never had a regular partner and although his work colleagues represented a kind of constancy in companionship the nature of his work meant that he had little to do with them beyond the occasional after work drink. He had become accustomed to rise alone in the morning and to return to his bed alone at night. It simply never crossed his mind that this was something other what he had chosen and what he desired.

But as the days turned into weeks and the weeks to months in which the only company he had was the visit of his cleaner, an elderly Provencal of few words, and the occasional low-brow

12 Chapter 22 – The Derrynoose Trial chat with the patrons of the bar he visited in Bedouin, he began to find that the loneliness crept over him like a degenerative illness the only retreat from which was his routine which came together through no conscious effort but, once established became as rigid as a religious liturgy.

He did not sleep well and would rise in the morning in time to listen to Farming Today on the radio. He had never had the least interest in agricultural life but the soft country burs of the farmers and their descriptions of the state of the land and their livestock was innately soothing.

The rhythms of the seasons echoed the movement through the church festivals that had once been so familiar to him as a young man and, just as he had looked forward to Lent, Easter, Advent and

Christmas, so lambing, sowing, harvest and ploughing became important markers in his calendar.

The language too was dependable and timeless, recalling Thomas Hardy and the time of rural idyll before the industrial era. To hear them talk of drilling and top-dressing, wether and wean lambs, barren and fattening cattle, tups and gimmer hogs was anchoring; it gave him to something solid in a world that was other wise chaos.

After this and the headlines on Radio 4 he would wash and shave and go down to breakfast which consisted of strong black coffee and, a habit he had developed from the locals, two or three glasses of pastis and water. Like sleep his appetite for food had also diminished and he would eat no more than he felt necessary to survive. This usually meant some pâté and pain rustique for breakfast, similar for lunch, perhaps supplemented with a little salami sausage and in the evening he might open a tin of Tuna to which he would add some haricot beans or perhaps a jar of ratatouille.

After breakfast, if the weather permitted, he would take a bottle of Brandy up to the top of the garden and gradually work his way through this and a significant number of cigarettes as he stared out across the Vaucluse plain allowing his mind to drift. He would often spend hours here, sinking into an almost hypnotic trance, eyes fixed on some distant object on the horizon and mind focused on some incident in his past. He found that he could begin to recreate parts of his life

13 Chapter 22 – The Derrynoose Trial with astonishing clarity, tumbling from scene to scene, allowing the details from one to propel him forward to the next and the next and the next. Gradually it developed into a kind of game, the effects of the pastis would calm his mind and, sitting on the wooden bench under the vine he would allow himself to be drawn backwards through time until he found himself somewhere that made him comfortable. Then the game would start, it was neither a conscious nor and unconscious effort, what ever drove it existed somewhere between the two, but the task he set his mind was to recall as much detail as he could. He would, for instance, find himself in a room with which he was once familiar but had not visited for many years and began to pan round. He would force himself to remember the paintings, the colour of the carpet and curtains, the exact nature and position of individual items of furniture. He would place ornaments on shelves, run his eye along the titles of books in the bookcase and over objects on the mantle-piece. Then he would bring the room alive, allowing all the times that he remembered being in there to run past like a slideshow. He might start by being alone, watching the television, recalling programmes and the details of programmes, the room would then filled with a party, the small of sherry (his mother) mingling with cigarette smoke, the would hear the specific laughter of a particular guest and watch the cocktail food go by; small, glazed sausages, bacon wrapped around prunes and a hedgehog grapefruit with its spines of cubs of cheese on cocktail sticks.

Then it would be dark; the room would be lit by a coal fire and by the flickering light of the television. He would be on the sofa in his dressing gown, sitting, under-sufferance, watching a programme that was past his bedtime. At the other end of the sofa was his mother and next to her his father in his favourite chair. The curtains were drawn, the rain was pattering against the windows, the sound of the wind occasionally rumbling in the chimney.

Eventually he would return to the world and, although he had no memory of pouring a drink or lighting a cigarette, the bottle would more often than not be empty and the ashtray piled high. Thinking back, as he did from time to time, he realised that the scenes he had been

14 Chapter 22 – The Derrynoose Trial imagining had been playing like a loop in his mind. Although, at the time it may all have seemed quite linear the time that had passed since he had fallen into his daydream meant that he must have just rerun the memory over and over, as if gently stroking something he loved.

His afternoons were largely taken up with watching the racing on television. A few weeks after he had arrived he had ordered a giant screen television from the Internet which came with a delivery and installation and an offer of some months of satellite television free of charge. When it had arrived he instructed the engineer to site it in the sitting room to the left of the large open fireplace. The man had had some difficulty drilling holes in the uneven walls but had eventually managed it to secure it so that it now covered the entire alcove between the chimneybreast and the outside wall.

Like his newfound interest in farming Dorrell took to horseracing and gambling with unbridled enthusiasm. As well as his television he had also treated himself to a Tablet and, with the benefit of the WiFi that had come with the satellite deal he was able to place bets directly with several online bookmakers without stirring from his seat. Like all gamblers he believed that he had developed a winning system, one which, of course, had not yet quite proved itself but undoubtedly would over time. He set himself a limit of €400 and, by one o’clock most days he had placed his bets and settled down to watch with his favourite track (always Deauville if it was on) on the main screen and, by using the red button, one or two other course across the top of the screen. By five o’clock he was invariably bust but, unlike his mornings and interminable sleepless nights which were characterised by long hours of maudlin reflections, his afternoons did afford him some moments of genuine pleasure.

In the evenings his pleasure came from the bizarre opportunity offered by satellite television of inverting the world’s time zones. As the shadows lengthened in Provence so they shortened in Perth and Dorrell would seize any opportunity to watch sport, especially cricket, from the opposite hemisphere. It wasn’t so much the game itself that mattered to him, it was the

15 Chapter 22 – The Derrynoose Trial perverse delight he took in cheating the system. The colder and darker it grew in Provence so the warmer and lighter it became in Australia. Similarly as the summer temperatures rose to intolerable levels in Europe so there was relief and pleasure to be gained from watching Rugby in the driving rain from Capetown.

Invariably, like so many insomniacs, he found that he had no trouble at all sleeping for two or three hours at around eight o’clock only to wake abruptly to find that it was now just after midnight and the prospect of further sleep had gone. The television would be broadcasting some minority sport such as darts or pool and the long night would just be beginning. He would always take himself off to bed in the desperate hope that tonight would be the night that he would once again capture the secret of sleep but, more often than not, he would lie in his bed, listening to the sounds of the night, staring at the ceiling and wondering if it would ever be morning. Eventually, at around four or five he would nod off for an hour or two before waking, tuning in the Internet radio and listening to his daily dose of tales from the barn.

•

Whereas Dorrell’s routine seemed rigid enough there were cracks. As the urge for a drink when he had first quit had haunted him so his urge to satisfy his sexual cravings followed him around most days without let up. Since his first experience concerning the boy of Magdalene

Bridge so many years ago in Oxford, Dorrell had never resisted his urges for more than a few days. He may have once shocked himself but the easy way in which he had been able to travel to the club in Deptford and indulge his darkest longings had allowed him to become accustomed to the idea that it was no more than his right; familiarity with crime has a way of drawing its sting.

The incident of the taped scene that had so devastated his life had in no way damped his desires. In fact, there was a sense in which he had got away with it and although he had briefly resolved to change his ways he knew that it was never more than a vain attempt to soothe his

16 Chapter 22 – The Derrynoose Trial conscience. The trouble was, whilst he may have had a motive he had neither means not opportunity.

Tell. For some months he was able to satisfy himself with his private fantasies and self- indulgence but inevitably he had a thirst for more. He began to travel to Marseille on a regular basis where he was at able to willing partners, at first for cash for but then, having once found the right places, there was a ready of supply of men who were only to pleased for some company and casual sex.

But for Dorrell this was still not enough. There was something he needed to make him feel whole and, for the first time in his life this drug was denied him. He began to spend more time absorbed in his nostalgic daydreaming, intermingling these with ever more desperate fantasies. It was almost two years since he had arrived in Provence and his enforced isolation was beginning to manifest itself increasingly troubling ways. He found himself having prolonged periods of paranoia and anxiety attacks in which all his deepest fears would bear down him with such weight that he was unable to throw them off. He would eventually emerge shaking, sweating and cold even though the temperature might be edging towards 40 degrees.

During these times he would lose track not only of the passage of time but of any sense of time. As such, hours would seem to last only minutes and then minutes would appear to last for days. His only solution would be to drink more heavily in a vain hope that somehow order would be restored.

It was after one particularly bad attack that Dorrell found himself in a police cell in

Carpentras one evening. He had no recollection of how he had come to be there or indeed what he might have done to warrant it. It was not long before he was to find out; a notary had been appointed and Dorrell was taken from the cell to an interview room where he was subjected to questioning by two police officers.

In short, it transpired that he had raped a young boy.

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After the interview, in which the police had become increasingly frustrated with his apparent inability, or in their eyes, unwillingness to recall any part of the incident, he had been taken back to his cell where he had promptly been sick after which he had to fallen on to the bed and slept in a way that he had not done for some months. In the morning he was woken early and offered a breakfast of coffee and croissant, which he declined and later taken before a magistrate to be formally charged and, as it happened, remanded in custody. He returned to the cell at the main police station in Carpentras awaiting his transfer to Le Pontet prison in Avignon.

Back at the police station Dorrell asked to see the notary who had been largely useless the previous day. When he arrived he asked permission to see him privately which, as the notary had no objection, was allowed. Once alone Dorrell gave him instructions. Taking the pad that the notary had placed on the table in front of him he wrote down a telephone number – it was

Hogg’s.

‘I want you to call this man. He lives on the east coast of America so he will be at home now. He will leave for work in about an hour. I want you to ask him to provide you with the telephone number of this man.’ Dorrell wrote Alex Chatham’s name next to Hogg’s phone number. ‘Once you have can you please call it, explain who you are and why you are representing me, you will please tell him that I need his help.’

The notary looked over the paper and then back at Dorrell, there was doubt and suspicion written all over his face.

‘It is imperative that you do this now, immediately.’

The notary took up the paper and placed it in his briefcase before leaving. Dorrell sat back on the bed and wondered if his hunch was right.

As it transpired Dorrell could not be moved to Avignon until the following day. Later that afternoon the notary returned to say that he had spoken to both Hogg, who had called him back within the hour, and then to Alex Chatham. He had nothing to report beyond that. However, the

18 Chapter 22 – The Derrynoose Trial following morning Dorrell found himself on the street outside the police station wondering where he would be able to find a taxi that would take him home.

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For the next day or so Dorrell felt remarkably light-hearted. He was pleased with the power that he had discovered he possessed and pleased with the way that he had deployed it. But this was all whilst he had no recollection of why he had been in the predicament from which he had so deftly extricated himself.

As he sat in the garden on the morning of the third day since his release a sudden and shocking image entered his head. It was not altogether clear but it seemed that he was holding a blonde haired boy by the hair and was forcing his mouth over his cock. The boy was in evident distress.

Dorrell shook his head like a snow dome and the image was gone but he was left cold and sweating and with his heart pounding in his chest. He reached for his brandy and drank one glass after another.

The visions returned. By the end of the day he had had three significant attacks each one more lurid and more vivid. The first was a replay of what he had seen that morning; his own hand on the back of a child’s head pushing him down on his erect penis. The next two were different and more alarming. Now it seemed that Dorrell had forced the boy face down to the ground, it was impossible to make out where, but it was clear that was assaulting him in the most indecent way imaginable. But it was not so much what he was doing, although this was distressing enough, it was how he was doing it. Each time the image entered his head he saw that he had the boy by the wrists and that he was forcing him to stretch his arms up and away from his pinioned body as if crucified.

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Gradually, where his idle moments had been filled with the memories of the best times in his life, pictures of his assault on the young boy replaced them. But not like his daydreams, at his command, but rather by their own bidding and the more he tried to drive them away the more they arose to taunt him.

Different scenes were added until a complete picture began to emerge; his stalking of the child along a pathway, his attempt to draw him into conversation, the attack and the frenzy of the assault.

How old was he? Three? Four? Certainly much younger than any boy he had ever had in the past.

Occasionally the action would freeze frame and Dorrell would be confronted by a face, blonde haired, blue eyed, confused but with a pathetic expression that seemed to speak of both an eagerness to please and utter terror. Tears ran down the child’s cheeks; to one side of his face was a smear of mud, to the other a trickle of blood issued from a short horizontal gash just below the right eye.

Naturally Dorrell turned to drink to try to help him drive the visions away but he also took to leaving the house and walking in the nearby olive groves and vineyards and up into the pine forests that covered the slopes of Mt Ventoux. He hoped that by putting distance between himself and his familiar surroundings he might be able to drive out the demon that now possessed him.

He finally walked to the summit of the mountain but found that, rather than calm him, being on top of the world, exposed in the barren, moon-like landscape, he felt more vulnerable. He spent the afternoon mingling with the crowds of tourists, ramblers and cyclists who also made the journey to the top. He was jealous of their lives. As he looked from one to the other they all seemed to be free of the slightest care. Their happiness mocked his misery.

As the afternoon drew to an end and the sun began to sink he found a sheltered spot by the observatory and sat down. Gradually the crowds dispersed and he drew his collar up against the

20 Chapter 22 – The Derrynoose Trial wind that was losing the warmth of the sun and was turning distinctly cold. Tired from the exertion of the walk and exhausted by the effort of wrestling with the visions he fell asleep.

When he woke it was dark but the sky was clear and the stars were bright. He looked out over the plain and watched the little signs of life; the flickering street lights, the occasional beam of a car’s headlamps and, away to the west the silver streak of the Rhône as it reflected back the moonlight.

He began his walk down. Avoiding the road, at first he walked across the white shale that gave the mountain its year round snow-cap and then into the woods, following ramblers paths as best he could but occasionally losing his way altogether and relying only on the knowledge that if he was following the slope down he was heading in the right direction. By the time he reached home it was beginning to turn light.

His first action was to go down to the cellar and bring up a bottle of brandy from which he drank two full tumblers. He then fell back onto the sofa in the sitting room, holding the brandy in one hand and the glass in the other, he stayed motionless, awake and fixing his gaze on a point somewhere above the fireplace. The visions had gone but in their place was an emptiness without shape or fathomable size; a dark, cold, hollow chasm that contained at once nothing and the sum of all his fears.

Dorrell was not certain how long he had remained on the sofa by judging by the light outside it can have been no more than an hour. Arising from the blackness had come an idea; he would be unable to explain its origin but its purpose was perfectly clear. He left the sitting room for the kitchen and began to search through the draws. In the second one down he found what he was looking for, it was a stainless steel cleaver that he had bought along with a set of knives but had never used. He picked it up and made his way out of the back door and across the courtyard to the workshop.

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Once there he placed the cleaver on the edge of the wooden work bench and then cleared a space. He then undid the belt of his trousers and steadying himself with his right hand he pushed the trousers and his underpants to the floor with his left and stepped out of them.

He approached the bench so that his thighs were pushed up against it and carefully placed his penis on the galvanised steel plate that had been tacked to the surface. He paused for a moment and then gripped the handle of the cleaver, raised it above his head and brought the blade down with a swift movement, severing the end of his cock about an inch from the tip.

For a moment he felt nothing. He stared down with fascinated horror as the blood poured from the amputated stump and then the shock hit him. He clutched his groin and as waves of nausea washed over him. He stumbled backwards from the bench desperately trying not to fall, throwing his left arm out to try to find something to hold onto. He came to rest against the upright of the open shed door where he rested for a few moments resisting the urge to be sick and trying to regulate his breathing to prevent himself fainting.

Once he had collected himself sufficiently to move, he crossed the courtyard and made for the downstairs cloakroom where he found a towel to place over the wound. From there he went back to the sitting room and fell lengthways onto the sofa. He was able to sit up long enough to grab the brandy and drink the remainder of the contents directly from the bottle before falling back down and allowing himself to sleep.

When he woke it was early afternoon. His headache was just surpassed by the white-hot pain from the wound of his self-mutilation. He lifted the blood-drenched towel, raised his head slightly and fell back again.

After about half an hour he rolled onto the floor and shuffled across the room to his computer. Hauling himself up into the chair he shook the mouse and typed an email to Hogg. It read ‘I need a doctor. Here, at my house, as soon as you can. I will pay but he must be totally discrete. Totally. Email me straight back if you can.’

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Within a few moments he received a reply of two letters; ‘OK’.

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