The Fanatic Page 20

  ‘Help?’

  ‘What is it … what is it you’re looking for?’

  ‘Drink yer tea,’ he said.

  She watched as the scene of Lorre’s confession before the kangaroo court unfolded. The lines and shots came back to her just before they happened, pathetic, horrific. It was eerie watching the film in silence, with just the English captions appearing. She knew the mob gathered in the old distillery was baying for the killer’s blood, but she could not hear them. All she saw were their mouths, and Lorre’s mouth, his huge frightened eyes.

  Then Lorre began to scream. In silence. He was screaming and pleading. He couldn’t help what he did. What did they know? What right had they to speak? They were criminals. Maybe they were even proud of their safe-breaking, burglary, card-sharping. But they needn’t do any of those things. He, on the other hand, couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t control what was inside him. A dreadful power drove him through the streets, following him silently. It was him, pursuing himself. It was impossible to escape. He had to go the way it chased him. He had to run through endless streets. Ghosts pursued him too. Ghosts of mothers, ghosts of children. They were always there. They would never leave him.

  From time to time Jackie glanced over at Carlin. He was motionless, his attention fixed on the screen. She was drawn back to Lorre’s despair and self-loathing. The crowd considered him less than a man, a mad dog that should be put down. Mothers were screaming for him to be given to them. But they had appointed him a defence lawyer from among their own number. The defence was that he was not responsible for his actions. He should be treated by doctors, not executioners. He should be in an asylum.

  Schränker was dismissive. The man had condemned himself by his own words. What if he escaped? Or was released? Then if his compulsion returned there would be another manhunt, then the asylum, then release, on and on till doomsday.

  The film finished on the face of a mother, a plea to take better care of the children. THE END came up abruptly, brutally, when Jackie had expected more. No credits followed. Carlin rewound the tape.

  He picked her coat off the bed and handed it to her. ‘I’m tired,’ he said.

  He obviously wasn’t going to tell her anything. She couldn’t argue.

  She put the coat on. ‘Thanks for the tea,’ she said.

  ‘Are ye seein him then?’ said Carlin.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Hardie.’

  ‘Hugh?’ She laughed. ‘No, I’m not seeing him. I’m not seeing anyone.’

  ‘I meant, soon. Are you going to be seeing him soon. At some point?’ He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if to a foreigner.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She was embarrassed. ‘Aye, maybe. I suppose so.’

  ‘Gaun tae tell him ye were here? Where I stey?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  He stuck up his thumb half-heartedly. ‘I’d appreciate that.’ He seemed totally drained. It became clear that she was going to have to see herself out.

  He sat down again, then lay back on the bed, eyes closed. She watched him there for a few seconds. She didn’t feel angry at him. She felt sad. Then she left.

  Bass Rock, June 1677/Edinburgh, April 1670

  Mitchel said, ‘Why are ye here?’

  ‘Tae see you,’ said Lauder.

  He felt slightly sick from the crossing. It was only a short trip from North Berwick, a couple of miles at most, but the sea was choppy and Lauder hated being in boats. He still minded the journey from Dover to France when he was a student: he and a fellow passenger had fought over a bucket all night, filling it with their combined vomitings, and with every retch and boak the other man had groaned for God’s mercy as if he was on the point of expiring, which had only made Lauder feel worse.

  Mitchel shook his head. ‘That’s no guid enough, John Lauder. Yer guidfaither’s Ramsay, the Provost o Edinburgh. Ye’re no here tae ease ma sufferin.’

  ‘He was Lord Provost,’ Lauder said. Sir Andrew had written a recommendation, which the captain of the garrison had read with disdain before grudgingly allowing Lauder access to his prize prisoner. Now, left alone with him, Lauder found Mitchel equally suspicious of his family connections.

  ‘He’s a Privy Cooncillor and aw. Is it by him that ye come here? They dinna let folk see me.’

  ‘He had a word for me, I confess. But I’m no here on his behaw nor onybody’s but ma ain.’

  Mitchel did not look convinced. His eyes were unblinking in the half-light.

  The cell stank of dampness and squalor, and every draught of wind brought with it eye-watering wafts from the guano of thousands of seabirds. It was now the height of the solans’ nesting season. It sounded like all the witches that had ever been were gathered together there in bird disguise.

  Lauder tried to take shallow breaths. I would like tae hear somethin frae ye,’ he said.

  Mitchel laughed scornfully.

  ‘Aye, awbody would like that. The Privy Cooncil would like me tae confess tae a crime so they can hing me. Is that whit ye would hear, Maister Lauder? Are ye come as a lawyer tae bargain wi me?’

  ‘No. It’s naethin o that kind. Naethin tae dae wi yer case at aw.’

  ‘Then why else would I speak wi a lawyer?’

  ‘I would like tae find oot … tae hear aboot somebody.’ Lauder cleared his throat. ‘I would like tae hear aboot Major Weir.’

  Mitchel’s brow furrowed. ‘Whit’s tae tell? The man was burnt for his crimes seiven year syne.’

  ‘Ye kent him.’

  ‘Aye. Sae did yer guidfaither. Sae did aw Edinburgh. Ye’ll hae seen him aboot yersel nae doot.’

  ‘I didna ken him tae speak tae, as you did,’ said Lauder.

  ‘Whit’s this tae be, guilt by association? If ye gang doon that road, ye’ll find some kenspeckle bodies claucht up in the net. It’s ten year or mair since I spak wi Weir.’

  ‘No as lang as that, James,’ said Lauder carefully.

  There was a long silence. Finally, Mitchel said, ‘Whit dae ye mean?’

  ‘Ye saw him in the Tolbooth, afore his execution. I ken ye did.’

  ‘I wasna even in Scotland. I was a rebel, if ye mind, wi a price on ma heid for the attack on Sharp and Honyman.’

  ‘Ye were in Scotland. Ye cam tae him in prison. I ken it.’

  ‘Whit maks ye think that? Did ye see him in prison yersel? Did he tell ye?’

  I did see him. The mornin o his death. But it wasna him that tellt me. He was ayont speakin by then. It was his sister, Jean. She said ye’d been in tae see him, in secret.’

  ‘Haivers,’ said Mitchel. ‘Weir was ayont speakin, ye say? Jean was awa daft lang afore then. If she tellt ye I was there, she was haein a fit. How would I get intae the Tolbooth o Edinburgh in secret? Dae ye think a man wantit for a capital crime against a Croun servant would o his ain volition enter that place tae collogue wi a convicted felon in his cell? I’d as weill hae pit ma heid in a noose.’

  ‘Jean wasna as daft as some folk think,’ said Lauder. I believe she tellt the truth.’

  Mitchel was silent. He lay back on his bed and stared at the roof. The movement, in the gloomy atmosphere of the cell, instantly provoked a memory in Lauder’s mind. He was transported back seven years, to the visit he had made on Major Weir. Just fifteen months married, with a four-month-old son, he had been in the company of his wife’s father, then Lord Provost of Edinburgh.

  Wt my goodfather Sir Andrew I was at the Tolbooth Monday 11th day of April 1670, to see the monster Major Weir. We ware admitted in the fornoon, a cold day wt winter’s grip not yet lowst, but the sun was shyning, which made the prison house yet mair mirk and grim when we ware within. The provest had seen him when first he confest. Believing him insane he got his ain doctors to him, but they said his faculties ware lucid and thereafter witnesses ware found that seemd to prove his crymes. I wished to see this phenomenon of wickednes, and went wt the provest and divers others, ministers &c. The crymes of his flesh ware revolting, but it was his spiritua
ll backslyding and consorting wt the Devil (though this was not in the indytment but only drawen from his sister’s testimonies) that fascinated the ministers mair. As Sir Andrew said its seldom you get a chance to look depravitie full in the face. But there was mockerie in his tone which I perceived was directed at the godlie amang us, for they ware some of them of Weir’s inclinatioun, in religion at least. See the Devil ance and ye’ll not misken him next tyme, says Sir Andrew, bowing at them wt a false respect, which I doubt did not fool them for an instant.

  For a monster Weir was a sorry object, auld and slumpt on his bed agaynst the wall, much changed from the muckle figure of controversie I mynd as a bairn. There was no fire left in his eyn. The ministers presst him to acknowlege his sin and pray for God’s mercy, but he only shook his head and moand. When by progging and shaking him as if he ware a carnival brute that would not do its tricks, they finally rowsed him to sit, he stared at them blearily with a dead look and said, Wherefor do ye trouble me wt your cruelty? They said wee do not trouble ye, Thomas, it is your soull that troubles ye. Pray with us for your soull.

  He answered, What for should I pray wt ye? I care not for your prayers and I doe not hear them.

  One said. Sir, I will pray for ye in spite of yr teeth and the deevil yr master too.

  He said to him, Doe it at your perill.

  They said, Even now, Thomas, in the day of your death, seek out the mercy of God.

  He lauched and said, God, where is God? I see him not. They ware affronted and asked, Think ye there is a God? He said I know not. Then one said o man, the argument that moves me to think there is a God is thy self. For what else moved thee to informe the world of thy wicked life? He said, Then pray to him if ye will, I’ll not pray wt you. All the prayers that men and angels can offer will not make a better man of me. Pray that to yr God.

  They conjured him as ane brother even now to repent and ask God for his mercy.

  Repent, he says, repent, whats to repent? Will repentence alter one jot of his law? Will repentence weigh in the scayles of justice? Think ye that the grovelings of one human ant will alter the plan and purpos of Gods universe? What papisticall trash is this? Get back to your bible, brothers, says he, before ye try to sell me ane indulgence.

  Then when they said again, Thomas Weir we beseek ye he says. Trouble me no more wt your beseeking. My sentence is sealed on earth as it is in heaven. I am hardend within like a stone, brother. If I could win God’s pardon and all the glory of Heaven wt a single wish – that I had not sinned as I have sinned, yet I could not prevail wt my self to make that wish.

  Then when they said he does not ken what he is saying, and asked him did his heart not shrink at thoucht of God’s eternal ire he interrupted them impatientlie, Tell me no more, torment me no more. You are not in my place and your soull is not in my soull’s place. Gin ye ware, ye would see the waste and delusion of your exhortatiouns, for there is no thing within me but blacknes and darknes, brimstone and burning to the bottom of hell. Now let me alone, ye have deaved me ouer long, I’ll hear no more.

  He fell in a kind of stupor and though they spake at him some tyme more, there was no rousing him. Bailie Oliphant that was there began to leave the room, saying, I have had my fill of beseeking, the man is to die and we should leave him to redd up his soull gin he wish. Soe led by Patrik Vanse the keeper of the prison we went back out into the licht.

  The provest said to the companie, There goeth corruptioun incarnat. I am glad he’s to burn outwith the citie’s walls. I would na like to see his foul ashes settle on the heads of the good burgesses.

  But, said the bailie, some will take a dander furth to the Gallowlee to see him consumed.

  They had better wear ther hats then, said Sir Andrew, and clapt his wig wt much ostentatioun. Pollution the like of that will be a task to clean from the hair. Then to the ministers, that ware still rid and peching from their exertiouns wt the Beast, he said, Do ye think a man that was sa sure of his ain electioun as he can be sa mistaken? Is there nae possibility of him winning to heaven despite of all his wickednes? They ware very crosse at this, which was aimed at their ain holinesse, and raged at him to suggest a man can transgress God’s law sae foully and yet be of the elect. It was a heresy, an antinomian heresy, and an English ane forby. Weir, they said, would be brunt on earth by four of the clock that efternoon and by five he would be burning in hell. My lord was not perturbed by them, but congratulated them on ther impressive certainty. I’ll not be at the Gallowlee my self, he says, but mynd and do not forget your hats.

  From his bed Mitchel asked, ‘Whit did Jean say tae ye? When did ye speak wi her?’

  ‘Eftir her brither was burnt. I gaed back tae the Tolbooth alane, the next mornin. She was tae hing that day. I felt unhappy aboot her death – I felt she was mair victim o his crimes than conspirator in them.’

  ‘She was a witch or else she was made mad by Satan,’ Mitchel said flatly.

  ‘The jurors had rejectit the chairge o sorcery against her. If she was mad was it the madness that had made her lie wi her brither, or the incest that made her mad? If the former, she shouldna burn.’

  ‘And if she was a witch?’

  ‘If she was a witch … I felt pity for her. I was only twenty-three – I was grieved for her.’

  ‘She’d hae easy led you intae soukin sand then. Pity is their weapon.’

  Lauder did not respond. He could almost feel Mitchel struggling to resist asking the next question.

  ‘Whit did she say – aboot me?’

  ‘As muckle as John Vanse, the keeper’s son – as muckle and mair, and less. Atween the pair o them I worked it oot. That twa days precedin, on the Sabbath, a young man that cried himsel Alexander Weir, the Major’s son, had come tae the Tolbooth. That he begged John Vanse, that had chairge o the place that day, if he had ony compassion for yin that fund himsel wi sae miserable a creature for a faither, tae let him see him afore he was sent tae Hell. That John Vanse alloued him in and he sat wi his faither for an oor. And Vanse cam tae Jean and said he was there, and she speired at him tae hae her nephew Sandy stop and gie her his blessin afore he pairtit, and he cam by her cell and looked in but wouldna stop, and she kent it wasna Sandy but anither man aboot the same age. It was him that had sailed awa tae Holland eftir Pentland. James Mitchel.’

  Mitchel did not speak. Lauder strained even to hear his breathing. After a minute he said, ‘She didna misken ye, did she?’

  Mitchel sat up. ‘Ye are an advocate, sir. Ye hae a cousin John Eleis?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I hear he pleads for aw kinds – witches, rebels, thieves, murderers. Am I richt?’

  ‘He defends ony person he is cawed tae defend.’

  ‘I hear he is amang the best o yer breed. Him and Sir George Lockhart. They are thorns in the flesh o the Privy Cooncil.’

  ‘They only dae their duty as advocates. But ye’re richt, they are baith excellent lawyers.’

  I want them for ma case, Maister Lauder.’

  ‘Yer case is done, Maister Mitchel. Whit for dae ye think ye’re cast on this Rock these last months? Whit for did they crush yer leg in the boot? They canna prove onythin against ye.’

  ‘They will try, though. Sharp wants me deid. And when ma case comes again, I want thae twa men as ma coonsel. Dae this for me, siccar me their services, and I’ll tell ye aboot Major Weir.’

  ‘I canna mak such a pledge. An advocate canna jist pick and choose, nor can a panel wi nae siller elect his ain coonsel.’

  ‘But,’ said Mitchel, ‘choice willna be in it on this occasion. When they bring me back – which they will, hae nae doot – nae lawyer in his senses will dare plead on ma behaw – it’s an offence in itsel tae argue for a traitor. I ken ma law and ma rights – I will demand a defence. The Privy Cooncil will hae tae appoint me lawyers. Sir George and Maister John can let the Cooncil ken they’ll compear for me if alloued and commanded by His Majesty’s government. Sir George is Dean o the Faculty, is he no? Naebody else will c
ontest him for the honour.’

  ‘Ye ken yer law, indeed,’ said Lauder.

  ‘I hae plenty time tae think on it,’ said Mitchel dryly. ‘But ye must instruct yer cousin anent this maitter – it maunna be left tae chance. It’ll be a kittle enough business, athoot findin masel in the hauns o Prestoun or some such kiss-ma-erse.’

  ‘Prestoun? John Prestoun o Haltree?’

  ‘Aye, him. Mention o Weir pit me in mind o him.’

  It was Prestoun, the hunter of witches, who had been appointed a temporary judge for commission to try the Weirs, none of the bench being available. Lauder recalled that Prestoun had been disappointed that he had had to throw out the evidence of sorcery against Jean Weir.

  ‘He’s ower pernicketie tae pit up a fecht for a scuggie fellow like masel,’ Mitchel said. ‘Ma case will be won on principles, no ten-year-auld evidence, and Sir George and John Eleis are the best for statin a principle.’

  ‘And if it’s lost, in spite o them?’

  ‘Then the testimony o ma bluid will hae mair weicht and credit. A man like me disna win tae God like a lawyer, sir, wi wishin and wordspeakin, but by the skailin o his bluid. There’s nae safter place tae lie than on the altar for Christ.’

  Mitchel, Lauder observed, seemed to swing violently between a worldly humanity, tinged with regret, that was almost touching, and a kind of inflamed righteousness which rose like a barrier between him and everything else. It was like watching someone half-drowning, then swimming with extraordinary power in heavy waters, then beginning to slide under again.

  ‘Ye unnerstaun,’ said Mitchel, ‘I hae nae fear o death. Ma soul is in Christ whether I live or die. Death will be welcome eftir this. It will be a new and better life, an eternal life. Did ye ken, sir, they kept me in chains in the Tolbooth mair than a twalmonth? Can ye think whit like that is? The iron bands skive the skin aff ye till ye’re raw tae the banes. Ye wouldna see a dug treatit sae ill. But that’s by wi – they can dae naethin tae ma flesh noo that I canna thole. Aw the legal pliskies that we’ll see in coort are meaningless tae me, but for ae thing – I would see James Sharp and his pack damned and defeated in this life as they surely will be hereineftir. So will ye dae it for me?’