THE ENGLISH WITNESS Read Free Page A

Then, having recited some legal
details including the date, time and names of those present, he sat back and
nodded at the Englishman to proceed.
    The early results were not encouraging. For half an hour they were
swamped with vague reminiscences: a nostalgic catalogue of bars, bar-crawls, reckless
exploits and long-lost friends. From time to time Jack’s sprawling monologue
would seem to be heading in the direction of something darker and more
disturbing, but then his eyes would glaze over for a few moments before he seized
once again at some trivial detail of a life given over to innocent fun.
    Visibly frustrated, Miguel called a halt,
switched off the recorder and ushered Julio out of the room. The younger man
pulled the door closed and waited in the apartment’s spacious hallway while the
detective took a comfort break. Then they slipped into a spare bedroom that was
mainly given over to storage, confident that two closed doors would enable to
them talk out of Jack’s earshot.
    “This is hopeless,” began Miguel gloomily.
“There’s a real mental block there, you can hear it.”
    “It is going to be a long haul,” admitted
Julio. “I think we can get there in time. That is if we have enough time.”
    “Time is the killer. We have a few days,
but we don’t have time to let him ramble on in the hope that he might eventually
give us something relevant. And I’ve no idea what questions to ask or how to
ask them. He’s badly damaged, that’s all too clear. And if we ask the wrong
questions, or even the right questions the wrong way, I think we could end up
implanting false memories that will make it impossible ever to get what we need
from him.”
    “Would you like me to try?” offered Julio.
“With all due respect, I sense he has his guard up with you. I accept that
there’s a protocol issue here, but if you’re agreeable I can try to steer his
recollections gently down the avenues we can both see he’s trying to steer
clear of.”
    “I guess it’s worth trying,” replied
Miguel rather curtly. “We’re certainly not getting anywhere at the moment.”
    “Very well. But with respect it means
being gentle with him. He’s not going to confront his anxieties unless he feels
safe and secure. That doesn’t mean we can’t play the nice-cop-nasty-cop game if
we really have to. But if we go down that route, it needs a light touch. And we
need to switch roles from time to time, or it could easily turn into a one-to-one
with Mr. Nasty Cop out in the cold.”
    Miguel face was as dark as thunder as they
headed back to the living room, but as the interview resumed they seemed
immediately to make more progress. Jack’s explanations were still oblique,
hesitant and disjointed, but a part of him seemed actually to enjoy flirting
with the darkness he so clearly carried within. As the red light blinked tirelessly
on the recorder, the first hints of an ordered narrative began to emerge.
    For Jack it was to be a long drawn-out and
harrowing ordeal. But much later, with the aid of the little recording device, his
fragmented oral account would be edited into a reasonably coherent story.        
    JAMES
    (Spring
through Autumn, 1973)
    I remember the beginnings clearly enough. I came to San Sebastián in April 1973 with
a group of around two dozen language students from a university in the north of
England. I was James then, or Jimmy to my friends: a stocky twenty-year-old
with a massive IQ but somewhat limited social skills.
    Where we came from – a tiny inner-city campus
surrounded by sprawling post-industrial wasteland – it had been cold and wet for
ten months of every year. Down here it was so different. There were plenty of
warm, sunny days even in early spring. We had the run of a beautiful, welcoming
city with fine beaches and a stunning, rugged backdrop. Food and drink cost barely
a tenth of what we were used to. In short, we were in heaven. There was college
to attend during the mornings, but after lunch