Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Kissing the Dragon - 5. Interviewed
“Okay. Past exam question. In the wake of the 1917 Revolution, the fate of the Russian Imperial Romanov family was as inevitable and irreversible as a Greek tragedy. Before you set about formulating an essay structure, let’s dissemble the statement.”
To redirect boy’s minds from their weekend’s distractions, a technique of mine is to make the first session as controversial as possible, and dropping in the question ‘does the end justify the means’ is the optimum choice for history lessons.
When first put out there, the phrase is not usually absorbed by the boys, until put in context, then the wrecking ball finally begins to swing. In past times, I have used landmark reference points such as the dropping of hydrogen bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki to end the war in the Pacific. These days more contemporary historical references provide flash points such as the 2003 invasion of Iraq by the United States supported by allied forces, or the 2001 intervention by NATO and the allied forces in the ongoing Afghan civil war. In other words, are what could be viewed as morally wrong actions sometimes necessary and, moreover, acceptable to achieve morally right outcomes? Or should humanity judge actions according to consequentialism, the idea that the ultimate justification for any outcomes is based on how ethical the actions were on the journey to achieving them. Both concepts are likely to prove incendiary to the fertile minds of adolescent boys. Not unusually, my initial question does not elicit an immediate response so I provide some fuel for the fire.
“Consider some contradictions of the time. Even after Tsar Nicholas abdicated in favour of his brother Michael—Nicholas perhaps seeing the writing on the wall—White Movement forces publicly pledged to reinstate their monarch citing Nicholas’ divine right to rule. Ironically, poverty stricken Russian commoners who were deemed ripe for revolution and change, remained staunchly devout. Add to that the fact that leaders of the revolution including Lenin, had made clear very publicly their contempt for organised religion, and you have the makings of a wonderful dilemma.”
“Why couldn’t they have just left them in prison?”
“House arrest, Mr Barnes. They weren’t officially in prison. Guarded on royal premises for their own protection. Or so they were led to believe. But a fair question. Anyone want to tackle that one? Mr Khan?”
“Because while they were alive they gave cause to the White Movement. What was it Lenin said? He didn’t want to give the Whites a banner to rally around.”
“Excellent. So the mere existence of the Romanov family threatened to undermine the revolutionary movement.”
“Yes,” counters Barnes. “But even imprisoned—or under house arrest—nobody would have known whether they were alive or dead.”
“Not strictly true, Mr Barnes. Visitors came and went. Word would have spread quickly enough.”
“And anyway, not knowing is worse,” says Khan. “The White Guard would always assume they were alive. News of their execution wasn’t released until a couple of days after the event.”
“And if you were one of the White Guard, would you have believed that?” says Barnes. “Where was the proof? And didn’t the guards bury the bodies so nobody would find them? Why is that any different?”
“Surely there would have been eye witnesses?”
“There would indeed, Mr Khan. And very reliable ones at that.”
“How were they killed, sir?” comes a random voice from the back of the class, Trevor Kalwolski.
Typical of the boys, someone has to ask the inevitable question not about what happened and its implications, but how it happened. The full gory details, warts and all. Sometimes I wonder whether the study of history is not only tolerated but feasted upon because of the hows and not the whats. For example, the failure of the Nazis to conquer key cities in Russia in Operation Barbarossa during the second world war and the implications for the German war movement are merely a sideline compared to the hows. Imaginations are hungry for the gory details of each fated Nazi mission likened so frequently to Napoleon’s equally disastrous attempt to take Russia.
“Quite gruesome if reports are to be believed. The family was asked to assemble in the basement of the building for a family portrait. Once gathered and arranged, guards opened fire on them. Allegedly some of the daughters had sewn gems into their dresses—an attempt to hide them—which acted to deflect bullets. So they didn’t die instantly. Bayonets and swords were used to finish the job.”
Some faces around the room crinkle with disgust while others glow with excitement.
“Choice!”
“Why kill all of them, though, sir? Why not just the Tsar?”
“Why indeed, Mr Kawolski. Anyone?”
“They were still Romanovs,” says Khan. “Any of them could have carried on the royal bloodline.”
As he is speaking, the classroom door creaks open and the head of a freckled boy leans in. James Hugheson.
“Sir,” says the young redhead addressing me directly. “Sorry to disturb. Deputy Head wants to see you in her office. Says it’s urgent.”
“Ooh,” comes a collective moo from a handful of students.
“Do be quiet, class. What? Right now, Hugheson?” I ask, glancing up at the classroom clock. Perfect timing. I have only just managed to wake the class.
“S’what she said. Miss Horton’s coming to take over.”
Only as I squeeze into my jacket on the way to her office does a thought comes to me. Has the deputy head found out about Buenos Aires? Am I being summoned because she knows about the email I fired off only yesterday? But the likelihood of that happening grounds me. No, this has to be something else.
I knock at the door and wait, a rather formal and antiquated practice the school upholds. At my previous school, East Barton Secondary Modern, admittedly a tougher, more contemporary and much less academically successful institute, the offices were arranged in an open plan style. In Croxburgh High School for Boys, on the few occasions I visit the deputy’s or head’s private office, I am reminded of the one time in my childhood when I had been summoned to the headmaster’s office for pushing a boy to the ground in the playground, a taller boy in the year above me who made the mistake of calling my sister lewd names. The simple act of standing outside terrified, waiting to be chastised, had itself been punishment enough.
“Ah, Colin,” says Dorothy Humphreys, far too brightly, her neatly coiffed burgundy bob cut and black Tina Fey glasses peering around the door. Our regular headmaster, Simon Betts, had been hospitalised for the past two weeks and Dorothy, never one to complain, had taken to leading the school. There have been days like today when the stress of doing so is clearly visible. Before allowing me to enter, her tired eyes open wide and her pencil thin eyebrows arc a warning. “Come join us please. We’re sat at the casual corner.”
Only as I wait for her to close the door behind me do I spot the able-bodied man and woman seated stiffly on the leather sofa. Even though both wear business attire, something about them clangs bells of judgement. Self-confident but in a quiet, alert, armed forces kind of way, they have to be Metropolitan police. But plain clothes would suggest the rank of detective in which case this is the CID and indicates something serious. I had met their type a few of times in East Barton, where crime is practically on the school curriculum. Petty misdemeanours are dealt with by uniformed officers whose presence in the school is as regular and commonplace as the teacher’s. But Croxburgh High School for Boys is a far cry from East Barton and the boys in my home room are saints by comparison. Anxiousness quickly overrides my lingering tiredness.
With a cold hand pressed between my shoulder blades, Dorothy urges me towards one of the seats around the coffee table. Reserved for what Dorothy likes to call fireside chats, this is a less formal setting than the one surrounding her rather austere desk of solid oak that overlooks the school playing fields.
Before I have a chance to sit the woman stands. An attractive latte mix of Indian and Caucasian, she has a professional demeanour, controlled but not intimidating, and holds out a slender hand in welcome. Tailored and fitting perfectly, her ash woollen suit jacket with shoelace black trim hugs a lean figure, finished off with a pristine but plain blouse of white silk. In contrast, she wears flat black shoes, comfortable and functional, as well as having her dark silken hair tied severely back from her face in a bun. I have no doubt that, given a word, this woman can launch into action, hurl herself after a criminal and wrestle him or her to the ground with practised ease. For a moment, I stare at her immaculately groomed fingernails, wondering how they can perform such a traditionally male dominated role, but then check myself for such a blatantly unfair and sexist assessment. As though hearing me, her handshake comes back deceptively powerful.
“Good morning Mr McCann,” she says, her milk chocolate eyes coolly assessing me. Only as I study her again do I notice the inch long scar, pencil thin, rising from the right side of her lip. “We’re with the CID. I’m Detective Sergeant Chaudhary. This is my colleague, Detective Constable Whitehead.”
Calmed by her tone, I nod amiably at the man seated, her junior in rank and years. Dressed in an ill-fitting suit of plain black wool, he wears a white shirt open at the collar. Lifting his head, his large brows furrow once before his gaze burns into me in judgement. Even though I have never been on the receiving end, I have seen that look before. Without having breathed a word, this man has already deemed me culpable of whatever urgent matter brings them here. Any calm I felt before evaporates. Turning away from me, he brings out a spiral bound notebook and readies to take notes. Fortunately for me, they seem to have chosen good copper to do the talking.
“Shall we sit?” says Chaudhary, taking the lead. “We wouldn’t normally disturb you during a working day, Mr McCann, but there are some urgent matters we need to discuss with you. And we don’t want to take up too much of your time.”
As Dorothy and I begin to sit, I catch her eye. Simultaneously shaking my head and shrugging my shoulder, I indicate my ignorance at the purpose of their visit. She nods her understanding and seats herself opposite me in the easy chair. One thing I admire about the school is that even though the heads demand their pound of flesh from the teaching staff, they give their full support in return.
“This is strictly informal. You don’t need to be here Ms Humphreys, if you have other things to attend to,” says the woman, this time casting her professional smile in Dorothy’s direction.
“Nevertheless,” says Dorothy, with an equally professional smile and adopting the kind of persistent tone second nature to a teaching professional of her rank. No question that she has made short shrift of more persistent people than these during her career. “I would rather remain.”
When her eyes meets mine, I grin and gently nod my gratitude.
“As you wish. As I say, these are routine questions, Mr McCann,” says Chaudhary, barely missing a beat and straight back to business. “Can you tell us where you were on Friday night after you left the school?”
“Yes, of course. The Disappointed Duck on Casham Ponds. The teachers have a gathering there most Fridays.”
“I’ve always thought the name rather glorious,” says Dorothy, turning to me in what I assume is an effort to lighten the mood. “Any idea where it originated?”
“Nobody does. The old landlord thought it was an in-joke from when the place was built.”
“Mr McCann, Ms Humphreys,” says Chaudhary, her stern gaze locking on Humphreys. “Can you please stick leave the questioning to us.”
“Of course,” I reply, for both of us.
“You spent part of the evening in the pub,” she says, her eyes on me again. “And what time did you leave?”
“Just after eight.” I remember Kit saying so outside the pub. “It’s around a forty-five minute walk door-to-door. And I know I was sat at home by nine in time for the Graham Norton show.”
I am not certain, but I think I hear the policeman emit a soft snort.
“Can anyone confirm that?” she continues.
“Kit Hansen. A friend of one of the teachers. Or Denny Harrison. He’s a regular there. Owns a tailor’s shop on the high street. We had a final drink and then left together. Parted company at the end of Station Lane where he lives. It’s on my way home.”
“No, I mean can anyone verify you getting home at nine?”
Her question catches me off guard. As I approached my home that night I remembered seeing houses either side of mine in darkness. Apart from the few random strangers I passed on my way home, nobody springs to mind. And I had not seen Billy since Friday morning. More importantly why does she need to know what time I arrived home? What happened between Friday night and today? Something serious, otherwise the Met would not be sending two suits to the school.
“Wife? Girlfriend?” says the man peering up from his notes. Having been quiet all this time, his tone is blunt and impatient, his gaze hard and, frankly, antagonising.
With his close-cropped auburn hair he has the typical profile of a hardened copper: broken nose, square jaw and a rugged handsomeness. Definitely not the kind of person you would want to meet in a fight on a dark night. Academic surroundings fit him as badly as his clothes. Like the persona, his voice comes out deep, curt and straightforward. At odds with his appearance, though, he sounds articulate and educated.
“Let me take care of this, Ben,” says Chaudhary quietly. Without acknowledging her, the man dips his head and continues to study his notebook. Chaudhary returns her attention to me. “Someone you live with, Mr McCann?”
“Only Mr Waldorf,” I reply eventually, with a possibly ill-chosen attempt at levity. “But I’m not sure the testimony of a Scottish Fold will stand up in court.”
“Scottish Fold is a breed of cat, detective,” adds Dorothy, playing along, smiling sweetly at Whitehead and pointing a glossy scarlet fingernail at his notepad. “That’s F.O.L.D.”
“No, then,” says the man, gazing up and glaring at me. “Just answer the question.”
"As I said already, if you ask Denny he’ll vouch for me. We must have parted company at around eight-thirty,” I reply, ignoring him now and addressing my comments to the young woman detective. “But I walked the rest of the way home alone.”
“Can anyone verify you leaving Mr Harrison at the entrance to Station Lane?” asks Chaudhary.
“No,” I say, now thoroughly intrigued. Is this about Denny? After skirting the pond, we said goodbye before the small darkened lane leading to Denny’s cottage. After that, I had put my head down and continued walking. I remember venturing one last glance back as I reached the corner, but by then he had gone inside.
“I see. Do you remember what Mr Harrison was wearing that night?” she asks.
“He always dressed to the nines. Brown tweed three piece. Wore his green Barbour for the walk home.”
“Anything else?”
“Light blue shirt. A kind of dark blue necktie.”
“And what were you wearing, sir?” she asks, while the man continues scribbling.
“Dark grey suit. Cashmere overcoat. Why do you need to know?”
“Colour?”
“Light brown. Tan.”
“And what route did you take. From the pub.”
“The shortcut. Around Casham Ponds, through Cold Blows Alley, onto Collingwood Road and then to Station Lane.”
“Can you recall what you talked about that night?”
“Not precisely. General things. Mutual friends. His shop. Denny’d had a skinful, but he was still lucid.”
“And did he seem okay? Did he mention anything that might be troubling him?”
“Denny’s never been the most optimistic of souls, but I don’t remember anything out of the ordinary. Why? Has something happened to him?”
“Is it true that you and Mr Harrison had a fight before Christmas? On the evening of the twenty-first of December?” she asks, causing the man’s face to rise from his notebook.
“How on earth is that relevant?” I ask, now thoroughly confused and wanting to get a straight answer from them. "What is this about?"
“Answer the question,” says Whitehead firmly.
“We had an argument, a falling out, yes, but…“ I begin to answer, getting progressively irritated by the line of questioning. What the hell has happened to Denny? Okay, so we aren’t exactly on best of terms, but I would not wish anything bad on him. Has he been involved in some kind of incident?
“Did you know that Mr Harrison is a homosexual, Mr McCann?” asks Chaudhary.
Maybe laughing at the question is not the best response a person could give.
“You’d be hard pushed to find anyone that doesn’t. Denny doesn’t exactly hide the fact.”
My mind is grappling to find some kind of logic to her questioning, wondering if Denny had done something unlawful after we parted company. Vaughan once mentioned that Denny sometimes haunted popular cruising spots at night, but he was in no fit state on Friday. Still, something has to be serious enough if it warrants sending two detectives.
“And the two of you are best buddies?” says the man, drilling his gaze into me again. His flat tone bristles. Caught off-guard, I sense myself redden and dart a glance at Dorothy but her attention is glued to the male detective. Being out as a gay teacher at school has meant she will no doubt also have understood his inference. The expression she bears him could frighten a member of the Special Air Services, let alone a jumped-up detective.
“An old acquaintance maybe. But certainly not close, if that’s what you’re implying,” I answer testily. “And before you ask, yes, I’m gay too. But I believe that’s no longer a crime in this country?”
“And did he invite you to go back home with him? Last Friday night?” asks Chaudhary.
“For a drink. But I declined. I accompanied him as far as his front gate because he could barely stand.”
“So you didn’t go into Harrison’s house?”
“Isn’t that what I just said. Look, I’m not sure I like what you’re insinuating?” I say, both my incredulity and temper rising. “I already told you I left him at the end of Station Lane. And that I didn’t go into his house. What more do you want?”
“Did you actually witness him enter the house, sir?”
“Yes,” I say, thinking back to that night. “I mean, no. Not exactly. Well I saw him fumbling with his keys at the front door. And when I looked back from the end of the lane, I saw a light go on in the house.”
“I see.”
“Look I’m sorry detectives,” says Dorothy, leaning forward and interjecting. I realise absently that she has been monitoring me for the past few minutes. “But either you tell us what this is about? Or I will ask my secretary to summon legal representation for Mr McCann?”
Detective Sergeant Chaudhary takes a deep breath and says, “Denny Harrison was found dead in the early hours of Sunday morning. Face down in Casham Ponds.”
In the silence that follows, a chill ripples through me, the blood draining from my face, the room beginning to tilt. Before I can speak, Dorothy says what I am thinking.
“The poor man,” comes her stunned voice. On rare occasions she joined us on Friday nights and probably knew Denny by sight. “What happened? Did he slip and drown?”
“I’m afraid it's not that simple,” continues Chaudhary. “Although the body was found frozen into the pond on Sunday morning, he was struck from behind, repeated blows to the back of the head with a wooden log. And we are fairly certain now that the time of death was between ten o’clock and midnight on Friday night. This is a murder investigation, Ms Humphreys. And it appears Mr McCann here was the last person to see Denny Harrison alive.”
I hope you enjoyed this chapter. If you'd like to join in a chat or leave any additional comments about the plot or cast of characters, I have created a forum accessed via on the link below:
http://www.gayauthors.org/forums/topic/40694-kissing-the-dragon-discussion-forum/
Brian (a.k.a. lomax61)
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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