Head bowed, I nodded again. The policeman sat back in his chair, the
sweat ran away off his face like it had gathered like in small rivulets from
his forehead through to the delta of his cheeks.
He looked very tired. He sat there in the silence of the moment and
gathered his jacket around him, while the clerk, finishing off, completed his
work in silence.
The Detective looked at me intently and with a little sadness,
‘I’ve never met anyone with such a hardened attitude as you’ he said
softly,
‘Every criminal who has stood before me has ultimately recanted their
sins when faced with such symbols of suffering.’
I was about to say but they were criminals but then I realised I was one
also. It was an idea I was having trouble coming to terms with. I had only
tried to live my life. The policeman stood up as if to indicate the interview
was over.
He asked me then in a slightly weary tone was whether I regretted what I
had done. I thought about it and rather than going over the whole ground again
I asked him did he ever feel like being a pirate? Weren’t his ancestors the same in accordance with
the history of these islands and before the silver thread of the white Rajah’s
law became sacrosanct? He looked a little like the lawyer. As if he didn’t
understand ; as if someone who was totally beyond him. He shook his head. Nothing more happened that
day.
For the week that followed my
arrest I had hesitated on how best to interpret the gush of the woman’s words at the beach house. Each time I tried all I
could see was a picture of iskra slapping his woman about or Mo letting down
his hair or changing his shirt, his proud chest thrust towards the open window
and the sea.
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