Free Gallowglass by Gordon Ferris Page B

Miss Campbell. However, a knight of the realm has been cruelly kidnapped and murdered. There is a public interest in seeing justice done. We will take this case on to the next stage. There will be a private hearing in no less than eight days’ time at which point this court will decide on whether or not to commit the accused fully to trial. Both sides have this period of eight days to bolster their arguments. But in the meantime, the accused shall be remanded in custody.’
    Knight trumps knave. As I was led down, I nodded at Sam. She and I had discussed this possible outcome and we’d agreed she’d head straight off to Kilmarnock to tell my mother the whole dismal story. I’d hoped the matter would have gone away at the hearing and I could have driven down to Kilmarnock myself and had a good laugh with her over a silly misunderstanding in the middle of a horrendous and tragic murder. But now the press would be full of it and my name – and hers – would be dragged gleefully through the midden. It was essential that Mum heard the real story from Sam before the first neighbours offered their ‘sympathies’.
    Later in my cell, I lost the place with poor Dalziel. I was pacing from side to side, slapping the wall at each turn.
    ‘You’ve got to get me out of here!’
    ‘We did everything we could.’
    ‘Clearly you didn’t! I’m still here!’
    ‘The sworn statement from Lady Gibson was the killer. We weren’t told about it. Even if we’d known it would still have taken the feet out from under us.’
    ‘She’s lying! It’s clear she’s lying.’
    ‘Why? Why would she?’
    ‘Oh, so you think I’m lying!’
    Round and round we went, getting nowhere. I knew I was being unfair but I couldn’t stop myself. The Procurator Fiscal’s man was right; I would be straight round hammering on Sheila Gibson’s door, lying in wait for her bloody chauffeur, rounding up witnesses. Anything to get me out of here. But there came a moment when I realised I’d switched from slapping the walls to punching them; my knuckles were bleeding. I sat down on my bunk and grew still. Was there just a chance that I’d lost my mind? That the combat stress Doc Baird warned me about had exploded again? And what had happened in that room? Could I have shot Gibson?
    Dalziel took the chance to slide out of the door vowing all the time that he’d leave no stone uncovered to prove my innocence. He would have his work cut out. I turned back to my book to see if I could steal some hope and ideas from the Count of Monte Cristo. But the pages were a blur.

FOURTEEN
    F rom then onwards, the days dragged by. I’d check my watch and find that only ten minutes had passed instead of the two hours I thought. I sank further into myself, into a despondency about my character shortfalls. I seemed condemned to repeat my mistakes, climbing a ladder and slithering down the snake. Was this what Nick Carraway was talking about? ‘So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’
    Could I just blame the war or had I always carried this flaw? Either way there seemed no way of ridding myself of this self-destructive tendency. I couldn’t resist a challenge. I was always the first to volunteer. An impetuous child who had to feed his addiction to thrills and spills. If this was all I’d become, there seemed little point going on.
    Sometimes I stirred myself. My mood would change and I’d engage in a sweaty bout of press-ups, star jumps and running on the spot until I fell on my bunk exhausted. Other times I tried burrowing my way deep into the canon of Alexandre Dumas. But where were the four musketeers when you needed them?
    My only visitors, apart from the constable who brought me grub and water, were Sam and Dalziel. And I was doing a fine job of encouraging them to pop in and keep me company.
    ‘Speak to Lady Gibson! You must be able to get hold of her.’
    ‘How do you suggest we do that, Douglas? Grab her as sheleaves