Sitting in the meatwagon on the way to court this morning, staring wistfully out of an armoured aperture at the needle-sharp spire of Tardebigge Church, I was trying my best to compose the statement of exoneration which I had promised George I would write when we finally appeared in front of the judge for sentencing at the austere Greek Revival crown court in Worcester.
Today was the day. Shakily-writing straight and legible lines whilst bouncing along country lanes in this manner was not an easy task-I began my earnest submissions. After all, despite his nascent criminal propensities, George is only 21 (exactly half my age), a na?ve and impressionable youngster who would never have found himself in this predicament had it not been for me carting him off to Wonderland in the first place. He had spent the last five months in prison without a letter, without a visit, without a kind word from anyone in the outside world. Yet he had taken all this like a man, never complaining, never feeling sorry for himself. I felt a duty of obligation to him and the letter was a way out.
My urbane and experienced lawyer, Sebastian Dell, urged a more cautious approach. What he called "a reverse cut-throat defence"-the idea of one defendant taking the blame for (as opposed to putting the blame on) the other was, to Sebastian at least, an unusual concept. Such, it seems, are the prevailing and self-serving mores of contemporary English criminals.
In the well of the court, the pre-hearing atmosphere was reverential. Only the rustle of paper and the rattle of the dock officers' handcuffs cut into the expectant silence. George and I sat right at the back of the room, side by side in the dock, dressed in our most conservative suits. After what seemed an aeon, a telephone rang. The signal. Bewigged ranks of advocates sat up in their seats. I felt the tightening of a knot in my stomach. Directly above us in the public gallery, Peck's Bad Boy (who had turned up out of the blue to lend well-meaning support) was up to his usual mischief. Wanting to get a better view of us in the dock, he was hanging over the front rail like an adolescent at a Saturday morning film matin?e. The moment His Honour Judge Cleaver appeared, his frog-eyes shot a withering look up to the gallery. The Bad Boy froze in his tracks and climbed back into his seat. Regina versus Wayne and McAuley. Our case had been called.
The facts were clear and undisputed. George and I had been posing as "father" and "son" away on a bonding holiday. We had stayed at a dozen top-flight country hotels, wining and dining with society toffs before disappearing in the middle of the night with hoards of paintings and antiques, leaving in our wake thousands of pounds' worth of unpaid bills. "The Best Five Weeks of My Life" I had entitled some notes on our expedition which had inadvertently fallen into the wrong hands at the time of our arrest. It was clear from his demeanour that Cleaver was not at all amused by this. George's sweating hands gripped the side of his seat. Sebastian's plea of mitigation fell on deaf judicial ears. "Yes," Cleaver snapped dismissively, before adjourning for an early lunch.
Post-prandially, it was an altogether rosier and more congenial fellow who turned his attention to the shy Miss Cubitt's address on George's behalf. It somehow seemed appropriate that she was female and, like my friend, young and relatively untarnished by worldly cynicism. She was already referring to my morning's hurried missive as "this remarkable letter which in no uncertain terms lifts culpability from my client's shoulders." Cleaver smiled graciously. "Perhaps you could suggest an alternative to imprisonment..." he began, and as soon as I'd heard the honeyed words, I knew I'd be journeying on alone into the dark continent of incarceration. A mood of martyrdom and resignation came over me. "You'll be back in the smoke in an hour," the guard on our left assured a hyperventilating George when Cleaver retired to deliberate. "You'll be back in Blakenhurst by teatime," his colleague countered to me.
Cleaver chose to sentence me first, reading his sullen announcement without once looking me in the face. "Twenty-seven months" he announced, face still buried deep in his papers. "As for you, McAuley..." he deigned to look up, like a beneficent tyrant, "I'm going to give you a combination order of 12 months' probation and community service. Bearing in mind your youth and immaturity, this seems by far the most appropriate punishment."
George was delirious with happiness and relief. Tears were already filling my eyes. I felt hot and cold, happy and sad, elated and disappointed, confused and knowing, all at the same time. They left us alone in a cell while sorting out George's discharge papers. I tried hard to laugh with my friend as he paced impatiently up and down, awaiting The Call. We were caught embracing. Then the guards let me walk with him as far as the barred gate at the end of the corridor.
"Good-bye, Pete. Fanks for the letter. An' fanks for the best time I ever 'ad-even the bang-up," he added, giving me his most endearing snaggle-toothed smile. "Good-bye, George. I'll miss you so bad and... well, you know how much I love you." I had to say it. We hugged again, but the guards made it far too self-conscious a moment for George to give me a full-in-the-face "love you" back. Instead he picked up his bag of meagre possessions, cocked his head to one side and began to walk away.
He stopped though, just before he reached the door. Turning to face me with that familiar twinkle in his light blue eyes, he said quietly, "Love you too, Pete." And then he was gone.
