Cat and Mouse by Tim Vicary Read Free Book Online Page A

all know anyway. What he won’t tell you, because no one will ask, is that it was a painting of a naked woman lying voluptuously across a bed, which was painted with the clear intention of giving lascivious pleasure to men — the same men who not only deny the vote to women, but refuse to pay them equal wages, live off their sweated labour in laundries and brush factories, and seduce the daughters of the poor into prostitution. I know that happens, and I am quite sure that many men here know that it happens, too. Even my husband knows it is true. He is as bad as the rest . . .’
    Heads turned, swung towards Jonathan. The reporters scribbled frantically. Oh Jonathan, Jonathan!
    ‘And the painting which was exhibited by that man there . . .’
    The noise was so great now that she wondered if anyone could hear. The policeman, embarrassed, began to drag her by the arm sideways out of the dock. But she caught hold of the brass rail and clung on. Perhaps no one would hear her but it was her trial, she would speak when she wanted to! She saw the reporters scribbling away in shorthand below her to the right, and a great feeling of joy and defiance bubbled up inside her. This was what she had come here for! Whatever they did to her later, tomorrow people would read her words in the papers and understand what she had done, and why!
    ‘You men care so much about that painting which is just a matter of canvas and paint, and nothing at all about the real living women that are all around you! What do you have to say about Mrs Pankhurst and all my sister suffragettes, who are locked up in prison and tortured as I suppose I shall be, tortured until they can scarcely walk? Do you care about the damage you do to their bodies? Bodies of real living women, not paintings! We are your mothers, your sisters, your wives — don't you think we deserve the same right that you have — the right to vote for the government whose laws we live under?’
    The policeman had been joined by a colleague, who managed to prise her hands free from the rail, finger by finger, bending them back until they almost broke. The first policeman wrapped his arms round her waist and lifted her bodily backwards out of the dock. For a moment she struggled, kicking the shins behind her, but it was futile. The bearhug drove the breath from her body, and the second policeman held her wrists to prevent her fighting back with them.
    The last thing she saw as she was carried backwards like a naughty child out of the dock was Jonathan. He was on his feet, angrily shouting from the far side of the court. She wondered if he had understood that she knew his secret. She had shouted it out clearly enough. But even if he had, there was nothing he could say to her now.
    The policeman lugged her down into the bare whitewashed staircase leading to the cells. The walls echoed with laughter from the courtroom above. That hurt her more than anything else had so far. It's all for nothing, she thought. I'm just a freak, a monster to these men.
    A child who got married and thought she was loved. A doll that thought it was human . . .
    The collecting cell below the court was a long narrow room with wooden benches down either side and a toilet at one end. There were several women there when Sarah arrived, and more appeared throughout the afternoon. Most had been convicted of various petty crimes, and some were merely being remanded in custody until a later trial. There were pickpockets, prostitutes, thieves — several only fifteen or sixteen years old. Some were in despair, others proud and defiant. All, at one time or another, felt the need to use the toilet at the end of the room, in full view of the rest.
    Shortly after Sarah had been brought down, a policeman had come in to tell her her sentence. ‘For cutting the picture — five months. And for contempt of His Majesty's Court of Justice — one month. All in the third division. Consecutive!’
    He said the last word with malicious