The House Gun by Nadine Gordimer Read Free Book Online Page B

could do what you ask while we see him under those circumstances.—
    I fully appreciate, I fully understand, the advocate repeated in different formulations, developing what lawyers call their arguments. Ah-hêh . But it was not possible for them to talk to their son in complete privacy; that was the regulation. No possible harm could result, however, from them indicating to him, openly, in the presence of warders, that they were convinced, in his best interests at this moment in time , that he should trust his lawyers absolutely, that he tell his lawyers everything there was to tell. The glassmarble glance flashing again, as if it should hardly he necessary to
pronounce the obvious:—The warder would be most unlikely to comprehend anything you talk about, anyway. Most of those chaps are still a hangover from the old days. Sheltered employment for retarded sons of the Boere .—He tosses an indiscretion he knows won’t go amiss with these people.—Our government finds you can’t change the prison system overnight—or many nights. Ah-hêh.—
    During these early days they seem to repeat an inescapable ritual of departure from the same kind of compulsory encounter which leaves each waiting for the other to speak. And each is wary of the kind of interpretation that may be revealed by the other; that would set the encounter up or down on some scale of use, of hope, for them. So long as the silence lasts, this time, they do not have to face in one another what the advocate, Senior Counsel Motsamai, has said has to be faced. It is best to break the silence obliquely, as near to gently, within devastation, as you can get.
    What d’you think of him?
    She drops her chin towards her breasts a moment; lifts her head to speak under the still-falling avalanche of the meeting. Full of himself. Somehow arrogant. We’re in a mess that he wearily is expected to get us out of. I don’t know.
    Probably what looks like arrogance is the kind of decisive presence that’s impressive in court. Judges themselves are reputed to have that kind of presence. I didn’t like him much, either. But that’s irrelevant, he’s not there to ingratiate himself with us—I respect that, he’s there to do his job.
    And he’s decided what that is.
    That’s what he’s briefed for, isn’t he. His expertise.
    And he’s decided that Duncan killed. I can’t, can’t even hear myself say it. I can’t say to myself, Duncan killed, Duncan perfosmed a pathological act. Duncan is not a psychopath, I know enough about pathological states, grant me that, to say so. And I’m not bringing us into it, I’m not basing my disbelief on any
proud idea that this can’t be because he’s our son , this isn’t what a son of ours would do. It’s Duncan, not our son , I’m talking about. There must be some explanation of how this ‘circumstantial evidence’ came about. The man doesn’t know, but he’s preparing what?—his defence, on the premise that this ‘circumstantial evidence’ means that Duncan killed. Duncan killed because that little bitch who shacked up with him, who wasn’t too particular who attracted her fancy, and he’d tolerated this before, had a tumble on a sofa with one of the other friends. I’m sure she wasn’t the first girl in Duncan’s life, don’t you remember the others—Alyse or whatever-her-name-was, happened to be a medical student who came to assist me, for the experience, two years ago—she was the favourite for a while.
    Why doesn’t Duncan speak.
    I can’t tell you, can I? I don’t know. Perhaps because the lawyers keep battering him with ‘circumstantial evidence’ so that he can’t have any faith that the truth will count, you can’t win against circumstantial evidence, a gardener sees you crossing the grass and later the police pick up a gun. A