The Unbelievers by Alastair Sim Page A

upwards.
    â€œWhat I remember most, sir, is the look of puzzled surprise on that lad’s face. I reckon he must have been about seventeen years old, and I suppose he thought he was fighting for his country. He just stood there startled for a second as his guts spilled from his abdomen then smiled at me, as if he was apologising, before falling dead.”
    â€œThat’s a hard memory, Sergeant.”
    â€œIt is, sir. I was hit twice more before we got the Captain back to safety behind the breach. I can barely remember the rest of that day’s fight. I must have killed or wounded other men that day, but it’s that lad’s smile that I see when I shut my eyes.”
    McGillivray looked out the window at the bare winter fields. The carriage rocked over points as the branch to Dalcorn and Queensferry swung away from the main line. He turned back to the Inspector.
    â€œYou know, sir, being in the army made me value life more highly. I’ve seen enough of death. It’s the hardest part of this job for me, sir, knowing that some of the people we apprehend will be hanged.”
    â€œIt’s the law, Sergeant. It’s how society prevents the disease of murder from spreading. If you have a gangrenous foot you have it amputated before the infection can spread further.”
    â€œIndeed, sir.”
    â€œAnd in cases of less inevitably fatal disease, like typhoid or theft, you isolate the patient in hospital or in prison in the hope of recovery. It’s a system which makes scientific sense.”
    â€œI suppose so, sir.”
    The train passed a single tree standing in the middle of a field, its bare branches spreading like arms. Allerdyce was silent for another moment, drawing on his pipe.
    â€œThere’s a case that still comes back to me in my own dreams though, Sergeant. It was about a young boy – thirteen years old – who was convicted of murdering his father.”
    â€œDid he do it, sir?”
    â€œOh yes. He admitted as much to me. In any case the neighbours had heard the whole thing through the walls of the room they shared in a lodging house in St Mary’s Wynd.”
    â€œSo why trouble your conscience about it, sir?”
    â€œBecause I don’t think the boy I arrested deserved to die.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThe father had been abusing the boy with insults and blows since the boy’s mother had died. The neighbours said his abuse had been growing steadily worse. One night the father came back from the public house and beat the boy so badly with a poker that he lost the sight of one eye. Then he buggered the boy. When the man fell asleep, dead drunk, the boy cracked his head open with the poker. The boy’s advocate pleaded that the murder was excused by the provocation he had received, and that the boy was at worst guilty of culpable homicide. But the judge directed the jury only to consider whether the boy was guilty of murder – he obviously didn’t think the lower orders should get away with killing each other. Since the father was indisputably dead at the son’s hand, the jury found him guilty.”
    â€œAnd the boy was hanged, sir?”
    â€œA week later in front of a jeering crowd in the Lawnmarket. I was bitterly sorry, Sergeant. I had interviewed the boy before he was charged. I had no doubt that he had the potential to grow into a useful citizen once he was free from his father’s influence. If I could have let that boy walk away without charge I would have done so.”
    â€œYou did your duty, sir.”
    Allerdyce sighed.
    â€œI suppose I did, Sergeant. But sometimes doing your duty to the law doesn’t seem to do justice to the people you encounter.”

    The policemen stepped out of the train at Dalcorn station. It wheezed away from the platform as they stepped into the telegraph office.
    The clerk, thin with balding black hair slicked back over his scalp, put his glasses on and looked up at