I rolled off the desk and crashed to the floor. My chest squelched from a combination of my own cold sweat and whatever sticky residue had slicked off the giant spider foot. Groaning in pain, I drew myself up to the chair and cursed my life to hell. In the bleak hush of the courtroom, the Judge needed barely more than a whisper to call the proceedings to order.
"Next witness," he said, and from the very depths of the silence came a beating sound. I clasped my chest but as the beating grew louder it fell out of synch with my heart's irregular stroke, continuing to gain in power until soon its thunder shook the very walls of the courtroom.
"The Defence calls Sergeant Vladmir Klokov," called the Professor and the doors boomed open in crescendo.
He wore his customary garb: the black military peacoat with the high collar, and solid black boots polished to a high shine. He marched through the astounded Gallery in strict 4/4 time, sitting ramrod straight in the witness box. His ruthless gaze swept the courtroom, unflinching at the blinking red eyes which looked down from the ceiling.
Well at least he hasn't changed, I thought, for Klokov had made a similar entrance and survey of my bedroom the very first time we'd been introduced.
"Raise your hand, please," said the White Ram but Klokov refused to be sworn in. "Trust me or not trust me," he said, folding his arms. "Up to you."
The White Ram bleated an earful about procedure until the Judge waved him off. "Far be it from this court to discredit a military man."
Klokov told the court he'd been taken on by my father after my previous chaperone, Vanessa, was dismissed. "Mr Blaze want me to look after his son. Teach him discipline."
"Rather a waste of your talents, no?" asked the Professor.
Klokov shook his head. "Little Isaac not easy to handle. Last girl not quit for nothing, da?"
"Allegedly," said the Professor. He swiftly changed topic with a gesture to the row of medals hanging from Klokov's jacket breast. "As a decorated war-man, is it your professional opinion that the wounds inflicted on Dr Wheeler's body are consistent with bludgeoning?"
"Da."
"And is Mr Blaze of sufficient upper-body strength to do it?"
"It not matter of muscles," said Klokov. He whispered something into his cuff and a moment later a black-and-white surveillance photograph of my prison cell was lowered from the ceiling via spider thread. Klokov pointed to the messy bed sheets. "As you make bed, so will you lie."
The Professor concurred that the corners were indeed weak, thus submitting to the Court that I lacked physical constitution to undertake such a heinous act. Absurd as this logic was, both the Gallery and the Jewry seemed to eat it up. Even the Judge looked crestfallen. "Well don't just sit there counsellor!" he barked at me.
I stood up obediently but if the Professor had a winning play then I wasn't about to mar it. That said, I had a bone to pick with Klokov and for some reason I felt determined to get an apology—no matter what.
"Too weak am I?" I said. "Even after the hell you put me through?" I told the Court of the rigorous after-school calisthenics routine to which Klokov had subjected me. "You made me hang from the old tree in our garden until my grip gave out."
"Da," he said. "And you fell in heap just like your bed."
Anger boiled. "Yes, well, I suppose Doctor Wheeler must have slept in a dumpster then, hm? Because he was found laying in bloody mess!"
Bang Bang Bang! The Judge brought down his stethoscope with perilous force but I found myself bursting with laughter at my dark joke.
"You see?" came a boy's voice. "I told you he's mad!"
"Oh shut up, Pronin!" I shouted, causing the whole Gallery to reel back from me, horrified. I felt a rush of power then, such that I'd never experienced before. It felt good. Very good. For the first time it was them who were scared. I turned back to Klokov and demanded he apologise for tormenting me.
"Nyet," he said. "Little Isaac have no discipline, so Little Isaac get me. As you make bed—"
"The hell with your bed theory!" I roared. "These bastards put me in a straitjacket, you jackbooted taskmaster—I never even touched the sheets!" My hand slammed over my mouth but the words had already rung loud in the Court's ears.
"Sustained," called the Judge and I heard Pronin snigger behind me. Cursing my anger, I fled to my desk. In the corner of my eye, the Professor shook his head.
"Sergeant Klokov. Who in your opinion did kill Doctor Wheeler?"
Klokov only shrugged. "Need to check evidence." He whispered into his cuff again and down came seven more surveillance photographs of the prison cells. The White Ram duly produced a crayon and Klokov thus began his assessment, the results of which are surmised as follows:
Inmate
State of Bed
Score (Out of 10)
Happy Guy
Sheets crumpled with no sign of tucking; pillow un-fluffed but on the bed
4
Raven
Sheets show attempt at tucking but corners not square. Pillow smooth.
7
Isaac
N/A
N/A
Imbecile
Perfect tuck with sharp corners. Pillow shows no dent, resting squarely in position.
10
Professor
Torn sheets, pillow ripped to shreds, stained mattress. Disgraceful.
1
One-eyed man
Pillow is fluffed but shows staining. Sheets heavily stained.
6
Needless to say, I found the results quite surprising, and along with the Judge and Gallery, I turned my head squarely to the Defence.
The Professor chuckled. "I confess, I'm rather lazy with regards household duties!"
Incongruous though it was to see him display such frivolity, his smile had a certain warmth which in combination with his twee bowtie came off as self-deprecating, even endearing. But while he may have won over the hearts of the Gallery, I regarded his theatrics in a rather more cold light. After all, I'd actually been inside his cell and I knew just how perfect his bed had been made. "So what's all this then?" I muttered.
"Well done that man," called the Judge, who apparently considered it his remit to announce the winner. The Imbecile rose and bowed to the reluctant applause of the Gallery—only for the clapping to curdle into groans when he broke wind like a ruptured bellows
"What the hell do you mean: well done?" I snapped at the Judge. "That means he killed you."
"You'll watch your tone, counsellor," the Judge retorted, nostrils flaring. "Especially when voicing such contradictory accusations." He banged his stethoscope and ruled the bed assessments: inconclusive on grounds of immodesty.
"You can't be serious!" I protested.
The Judge did not respond.
"I go now," said Klokov, rising stiffly. The White Ram tried to bar him, bleating that Klokov was under oath and thus compelled to satisfy the Court.
"Nyet," said Klokov. He leaned forward and whispered something into the White Ram's one good horn. The ugly beast twitched, blinked twice, and slunk backwards. Without another word, Klokov turned on his heel and marched out of the courtroom, his bootsteps thundering into the distance.
A long silence followed.
Then, softly: "Perhaps I could say something, mon chérie?"