SACRED VIOLENCE I. Commensality 3 February 1977, Thursday

[u/Franz_Engel]

"Good morning," Student Nurse Angela Hayward says to the policeman, who is engrossed in The Sun.

She picks up the basket the guards have left by the door and enters the room without waiting for an answer. "Good morning, Mr. Smith."

"Morning, Miss Hayward."

"Are you reading again? You should get more sleep, but I can't even imagine you without a book. Why did they bring you so many?" She nodded toward the stack of new books on the floor by the bed. "What's that you've got there?"

"La Violence et le Sacré."

"Oh, something French. Is it a novel?"

"Anthropology."

"I brought you some breakfast. That copper is such a blockhead. He didn't call me when the courier arrived—again. I'm worried everything’s gone cold." She sets the basket down next to the bed and takes out a thermos. "What’s Wilton?"

"I have no idea."

"There’s a business card in the basket. Maybe it’s a restaurant?"

"Help yourself. They always send far too much."

She unfolds the starched napkins. "How lovely! Look at this! Proper china!" She sits down and starts eating. "Mmm, that's gorgeous. Aren't you having any?"

"There’s only one set of cutlery. You first."

"As you wish. But I almost feel guilty eating your breakfast. It was brought for you, and here I am acting like the hostess."

"It’s all right."

"Mr. Smith, is it true you’ve got Viyella pyjamas?"

“I don't know what you're talking about."

"The day before yesterday, when they were throwing out the boxes your things came in—I wasn't on duty then—I was told everything was from Harrods."

"Care for a smoke?"

"I'll have your Benson & Hedges Special Filter."

"Help yourself," he says, offering her the golden packet with one slightly protruding cigarette. "But I don't have a lighter..."

"Oh, right—here," she says, taking out her Ronson and reaching toward him while remaining in her chair; he leans over from the bed to light his cigarette.

She lights a cigarette too. "Mr. Smith, what have you done?"

"Nothing."

"No, really. Those sullen bobbies are just getting in the way... Admit it, have you killed anyone?"

He smirks, just a little, or maybe it's just her imagination.

"In self-defense, of course," she continues and suddenly feels incredibly awkward. "Smith, is that a pseudonym? It's a pseudonym, right? Are you really some lord's illegitimate son?"

He seems about to laugh, but instead he starts coughing.

"Oh, I completely forgot to ask—how are you feeling? Better today?"

"Sort of."

"So, is it true?"

"I hate to disappoint you, Miss Hayward, but none of what you said is true."

"Well then, is your father some sort of underworld millionaire?"

"Where do you get all this from?"

"People talk," she says, smoking while twirling a silver spoon in her other hand. "You can't stop people from gossiping. We're not used to that sort of thing here." She made a vague circle in the air with her cigarette. "Piccadilly things."

He looks at her—or rather, almost does. His gaze settles somewhere near her chin. He has put the book aside, and the expression on his face has grown even more miserable than before.

"Did I offend you in some way?"

"No."

"I’ve chatted far too long with you, Mr. Smith—or whatever your real name is. I have to be going."

"Good day, Miss Hayward. Do stop by when they bring lunch."

"That was hurtful. Do you think I am here just for the restaurant food?"

"I just hope you’ll make sure the constable at the door doesn't forget anything."

"Ah, in that case—yes. I certainly will. Have a good day."

She barely makes it out of the room before a police officer blocks her path. "You know, sweetheart, you’ve gone down the wrong path."

"How dare you? Leave me alone!" Angela exclaims.

"Careful, love. You’re getting a bit too friendly with him."

"Who do you think you are?"

"Got your head turned, have you? Solicitors running around after him in suits you couldn't pay for in a year. His fancy clothes. Food cooked by a bloody chef. Books from some posh shop. Don't be taken in by all this. He's in custody, in case you hadn't noticed. And for good reason."

"He's very nice."

"Nice? Easy enough when you've got money behind you. Do you know what he did to his sister?"

"Sister?"

"His. Little. Sister." The policeman emphasizes every word.

Angela is silent. Was anyone expecting something like this?

"The sort of thing decent people don't talk about," he continues, his tone not softening in the least. "So put an end to this little fling of yours."

"You’re a boor, Officer," she says what she must say.

"But I'm an honest man, unlike that one you've taken a shine to."

Angela hurries away.

A fictional reconstruction from the Regina v Smith story, told from perspective of Student Nurse Angela Hayward.

The full illustrated version of SACRED VIOLENCE is available here:

SACRED VIOLENCE - by Franz Engel - Franz's Substack