Memorable Day

Bill Findlay

My wife and I were first to arrive. It was a strange building. So much so that I kept the taxi waiting in case I had come to the wrong place. Only the care taker was on duty. "Oh it's here all right," he assured me.

I introduced myself, and my wife who joined us. "So it's you," he said. "Thought it might be. Just sit over there. Someone will come for you when they're ready."

"Would you like a cup of tea?" he asked, as an after thought.

I nodded, and that is exactly what we got. Tea but no biscuit or anything like that. I'm off duty now, he added. "Just wait there and they'll call you when they are ready for you."

We waited, and waited, and waited. "I'll go and see if I can find someone." I said, looking at my watch. We must have been here the best part of an hour."

I wandered around. Down several corridors, past empty rooms. Eventually. I came across two men in plain clothes, obviously police men. As it transpired, one was the Detective inspector in charge of the case. The other, a plain clothed Constable.

"I'm Peter's father" I said by way of introduction. "Have the camera crews arrived?" "Not yet but they will." The Inspector assured me. "We'll wait with you meanwhile."

They followed me back to the reception area. I introduced them to my wife. Again. There was a lengthy wait. The inspector was the first to be called away. The plain clothed man remained with us. He was big and burly, and certainly looked the part. To my surprise, he was talkative and friendly. I remarked that the place looked more like a community hall than a police station.

"Actually it used to be the district court" he told us "so it has cells, interview rooms and just about everything we're likely to need."

More people had arrived and we were taken into a comfortable waiting area. The Inspector was there. A young lady with a clipboard came into the room. She took our names and noted down several details. She ordered tea and coffee, and reminded us to sign the release forms before we went away. She explained that the action would be taking place in an adjacent room which was being prepared.

Again there was a lengthy wait. The Constable talked incessantly. He told us about his recent work. He mentioned some well known people, mainly actors, who he claimed to know personally and, in general, he monopolised the conversation. We were all rather relieved when the young lady returned to tell us that they were almost ready for us. The Inspector was first to be called into the interview room. My wife and I were next. As we entered, we exchanged glances with our son, Peter. He was sitting at the far end of a large mahogany table, facing the Inspector. My wife dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief and did her best to smile as we sat down at the opposite end of the table. The plain clothes officer appeared, sat at the back of the room and said nothing throughout the remainder of the proceedings.

The Inspector looked up from the papers in front of him. He stared at Peter and pushed one of the documents towards him. "We1I! Are you ready to sign this confession now?" There was a lengthy silence.

"Well?" the Inspector prompted.

"Yes," Peter replied, "but first let me make one thing quite clear. My father was in no way involved. He knew nothing about it. He is an innocent man."

Peter's eyes met with mine. I felt a lump rise in my throat. My wife grasped my hand, then began to sob and dab her eyes with her handkerchief.

"It's all right, Mother, it's all right. Don't cry. Yes, I have done all the terrible things they say that I have done and I'm sorry. Sorry for your sake, that is. Before I sign a confession, however, the police MUST accept the fact that neither you nor my Father had any knowledge of my actions. You were and are in no way involved."

"Oh my son, my son, what ever you did you will always be my son." She stretched out her hand.

"No touching. I'm sorry, no touching, Mrs Manuel." The Inspector reminded us of the rules.

There was yet another lengthy pause, then he thrust the papers towards Peter. "I agree to all you ask." he said. "There shall be no proceedings of any kind against your parents. Now are you ready to sign this confession?"

Peter nodded, and accepted the pen that the Inspector pushed towards him. "Oh my son, my son, my son. A mass murderer but still, always my son." I sighed, my wife sobbed.

"Cut" said the Director. "That was first class. Expressions, action, everything, first class. Turn off the cameras and we'll all go for lunch. We're booked into the hotel across the road. They'll be expecting us any time now."

They were, and we all enjoyed a well earned lunch. It's a day I'll never forget. The day I played the part of mass murderer Peter Manuel's father for the documentary shown on the first night of the new Gaelic TV programme.