A Belfast Child

by John Chambers

  As siblings we’re all very different but we’re supernaturally close, I think because of the loss and trauma we suffered as children. When something happens to one of us we all feel the hurt deeply. Which is why, when the police came knocking on my flat door one evening, I nearly had a heart attack on the spot – and not just because the whole place smelled of weed.

  By the looks on the officers’ faces, they hadn’t called round to bust me for a couple of spliffs. One policeman asked me to identify myself, which I did, and then, as gently as possible, he said that he had some bad news about David Chambers, and could they come in?

  There were cigarette papers and tobacco all over the place but I didn’t give a shit. Panic rose in every part of my body as I led them into the front room. They told me to sit down and brace myself. My stomach turned to water as I took a seat and one of them said that David had been in an incident and was currently in Whitechapel hospital and they were going to take me directly to see him.

  I grabbed a coat and made my way to the police car. On the way to the hospital the officers explained that David had got into an altercation with some youths on the Tube and had been stabbed. He was currently in surgery and that’s all they could tell me at that moment.

  By the time I got to the hospital I was in a real mess. The policemen led me into a room, where a surgeon explained that David had been stabbed multiple times and had gone into cardiac arrest at the scene.

  ‘I should be honest now,’ the surgeon said, ‘and tell you that we’re fighting to save his life. We are doing our best and we’ll keep you informed of our progress when we have a moment. In the meantime, please try to relax and if you need to call anyone, there is a payphone just down the corridor here.’

  The phone calls to Margaret and Jean were the hardest I’ve ever had to make in my life. Their distress triggered a wave of emotion in me, and the three of us sobbed down the line. I told them that David had a slim chance of pulling through, and that they should get over to London immediately. We all understood the irony of the situation: a young fella like David leaving one of the world’s most dangerous cities, only to be stabbed in London for no apparent reason.

  While the surgery was taking place, I sat outside and smoked myself to death, cursing the gods and the fates for putting us through this latest ordeal – as if we hadn’t been through enough. My kid brother had a massive heart and would never hurt or do wrong to anyone. I couldn’t understand how he had ended up in the state he was and who would want to hurt him. I was beside myself with fear and anxiety. When he finally came out of surgery, they said he was in intensive care and I should get home and grab some sleep. They would call me if there was any change in his condition.

  I went home and watched the news. They were reporting on my brother’s stabbing and I felt detached from it all as I sat watching the phone, praying that it wouldn’t ring in case they were calling to say David had passed away. It was the longest night of my life.

  Next morning I met Margaret and Jean at the hospital. The three of us looked weary – those two from the travelling and all of us from stress and worry – and we sat about for ages not knowing what was going on. Eventually we were brought into the intensive care unit, where David was wired up to what seemed to be dozens of machines. He was in a coma but the doctor said the surgery had gone as well as expected and they were just monitoring him to see when or if he would wake up. We sat holding his hand, crying and once again cursing the gods.

  Then something amazing happened. David’s eyelids flickered briefly before opening fully. He stared at us and a huge fat tear rolled down his cheek. He squeezed my hand and at that moment I knew he was going to survive. Begrudgingly, I apologised to the gods and thanked them for being kind to us.

  His recovery was slow and even now he still carries the physical and emotional scars from that day. When he was fit enough to speak, I got him to tell us exactly what had happened. I had also been speaking to the police, who helpfully filled in some of the gaps.

  David and his white South African friend Steve had been on a Tube travelling into central London for a few drinks when a group of four or five young black guys got on. They caught Steve’s strong accent and had started to abuse him. The argument turned violent and Steve ran down the train, leaving David alone with the young fellas. They beat him up, stabbed him multiple times and left him for dead before running off. David had had multiple heart attacks and was bleeding profusely before the helicopter arrived and took him to the hospital.

  It turned out that the guy who had stabbed David was out on parole for another violent attack and had gone missing. At the time of the attack police were hunting for him. Eventually, several people were arrested and charged with attempted murder. As a family, we waited anxiously for the court hearing. When the time came for the trial we sat in court every day, making sure we let the scumbags know how we felt. I was often overcome by my emotions and hatred for these people and at one stage I was almost thrown out of the court. If I could have got my hands on the main perpetrator, I wouldn’t have been a pacifist for much longer. This man was sent down for eighteen years after being convicted of attempted murder, but no doubt he’s long out by now and making someone else’s life a misery.

  In all of this, there remained the unanswered question, the one that had nagged me for years. Where was our mother and why had she abandoned us so suddenly? Margaret, Jean, David and I had been through plenty by then, collectively and in our own lives, and by and large we’d remained strong and resilient. For me, though, this missing piece of the jigsaw was one that had to be located and, if possible, fitted back into its rightful place. Only then would I feel at peace and complete.

  CHAPTER 17

  T

  he world of sales can sometimes involve periods when you’re between jobs. Salespeople are restless types and I was definitely in that category. I’ve always been a natural salesman and could sell sand to Arabs if push came to shove. If I felt bored or under-paid, I’d quit, then look around for another opportunity. If one didn’t appear immediately I’d go back to temping in pubs and bars. Work in this field was plentiful, easy to come by and fun.

  This was the position I found myself in during the early part of 1994, when I landed a job at the King’s Arms pub in Covent Garden. I was in my late twenties by now but still raving like a madman. Life was one long drug-fuelled party and I was constantly at the pills and the coke. It seemed everyone around me in London was doing the same thing. But I could hold a job down well enough, particularly a pub job where you needed something to keep you up during the long evenings serving customers of all types and in all states of intoxication.

  I got the position in the King’s Arms via a friend, and I was told that I’d be covering catering shifts for someone called Simone. She was also a part-timer in the pub; the rest of her time she earned her living as a professional dancer. I hadn’t met her, but apparently she’d trained at the Ballet Rambert and by all accounts was a lovely and beautiful woman. At that time she was working away in Holland and I hoped she wouldn’t come back, because that would mean my hours would be cut.

  I loved working at the King’s Arms. The owner was an elderly lady called Lilly, straight out of central casting’s list of cheeky cockney characters. She dripped gold jewellery and her speech was peppered with rhyming slang. Lilly lived above the pub with her little dog, which the staff hated because it would piss and shit all over the place and we’d be responsible for cleaning up after it.

  We were also required to take it for regular walks around the block. One time, after a particularly soggy clean-up operation, one of the barmen took it out. Five minutes later the dog came back completely soaked. I was surprised, as it was a gorgeous sunny summer’s day.

  ‘I needed a pee while I was out,’ said the barman under his breath, ‘so I tied up the little shite down an alleyway and pissed on him. That’ll teach him.’

  I laughed my head off at that, and thereafter the dog was very reluctant to go whe
never Lilly asked the barman to take him for a walk.

  It’s a good job Lilly never found out because she was very old-school and had what we might call an ‘interesting’ selection of friends – thieves, gangsters and other assorted villains among them. On Sunday nights, when the pub was quieter than usual, they’d gather in the upstairs bar and gossip about all the local goings-on.

  Not that the pub itself was without incident. There was often a bit of coke knocking about the place and various members of staff, including me, would hoover up a few lines to help us get through the evening, particularly at weekends when the place was rammed. On Fridays, when the pub was at its fullest and maddest, we’d drop Es, turn the music up and party as hard as the customers. We were all having the time of our lives – and the staff were getting paid for it!

  Because it was located close to so many great theatres and other venues, the pub’s regulars were a mad mix of bohemian arty types – including actors, writers, dancers, stage crew. There was a lot of passing trade too – pre-theatre drinkers, the post-work crowd – so there was never a dull moment. Before working in the pub I’d never darkened the doors of any theatre, except maybe for a gig or two, but talking to the arty crowd sparked my interest and I started to see a few West End shows, courtesy of customers who’d offer me free tickets. My cousin Pickle had by now also escaped Belfast and was working on the refurbishment of the Royal Opera House. He and I went there for a few shows and the pair of us would wonder how we’d ended up in such a prestigious venue. I was moving in circles and doing things I’d never dreamed possible. It was a far cry from the tribal world of my childhood in Glencairn and Belfast.

  The pub regulars included a guy nicknamed ‘Rolex Reg’, a dodgy East Ender who always carried a briefcase full of fake watches and other knocked-off gear. He was often found in the corner in meetings, whispering to shady-looking Bulgarians and other Eastern Europeans. There was Maggie, an old girl well past her sell-by date who stank of pee and got pissed every night alone in the corner. At the bar sat John, the boring manic-depressive who would send the devil to sleep with his conversation. There was also a beautiful Japanese dancer who was in love with me and use to buy me really expensive presents, even though I showed no interest in her.

  Among the more famous customers were the cast of The Detectives; screenwriter Stephen Knight (who created Peaky Blinders and Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?), comedian and writer Barry Cryer; TV star Phillip Scofield and none other than Teletubbies’ ‘Tinky Winky’ – the actor Simon Shelton, a lovely guy who died tragically young. Famous faces were in and out all the time but for me, the biggest buzz ever was when actor Gary Shail came in one day. He played the drug-dealing Spider in Quadrophenia – the film that seemed to echo many aspects of my life as a Mod in Belfast and provided the soundtrack to my antics during those times. In fact, my Belfast Mod mates used to occasionally refer to me as ‘Spider’ because of my ability to lay my hands on drugs. Gary became a regular and I never got bored with chatting to him at the end of the bar. I only wish I’d taken a picture of us together to prove it!

  I’d often hit the town with friends when my shift was finished, and inevitably I’d need drugs to get myself into the party mood. One day, I’d arranged to meet my pal Peter after our shifts were finished at about 6 p.m. We agreed that we’d drop a couple of acid tabs around 4 p.m., so that we’d be coming up just as we set off for our night out. As the end of my shift approached, I could feel things starting to get slightly weird – not surprising, given I’d dropped two microdots. Still, I was used to this, and looking forward to the experience, when Bob came running over and told me that a member of staff had suddenly called in sick. There was a big party due in the upstairs bar, he said, and I’d have to stay on to cover the absence.

  I smiled at Bob as I watched his face turn into that of a giant spider’s. The spider was now insisting that I get upstairs ASAP and start preparing the bar for the party, which would be starting in thirty minutes. I was too wasted to argue with Bob the Big Spider, who looked at me quizzically and asked if I was all right.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lied, tripping my face off. ‘I’m a wee bit knackered, though. I might just take a line to get me through.’

  I knew that wouldn’t be a problem. I was hoping that the coke might speed me through the trip, or at least make it more manageable. Now I felt more confident I could get through this, I asked Bob what the party was for.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘it’s some old copper retiring. CID. There’ll be a lot of Old Bill in tonight. So be on your best behaviour, eh?’

  Bob cheekily tapped the side of his nose. I could’ve died at that point. I felt my heart racing and my mouth was as dry as an Arab’s sandal. There was nothing I could do but get on with it and try to act as normally as possible.

  The next four hours were a supreme test of mental strength. The two microdots were taking me to places far out of this world and yet I had to serve a room full of peelers with as much charm and sobriety as I could muster. In short, it was very bloody difficult and there were moments where I knew I was losing the plot completely. I was tripping my very bollocks off and how those eagle-eyed CID officers didn’t spot it I’ve no idea. I kept a pint of lager close by and took regular sips, hoping that if anyone saw me acting strangely they’d just assume I’d had a drink or two.

  In the midst of all this madness arrived Rolex Reg, who plonked himself at the end of the bar, opened his case and started touting his bent watches to various coppers. This really tickled me and I went into a fit of laughter that seemed to go on and on and on. Bob noticed me and, assuming I’d had a little too much coke mixed with lager, said that I could leave early, and he would finish up. I’ve never been so grateful to get out of a pub. I grabbed my coat and somehow managed to track down Peter. Far from going home to sleep it off, I necked a few pills and partied the rest of the night away in Soho in a state of advanced hilarity.

  I loved Soho. Now, it’s an upmarket area for tourists and the wealthy, but even in the early 1990s it still had plenty of its old underworld charm left. I went to many lock-ins in shebeens and secret bars above and below the shops and restaurants. These drinking dens were full of gangsters, druggies and their dealers, thieves, prostitutes, writers, actors and all the rest, and I spent many a night in such places getting wasted and meeting the most weird and wonderful people.

  Soho was also full of homeless people and occasionally I’d stop on my way somewhere to give one of these poor folk the price of a cup of tea or a fag. One afternoon I passed a guy lying in a shop doorway in Tottenham Court Road. Something about his face rang a bell with me and as I stooped down to pass him a fag the recognition hit. It was Biff, the big Glencairn skinhead who’d chased me and my Mod mates through Carnaby Street before he realised most of us were good Loyalist lads.

  ‘I remember you,’ I said. ‘Remember that time you nearly battered me? I was a Mod. Then we all went for pints afterwards.’

  Biff looked at me in total confusion. ‘I dunno, mate,’ he said. ‘I was a skinhead, yeah, but . . . it was a long time ago. I got messed up into smack after that. I’ve not been home to Belfast for years. I’m just here now and . . .’

  His voice trailed away. My heart went out to him. I was suited and booted that day, probably on the way to some sales job interview, and looked like I’d never seen a place like Glencairn, let alone grown up there. I walked away knowing that it could’ve been me lying there had my life gone in another direction. After that first encounter, whenever I was in that part of central London I always looked out for him and if I found him, which I did on a couple of occasions, I’d share a fag or two with him and slip him a few quid. Later I lost contact with him and never saw him again, but I often think of him and hope he found his feet again and somehow turned his life around.

  Fate can be very fickle, as well I know. I’ve had some terrible luck in life, but also moments when good luck has been handed to me as if from heaven. One of those came at the King’s Arms
in April 1994 and really, it came as a result of possibly losing my job. As I mentioned, I’d taken over the chefing/bartending role from a girl called Simone who was away dancing in a show in Holland. From time to time the other staff would mention her, and the terms ‘beautiful’, ‘gorgeous’, ‘great personality’ would be bandied about. Now, at that time lots of dancers from the nearby theatres came into the pub and seeing beautiful women from all corners of the globe was nothing new to me. All I cared about was that this Simone wouldn’t come back too soon, and that I would be able to continue my party lifestyle and enjoy my job at the pub. I liked mixing with all sorts of people – the kind of people you’d never meet in Belfast – and I didn’t want to stop having fun.

  With my crew, I pubbed and clubbed it all over London. Myself, Peter, John and Theresa particularly enjoyed going to gay clubs because the music there was better than anywhere else. These places were an experience I certainly wouldn’t have had back in Belfast, not then anyway. Theresa was a good Catholic girl and never took drugs, though she more than made up for it with her red wine, which she loved. We’d splash out on special occasions and get in bottles of champagne, which seemed to send Theresa to new levels of craziness. As she danced the night away, even those of us pilled up on everything couldn’t match her. She always dreamed of meeting Mr Right, which I think she hoped might be me, but there was no way I was into settling down. Theresa was like a big sister to me and I adored her, but a serious relationship was out of the question.