I go to the bar and order Scotch — a young writer doesn’t drink to his future on any old blend. A malt, golden. I knock it back, straight and no water. That’s the type of man you’re dealing with! Here’s to you Hemingway, you ineffectual skunk! And to you Sartre, you groundling! Poems to break the hearts of impossible princesses. Boy, those wankers better watch out for me!
I count my change, my little stack; I feel the faces with my fingers, then place them on the bar, my three pennies. ‘Warm beer and wet change, the definition of a London pub in the blitz.’ That was one of my mother’s many pronouncements. But this is whisky, mother dear, and it’s burning a hole right through Johnny’s sorry guts. A little poison to warm him through this sour night — no money, no friends, in autumn time, that melancholic time of year.
It’s cold on a street like that, cold and lonely for a young writer who’s down on his luck, to be heading home at half eleven without a friend in the world, not even an innocent bottle, and only three pennies to jangle in his pocket. Such injustices shouldn’t be allowed, and then to taunt someone with it, to make fun, a mockery.
I eye the bottles, sitting behind the plate window . . . Row upon row of them, draped with fairy lights, jewel-like. A million glitterings. A thousand different hues, delicate shades, just beyond my reach. To do such a thing to an honest fellow, a young writer. I shake my head in disgust, shivering. When I think of myself like this, my heart fills with such pity that I want to walk straight up to myself, thrust thirty pounds into my disbelieving hands, kiss both cheeks and wish me all the luck in the world. Then to just turn and walk away, to melt back into the crowds, the shadows, back-handing a small tear.
I stare down at my three pennies and back into that window. My heart thumps under my jacket and all of a sudden I know exactly what I’m going to do. I pull my collar up round my ears, check up and down the street and march straight in there. I hit the door and make for the bottles. There’s only these two night-owls sat here filling their pouches, conversing, downing their gut-rot. If you don’t calculate your risks in this world, you’re finished. I see these two bozos slumped at the bar and I know they won’t lift a finger. I’ll be walking back out into the cold night clasping my nightcap before those greybeards even bat an eyelid. I ponder the situation, I weigh the ifs and buts, then I’m doing it, I’m walking in through the doorway.
I bite my lip, duck my head and slip in there. Even before I get to the bar those bastards have rattled me. I see them jump to attention as soon as I cross the doormat. I ignore them and head straight for the bottles. I lift one, cold, heavy, golden . . . I tuck that baby under my arm and turn to leave. I’ve got what I came for — now adios amigos, time to depart, to say our fond farewells.
Those fish jumped so quick I scarcely saw them move. I lift the bottle and before I can even read the vintage I feel his damp little mitt curling round my throat. He pulls and turns me, that skinny one, and pushes his face right into mine. Not a kind face, not the face of a man who understands the rotten luck of a young writer. An altogether unappealing face, small and bitter, built round his nose. I look into it. I see it looking back at me.
‘What do you think you’re up to, you little shit! Right, I’ve got him Bob, you call the police!’
I hold up my bottle, I show him my prize.
‘I only want a drink.’
I hear the latch go. Beaky’s mate throws the bolt, now they’ve got me. I miscalculate. I should’ve listened to my heart instead of my head. It’s too late to start reminiscing now; you dip your hand in then have to accept the prize. That’s the way it is in this world, especially if you’re just some arse on the dole, heading home on a cold night without a bottle, and three miserly pennies rattling in your rotten pocket. He comes for me, shoving me this way and that. I let him play Mister Big. He grabs my throat and bangs me up against the bar. His crony throws the bolt and my goose is cooked. I think of decking him with the bottle: I take aim, I weigh it, but the moment passes.
‘Look all I want is a drink, OK?’
I reason with him, I explain the situation, but there’s no use talking with a cut-throat like that, a boss-man, a taxpayer, with all the booze in the world, well fed and fleshy, with a gut full of fine brandy. He barges straight into me, just for the fun of it. He juts his chin. He shouldn’t have done, not to the likes of me, not to a young writer on the dole. I measure up that hooter of his, if I had half a mind I’d sit this coot on his tail!
‘Where’s your money you little shit! Come on! Empty your pockets! I said empty ’em!’
‘I only want a drink.’
I try and placate him but he wants to dance — he keeps lifting his knee, I parry, but he’s insistent, he jiggles up and down, a fox-trot. . .
‘All I want is a drink, you sell drink don’t you?’
It doesn’t wash, he’s out for revenge, he’s determined to show me what for! He puts his hand inside my jacket, feeling my wallet, totally unabashed. He goes through all my linings, he checks it right down near the bottom, in all the corners. He’s getting my goat, this fellow with his rummagings and his liberties. He extracts them, one by one. He counts them out onto the bar in front of him, my smiling faces, profiles, three coppers, worthless — I’m sick of his waltzing and give him the brush-off, a gentle shove, just to make a point, to show him that I’ve got heart, too. I watch the bar shudder, it sways, tips and spills itself onto the boards. He knocks against it, spins across the room, pirouettes and knocks it for six. The till goes through the window and hits the tarmac. A tinkling of glass, a special music. I saw it bounce. All three of us take a look; we peer through the busted pane. He rubs his chin, screws up his face and waves it under my nose, like a dirty rag. Things are going from bad to worse. He wants damages, he demands compensation. Justice must be seen to be done! He re-empties my pockets there and then, he rakes around in the linings, he isn’t at all discreet. He wants money, hard cash!
‘Sit down and put your hands on your head!’ He points to the corner.
I saunter over and find my armchair.
‘This is going to cost you! This is going to cost you dear!’
He takes them under the light, brandishing my threepence, holds them up to the lamp, revolving each coin individually between thumb and forefinger. He stops grinning, and lets them clatter to the floor.
‘Oh dear, this isn’t going to buy you out, is it? Not by a long chalk it isn’t! Deary me no!’ He shouts at me, he talks with his eyebrows.
I need a drink — that jig has left me gasping.
‘How about a little glass of Scotch?’ I ask politely; I reinforce it with a smile. He strokes his hooter, and eyes me from behind his smashed barricade. But no answer . . . He’s taken an instant dislike to me.
‘You’re in deep trouble, deep trouble . . .’ He repeats it purely for the effect, to hear himself in charge.
The meat wagon rolls up, my friends rush to the window, the pretty flashing blue lights, a million segments, a cobweb of busted glass just for me . . .
‘He’s in here, officer!’
A face shows behind the broken pane, moustachioed, helmeted. Another joins it — two of them, their badges shining like beer cans.
‘You alright in there, sir?’
‘Yes officer, we’ve apprehended,the villain!’
They start right aways dismantling the fortress; they rattle the portcullis, they nod, they discuss, then they get to it. They spit on their palms and start pulling at the top layer; I keep in my seat and watch the wall coming down. They lift the till, it takes two of them to do that, staggering under its weight. They totter, crab-like, towards the table, then place it down gentle as a baby - they mind their fingers, then get the door. They re-find it, throw the bolt and let the cavalry in. The one with the tash surveys the bomb-site, he wags his helmet and lets off a low whistle. He cocks his head at me.
‘Is this the fellow-me-lad?’
He asks it but he already knows it. He ambles over through the matchwo
od.
‘And what have we been up to then, Sonny Jim?’
I twist my neck and take a look at my interrogator: three stripes and a moustache, more like a beard. His whole head jammed into his helmet, shiny blue. I lean in under its peak — I know a sympathetic voice when I hear one, and this cop is a good cop, the type of cop who’ll give a young writer a break. I smile to let him know that I’m not drunk. I breathe my brew all over him, I try to suck it back in but it’s too late, I’m reeking of it.
‘You see officer, sergeant, sir . . .’ I concentrate on what I’m about to say, I don’t want to go rushing into this and mess up my fines. I look into his little grey eyes — he blinks to reassure me. I put my tongue in the right place and start all over again. I explain my predicament, the whole misunderstanding, the attack, the mugging, the stealing of my thrupence.
‘I called in at this night spot, this brothel, for a little night cap, officer. The barman was indisposed, so I poured myself a wee dram and placed my money on the bar.’
I worked out my whole monologue in my head as I went along, and no slurring. I got my big fat stupid tongue out of my cheek and blabbed the whole story. I got it off pat.
‘A terrible misunderstanding officer. This pair here, the gentleman with the big nose, and his friend who stands here now, laughing at me . . . Well, quite frankly, they attacked me . . . They jumped in arse first, your lordship, and stole all of my money! so to speak . . . as is plainly evident.’
A little piece of spittle flies from my lips. We watch it revolve between us, it catches the light, then dances onto the end of his nose . . . His knuckles whiten on his truncheon.
I back down, I can see that I’ve made a misjudgment. I knew from the outset that he was going to be a tough nut to crack. There’s no sympathy in this one, he’s cold, a hard-nose with no understanding of a young writer who’s down on his luck. In fact I’d go as far as to say that this simpleton has never read a book in his life. He doesn’t know his Baudelaire from his Bukowski. His eyes glaze over with disgust, a hideous battleship grey. I brush at his stripes, three of them, intricately embroidered, silver thread, a delicate weave . . . It’s plain that I’m cutting no ice — this cop is a stony one. I may as well go sing it to the birds, ’cos no matter how I plead, I’m never going to get a fair trial out of this hangman.
‘Yes, officer, clean through the window, my till and a full bottle
He emphasises, draws pictures through the night air, he gilds the lily. My mouth drops, I can’t believe my ears. Shit! I may as well wave goodbye. A young writer versus the righteousness of the bourgeoisie? My word against his? A shop owner and a magistrate to boot? I hold my palms to the sky, I’ve been set up good and proper this time; old double bracket here has framed me and there’s bugger all an innocent man can do about it. . . Just some kid wending his way home, alone, on a cold and bitter night. No silver hip flask for company, no floozy on my arm or fat wallet, just the three mugs of Elizabeth wearing a hole in my pocket.
They slip the cuffs on me and lead me out to the meat wagon. The doors go, they clang them behind me and hit the siren.
It’s the drink that did it, definitely the drink; it destroyed my family, it runs through us like a great river. A curse, a whole lake of sadness. Bottle after bottle of the stuff, revolving, spinning . . . row upon row of the little bastards! Halves, quarts, flagons, barrels, all the brands. I tell stories, I explain, I elaborate, I get carried away — my whisky philosophy. But I have my vocation They shouldn’t be allowed to do that, to tempt a humble writer, cold, homeward bound, with not so much as a tipple to see him to bed. Just three miserly coins rattling around in the depths of his pockets.
We pull in round the back of the nick, we swerve all the bends, he jams his foot down. We play cops and robbers, we get there in the end, through the night, the tradesmen’s entrance . . . He slams on the anchors, I’ve no arms to catch myself; they’ve cuffed me up behind my back. I can hardly feel my fingers, don’t these bozos know about gangrene?
I blink, I stumble — two of the cops keep me between them, they manhandle me into the cell-block, they go to great pains to make my life uncomfortable, the cuffs pinching, my fingers numb . . . I try to explain to them, my fingers, that I’m a writer, an artist, but I can see from their expressions that they’re deaf. They jostle and shove me, they make me trip, they swear at me for that.
This must be the charge room. I get pushed from behind, that’s what makes me trip. I apologise, I fall into the light, I focus through the neon. Three or four of them, in uniform — they steer me to the desk, I stagger, I regain my balance.
‘Another cunt for the gallows, sarge!’
I heard that, I get the message. And the one behind the desk, stooped at the shoulder, the braid glistens, he adjusts his little peak and announces himself. I recognise him right away. I have to screw up my eyes and squint . . . I’d know that mug anywhere: swallow cheeked; the oily little tash, moth eaten . . . He bristles with pleasure, licks at his pencil, and smoothes out the charge sheet. He’s never been so pleased to see anyone in his life. He rubs his mitts together with glee — clouds of scurf rise up, little flakes, a snow storm in miniature. He dusts the flakes from his lap, stands and peers at me as if he’s never seen me before in his life. He walks round back, tugs at the bracelets, then nods for them to be taken off . . .
‘You said he was a cunt, Jeff, and that’s what we’ve got, a right cunt! Who’s been a naughty boy then?’
I can’t bring my hands back round front, they have to be lifted. I nurse them, massaging my wrists. I flex and unflex them; slowly they come back to life, all ten, hot and burning, a dull ache.
‘Empty your pockets! On the table!’ The air blossoms out of his mouth. I fumble with my hanky . . . I try to please him . . . but it’s cold in that dump. You’d think those bozos would run a couple of heaters on a cold winter’s night? I stick my hand back in my pocket; I clasp at things but can’t feel a thing. I fish out a key and let it tinkle onto the desk, then some fluff . . . a comb . . . my notebook . . . His eyes light up and he snatches it up. I feel that I have to speak up, to make my point.
‘Excuse me . . . that’s my notebook . . . a diary. I’m a young writer. It’s personal.’
He licks his fingers and flicks the pages. I watch them turn, I open my mouth and go to speak but it’s pointless. He narrows his eyes, screws up his mug and digests.
‘Did you write this drivel?’
‘It’s mine, it’s personal . . . a diary. . . I’d rather you didn’t read it, actually.’
‘You’d rather I didn’t read it? Oh, pardon me! Did you hear that boys? Sir would rather I didn’t read it!’
That raises a laugh, a couple of sniggers — actually, it makes me blush . . .
‘Is this supposed to be English? ’Cos if it is, you can’t fucking well spell, my son!’
I keep my chin on my chest.
‘Speak up, let’s hear you! Cat got your tongue?’
I clear my throat, I say it out loud: ‘It’s a poem.’
That cracks his face into a fearsome grimace, he stares into it, he scratches his bonce, he mouths my lines and he jams his mug so close to mine that we’re almost rubbing noses.
‘You call this a poem?’
His skin shimmies under the surface. He licks his lips, little pools of spit in the corners, white scum, his moustache twitching in and out of the foam.
‘I’ll tell you what this is sonny! It ain’t nice, that’s what it is! And it don’t rhyme . . . Are you a subversive? ’Cos you stinks like one to me . . . Your clothes stinks, your ideas stink, your poems stink, and you stink! You’ve been smoking pot? Hashish? Ganja? Have you been at the wacky-baccy, boy?’
I shouldn’t have answered back, not like that; you can’t go back-chatting gentlemen of the constabulary, not if it’s an easy ride you’re after.
‘Scrumpy and kebab, officer.’
I can hear his teeth cracking under the weight of his grimace.
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br /> ‘Get your arse out of them clothes! Empty your pockets! Keep your hands on your head! You need to learn some respect boy! Some respect!’
I fumble with my belt.
‘So you likes anarchy, do you? You enjoy riots and public disorder? You’d like to stab a bobby, wouldn’t you? Come on then, I’m waiting! Give him your knife Jeff, let him have a go . . . Come on! Come on, or are you too fucking yellow?’
I step out of my trousers, pull off my pants and socks and stare down at my nakedness. He doesn’t even help me with my jacket, my knees knocking with the cold. He smiles, but not with his eyes, just the corners of his mouth, then he picks up my comb from the little pile of my personal effects . . . He picks at it gingerly, wrinkles his nose . . . He holds it up to the light, then lets it go from between thumb and forefinger. We all watch it rattle down onto the concrete. He cuts his smirk dead.
‘Pick that up!’
Those other bastards all moo at each other, they’re absolutely delighted; big louts, dressed in blue, except for their bovver boots, black, shiny. They egg each other on and play with their truncheons . . . They catch me pogging them and stare me down . . . I have to lower my eyes, my hands in front, covering myself . . . The cold concrete floor, shifting my weight from foot to foot. I study it, trowel marks, and my little toe, reddened, a corn . . .
‘You heard the sergeant, now pick it up!’ A little chorus, two baritone and one bass.
I look at the comb and back up at those mouths working away in all the flesh.
‘On your knees!’
I go down, I crouch naked, I lower my body, the smell of boot polish comes up to me, the smell of their maleness.
My Fault Page 2