To Hell in a Handcart

by Richard Littlejohn

  The cell door opened and in walked Roberta.

  ‘I don’t recall ordering room service,’ said Mickey.

  ‘I thought you might like a cup of tea,’ she said with a sarcastic smile.

  ‘Cut the crap, what do you want? Come to gloat, have you?’

  Roberta surveyed him.

  ‘You should be thanking me for opposing bail. I may just have saved your hide,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, yeah. So where did this alleged death threat, this contract, come from then?’

  ‘That’s confidential. All I can say is from a reliable police source.’

  ‘That’s bollocks. Anyway, contract or no fucking contract, I don’t give a shit. I can look after myself,’ Mickey said.

  ‘And look where looking after yourself has got you, Mickey. You don’t seem to realize what a serious position you’re in. You’re looking at life,’ Roberta reminded him.

  ‘I know what I’m looking at, thank you very much.’

  ‘You could make it easy on yourself.’

  ‘What, cop a plea? Manslaughter?’

  ‘It’s an option. By the time it comes to trial, you might get away with time served,’ Roberta said.

  ‘Piss off. I’m not pleading to anything. There isn’t a jury round here would convict me. They’d all love to do what I did. If the police did their job properly, instead of playing politics and hiding behind bushes with radar guns, the fucking burglars would be inside and I wouldn’t be in this mess.’

  ‘Who said anything about a jury round here? This one’s got Old Bailey written all over it. Could be months, a year maybe, before it comes to trial. That mob outside, your so-called supporters, will have long forgotten all about Mickey French and have moved on to hounding paedophiles or shoving shit through the letterboxes of Asian shopkeepers. The radio station will soon get bored,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t bank on it, Bobby,’ said Mickey, defiantly. ‘I could take you and your boyfriend down with me.’

  ‘Ha,’ she laughed, mockingly. ‘I thought you’d got the message. There’s no evidence.’

  ‘Oh, I heard you, all right. I got the message, loud and clear. You think you’re out of the woods, don’t you?’

  ‘Out of the woods, across the field, down the road and safely snuggled up in front of the fire,’ she said. ‘In any event, without the evidence, it would be your word against mine. A desperate man facing a murder charge against a respected high-ranking police officer. Without the tape, without the file, you’ve got nothing.’

  Mickey stood up and leaned forward, whispering softly in Roberta’s ear.

  ‘How do you know I didn’t make copies?’

  Roberta’s triumphalism stalled. Her face petrified.

  ‘But I only found the one set. There were no others. I searched the house thoroughly. You’re bluffing,’ she gabbled.

  Mickey smiled.

  ‘Am I?’

  Fifty-seven

  Georgia Claye sat on her stool in the Keep & Bear Arms watching Justin Fromby being interviewed on the lunchtime news on the television above the bar.

  ‘Obviously, I can’t comment on the circumstances surrounding this particular case. As you have just reported in your bulletin, a man has now been formally charged and remanded in custody.

  ‘But what I can say in general terms is that all of us at the Oppressed Peoples’ Refugee Association Hotline are becoming increasingly concerned at the rising number of racist attacks on refugees who have braved terrible hardships to seek asylum in this country, a safe haven from fear and intimidation, a chance to rebuild their scarred lives.

  ‘The Little Englander violence is a stain on our nation. It was only a matter of time before one of these unfortunate refugees was slaughtered in cold blood.

  ‘The courts must hand out exemplary sentences to anyone convicted of violent hate crimes against asylum-seekers.’

  ‘I notice he didn’t mention that this poor little asylum-seeker was actually burgling someone’s home at the time,’ remarked Sid Allen, landlord of the one remaining pub in Heffer’s Bottom. ‘Same again, love?’

  Georgia drained her extra-strength cider, 9.5 per cent alcohol by volume, and put the glass down on the mahogany bar top.

  ‘No. Make it a red wine this time,’ she said.

  ‘Glass?’

  ‘Bottle. House red will do.’

  Sid unscrewed the top of the Moroccan Merlot and handed her the bottle.

  ‘I suppose all this business has really put Heffer’s Bottom on the map,’ Georgia remarked.

  ‘Oh, sure. I was on the wireless myself, day after it all happened,’ said Sid proudly.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Course, I wish it had been under different circumstances. He’s a good man, Mickey. Terrible thing to happen. We all hope he gets off.’

  ‘Drink in here, does he?’ Georgia asked.

  ‘All the time. Likes a drink, does old Mickey. You should see him pack it away. Holds it well, though. Typical copper, you know. They all drink like fishes, don’t they?’

  Georgia laughed. ‘Nice village.’

  ‘Still is, just about. Shame about them pikeys, though. You should see what they’ve done to the cricket pitch and bowling green. And ever since they arrived, there’s been all sorts of crime. That wasn’t the first time Mickey’s been turned over, either.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘No, he’s had a few run-ins with the gyppoes. Said he’d blow their heads off if they ever bothered him again. Not that, I mean, well, you know. Only talk like.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely,’ said Georgia.

  ‘Rats in a barrel.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Rats in a barrel,’ repeated Sid. ‘That’s what Mickey said. He pulled a gun on them once, when he caught them breaking in. He said he’d shoot them like rats in a barrel. Only words, though. Only talk.’

  Georgia nodded. She took the bottle and withdrew to a corner table. She opened her bag and began to read the documents Roberta Peel had dropped off the previous evening. It was a copy of PC Ramsay Smith’s report of an incident involving burglary and criminal damage at the home of Mickey French.

  ‘Don’t give me multi-fucking-culturalism. The only culture these fucking pikeys have is thieving. I’d have given them a kicking until they put their hands up to it, fucking thieving dids. I dunno why I even bothered calling you. I might just as well go round there myself and sort it.’

  Georgia was building up her own psychological profile of Mickey. The landlord had confirmed what she suspected, what was in the police report.

  Georgia drained the bottle, put out her cigarette, thanked Sid and headed for the railway station.

  She bought a ticket to Tottenham.

  Forty-five minutes later she was standing outside the hostel at the address given her by Roberta Peel.

  She walked up the steps, in through the front door and made for the TV room.

  The set was re-running footage of the mini-riot outside Angel Hill magistrates. The room was empty, but for a slight, pretty dark-haired girl.

  Georgia approached her.

  ‘I’m looking for anyone who knew Gica Dinantu,’ she said.

  The girl looked up, stared at Georgia, gazed back at the TV screen and began to cry.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Georgia, squatting on the arm of the sofa beside her. ‘Please don’t cry. I mean you no harm.’

  ‘Police?’ asked the girl.

  ‘No, no. Not the police. Reporter.’

  ‘Reporter?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Georgia, picking up a discarded copy of the Sun. ‘Reporter. I write,’ she said, making a scribbling motion with her hand, ‘for newspaper.’

  ‘My English, not good,’ said the girl.

  ‘That’s OK? Did you know Gica?’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘I’m Georgia, what is your name?’

  ‘Maria,’ replied the girl.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Maria. Cigarette?’

  Maria took one fr
om the packet Georgia was offering her and lit it.

  ‘So you knew Gica?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Maria, suspicious of this woman, who smelt strongly of drink. Even though Maria’s English was not good, she could tell this woman’s English was slurred.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A few weeks, two months maybe.’

  ‘You were friends?’

  Maria nodded again.

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘He was beautiful.’

  ‘Why did he come to England?’

  ‘To get away, like everyone. To start again. Men, they killed his father.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ said Georgia. ‘What men? Secret police. Is that why you’re frightened of the police?’

  ‘We all frightened of police in our country.’

  ‘What can you tell me about Gica?’

  Maria looked puzzled.

  ‘What did he do?’ asked Georgia.

  ‘He was good man.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘He study,’ said Maria, feeling her way.

  ‘Study what?’

  ‘He was very clever. Very kind.’

  ‘He would have made a good doctor, I’m sure,’ said Georgia, busking, searching for a good human-interest angle. Doctor would sound good.

  ‘Very good doctor, yes,’ Maria agreed.

  ‘How did he spend his time in England?’

  ‘He want to work, to get money.’

  ‘So you think that’s what he was doing when he was, when he, er, died?’

  Maria dropped her head and wept uncontrollably.

  ‘He was knocking on doors, asking for work, to pay for his studies, as a doctor, when he was gunned down,’ Georgia prompted her.

  Maria was beyond words. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  ‘You were obviously close to him?’ asked Georgia.

  Maria nodded again.

  ‘Very close?’

  Maria wiped her eyes and tried to compose herself. She stood up and patted her stomach.

  ‘I’m having his baby.’

  Fifty-eight

  Paxton prison was scheduled for closure in 1972. Somehow the Home Office never got round to it.

  Mickey had visited the jail many times, but never before in the back of a Black Maria.

  Standing in prisoner reception, Mickey felt like Norman Stanley Fletcher. He was relieved of his belt, his wallet and £34.57 in cash.

  ‘E-wing,’ said the senior prison officer.

  ‘E-wing?’ Mickey wondered.

  ‘E-wing,’ said the officer. ‘You’re on Rule 43.’

  ‘That’s the fucking nonce wing,’ Mickey reacted angrily.

  Section 23. Solitary. Prisoners liable to harm themselves or at risk from other prisoners.

  ‘Why the fuck am I on Rule 43?’ asked Mickey.

  ‘Look, son,’ said the old-sweat officer. ‘I do what I’m told. The powers that be consider you to be in danger from other prisoners. Think about it. You probably put some of the bastards in here. If there’s one thing they hate it’s a bent copper.’

  ‘I’m not a fucking bent copper,’ Mickey protested.

  ‘Bent’s not the word. Sorry. But you are ex-Old Bill. Half of our regulars would top you soon as look at you. Either that or you’d find yourself touching your toes in the showers like that fat bloke in Deliverance, pinned down while some armed robber shoves a pound and a half of throbbing John Thomas up your jacksie, just for the hell of it.’

  ‘Not with my Farmers.’ Mickey tried to make a joke of it. ‘I’ve got piles like dreadlocks. It would be like trying to get into a Chinese restaurant, circa 1974.’

  ‘E-wing,’ said the senior officer.

  Mickey was led away, along the corridor, up the steel stairs, down a landing, across a suspended walkway.

  The smell was familiar. Shit, piss, sweat, fear, boredom, disinfectant.

  ‘Welcome to Fraggle Rock,’ said the screw who showed Mickey into his cell. ‘I won’t introduce you to the neighbours just now. You’ve got a serial rapist on one side and a bloke with HIV who specializes in dragging little boys off the street and buggering them senseless on the other.’

  Nice people.

  The screw left and locked the cell door.

  Mickey lay back and considered his options. He didn’t have any. The events of the past week rolled through his mind in glorious Technicolor, like a Pathé newsreel. The back of his eyes hurt. Mickey closed them, clenched his fists and drew himself into a fetal position, desperate to escape the nagging, suffocating sensation.

  Despite himself, he fell into a deep sleep.

  What seemed like hours later, actually only about ninety minutes, the cell door swung open.

  ‘You’ve got a visitor,’ said the screw. ‘This way.’

  Mickey was led back across the steel bridge separating Fraggle Rock from the main body of the prison, down the stairs, along the corridor and into a room containing metal tables and chairs, fixed to the floor with six-inch steel bolts.

  Men in prison grey uniforms with tattoos and earrings sat in awkward conversation with peroxide blondes with bad teeth and white shoes.

  Funny how their missus always looks the bleedin’ same.

  ‘Cool for Cats’.

  Squeeze.

  At a table in the corner sat Ricky Sparke.

  Mickey sat down opposite him.

  ‘You need a lawyer,’ said Ricky. ‘Charlie says the station will pick up the bill.’

  ‘No thanks. There’s nothing a lawyer can do for me that I can’t do myself. And, anyway, Charlie’s done me enough favours for one day.’

  ‘Best intentions, mate. We’ll get you out of here.’

  ‘Have you heard from Andi? She’ll have been trying to ring me.’

  ‘Want me to give her a bell?’ Ricky asked.

  ‘Leave it till tomorrow. The inquest is being opened. I’ll get out for that. Might even have another crack at bail.’

  ‘Tell you what, there’s a right little bandwagon rolling. The boyfriend, Fromby, has been popping up all over the place, denouncing racial violence directed at asylum-seekers. They’re stoking the pyre.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘But you’ve got plenty of support. Our audience figures have gone through the roof. By lunchtime our Free Mickey French phone line had notched up more than 250,000 calls.’

  ‘At 38p a minute, no doubt,’ Mickey said witheringly.

  ‘That’s show business. Don’t knock it, it’s paid off my mortgage arrears.’

  ‘That’s all right then,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Look, there’s money here for you, too. Are you sure you won’t let Charlie hire you a lawyer? The bail bond offer still stands.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘They’ll open and adjourn the inquest tomorrow, at Angel Hill. Cause of death, post mortem, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Great, we’ll turn up with the mobile o/b unit. Get a bit of a demo going,’ enthused Ricky.

  ‘Do me a favour,’ said Mickey, grasping Ricky’s left wrist. ‘No more favours. That fucking stunt outside the court got well out of hand. I heard a kid got hurt.’

  ‘She’s fine. A few cuts and bruises, that’s all.’

  ‘Did they find out who threw the petrol bomb?’

  ‘Nah. My guess, one of the Trots.’

  ‘Figures.’

  ‘Mind you, you’ve got some right toerags in your corner, too.’

  ‘Great. Look, Ricky, I think I can beat this. I know the law. I appreciate everything you’re doing, but it may be counterproductive, long term.’

  ‘We can’t just pop the genie back in the bottle,’ Ricky said.

  ‘Maybe not.’ Mickey shook his head.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Ricky, ‘haven’t you got a bit of leverage with the Deputy Assistant Commissioner? Haven’t we got something on her. And Fromby?’

  ‘She thinks not.’

  ‘Eh?’

/>   ‘She spun the drum when I was banged up. She found the tape, the papers, the knife.’

  ‘Does she know you made copies?’

  ‘She’s not sure.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I sort of, well, you know, intimated.’

  ‘Does she know I’ve got the tape?’

  ‘Not as such. But it’s put her on the back foot a bit.’

  ‘Wanna go public?’

  ‘Not just yet,’ said Mickey.

  ‘At some stage you’re gonna have to consider the nuclear option.’

  ‘I know, but let’s get tomorrow out of the way first. There’s something here not quite right.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I dunno, copper’s instinct, I suppose. You get a feel for things. I haven’t worked out the full SP yet.’

  ‘You got anyone in your corner, apart from Rocktalk 99FM and the great unwashed?’

  ‘Not in my corner, so to speak, but the DI, acting DCI, who arrested me, Marsden, seems like a bang-up kind of guy. He’ll do what he has to, though. And I dropped a station sergeant head first in the brown stuff when I made that call to you, on-air.’

  ‘Casualties of war, old son,’ said Ricky.

  ‘Maybe, but I regret it. He deserved better.’ Mickey shrugged.

  ‘Look, I’m going to get kicked out in a minute. Anything you need?’

  ‘Not right now.’

  ‘I’ll see you at the inquest,’ Ricky said, rising to his feet.

  ‘Yeah. Might shed a bit more light.’

  ‘Hey, think again about the lawyer, Mickey. Even up the odds a bit.’

  Mickey nodded. ‘I’ll sleep on it.’

  Fifty-nine

  Georgia Claye woke in her usual condition, having completely forgotten her pledge to herself not to get shit-faced the night before she was due on the Ricky Sparke show.

  What the hell, she had something to celebrate. The Clarion loved her Mickey French scoop. Champagne was called for. She had no idea what time she’d left Spider’s, although she vaguely remembered propositioning a Jamaican chorus boy, who turned out to be gay. At least that’s what he told her. It’s what most men told her.