London Blues

by Anthony Frewin

  I listen intently. I listen for every sound. They don’t seem to be coming this way. No, not this way. They’re going off into the woods back down the way I came. They’re going away from me.

  Now I’m running again. I’ve got to keep moving. I cannot stop. I must keep going. Must keep moving. I’m running for my life. Running. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop. Run and run and run and you’ll get away. But don’t stop. Just don’t stop.

  My feet now leave the ground. I arc through the air. I don’t have to run any more. I’m propelling myself through the air. I’m airborne. Sailing. Speeding through the ether on sails made of gossamer. Borne by the winds. I’m flying away. Up and away. Just like a dream, only this isn’t a dream. This is for real. I’m a soaring kestrel. I’m Icarus.

  And like Icarus I now crash to earth, against something hard and unforgiving. Masonry. My face hits part of it first and then my shoulder crashes into another part. I lie there on my back taking deep breaths as my consciousness reassembles itself. I’m staring at the dark clouds and waiting. Something cold and wet runs down my face, then down my neck and under my shirt collar. There’s a crescent moon up there looking like a child’s painted cutout. There’s silence here. Pure silence. Not even a murmur of wind now. And an enveloping blackness. A pit of unknowing.

  Later my eyes slowly opened and focused on rare and strange shapes towering high above, vaulting into the night sky. Ahead of me in the darkness I see a wall silhouetted. Several walls thrusting up. Ghostly arches. Walls and arches enshrouded by ivy or clinging vines. What is this? I look to the left and then to the right. Isolated walls detached from any structure. A sepulchral silence. An abandoned overgrown shell.

  I open my mouth and my face seems to crack down my left cheek. I bring my hand up and feel some dried sediment that streaks down to my neck: blood. My fingers trace its path up past my temple to a dried gash just within my hairline. There is a sharp pain here and a dull pain in my shoulder, I’m motionless and I wait for something to change, but nothing does.

  Why am I here? What has happened?

  Slowly fragments of memory float up from some abyss of mind and dance into order. Sonny. What became of Sonny? Why was he gone for so long? Where is he now? Did something happen to him in the woods?

  Quiet. Still. I listen with every cell in my body but I hear now only the light wind caressing the trees. No footfalls. No voices. Nothing. Whoever was in pursuit is in pursuit no longer. They have lost me. Lost me.

  I push myself up and lean against a wall. I take deep breaths and hope I have the energy to do something. A cloud passes from the moon and a cold light illuminates this tableau: a deserted, ancient church overgrown with centuries of neglect.

  I take shaky, tentative steps ahead, one at a time. I must not rush. I will get there. Each and every step is carefully considered and worked out. This is important.

  The wood gives way to a field and I am upon a footpath that is straight and undeviating. The path dissolves into the darkness but is obviously aligned on the twinkling lights far ahead.

  My steps become more steady and certain as I continue. I see other lights and car headlamps sweeping in great arcs through the night.

  I’ve got to get back to London.

  The path brings me to the side of the Royal Oak pub, the same Royal Oak our directions were based on. I walk quickly past the people drinking outside and continue along the road. Several cars pass me and I realise I am teasing Fate by appearing as a roadside attraction. Whoever was after me back there must now be out looking for me, searching the roads and lanes. I climb over a gate and follow the road from behind the hedgerows.

  I do not know where I am going but this looks an important road and it will lead somewhere, eventually. Houses appear and I am forced to resume walking along the road itself. I walk so as not to attract attention. I walk at not too fast a pace with my back straight which is now no easy task with the increasing pain in my shoulder.

  Ahead to the right I see across the fields a small bridge. I walk diagonally across the field and discover a small stream where I clean away the blood from my face and neck. The water is warm and tastes sweet.

  A signpost points to somewhere called St Ippollitts and, straight ahead, to Hitchin: 2 miles. I have no alternative but to continue. Detached country houses appear on either side of the road and I continue. I am now in the environs of Hitchin and soon I will be in the town itself.

  I now go down a sunken curving lane with tall trees towering above. There are some eighteenth-century houses on the right and, some distance later, a vast church over to the left beyond what appears to be a market-place or a car park. The church looks almost like some ancient cathedral, big, but not quite big enough.

  I merge with the Saturday night revellers. I feel safer here: better to be lost amongst people than lost in the country. I stop two girls and ask them if there is somewhere I can get a cup of coffee? They point to beyond the church and I head along an alley that brings me to a modest little café full of teenagers. Not so much a coffee bar as a tarted up transport caff. But the coffee is hot and nobody looks at me, they must see enough victims of Saturday night pub brawls not to give them a second look. That dreadful Telstar pop record is blasting out of a jukebox, exacerbating my headache. Every time the door opens I look up to see who is coming in. I don’t know who to expect but there are people out there looking for me … and I don’t know who they are.

  I buy a second cup of coffee and a pork pie and a Kit-Kat. I stare into the cup and try to make sense of what has happened. What became of Sonny in the woods? How did the police know where to find us – if, indeed, they were the police? Who but the police have dogs anyway? Were we followed from London? Did they know Sonny’s destination? Did some grass tip them off? Each question spawned further questions. Each question fragmented into a further dozen unanswered puzzles. But the dominant question, the one I kept returning to was: why was Sonny so long in the woods? Was he setting me up? If so, why? Was he some ‘licensed’ drug dealer delivering up bodies to his corrupt police contact or what?

  I was wasting time sitting here and trying to reduce the unknowable to the known. It was time to get moving. I’ll finish the coffee and go as soon as Stan Getz stops playing Desafinado.

  A young bloke at an adjoining table said there was a railway station about ten minutes’ walk away. I could get a train to London from there.

  I went down a wide street called Bancroft with graceful houses on either side. This leads to the suburbs of Hitchin and then, further on, past a looming granary (or malt-house?) was a turning with a sign saying STATION APPROACH. The Approach is more like a broad drive leading to a country house. Stacks of chestnut trees in an avenue to the right where the ground rises steeply. Sylvan, all right. Ahead a solid brick Victorian Gothicky building with BOOKING HALL above the entrance. Looks friendly enough.

  Some taxis waiting patiently in the forecourt. Some kids in leather jackets strutting around a couple of motorbikes. A couple of railway workers rolling cigarettes.

  I was cautious about just walking in and buying a ticket. There might be somebody waiting for me. I could see no police cars, nobody suspicious. I had to chance it.

  The ticket clerk told me I had a 20-minute wait for the next King’s Cross train. I bought a single ticket and went down the steps and along the passage underneath the tracks to the far platform.

  I got a bar of chocolate from a slot machine and sat down on a bench which afforded me a good view of anyone who might come through from the ticket office. It wasn’t unreasonable to think that whoever had the resources to mount tonight’s little operation also had the resources to travel over here.

  If the police were to appear I could head down the track and into the darkness. It would take them a few minutes to get across to where I was, enough time for me to vanish … I hoped.

  I finished the chocolate and lit a cigarette. An elderly couple appeared on the far platform followed by a few of the leather jackets. The cou
ple sat down while the kids hotfooted it to a waiting room. An express train thundered by without stopping and temporarily blocked my view across.

  When the train had gone and the smoke and steam had lifted nothing appeared to have changed on the far platform, but I felt a rising unease. Something had changed. But what? I couldn’t put my finger on it. The elderly couple were now staring in my direction. They were still, silent and staring.

  There was a noise from somewhere in the darkness down the track in the London direction. A noise like a muted cry or shout. I could see nothing. I looked across to the couple and they were walking back into the booking hall. A noise again, like muffled footsteps. There was something or someone down the tracks. I stood up. Some movement. Two men in suits were walking down the track towards me. The station lights now illuminated them more, I could see the shine on their shoes. These were not railway workers.

  I turned and walked quickly down the platform away from them. I’d head down the steps, along the passage under the track and make good my escape. But as I approached the steps two other men were coming up them. They were looking at me and smiling. They were both in their forties, expensively dressed in suits and light raincoats.

  ‘Hello, Tim,’ said the taller of the two.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘We’ve got some friends of yours across there. Please follow us.’

  The two figures who had appeared down the railway track were now standing a couple of yards behind me. Just standing there staring at me. I looked down at the men on the stairs and then I looked along the platform in the ‘up’ direction. A further two figures stood motionless at the far end of the platform.

  My question was ignored. I rephrased it: ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘I’ve asked you to follow us.’

  And so I followed them down the steps and along and up to the booking hall in silence.

  The taller figure now said, ‘Inspectors Cox and Weatherburn of the Metropolitan Police are waiting to take you back to London.’

  ‘Who are you, then?’

  Cox and Weatherburn were leaning against a black police saloon smoking. They looked precisely what they were: two fat unprincipled and probably corrupt Met detectives forever on the make. Two greasy bastards with short hair, tiny moustaches and crumpled suits from Burton’s … and so unlike these other guys, whoever they were.

  ‘This is Inspector Cox.’

  Cox threw his cigarette away and strode over to me.

  ‘You’ve given us a fucking song and dance tonight, haven’t you?’

  Weatherburn was quick to get his tuppence in: ‘A right little cunt you are. I should have been home with my wife hours ago.’

  I was looking at Weatherburn when I saw a blur of movement in my peripheral vision. Cox was doing something. I couldn’t quite decide what exactly … and then something hit the side of my face with force. I fell. My face was in a puddle and I could taste dirt on my lips.

  ‘That should give you something to think about, cunt.’

  And then I was kicked in the ribs. It did not hurt at first and then waves of pain spread over my body and I was hardly aware of my wrists and ankles being tied with cord that cut into my skin like a blunt razor. Pain upon pain. It was as though it was happening to someone else.

  I have blurred memories of being pushed into the back of a car. Then the smell of leather as my face scuffed the upholstery. A long ride into the night. The pain of my shoulder and head. The pain in my wrists and ankles, incessant. My head spinning off into unconsciousness.

  First my left eye opens. I saw the naked sun high above. Then slowly my right eye opens. The blinding sun, the blaze of noon. I am on my back staring into the sun. Perhaps I am sunbathing? Am I? Could this be what I am doing? It isn’t.

  I am on my back on a mattress on the floor of a small room. A cell. I am imprisoned by four walls, a floor and a ceiling. I and my mattress are the only objects in this box aside from a recessed light-bulb directly above me. There are no windows.

  I am not moving and I do not know whether I can move. I decide to see what I can move. I must think what I can move and then decide to move it.

  My hand. I will raise my hand that is situated at the end of my arm. So, my arm needs to be moved in order to bring my hand into view. Once that is done I can then attempt to move my hand.

  My arm rises as I command it. It is naked as is my hand, but around my wrist are thick bandages through which blood has seeped. The blood is now dried. My hand moves but it takes all my reserves of energy.

  I am tiring quickly and soon lapse back into the unknown. My consciousness drifts in and ebbs away again many times. I have no knowledge of time. Minutes, hours, days, years mean nothing to me. I am now living beyond temporal restraint. I have transcended it. I am free and I am unknowing.

  I am sitting upright on the mattress. I do not know how long I have been here. I do not know where ‘here’ is. It could be in Aberdeen for all I know, but I suspect it is in London. The two Met coppers were hardly likely to take me anywhere else.

  The cell is very well insulated. Sounds may travel out of the cell but they do not travel into it. Sometimes there are far-off and distant rumblings but I cannot make out what they are. There is a metallic clank. It comes from the door. I look up and through the spy-hole see an eye looking at me. A key is inserted in the lock and the door opens. A young uniformed police officer in shirtsleeves walks in carrying a tray. Upon the tray is a cup of tea, a white bread sandwich, and some biscuits. The officer smiles at me.

  ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘Nearly twenty-four hours … I’ll put this down here.’

  ‘Why am I here … do you know?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Inspector Cox brought you in. He’s not back until tomorrow. Dare say he’ll be in to see you then.’

  I looked at the tray and wondered if I could eat anything. The officer saw my quizzical look and volunteered an apology: ‘Yeah, sorry about this. Sunday, you know.’

  Sunday … the 7th of July, in the Year of Our Lord one thousand nine hundred and sixty-three. A Sunday like any other Sunday?

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘You mean where’s this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘West End Central … I’ll turn the light down a bit so that you can get some sleep.’

  ‘Was anyone else brought in with me?’

  ‘I wasn’t on duty … and I wouldn’t be at liberty to say even if I had been.’

  ‘I see … yeah. Have I been charged?’

  Charging somebody while they’re unconscious is a regular practice in London. I’ve known a couple of people it’s happened to.

  The copper didn’t reply. I don’t know whether he heard me or not. I asked the question again. He looked at me for a beat and there was something funny about his eyes as if he wanted to tell me something but couldn’t.

  There’s nothing in the paperwork.’

  He said this slowly and deliberately, weighing each word. There’s nothing in the paperwork. This was like an uncompleted sentence with a built-in inference. There’s nothing in the paperwork … but there should be.

  And now he was gone. The door thudded shut and the lock was turned.

  I sipped the sweet tea.

  What was I doing at West End Central police station? Why here? Was Sonny here? Where was he? What was happening to him? More importantly, what was happening to me?

  No answers would be forthcoming tonight, but tomorrow is another day. I will sleep now.

  ‘Up you get and down to the bog. You’ve got five minutes and five minutes only.’

  A big burly sergeant. Grey hair and a red face. Perpetually wearing a look of manic outrage. Them and us. Civvies versus the police. Don’t ever show them you’re human. School of Trenchard. Monday morning at West End Central.

  I’m led down a long corridor. Brickwork painted green to waist height and then an institutional cream-brown up to the ceiling. Chipped paintwork. The smell of vomi
t and disinfectant.

  ‘There you go, lad. Five minutes.’

  I’m shunted into a small square room that contains a lavatory and a washbasin. I take a leak and look over my shoulder and see the sergeant peering through the spy-hole in the door. His eye doesn’t move. He may consider watching prisoners piss a police perk.

  There’s one tap above the sink. The water gushes out, icy cold. I wash my face and hands as best I can with the sliver of ivory-coloured soap. I dry myself with the paper towels and place them neatly on the ledge of the sink as there is nowhere else to leave them.

  The sergeant follows me back to the cell at the end of the corridor. He doesn’t say anything. His heavy breathing and wheezing and puffing echoes off the peeling paint and richochets about in the silence.

  ‘Do you know what’s going on?’ I say.

  A pointless question but asked nonetheless. The sergeant ignores it. Civilians should only speak when spoken to. Any speech initiated by a civilian, and particularly a question, is at the very least an impertinence. The NCO mentality. Freedom through discipline and respect. The Weltanschauung of the sergeant-major. Where else could a bloke like this go after the Army but into the police?

  Now get in there and let’s not be having any more lip from you or you’ll be in real trouble, Sonny Jim. This is what he thinks but leaves unuttered.

  The cell door bangs shut. The lock is turned. Precise military footsteps fade into the silence.

  I look around the cell but there is nothing to look at except the four walls, the door and the bed. A little self-contained universe that is all mine. My own ready-made reality for, I guess, as long as I like … as long as someone likes.

  I ease myself down on to the bed and stare into infinity. The pain ebbs back into my body and I begin sweating. I imagine a big clock someplace with a second hand like a hammer on an anvil. One second after another. Consecutive seconds. Millions of them stretching ahead to the end of time. I’m going to be fully conscious of every last one of them until something happens. Billions and billions of fat seconds, each one longer than the last, because this is what it is all about. Waiting. Waiting and waiting. Letting you stew. Letting you fall prey to your very own anxieties and insecurities. Suspending you in a time warp where your defences are peeled away a layer at a time until you are raw and naked.