London Blues

by Anthony Frewin

  A couple of years ago I read Kropotkin’s autobiography. He was locked up in the Peter and Paul Fortress in Moscow in a cell. He says how he was determined to keep his mind and body together while imprisoned and he drew up this rigorous schedule of activities. He would do all sorts of mental and physical exercises each day. He’d walk 35 miles a day, backwards and forwards and around the cell. You have to keep occupied, keep active, keep busy.

  I pushed myself up off the bed, moved it out into the centre of the room so I could walk around the walls, and paced the distance off. The room is square and each side is four paces exactly. My paces are about a yard, so one full circumnavigation is a distance of 16 yards. There’s 1,760 yards in a mile. Sixteen into 1,760 is one, carry one, one, nought. One, one, nought. One hundred and ten: 110 circuits equal a mile. Add another 40 for clipping the corners, say. That’s 150 laps to the mile. Begin now. Keep count. One lap. Two laps. Three laps. Four laps. I’m feeling better already. Five laps. Keep going. Six laps. Seven laps.

  At 50 laps the door swings open and a young copper brings in a tray with a bowl of cold porridge and a mug of tea.

  ‘You a fitness fanatic?’

  ‘Only when I’m banged away in here.’

  ‘I’ll put this down here on the bed.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What you here for?’

  ‘You’re the copper. Shouldn’t I be asking you?’

  ‘There’s nothing on your sheet.’

  ‘That’s because I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’

  Fifty-one laps. Fifty-two. Fifty-three ….

  I completed two miles straight off. The exercise made me feel good. The achievement made me feel good. I was keeping busy. Now some mental exercises. I lay on the bed. I’d work my way through the alphabet thinking of something for each of the twenty-six letters. Countries? Colours? Famous people? Book titles? Yeah, book titles.

  A for Ape and Essence.

  B for Billy Budd.

  C for … C for … C for … Crime and Punishment.

  D for … Dombey and Son.

  E for –

  ‘Right, lad! Come with me.’

  The words are out before the door is open. It is the fat sergeant bristling with purpose.

  He comes into the cell, looks me up and down, looks around the place to see if I’ve nicked anything, and says I’m to follow him. ‘They’ve got a few questions for you.’

  ‘Well, as long as it is only a few. I’m a busy man.’

  ‘You’re too clever by half, son. Too clever by half.’

  Here’s the interview room. A square room about the size of my cell. A table and three chairs. Two of the chairs are occupied. The two CID blokes who ‘nicked’ me last night. One of them is, presumably, Inspector Cox. They both stare at me like I’m a radioactive dog turd.

  ‘Here you are, sir.’ says the fat sergeant.

  There’s no reply. They’re just staring.

  ‘Sit down there,’ the sergeant orders.

  I sit down and face the two detectives across the table. They are both smoking. They are both still wearing those cheap Burton suits. They both look like a couple of villains which, I guess, is what they are.

  ‘We’ll call you later, sergeant.’

  ‘Sir.’

  The door bangs shut.

  ‘I’m Inspector Cox and this is Inspector Weatherburn.’

  The statement hangs in the air like a bad smell. Am I supposed to be impressed? Am I supposed to say ‘Oh, in that case, I’m bang to rights on this one, guv’? Or should I say ‘I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance’? I say nothing. These are a couple of self-proclaimed ‘crime busters’ – bent coppers who get good publicity in the cheap Sunday papers. Always on the make.

  ‘You’re in dead trouble.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘You are. You were in possession of a stolen car in which was found a quantity of dangerous and illegal drugs.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And you’ll go down for it. Get a spell inside. You are obviously an individual who deals in these substances.’

  Substances. What a strange word! Sub-stance. Substances.

  ‘When are you going to charge me, then?’

  ‘This is serious.’

  ‘I’d like to see a lawyer.’

  ‘He’d like to see a lawyer,’ says the silent one. They chuckle. They’re preening themselves on knowing something I don’t.

  ‘A lawyer isn’t going to be much use to you.’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘In that case … let me see one for laughs.’

  ‘He’s a joker.’

  ‘Ain’t he?’

  ‘What’s this all about?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s all about you being in dead serious trouble.’

  ‘So you keep saying.’

  ‘Dead serious trouble.’

  ‘Where’s Sonny?’

  ‘Sonny? Who’s he?’

  ‘The black guy I was with in the car.’

  ‘We don’t know any Sonny. You’re the only one we know. You are quite enough for us … but if you want to give us some names it would look good for you in court. They might even knock a few years off when we say you’ve helped us.’

  There’s some cat-and-mouse game going on here. They’re putting on the frighteners, softening me up. They’re after something else, but what I don’t know.

  ‘Drugs are a very serious offence and you’re going to have the book thrown at you, lad, unless ….’

  Unless what? Spit it out.

  ‘Unless you are prepared to give us a little help.’

  Help. Such a little word! Help. Four letters only but what treachery can hide behind it. Help.

  ‘A little help.’

  ‘Yeah, a little help.’

  ‘What sort of help do you have in mind?’

  They look at each other and swap knowing smirks.

  ‘There’s a friend of yours we’re interested in. A smart chap. Got himself into a bit of bother lately. Very dodgy case. A lot of unwholesomeness.’

  ‘Unwholesomeness?’ A bizarre word in this context.

  ‘You know, drugs, perversion, pornography … little innocent white girls being forced to suck big black men’s cocks and getting a mouthful of sperm. Stuff like that.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve seen the photographs. Black men’s jism all over their pretty, innocent faces.’

  ‘And in their hair.’

  ‘Putting on little spectacles like this for his friends. You know the sort of thing. Fair enough. But then hidden cameras. A bit of blackmail. Very nasty.’

  ‘Who are you two talking about?’ I had a pretty good idea who they were talking about but I wasn’t going to say the name.

  ‘You know who we are talking about.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘You tell him, Donald.’

  ‘Ward. Dr Stephen Ward.’

  ‘I’ve been reading about him in the papers,’ I said, like I was unconsciously distancing myself from him.

  ‘Now it seems that nice Dr Ward gave you something to look after a little while back. Something very important.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘He did. And you can save yourself a lot of bother by telling us where it is.’

  ‘Where what is?’

  ‘You know. Now, where is it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You are going to be sent down for so fucking long they’re going to throw away the key, lad. You’ve fucking had it all right. Sergeant!’

  Ninety laps. Ninety-one laps. Ninety-two laps. I’m concentrating on doing a mile. There’s too much going on here to confront it head on. I can only look at it obliquely. Ninety-three laps. Ninety-four laps. But how did they know about Stephen giving me something? How? Stephen must have told somebody who told them. But who? Ninety-five laps. Ninety-six laps. Why would he tell someone? And who? It’s useless thinking about this. I don’t
know who Stephen’s friends are, do I? Is there some police or security spy in his camp or what? Ninety-seven laps. Who did I tell? I didn’t. I didn’t tell anyone … but Veronica. Veronica knows. Would she tell anyone? No, she wouldn’t. But I don’t know what pressure could have been put on her. I guess they know what’s in the suitcase. I don’t. If ever I get out of here I’ll take a peek all right.

  Where was I? Ninety-something. Ninety-five. Ninety-six. Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine. One hundred. Made it. Only another fifty to go and I’ve done a mile.

  If anxiety served any positive purpose I’d immerse myself in it. I’m prone to it if I don’t keep a grip on myself. I have to block it out. I’ve got to keep aware of the source of it, but only through my peripheral vision. What is going to be is going to be.

  Today, straight after breakfast, I did two miles non-stop. Pretty good going. Now I’m doing an A to Z of places in England and I’m stuck on Q. P was for Preston. But what’s Q for? U always follows Q so it would be a place spelt Qu-something. Qu-? Quentin? Is there a place called Quentin? No, I don’t think so.

  Fuck it.

  Sonny.

  Sonny?

  Where’s Sonny? The cops didn’t seem to know anything about him. Perhaps he’s still hiding in the woods, living the life of a wild man? Living on berries and rabbits?

  Now the big question here is, how did the police get on to us? Us? Sonny and/or me? They could have been on to him or me. Me seems more likely now in the light of the Stephen business. Me. I’ve been half-thinking of this always as some drugs operation that has Sonny in its sights. But no. Perhaps not. It was about me, not him. Sonny was just delivering me up.

  Had they been following us out of London? If so, why didn’t they apprehend us earlier? Why wait until we’ve stopped? Easier, I guess. Why didn’t they make sure they had Sonny? Perhaps they just fucked up? Just one big fuckup. Cox and his mate seem a couple of prize wankers. And who were those other blokes at the railway station?

  I hear the key going into the lock and the bolts being thrown. I look up. The door swings open and there’s a young copper there in shirtsleeves. Blond. Smiling. Looks a regular sort.

  ‘Purdom?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘On your bike. You’re free to go.’

  ‘Free to go? Walk out of here?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘This some trick or something?’

  ‘No. I’ve just been told to release you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They don’t tell me more than I need to know.’

  ‘Does this mean I’m not being charged?’

  ‘Must do. Come on. I got to clear the room out before the next guest arrives.’

  ‘Right.’

  I followed the copper down a couple of corridors and up some flights of steps and through a couple of doors and before I knew where I was I was out on the street, standing on Savile Row looking up at the West End Central building.

  ‘Nice day,’ I said to the copper.

  ‘A beauty.’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to tell me not to get into trouble again or something?’

  ‘Not me. I’m an acting gaoler not a sermoniser.’

  ‘See you around.’

  ‘Who knows?’

  A bright sunny day with a cool breeze. Cars and traffic and black cabs. Women in summer dresses and tourists by the cartload. A bright sunny day, all right. But what day? What day of the week?

  I asked some civil servant type what day it was. He looked at me like I was a loony, said Wednesday and then hurried off. Wednesday, 10 July 1963. I’ve been in there for four days. Since Sunday. Jesus fucking Christ!

  I walked across to Regent Street and then down to Brewer Street and along to the Snax Bar. Charlie was there with a couple of the part-timers.

  ‘Where you been?’ he said. ‘The old man’s been looking for you.’

  ‘When’s he back?’

  ‘Tonight some time.’

  ‘Tell him I’ll be here tomorrow.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘You seen Sonny at all?’

  ‘Not for about a week. Why?’

  I gave Charlie an abbreviated version of events since last Saturday. I told him everything except the Stephen stuff. He looked after me incredulously. I told him not to pass it on to Mr Calabrese, he might get worried, might think I’m not a fit person to look after the shop. Charlie’s cool.

  I sat down with a coffee and two rounds of corned beef sandwiches. White bread never tasted better.

  ‘OK, Tim. What do you do now?’

  ‘Keep my head down and hope nobody notices me.’

  ‘If you ever learn that trick tell me how.’

  ‘I will. Can you lend me a fiver? I’ve got no cash on me.’

  ‘Sure.’

  I walked down Wardour Street and along Old Compton Street looking for a cab. None about. I finally picked one up near the top of Charing Cross Road. I told the driver Bayswater, Porchester Road. But I changed my mind and decided to go to Sonny’s place instead. Ladbroke Grove, just up past the station. See what that black dude has got to say for himself. Quiz him about a few things. See if he knows something I don’t.

  As the cab sped down Oxford Street I kept thinking about last Saturday night, about us stopping and about Sonny going for a leak. He’d seemed a bit nervous that evening. He says he wants to take a leak. He disappears into the woods and he’s gone a long time. Where is he now? Perhaps I’ll soon find out. Perhaps he’ll tell me he had no choice but to set me up?

  The cab dropped me on the corner, a few doors down from Sonny’s place. I gave the cabby a two-bob tip. A couple of little black kids were playing on the pavement and when they saw me coming they stopped and stared at me, suspicious like. I went down the steps to the basement. The door was ajar. I pushed it open and called Sonny’s name.

  A slim black woman in her twenties appeared in the corridor. She was dressed in a cutaway housecoat that showed the upper reaches of her tits. Her lips were bright red. Her eyes were made up in thick layers. Great big eyes. Shining saucers. She was sexy all right.

  She looked me up and down, very disdainfully. She exaggerated the disdain in her face. She wanted whitey to know she was most disdainful. Mightily disdainful.

  ‘We not open now. You come back tonight.’

  So, Sonny was now using his place as a knocking shop. The lad’s lust for money stops at nothing.

  ‘I don’t want any business. I want to see Sonny.’

  ‘Sonny not here.’

  ‘When is he due back?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘Have you seen him today?’

  ‘No Sonny today.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Tim. Timmy. I’m an old friend of Sonny’s.’

  ‘A real friend?’

  ‘A real friend, yes. I’ve been around here stacks of times. Smoked a lot of dope with him. Lent him money.’ I could have added that I’d shot dirty pictures and a porno movie here too, but an inner voice told me to keep my big mouth shut.

  ‘You know where he is?’

  ‘Do I know where he is? I’m asking you where he is.’

  ‘You come in.’

  She led me through the flat to the room at the back that opens on to the garden. She took a lighted cigarette from the ashtray that she had left. On the table there was a copy of the Gleaner, she’d been reading about the homeland where the sun shone every day and where you could smoke as much ganja as you liked and nobody said nothing.

  She sat down at the table. I loafed down on the old threadbare sofa.

  ‘Where Sonny then?’ she asked. She puffed away at her cigarette and stared at me quizzically. In the position she was sitting I could see more of her breasts now. Big full breasts.

  ‘You tell me when you last saw him.’

  ‘He here Saturday morning. He say he going out for a few hours. Back at night. He don’t come bac
k.’

  ‘So, you haven’t seen him since then?’

  ‘No Sonny since then.’

  ‘Has anybody else seen him since then that you know about?’

  ‘Nobody see him. You know where he is now?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I saw him on Saturday too … last.’

  ‘Where you go?’

  ‘Just in Soho. We had a drink together.’ I didn’t think it was a good idea to say anything more to her. Loose talk loses lives, as I think they used to say.

  ‘He said he was going to a party. Did he say anything about that to you?’

  ‘Party? Don’t know about party.’

  ‘Yeah. A party in Hitchin … near Hitchin. Have you ever heard of the place?’

  ‘I only know London.’

  So old Sonny hasn’t been home since Saturday. Unusual. So, where is he, then? He could still be in the wood, in which case he’s probably dead (but how?). He could be in police custody, but what for? Drugs? If they’ve got him for that they would have turned this tip over to see what else they could find.

  ‘Have any police been here since Saturday? Any at all?’

  ‘No police here.’

  It doesn’t seem the police have got him then … unless, of course, Sonny is sitting there in silence refusing to cooperate. Is that likely? Is that possible? No. Sonny loves talking. He can’t stop talking. He’d be trying to talk himself up a deal. Anything the police wanted to know would come tumbling out.

  So what does that leave? Sonny lying low? Keeping out of the way until it all blows over? (Until what blows over? Me?) But why? I believe her, whatever her name is.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Shamay.’

  She’s telling the truth is Shamay. She hasn’t seen him since Saturday.

  Sonny is a homebody. If he hasn’t been home for four or five days something’s up. Something’s not quite kosher. But what? Am I going to come up with any answers? Do I want to? Do I really care about this, about the Stephen business? About what happened to me? About what’s going on? Yeah, I suppose I do, but for no noble reason. Just idle curiosity, I guess. Intellectual inquisitiveness. That’s all. There’s yesterday’s truth, today’s truth, tomorrow’s truth. Some things you never find out about.