Foreigners

by Caryl Phillips

  At 3 a.m. on the morning of 18 April, former Inspector Ellerker and Sergeant Kitching found David in the doorway to John Peters' furniture shop on Lands Lane in the centre of Leeds. They 'moved him on'. ('I heard the sound of blows being struck. I saw Oluwale run out of the entrance [of the shop] covering his head with his arms . . . I have not seen Oluwale since that time.' PC Seager) A little over an hour later the two policemen discovered David elsewhere in the city and they chased him. ('We dragged him to his feet and I booted his backside. I did not kick him too hard, just enough to wake him up. He screamed but then he always screamed when I dealt with him.' Sergeant Kitching) David ran down Call Lane and in the direction of Warehouse Hill. David Oluwale was never again seen alive. He entered the River Aire at the foot of Warehouse Hill, just by Leeds Bridge. On 4 May, 1969, Leeds police frogman Police Constable Ian Haste recovered David Oluwale's body from the River Aire some three miles east of the city centre at a point near Knostrop Sewage Works.

  I received a telephone call from the Information Room, to the effect that there was a body in the River Aire at Knostrop and that I was required to go there and recover the body . . . the body appeared to be lodged on some obstruction. I put my frogman equipment on and swam to the body. I saw that it was the body of a man, who appeared to be coloured . . . I pulled the body from the obstruction by its feet and pushed it downstream . . . I returned along the bank . . . PC Sedman turned the body over and I recognised it as a coloured man called David Oluwale who I knew from my police service in the city centre . . . a vagrant who used to doss down in John Peters' doorway in the city centre. I used to move him on when I worked from Millgarth Street but I have never arrested him for anything. He was just another of the city characters. I can never remember him causing me any sort of trouble.

  PC Ian Haste

  Police Constable Francis Sedman helped to recover the body from the river. He noticed a large lump on David's forehead, bleeding from an eye, a bruise on the right upper arm, and the fact that David's lips were cut. Inspector Leonard Bradley was also at the scene, where he searched Oluwale's pockets, providing the following list of items:

  National Health Medical Card

  2 Photos

  Income Tax Form (P45)

  2 After Care forms

  2 Leeds City Magistrate Receipts

  6 Forms 103

  Irish Information Centres in England card

  A Blue bead necklace with a crucifix on

  A felt pen

  2 ballpoint pens

  A toothbrush

  Comb

  Post Office savings book

  I accepted the body into the mortuary and cut the clothing from it because it was rotten . . . I put the number '451' on the legs and the name 'Oluwale' on the body, and put it in the refrigeration unit . . . Later, some uniformed officers came to the mortuary and identified the body to me as Oluwale. There was no conversation other than someone saying, 'It's Oluwale.'

  Reginald Fricker, mortuary attendant at St James' Hospital

  Dr David John Gee, Senior Lecturer in Forensic Medicine at Leeds University, examined David Oluwale's body on 5 May, 1969. He concluded death by drowning, and observed that David Oluwale had received a blow to the forehead before entering the water.

  In the case of the deceased, Oluwale, diatoms were found in the lungs but not beyond them and therefore the tests do not provide conclusive proof that he met his death by drowning, but in the absence of any gross injuries or natural disease I formed the opinion the death was due to drowning . . . The bruise on the forehead of Oluwale was purple and swollen. The purple colour indicates that the bruise was sustained within about one or two days before death or a similar period after death. The fact that the bruise was swollen indicates in my view that it is most likely that it occurred during life though it is possible but less likely for such a bruise to be caused after death in a body immersed in water . . . I did not see a large bruise on Oluwale's upper right arm . . . Oluwale's lips were swollen and the skin in parts of the face were separating due to putrefactive change. These putrefactive changes could give the inexperienced eye the appearance of injuries such as cuts and bruises especially when in the body of a coloured person such as Oluwale . . .

  Dr David John Gee

  David Oluwale was buried in a pauper's grave at Killingbeck Cemetery – plot B5850A – courtesy of Leeds Corporation's Welfare Department. He was buried with nine strangers.

  *

  Before the last day of the trial, Justice Hinchcliffe ordered the manslaughter charge to be dismissed. He concluded that there were no witnesses to the charge and therefore no evidence. On 24 November, 1971 the jury returned a verdict of guilty of three charges of assault against Sergeant Kitching, who received a twenty-seven-month sentence, and a verdict of guilty of assault relating to four charges against former Inspector Ellerker, who received a three-year sentence. Justice Hinchcliffe's summing-up contained the following plea: 'Policemen are members of a fine and splendid profession, and without them there could be anarchy and chaos. But you must not allow the fact that the two accused were police officers to influence you one iota. You do get black sheep in every flock.'

  The way I see it, the legacy of Oluwale in this city is that a man had to lose his life to get people to sit up and notice what was happening. It's a high price to pay, especially when things are worse now than they were then for my West Indian community. Today there is still a high percentage of black people in prisons and mental homes. The one with the briefcase is a smokescreen. And people still care if they have to sit next to you on the bus, and we can't walk some streets without feeling like a novelty, and the concept of us is still low. Mr Oluwale paid a high price, but sometimes when I drive down Chapeltown Road and see the lack of discipline, and children having children, and what we've allowed ourselves to become, then I feel bitter. Parents have lost control of their kids and England has taken them. David Oluwale paid a high price to get people's attention, but for what?

  27 Church Lane, Horsforth, Leeds 18. By a church. A small estate of respectable semi-detached and detached brick homes. Built in the sixties for the upwardly mobile middle classes. Safe. Neat. Shrubbery. Trees. The estate oozes civic pride. I watch an old man edge slowly out of a door on his Zimmer frame. Another old man, a neighbour (with his shirt off), puts the hose over his plants and trees. They've all worked and lived together. Now they are retired together. Closed community. Protecting each other. There is a blue saloon car parked outside number 27. Neat white net curtains in the windows. The house overlooks the church. Quiet peaceful house. Net-curtained respectability. A TV aerial on the roof. Two teenage schoolboys in white shirts and long black trousers, ties flying in the breeze, backpacks hanging off one shoulder, lollop by with cans of Coke in their fists. There is a burglar alarm to the side of the house number. It is yellow. From the back of the house there is a spectacular view of the Aire Valley. A panoramic view over the city of Leeds. Enjoy your retirement, former Inspector Ellerker. Black sheep.

  Middleton Woods. South Leeds. Beyond Hunslet and Beeston. Close to Belle Isle. David was dropped in wilderness and found himself surrounded by dark, inhospitable nature. The nearest one might approach to a jungle of untamed land on the southern edge of Leeds. Go back to nature, black boy from Lagos. Go back to the jungle. Come, let me take you there. And today, thirty-five years later, one can see houses decorated with Union Jacks on the fringes of these same dark woods. And a church which flies the cross of St George. Smashed cars litter the streets. Unmarried teenage mothers push babies in second-hand prams around the perimeter of the dark woods. Houses sprout satellite dishes of various sizes. When I walk down the street, parka- and trainer-clad youths stare hard at me. They bare teeth that are a gated yellowish entryway into their spotted faces. Ten o'clock in the morning and already these youngsters are waiting for the pub to open. They have nothing else to do with their time except loiter around the boarded-up off-licence. In the daytime this is a zone of deprivation and depr
ession. Every other house displays a 'For Sale' sign. At night, to be dumped and abandoned in the heart of the woods. Imagine it. No 'For Sale' signs. No humans. No light. In the heart of the woods. A terrifying hell, to be lost in a wood whose expanse is the size of a small town. Nothing in Middleton Woods is really tamed or sculpted. There is no human hand. Sergeant Kitching and former Inspector Ellerker taking the nigger back to nature, depositing him in fascist South Leeds. Sometimes they would take him deep into the heart of Middleton Woods and abandon him. Sometimes.

  The Fox and Hounds is a stone building; the type of building that is imitated by those who insist on 'stonecladding' their otherwise ordinary homes. The inscription '1728' by the door suggests the pub's vintage. The village of Bramhope is a well-to-do suburb of Leeds, some ten miles beyond the city centre. Stone detached houses with neatly trimmed lawns. Closed minds. The pub itself is in the village square at the top of a short steep hill. The monitor for the car park CCTV is in the bar so that the barman can stand behind the bar and, as he pulls his pints, he can watch what is happening outside. Clearly there has been a recent problem with hooligans. In the bar itself there are neatly framed pictures of hounds and horses which suggest history and tradition. This is England. Hand pumps. Slate floor. Old clocks. Policemen might drink in a pub like this on their day off. Older policemen might be lucky enough to retire to a village like Bramhope and occasionally come to this pub for Sunday lunch. I sit and look around. I am sure that Sergeant Kitching and former Inspector Ellerker had a quiet contempt for this village and its people. Its 'well-to-do' people. By the back door there is a low stone wall. On the wall there is a sign which reads 'For Patrons Only'. It refers to the car park, but it could be the village motto. Smug village, with its small village square, and its proud little Village Bakery. Four o'clock in the morning. Go on, Sambo. Knock on the door and ask for a cup of tea. They've never seen anything like you. They'll be furious. They'll abuse you. And then you'll have the problem of trying to get back to Leeds city centre where we don't want you, understand? David had to walk back through the village. Then out into the open countryside. Miles to walk before the houses began to once more congregate by the side of the road. They laughed at David. 'Go on, nigger. Knock.' In the Fox and Hounds everybody is asleep. Four o'clock in the morning. Where are the hounds? The dogs on two legs. The animals in blue trousers. A lonely fox harming nobody.

  Underneath the arches. Huge Dickensian arches beneath Leeds City Station. The river rushes right through the arches with a loud cascading roar. On stepping out again into the bright light one can hear the announcements of the train station. Once upon a time this was a vast filthy cavern full of homeless people. It's different now, underneath the arches. They have been 'redeveloped' (and renamed – Granary Wharf ) into a pleasant new shopping complex, featuring Afrodisia – an Afro-Caribbean and French cuisine restaurant – and the Casablanca bazaar, which sells pots, bowls and baskets, and a stripped-pine furniture shop. All huddled underneath the arches, but the truth is this place cannot be reclaimed. It remains dark and forbidding. It resists redevelopment, and whispered stories linger in this dank air. Today, pedestrians use the arches of Granary Wharf as a short cut through to the city centre. They hardly ever break step for the place still reeks of abandoned lives and quiet desperation. They hurry through these arches, which once rejected David. 'He's not here and we don't want that type around here.'

  By the Knostrop Sewage Works. Here the River Aire and the Aire-Calder Navigation Canal move side by side. The river rushes with a strong current, and flows away from the city centre. The canal lazily swirls and eddies. I watch swans floating on the canal. They have no desire to pursue a journey and travel through to Hull. Around nine o'clock in the morning the sun suddenly breaks through the clouds and casts a blinding light into my face. Still rising in the east. Don't look too closely. Don't look. I walk the narrow path between the river, with its fast-flowing water, and the languorous canal. The river bore you out of the heart of the city that you made your own. It carried you past the tall brick mills that stared in your direction; it carried you away from Leeds Parish Church and out towards the sewage works. The canal continues to lap quietly. A peaceful place where one can hear both the odd cry of a bird and the low hum of traffic somewhere in the distance. And then church bells begin to peal. On the hour. And then the stripe of sunlight on the water widens as the clouds part further. The glare is too much to bear, but the swans don't mind. They simply upend themselves and fish. And then one swan tries to rise in a gawky pantomime of flight that betrays the gracefulness of their residence on the water. These canals attract weeds. The shoreline is choked with effluence; empty pop bottles and abandoned packets of crisps. The washed-up scum of bad eating and living. Rubbish. Effluvium of an ignorant city. Back then, all those years ago, the hot machinery of Leeds stamped out brand-spanking-new goods for colonial use and dumped the waste into this water. Small-gauge trains to transport sugar cane in the Caribbean. Larger engines to India. Waste into the water. Back then, during the final spasm of empire. Back then, when it was still considered acceptable to furiously burn both industrial fuel and human dreams. White dreams and black dreams. Flat caps and woolly hair. Pull of a cig. Knock back a pint. Tuck the paper under your arm. Tramp your way to the bookies. Go home to the missus. Have your tea. What's the divvy? Go down the pub. Go on, go down the pub, dreamer. No colour bar in here, mate. I have come to your country to work. Go down the pub, mister. Go on, go down the pub. The river flows quickly. Down the river towards the sewage works. Rush away from your city, David. Over the tumbling weir and down into the tranquil part of the River Aire where you will eventually become snarled up in the undergrowth. Rest with the water. Spent. Knostrop Sewage Works on the bank of the river. The end of your journey. Betrayed by the water. Carry him further beyond the sewage works. Don't stop now. Carry him beyond this place. More respect, please. More respect.

  Question by Detective Superintendent Fryer; answer by Sergeant Kitching. 27.10.70

  Q: Where have you kicked his [Oluwale's] behind? [In] What doorways have you kicked his behind?

  A: Under Leeds Library in Commercial Street. In the dark doorway next to the Wine Lodge in Bond Street. Brills in Bond Street, Bakers in Trinity Street, in John Peters in Lands Lane. Bridal House in The Headrow, the Empire Arcade in Briggate, and Trinity Church in Boar Lane.

  David, you wandered hungry and sick through the heart of a city that has now pedestrianised itself. Today there are no cars. It is all reserved for pedestrians, like you. But back then it was different. 3 a.m. 18 April, 1969. Clutching old newspapers that kept you warm on cold Yorkshire nights. You are sleeping in the doorway of John Peters Furniture Shop on Lands Lane. Sleeping peacefully in the heart of your 'clean city', and again these two men come and begin to abuse you. They shout and they kick you. They are forever moving you on from this place, and tonight they are very angry. Will they urinate upon you again? No, this time they merely shout and beat you, but you escape and run up Lands Lane towards the main street, The Headrow. Leeds' grand avenue. You turn right into The Headrow and run down the hill towards the doorway of the Bridal House where you often like to sleep. The only shop doorway on The Headrow that is illuminated, a place where everybody can see you. 397 The Headrow. Opposite the Odeon Cinema (which has now closed down). Today, in the window of the Bridal House, there are two white plastic models with silver decorations on their heads. The fully garbed female models flaunt themselves in the window, and female pedestrians stop and smile and look beyond your open-air bedroom. David, if only you had turned and gone up The Headrow and away from the city centre they might not have discovered you. But you came to where you knew they would find you at the Bridal House, and you squatted on your little stone step on The Headrow. The most open place in town. Fully illuminated. Just a short way up The Headrow from Millgarth Police Station, and on every policeman's route home from work. They pass by your bedroom without mirrors, and you are not hiding. Just sitting quie
tly in the heart of your city trying to stay warm and out of harm's way. Today the 'H' on the sign 'Bridal House' is hanging askew. But your house has not fallen down. Three doors away there is now the Housing Advice Centre for the homeless. Through the window I can see some black faces; miserable thin faces looking for shelter, people who are eager to be rescued. The window boasts a sign: 'We might just have what you're looking for.' Tracksuited, sleepless, desperate men. Asians, blacks, whites. Next door is Big Lil's Saloon Bar for broken drunks who are down on their luck, and beyond Big Lil's is William Hill the bookies. Sad new world. You did not need these places. You did not fail. You stayed in the doorway of your Bridal House. You eventually curled up next to happiness. You slept with the joyful brides, but once again they found you, and attempted to beat the life out of you, and so you ran and instead of going straight down The Headrow towards Millgarth Police Station you turned right into Vicar Lane and you ran for your life in the direction of Call Lane, but still they chased you, and you knew that this time they would kill you, and so you ran furiously, but they came closer, and closer. Twenty years in England had taken some wind out of your sail and you could hear them pounding the pavement behind you, and so you ran straight from Vicar Lane into the narrow entrance to Call Lane but they were getting closer and your legs could no longer carry you and then, as Call Lane turned to the right, you saw a narrow gap between the warehouses and you passed into this gap. It was five o'clock in the morning and you ran into the gap, my friend. You ran into Warehouse Hill. You ran towards the river, their hot, desperate, breath on the back of your neck. You ran.