by Terry Taylor
We seemed to meet all sorts of crazy people there and when we mentioned that we were interested in Spiritualism that really did it. This old fellow that told us he was seventy really took set on us. He didn’t look his age though. He must have been ninety at least. Well, anyway, he told us that he’d been a keen psychic investigator all his life, and that he’d traced his former incarnations for hundreds of years. This I could accept, but when he told us that he’d been King Solomon, Oliver Cromwell, Nell Gwyn and Bluebeard, that was a bit too much to swallow! But I didn’t tell him so. No, I got him at it and asked if he could remember any of his past lives. Of course he did. I wouldn’t mind having a few memories about being King Solomon myself. I threw Bunty’s letter into the wastepaper basket, put my imitation Crombie shortie on and made it into the street. I had to meet Dusty at Miss Roach’s. After that nasty little experience I’d had with him a few days previously he hadn’t bothered to come around to see me, and I made up my mind that I wasn’t going to chase after him. The Charge was still at its hiding place so I took it for granted that I’d hear from Dusty within a few days. He phoned on the Tuesday. Full of apologies he was, and carried on talking for a full twenty minutes telling me that I was right and that after thinking about it he’d decided that it wasn’t a very nice thing to do, after all, and he’d told this sailor cat to keep his junk. I’m not sure if he meant it or not. As far as I knew he could have bought the lousy stuff and started pushing it without my knowing, but I wasn’t concerned over that. The important thing was that my conscience was clear and that’s all I worried about.
If you don’t know already, it’s a very long walk from Warren Street to Bayswater. It is for a lazy cat like me, anyway. But I walked it. I enjoy walking when I have pleasant things to think about. The night before I’d decided that I was going to save hard, really save, I mean, because I wanted to get out of this stinking business that I was in as quickly as I could. I’d already managed over a hundred pounds in that sexy post office book of mine and that was without really trying. From that day on, I’d promised myself, I’d get right down to putting every penny that I possibly could away. Then I’d open a business. I hadn’t decided what kind yet, but it didn’t really matter. A sweet shop would do — anything, as long as I could tell Dusty Miller to go find himself another partner and to be able to go home to my parents and show them that I hadn’t turned out like they’d expected me to (for some weird reason my mother had always predicted that I’d end up on the gallows) and that I’d made it, and would my mum like to come and look after the shop as I knew she’d get her kicks that way. It would have to be in town, not where she lived (I wasn’t getting as square as all that), or even in the country would be nice, as long as I had a motor to make the London scene occasionally.
When I did arrive, I was whacked out. My feet were aching from my marathon walk and Miss Roach put a pillow behind my head in a real wife-like fashion and made me a strong black coffee.
“So all’s forgiven about the other day, eh mate?” Dusty said, with a smile all over his face.
“Everything’s forgotten,” said I, rubbing my poor throbbing feet.
“We mustn’t let a little thing like that come between us,” Dusty said, sounding like a poof. “We’ve too much to lose.”
I was just feeling a little better after taking a dexadrine, which I never indulge in except in moments like those, when there was a loud knock on the door. Some knocks are nice, some are not nice. This was not nice. Miss Roach opened it. It was two tall men. They came in and behind them came four more. I hate to admit this but at that moment I didn’t have the faintest idea who they were.
“They’re policemen,” Miss Roach said quietly, then she sat herself down next to me. She didn’t move or say anything else.
I felt sick. I wanted to spew my heart up. So this was it...
I can’t tell you what exactly happened for about ten minutes after that. Everything went cloudy, a dark cloud, too, and at one time I remember thinking that I was dreaming but I soon found out I wasn’t, then everything went terribly clear. Too clear.
“I’ll try the toilet,” I heard one of the policemen say.
Then I remember seeing it in the policeman’s hand and the smile on his face was one of pleasure. He put it on the table and the table suddenly changed to one in the court, with the Hemp on it as piece of evidence number one.
Miss Roach got up from her chair as though she was hypnotised by it and she walked slowly over to it, not taking her eyes off it for a second. When she reached it, her hands went down and she touched it gently as if she was making sure that it was real.
“It’s Charge,” she said.
The policemen looked at each other and smiled. “I’m the inspector,” one of them said. “Why don’t you tell me all about it?” He sat down on an armchair, making himself comfortable for the big confession. His eyes weren’t what you could call hard, but his lips were thin and it seemed that all the nastiness in him had settled around his mouth. He looked like a policeman. “Why don’t you tell me all about it?” he said again.
He wasn’t talking to Dusty or myself. He hardly looked at us. He was interested in Miss Roach and Dusty knew it and I knew it and Miss Roach knew it. He didn’t rush things. He had plenty of time. He worked around cautiously at first, feeling his way, just testing for a weak link so he could break it apart. He called her ‘my dear’ a couple of times, but you could tell that he wasn’t really on her side.
Then he turned to Dusty. “What’s your name?” he asked him.
“Albert Miller,” came the reply.
“What do you do for a living?” he barked back at him.
“I’m in my father’s scrap metal business, sir.”
He pointed a finger straight at me. “And what do you work at?”
“A salesman, sir. Down and Company, the hatters,” I heard myself say.
“We’ll see what they’ve got on them. Bring Sergeant Stewmer in.”
Sergeant Stewmer was a policewoman. She went over to Miss Roach and patted her sexily all over the body, then told the inspector that she was negative.
How the hell did this happen, anyway? My mind kept asking. Policemen don’t just barge into people’s rooms without any reason and find a pound weight of Charge in the carzy. Someone must get them up to it. It hit me like a sledgehammer. Jumbo! Fucking shit cunt Jumbo! But it seemed that he’d slipped up all the same. The law had obviously made up its mind who it was going to kill and it didn’t look as if it was going to be us.
Miss Roach looked as if she’d been through a marathon brainwashing session. She looked from me to the inspector, from the inspector to Dusty. Like a frightened child that had just seen the danger, she begged for someone’s sympathy with eyes that made me shudder. But I knew that my fright could not be compared with hers; a mind of jumbled horrors that suddenly take shape and shock her with the sickening reality of it all. A terrible dream of half light and threatening figures with their hands held out menacingly to her. Of racing hearts and hundred miles an hour pulses. Emptiness and loneliness — nothing else in her barren world. No God even, because you realise, like an electric shock, that He may be on their side as well. You can’t surrender yourself to it but you have to go along with it. The chair that you cling to for support is even slipping away from you. Isn’t anyone on my side? Help!
“This isn’t no game,” the inspector said, lighting his pipe. “We’ll get to the bottom of this in the end, so you might as well come out with it now. It’ll be easier for everyone.” One of the other law switched on a blinding two million watt bulbed lamp, that hung down from the ceiling like it was a marker for the centre of the room, and the surprise of it made me jump in the air.
The inspector’s face was grim but it was a patient one as well. He adjusted his tie a little straighter and tighter. “How long have you been living here,” he asked Miss Roach sharply.
She had difficulty in getting her words out. “Nearly two years.”
; “How much rent do you pay?” he snapped back at her.
“Five pounds,” she managed to get out.
“A week?”
“Yes.”
“That’s rather a lot to pay for a young, single, unemployed girl like you, isn’t it?”
“I paint,” she said excitedly.
“Do you mean that you sell these things?” he asked, looking around the room at her efforts.
“Sometimes,” she answered weakly.
“Come on. Surely you’re not trying to tell me you earn your living at it,” he asked with a sarcastic smile.
She sounded as guilty as hell. “Not exactly.”
“Then tell me exactly how you do earn your living.”
“I receive an allowance from my father.”
“We’ll have to go into that,” he said, looking at her as if she was the world’s most gifted liar.
The other law were having the time of their lives pulling everything apart, like they were relatives of a rich geezer that had just snuffed it. Finding all sorts of things they were. Travel brochures — odd stockings — empty perfume bottles — bald paint brushes — half a paperback — and even a packet of french letters that made everyone blush.
“How much did the Hemp cost you?” the inspector spitted out at her.
It took Miss Roach completely by surprise. “Nothing...”
“Nothing? Do you mean someone gave it to you?”
“No, I don’t! It’s not mine I tell you. I’ve never seen it before.”
“It was hidden in your toilet, do you understand? We know you smoke and you’re in with the crowd, so why not come clean? We’re not here to harm you. We’re here to do our duty. So why not be a clever girl and tell us all about it so that we can help you?”
“But it’s not mine,” poor Miss Roach said pleadingly. I was smoking my head off, lighting one cigarette up after the other, nearly dropping the packet every time I tried to take one out. Puffing nervously away like a steam engine, until my mouth was as dry as sand and I felt sick with it.
“How about this, sir,” said a baby-faced lawling, and with an exaggerated gesture he displayed a little brown packet that he’d found in a willow-patterned vase.
“More of it, eh?” the inspector said, taking it all for granted.
“Well, what about this?” showing it to Miss Roach, who I’m sure was nearly shitting herself by now.
“All right, so I smoke,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I sell the stuff.”
“Now who said anything about you selling it? You must think we’re very hard people indeed. Just let’s say you bought it cheap and you intended to smoke it all to yourself,” the inspector said quietly.
“But I didn’t!” half shouted Miss R.
The inspector looked just a tiniest bit annoyed. “I’m losing a little of my patience,” he told her. “You can tell me lies but don’t insult my intelligence. Now I want it straight, do you hear? No messing!”
There was a terrible silence, with the alarm clock by the bed ticking away so loudly that I thought it would deafen me. I know things are accentuated in moments like these, but I swear that silence lasted a full minute. Honest.
“You’re a silly girl, you really are,” the inspector said, changing his tactics again. “You don’t want us to have to take you down to that nasty old police station, do you? It would be far nicer if we could settle it all here. This little room of yours is so cosy, not at all like that draughty, depressing police station.”
“I’ve told you everything I know,” was all Miss Roach could say.
Dusty was looking very uninterested at the happenings; he didn’t even look nervous, and I wished I was the same. But then I wondered what was really going on in Dusty’s mind. What were his thoughts about Miss Roach’s unenviable position? Whatever they were, I was convinced that Dusty had the situation in hand, and whatever he did it would be the best for us all. He’d always been straight with me. Never once had he ever tried to pull any fast ones as far as the Charge was concerned, or come to that he’d never pulled any strokes on me at all. I suppose his feelings concerning our friend in distress were the same as mine. He’d be thinking the very same thoughts as me; he’d also want to own up to this stupid, fat policeman, and tell him it was us, not Miss Roach, that he should be grilling — that we were the guilty ones, it was our Charge and we’d had a ball while it lasted, we caught a glimpse of the real life so we don’t regret it for one minute. I was sure that Dusty felt sorry for Miss Roach like he’d never felt sorry for anyone else in his life before. That he wanted to release her from her suffering and helplessness and darkness; to draw back the curtain and let the light back into her world once again. But Dusty’s no fool, he knows what he’s doing. He’ll come up with an answer soon. But will he? He’s taking a bloody long time about it if he is. Come on, Dusty, say something. Say something to the inspector that will make him apologise to Miss Roach for causing so much unnecessary trouble, as it all has been a terrible mistake and it would never happen again.
But whatever happens no one will get time. Everyone says that. I mean, anyone will tell you that for your first Hemp conviction you hardly ever get bird. Probation. That’s what they hand out. Lovely probation, where all you have to do is sign your name in a book once a week. There’s nothing much wrong with that, is there? Anyone can take that in their stride, even Miss Roach. Being as she’s a girl and everything they may not even give her that. They’ll probably tell her that she’s been a very naughty little girl, and that if she’s naughty again she’ll land herself in a whole heap of trouble, but this time they’re going to be kind and let her off. Won’t we have a ball that night! We’ll get her block-up like she’s never been before, and I’ll end up staying the night in her bed and comfort her for all the suffering she’s been through.
But supposing they don’t let her off and they don’t give her probation? Just supposing they tell her that there’s been too much of this sort of thing going on lately and they can’t take in the story of her having a whole pound weight all to herself, just to smoke, so they’ll make an example of her to show others that they can’t get away with it, and go and send her to Holloway for a few months, in amongst all those mail bags and cobs of bread and Lesbians. What would I feel like then? Every evening at nine, when I was just going to cut down town, would I think about Miss Roach’s cell light being turned off? And when it was Sunday and I was just turning over in bed, would I think of Miss Roach in church, where in the next block they were preparing to hang somebody?
The inspector was knocking his pipe against the grate in the fire and the ash came falling out like dirty, grey snow. “Don’t think that I’m trying to make deals with you, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Let’s face it. You know that I know that it’s your Hemp over there, so let’s stop kidding each other. If you tell me all about it I’ll put a good word in for you to my superior.”
“I can’t...” Miss Roach tried to say.
“I haven’t finished yet,” the criminal catcher butted in. “But if you beat about the bush for another couple of hours, that will make my job a little harder and I wouldn’t like that. So if I told my superior bad things about you, I’m afraid he might do a few things that you wouldn’t like.”
“It’s no use! I can’t tell you anything about it!” screamed my poor unfortunate friend.
“Why not?” asked the policeman hopefully.
“Because I don’t know anything! It’s not mine!”
That’s the spirit, Miss Roach, my mind was shouting to her. Keep it up! Don’t let them get you down! This is Great Britain. Great Great Great Britain! Its law and justice is respected all over the world. All over the universe if the Martians know what’s happening down here. By gad, sir! We couldn’t convict an innocent person in this dear, old country of ours. That wouldn’t be cricket. Impossible! Keep going, Miss Roach. You’re innocent!
The baby-faced lawling was watching the drama without an emotion in his mind, taking it al
l in, not missing a word. Watching a Master at work. A man who knew the business and was a copper when coppers were coppers. But don’t despair, baby-faced lawling, your time will come. Soon you’ll be out on your own, let loose to nick as many people as you possibly can. You’ll have a ball, man. You’ll pinch people here and you’ll pinch people there, and you’ll even be able to handcuff them, and when you take them down to the station, if you really hate them you’ll be able to give them a good kick up the arse. And in court you’ll be able to tell the judge all about them: what disgusting brutes they are and how they’re a menace to society, and the judge will recommend you for being able to let him sentence them to rot away in a stinking prison or perhaps even murder the villains! Take it all in, babyfaced lawling. You’ll soon learn!
“Inspector, may I say something, please, sir?” asked Dusty out of the blue.
I knew you’d do it, Dusty, I thought. Good old Dusty! I knew you wouldn’t let her take the can back for us. I know we’re a couple of bastards, but we’re not as mean as all that, are we?
“Isn’t it possible,” said Dusty slowly and precisely, “that someone else could have put that stuff there? I mean, one of this young lady’s friends? It could have been there all the time without her knowing anything about it.”
“When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it,” snarled back the public executioner.
Dusty didn’t say any more. He let it go at that. He didn’t say a single solitary word more. He didn’t say that the friend who had hidden it was himself. He just let it go at that. But then you must remember, Dusty, that the law isn’t interested in any of Miss Roach’s friends that may have put that Indian Hemp in the toilet. He has his pay packet before him. There it is, as plain as daylight! A girl painter unemployed, paying five pounds a week for one room, who never sells a painting, but keeps little brown packets of that ghastly drug in her willow-patterned vases. Then I dug! I would bet my life that Dusty put that suggestion to the law to shove suspicion away from us. You were so cool when you were talking, Dusty. You were ice-cold. Oh, fuck, Dusty! Don’t let them take this girl away!