Behind Bars:
Part One
by Kevin Crowe
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: In the immediate aftermath of the IRA pub bombings in Birmingham in 1974, Kathleen's best friend is smashed beyond repair and Brendan lands up in hospital.
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: In the immediate aftermath of the IRA pub bombings in Birmingham in 1974, Kathleen's best friend is smashed beyond repair and Brendan lands up in hospital.
Chapter Three: Brendan
1
Thursday was my day off. I had a lie-in and then went out to a greasy spoon for a fry up, after which I returned to my grotty bedsit and did a bit of perfunctory tidying and cleaning. Later I played some Grateful Dead and rolled my first joint of the day – it was some fresh stuff I’d only just bought – Thai sticks, I was told. Originally, I’d planned to go into the city centre on a pub crawl, and get up some Dutch courage before going to that pub near the theatre I’d heard about – the one that was supposed to be used by queers.
I never did get to New Street. I got so stoned, I couldn’t be bothered going into town. Instead, I went to the local off-license and got some bottles. Back at the bedsit, I switched on my black and white TV. It was a bit hit and miss whether it worked, as it relied on an indoor aerial. I twiddled with it until I got a reasonable picture, opened a bottle, lit another joint and sat down to watch “The Sweeney”.
Part way through, a newsflash interrupted the programme to announce there had been an IRA bomb in Birmingham. There were no details at first, but gradually what had happened became clearer: two city centre pubs had been bombed: “The Mulberry Bush” and “The Tavern in the Town”. Christ! I used the “The Tavern” regularly. I’d even been thrown out of there once after an altercation with the barman, but was allowed back in next time.
Who says drugs are bad for you? If it hadn’t been for the grass, I might have been in “The Tavern” when the explosion occurred. I could have been one of the injured or, God forbid, dead. I shuddered. I needed another drink.
I slept badly that night. I couldn’t get the bomb blasts out of my head. When I did sleep, I dreamt I was in the “The Tavern”, and after the bomb exploded I was lying on shards of glass, bleeding to death. As I was lying there, a bearded man as tall as a skyscraper, with skin the colour of sunburn leered over me, and asked: “And what would your name be?” “Brendan,” I whispered. “Can’t hear yer, speak louder.” I tried but couldn’t raise my voice, so he bent down to my level. “Brendan,” I croaked. “Brendan?” he asked. I nodded. He stood up to his full skyscraper height, and shouted: “Over here lads, over here. I think he’s one of us. Better get him to hospital.” The skyscraper man lifted me so high I felt sure I was going to fall and shatter like the shards of glass, but instead he passed me to another man who put me in an ambulance. It was then I realised who he was. He could only be one man: the legendary Finn Maccool. The giant who saved his people from being burnt to death. The man who built the Giant’s Causeway so he could get from Ireland to Scotland without getting his feet wet.
I awoke, hungover, groggy and hungry. I cooked some breakfast, drank enough tea to fill Finn’s bladder and slowly began to feel human. The last thing I wanted to do was to go to work, but I was supposed to be there in time to open the pub at 11 in the morning and if I was late I'd get a bollocking from the boss or Norman. There were always a few people with nothing better to do and nowhere better to be who were waiting for us to open, especially those who had just got their giros, their benefit cheques, cashed at the post office and ready to spend in the pub.
When I got there, I found the boss and Norman so deep in conversation they didn't notice me immediately. When the boss did, he said: “I suppose you saw the news last night.”
I nodded.
“Bloody Irish bastards!” Norman said, “if I had my way I’d fucking hang the lot slowly – after castrating them. They’re not men, they’re cowards. Fucking cowards! If I got my hands on them…”
“For Christ’s sake, shut the fuck up!” the boss said. “And don't forget those Irish bastards help pay your wages, just remember that.” He turned to me, saying: “Norman'll put you in the picture. I've got some office work to do.” He left us to ourselves.
“What did he mean? 'put me in the picture'?” I asked Norman.
“Jesus, Brendan! Use the brains you were born with.”
I looked puzzled. An exasperated sigh escaped from Norman's lips. “Okay, if you can't work it out for yourself. Half our customers are paddies, most of them probably support the IRA; the other half are niggers who deal drugs and pimp their tarts. Get it?”
I shook my head, saying: “Tell us news not history.”
“Less of your fucking cheek. If you want to keep your job, that is.”
I stayed silent. He sighed. “Look, we're bound to get a visit from the police, seeing as how we have so many paddy punters. Don't you think they'd have a field day, what with the drugs and tarts? They'd close us down, and we could all be arrested.”
For once, what Norman said made sense, but I wasn't sure what we could do about it. I wasn't about to tell some six foot muscle he couldn't sell his dope, nor was I about to attempt to clear the lounge of prostitutes. My life might have been shit, but it was the only one I had and I didn't want to lose it. I wasn't paid enough to risk a knife in the gut. Of course, I didn't say anything of this to Norman. I just asked what we were expected to do.
“Obvious, I would have thought. We just put the word about that the police will be keeping an eye on the place. Those who have any brain cells left will probably work it out for themselves.” He turned away. “Right, time to open up.” When he returned, he said: “Oh by the way, I've got the night off tonight and the boss has got a Freemasons do. So you'll have to tell them about the police. Don't worry, a couple of the casuals will be on with you.”
2
Working split shifts meant I had a few hours off in the afternoon before returning for the evening. That lunchtime, trade was slow: few of the Irish customers ventured out, and those that did were quiet and surly. The lounge generally wasn’t busy at that time of day: it tended to be evenings when the dealers and prostitutes and their punters came out to play. When we closed, it didn’t take long to get rid of the few customers and to do some perfunctory cleaning.
Walking home, I heard the sound of breaking glass. Looking up I saw the shattered stained glass windows of the Blessed Martyrs Catholic church. There was a mob of about thirty cheering men. Above the noise was the voice of someone I assumed to be the mob leader. Speaking in a loud Brummie accent, he was shouting: “Death to all Paddies! Hang the Irish Murderers!” The slogan was taken up by the rest of the mob, repeated in rhythmical strident tones. I dearly hoped there was no-one in the church: if there were, they would be at serious risk of injury or worse.
Like most Catholic churches, the presbytery was next door. I wondered if the mob realised this, if they knew the house next to the church was the priests’ home. I soon got my answer: someone picked up a stone and threw it at one of the presbytery windows, followed by others who did the same. Passers-by headed away from the mob, some running, some walking quickly, all avoiding eye contact with the crowd.
I may have been a lapsed Catholic, but the sight of a church being desecrated was unimaginable, a form of blasphemy so severe I expected the pavement to open up and take the whole mob down to Hell. Like others I did nothing except hurry away, hoping the priest was not in the presbytery. In the distance I heard sirens, but my relief at the sound did nothing to assuage my guilt.
3
I wasn't looking where I was going, and turning a corner I barged into someone coming the other way. “What the fuck…” a woman’s voice said, followed by: “Oh, it’s you, Brendan.” Michelle brushed herself down and picked up the cigarette that had fallen out of her hand. “Why're you in such a hurry? A queer basher after you?”
“Er. No. Nobody knows I’m queer, do they?”
She smiled. “You’d be surprised.”
“But nobody knows – except you and…”
“Some of these rent boys can’t keep their mouths shut. Or maybe someone saw you with him. And I wouldn’t put it past that wanker Norman to spread rumours. He’s vicious, wouldn’t trust him. Anyway, there’s rumours.”
“Shit! Shit! Shit!”
She touched my arm. “Come on, I’ll make you a cup of tea.” As we walked towards her flat, she asked: “If it wasn’t queer bashers, then what was it?”
“I saw this mob smashing up the Blessed Martyrs and chanting anti-Irish stuff. I just wanted to get away as quickly as possible.”
We got to her flat – not the one she worked from, but a small flat above a newsagents’. The back entrance to the building smelt of piss, but her bedsit was clean and well appointed. Most of the furniture looked second hand, but well maintained. There was an acoustic guitar resting against the wall and there were bookshelves – not the sort of things I expected to see in a whore's home, but what did I know? And there was a telephone: something of a luxury in that part of the city.
There certainly wasn’t any sign of male occupancy, yet Norman had said she was living with her pimp.
As we waited for the kettle to boil, she said: “Brendan’s an Irish name, isn’t it?”
The kettle whistled. She got up and made tea the traditional way: warming the pot, putting leaves in, pouring the water over the leaves. She brought the pot, two cups, sugar bowl, milk and tea strainers to the table.
“My parents were Irish, but I was born over here.”
“Just as well you don’t have an Irish accent. After yesterday, you’d be a target. And you being queer as well.” Her voice tailed off and she shook her head.
We'd known each other for a while by then, had become friendly and were gradually beginning to trust each other. Over the cup of tea she told me she too had Irish parents and “Michelle is only my working name, I chose it because it sounds a bit foreign and sexy. My real name is, like yours, Irish – Kathleen.”
“Kathleen – that’s a nice name.” I looked around the room. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but this isn’t the sort of décor I expected in a prostitute’s home.”
She offered me a cigarette, took one herself and lit them both. “And what did you expect?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Just not this.” I waved my arm around the room. “It looks so clean, so tidy, so civilised. There’s books and music and paintings…” My voice tailed off.
She stared at me. “There’s an old saying. If you’re in a hole, stop digging.”
“Sorry.” I blushed, “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
There was silence for a moment, before she burst out giggling. “Okay, you’re forgiven.” Then more seriously: “A lot of tarts do live chaotic lives. I’m just a bit luckier. I’ve managed to avoid smack. All I do is a bit grass, it helps take the edge off … things.”
“Norman said you lived with a pimp who took all your money.”
“What the fuck would that wanker Norman know about anything!” She stood up, anger showing on her face. “Winston doesn’t live here. He’s got a key, but I don’t encourage him to come round. Yes, he gets some of my earnings, but I manage to keep a fair bit back. I’ve even got a savings account at the post office, which he doesn’t know about.” She stopped. “I hope you know I’m trusting you here. I’m telling you stuff no-one else knows. You’re the first one I’ve let in here – apart from him. If he found out I was talking to you like this, he’d kick the shit out of me.”
“You can get me in the shit too, you know.” I thought about how to frame my next question, and decided to just come right out and ask it: “Does he beat you often?”
She shrugged. “He can be pretty violent. All the drugs and booze means he can’t get it up very often. And when he can’t fuck me, he blames me. It’s amazing what you can hide with make up.”
She picked up her guitar and checked it was properly tuned. “D’you like folk music?” she asked.
“Some.”
“Here’s one of my favourites.” She began picking the guitar. Her smoky contralto had a depth that could only have come from life experience. Her diction was near perfect, and I could hear every word. I could tell why it was a favourite of hers: it told the story of a young woman who was accosted by three men, but bested them and stole one of their horses.
“You’ve got a wonderful voice. That’s a really great song. Who wrote it?”
“Who knows? It’s a traditional song, goes back a long way. I learnt it from an LP by Frankie Armstrong. There’s loads of traditional folk songs written from the woman’s point of view. Sometimes when I’m singing that one – it’s called ‘The Crafty Maid’ – I imagine I’m that woman, and that no man is ever going to force himself on me again.”
She smiled, a faraway look in her eyes. “I really enjoy singing and playing the guitar. Sometimes I think it's the only thing that keeps me sane.”
“How did you end up a prostitute? I mean, you’re a great singer and you’re good on the guitar, how come you didn’t end up as a musician?”
“Ha! You think I could make a living busking, do you? There’s fuck all to be made from singing folk, unless you’re lucky, particularly if you’re a woman. Not everyone can be Sandy Denny or Norma Waterson. I’d love to be able to, but…”
“I just don’t know how people get on the game”
A humourless smile crossed her face. “You don’t get on the game. The game gets you.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
She raised her eyes to the ceiling, exasperated. “Well. It helps if you’re abused by your father and blamed by your mother, and if you end up in a kid’s home, where the staff make you give them blow jobs, and if you then run away and end up on the streets, with fuck all to live on. And where the pigs move you on, apart from the ones who fuck and bugger you first. And where you’re raped so often, you might as well make a pound or two out of it.” Tears were rolling down her face and she was only a step away from hysteria.
I put my arms round her. Gradually, her sobs became slower and her breathing began to return to normal. She continued to hold on to me, refusing to let go, still weeping.
Neither of us heard him enter. He grabbed me, pulling me away from her. He thumped me in the face and stomach, and kicked me in the balls. The last thing I remembered before unconsciousness was Kathleen screaming “Noooo!” as he smashed her guitar against the wall.
Chapter Four: Frankie
1
“My guitar!” I screamed, thumping him in the stomach, “you've smashed Frankie.”
Winston grabbed my fists to stop me hitting him. “Oh, so that's what his name is? So is Frankie boy your bit on the side then? So I don't satisfy you, you have to get some puny white boy. Or is Frankie boy just some special punter? I told you never – never to bring punters here. Well, when he wakes up...”
“If he wakes up. You've got it all wrong. Frankie is my guitar. And no, that lad isn't a punter. If you must know, he's that queer boy who works at the 'Star'. And if you know what's good for you, you'll piss off before the police and ambulance arrive.” I went to the phone 999.
After a few stammered unintelligible phrases, Winston ran. I'd learnt a bit of first aid at the children's home and I knew better than to move Brendan, particularly with him bleeding from the head, after falling against the edge of the TV. I checked his pulse: he was still breathing, but there was so much blood I was afraid he would die before the ambulance arrived. I pressed a clean tea towel against the wound: I didn't know whether it was enough, but it was the best I could do.
According to the ambulance crew I had done the right thing. The police were less sympathetic. Two burly uniforms arrived. I knew one of them: I'd given him a blow job once in exchange for not being arrested; the other pig was new to me, and I soon hoped I'd never meet him again. Before I even opened my mouth he said: “Why the fuck did you hit him? Could do you for assault, you know.”
“I didn't – it wasn't me. It was my boyfriend, well – my ex-boyfriend now. He busted my guitar as well.”
“Ha! Boyfriend! Fucking pimp more like it – even if he exists.” He turned to his colleague and said: “Hey, Sam, how do you know when a tart is lying? When she starts speaking.” He doubled over, laughing at his own weak joke. No-one else was laughing.
P. C. Sam looked like he wanted to be somewhere else, almost as if he were embarrassed by the blow job I'd given him, which he should have been: it took him so long to come, by the time he did my jaws ached. Still it was better than being arrested.
There'd be no favours this time. I wanted that wanker arrested, put behind bars where he belonged, but it soon became clear that wasn't going to happen. They couldn't make up their minds between two scenarios. Either Winston had beaten Brendan because I was giving him a free fuck or I had beaten Brendan because he wouldn't pay for a fuck. They asked me ever more leading questions, and my denials were met with either laughter or threats.
After a while they decided to assume it had been Winston who had attacked Brendan. “It'll be best all round, like. After all, if we arrest the tart, just look at all the paperwork. And no point in looking for this Winston guy – he'll be well away by now and he'll have got himself an alibi.” As they left I was told just how lucky I was not to be arrested. Bastards!
2
But what else do you expect from the pigs. In a way they were right: they could have easily arrested me, fitting me up on a soliciting charge. Or they could have arrested me for possession of cannabis, if they'd been bothered to do a search. If the police hadn't been so busy looking for innocent Irish people to arrest for the bombings, they would have probably taken me in custody.
I began to tidy up. I picked up the broken body of Frankie, cradling her like a baby, the tears rolling down my face.
Frankie: a name that can be either female or male. But my Frankie was definitely a woman. The name wasn't chosen at random, and when I got a replacement shortly afterwards, the new guitar was also called Frankie.
One night a while back, business was poor, the weather was appalling and I was cold, wet and miserable. I went in a pub, really just to warm up, and I heard the most beautiful voice coming from the next room. When I asked about it, I was told there was a folk club there. I went in. What happened next was a bit like Paul on the Road to Damascus. The most beautiful music came from this partially sighted woman's voice. One moment she was singing a lullaby, then she was romantic and sensual, then singing with a chuckle in her voice, sometimes she was loud and raucous, other times quiet and despairing. But always strong, proud and assertive.
And the songs! Oh what songs! I'd not heard much folk music, and knew little about it. But here was this woman singing all these tales of the experience of women. About a woman seduced by her master, and giving birth in bushes before killing the bastard baby. A woman who died of syphilis. Women who defied convention by choosing who they would marry or even choosing not to marry. Women who dressed as men and joined the army or navy. Women who killed abusive husbands. And women who stood up to men and made them look like fools.
I bought one of her records, and she signed it for me. I was too shy to say much to her other than to thank her for the most enjoyable night of my life. I named my guitar after Frankie Armstrong.
As soon as I got home, I began to learn the songs. According to the sleeve notes, they were all traditional. I never learned to read music, I always played by ear, so it was trial and error working out how to play all these wonderful songs on the guitar. And then I learned the words. I fell in love with them, old stories of the experience of women from past generations. I could relate to them, I could understand how those who wrote and sang them must have felt. And no matter how bad things got, no matter how much I hated the men who used my body and hated myself for letting them, listening to these songs and even more playing and singing them made me stronger.
Frankie kept me sane. But I only played and sang them for myself. On the few occasions others had heard me play and sing, they were at best indifferent and sometimes told me I wasn't any good.
Only one person ever complimented me. Only one: a queer barman. He was the only man who had ever treated me with respect. He said he liked my singing and playing, he told me I ought to try and earn money from music, he even suggested I could earn enough to give up the game.
And now he was in a hospital bed or, for all I knew, the mortuary. Though if he'd been dead, the pigs would have taken the assault on him more seriously. At least, I hope so, but you never know with them.
3
I was nervous when I went to visit Brendan: I had no idea what state he would be in, even whether he would want to see me. I'd phoned beforehand to check what ward he was on and what the visiting hours were. When I approached his bed he seemed to be sleeping, so not wanting to disturb him I sat down as quietly as I could. He must have heard something: his eyes opened and focussed on me.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Awful,” he said. “I can't describe the pain. It's beyond anything I've ever felt before. I seem to spend most of my time sleeping.” The effort of speaking seemed to be too much for him: he closed his eyes and was soon asleep again.
I waited, sitting in silence, not wanting to disturb him. I reckoned he was better off sleeping. Time passes slowly sitting next to the bed of a sleeping patient in hospital. A young nurse smiled at me. “Is he going to be okay?” I asked her.
“Oh, I think so. It's a nasty injury he's had, but he's in good hands here. Are you a relative? We have no-one down as next of kin.”
I hesitated for a moment then shook my head. “No, not a relative. I'm his girlfriend.” Okay, I wasn't. But what was I supposed to tell her: actually, he's queer and I'm a tart and he was beaten up by my pimp?
“He'll probably sleep for a while now. Best not to disturb him.”
I stood up. “Okay. When he wakes up can you give him this.” I handed her a get well card, which I had signed with my real name. “Tell him I'll come back tomorrow.”
I left the over bright overheated hospital for the gloom of November drizzle. I thought about going to the 'Star' to turn a few tricks and earn back the money I had spent earlier on a new cheap second hand guitar. But I didn't feel up to playing nice with any pervs, so I went back home. As well as the guitar, I had spent a bit on changing the lock. A bit late perhaps but at least it helped me feel safe. I smoked a joint and played the guitar. I must have fallen asleep: when I woke, rare sunshine was streaming through the window and I had a crick in my neck.
After a shower and breakfasting on some stale bread and margarine, I went out to buy some fresh food. When I passed the 'Star' I was surprised to see it in darkness and the doors locked, despite it being past opening time. It was later that day I found out why.
1
Thursday was my day off. I had a lie-in and then went out to a greasy spoon for a fry up, after which I returned to my grotty bedsit and did a bit of perfunctory tidying and cleaning. Later I played some Grateful Dead and rolled my first joint of the day – it was some fresh stuff I’d only just bought – Thai sticks, I was told. Originally, I’d planned to go into the city centre on a pub crawl, and get up some Dutch courage before going to that pub near the theatre I’d heard about – the one that was supposed to be used by queers.
I never did get to New Street. I got so stoned, I couldn’t be bothered going into town. Instead, I went to the local off-license and got some bottles. Back at the bedsit, I switched on my black and white TV. It was a bit hit and miss whether it worked, as it relied on an indoor aerial. I twiddled with it until I got a reasonable picture, opened a bottle, lit another joint and sat down to watch “The Sweeney”.
Part way through, a newsflash interrupted the programme to announce there had been an IRA bomb in Birmingham. There were no details at first, but gradually what had happened became clearer: two city centre pubs had been bombed: “The Mulberry Bush” and “The Tavern in the Town”. Christ! I used the “The Tavern” regularly. I’d even been thrown out of there once after an altercation with the barman, but was allowed back in next time.
Who says drugs are bad for you? If it hadn’t been for the grass, I might have been in “The Tavern” when the explosion occurred. I could have been one of the injured or, God forbid, dead. I shuddered. I needed another drink.
I slept badly that night. I couldn’t get the bomb blasts out of my head. When I did sleep, I dreamt I was in the “The Tavern”, and after the bomb exploded I was lying on shards of glass, bleeding to death. As I was lying there, a bearded man as tall as a skyscraper, with skin the colour of sunburn leered over me, and asked: “And what would your name be?” “Brendan,” I whispered. “Can’t hear yer, speak louder.” I tried but couldn’t raise my voice, so he bent down to my level. “Brendan,” I croaked. “Brendan?” he asked. I nodded. He stood up to his full skyscraper height, and shouted: “Over here lads, over here. I think he’s one of us. Better get him to hospital.” The skyscraper man lifted me so high I felt sure I was going to fall and shatter like the shards of glass, but instead he passed me to another man who put me in an ambulance. It was then I realised who he was. He could only be one man: the legendary Finn Maccool. The giant who saved his people from being burnt to death. The man who built the Giant’s Causeway so he could get from Ireland to Scotland without getting his feet wet.
I awoke, hungover, groggy and hungry. I cooked some breakfast, drank enough tea to fill Finn’s bladder and slowly began to feel human. The last thing I wanted to do was to go to work, but I was supposed to be there in time to open the pub at 11 in the morning and if I was late I'd get a bollocking from the boss or Norman. There were always a few people with nothing better to do and nowhere better to be who were waiting for us to open, especially those who had just got their giros, their benefit cheques, cashed at the post office and ready to spend in the pub.
When I got there, I found the boss and Norman so deep in conversation they didn't notice me immediately. When the boss did, he said: “I suppose you saw the news last night.”
I nodded.
“Bloody Irish bastards!” Norman said, “if I had my way I’d fucking hang the lot slowly – after castrating them. They’re not men, they’re cowards. Fucking cowards! If I got my hands on them…”
“For Christ’s sake, shut the fuck up!” the boss said. “And don't forget those Irish bastards help pay your wages, just remember that.” He turned to me, saying: “Norman'll put you in the picture. I've got some office work to do.” He left us to ourselves.
“What did he mean? 'put me in the picture'?” I asked Norman.
“Jesus, Brendan! Use the brains you were born with.”
I looked puzzled. An exasperated sigh escaped from Norman's lips. “Okay, if you can't work it out for yourself. Half our customers are paddies, most of them probably support the IRA; the other half are niggers who deal drugs and pimp their tarts. Get it?”
I shook my head, saying: “Tell us news not history.”
“Less of your fucking cheek. If you want to keep your job, that is.”
I stayed silent. He sighed. “Look, we're bound to get a visit from the police, seeing as how we have so many paddy punters. Don't you think they'd have a field day, what with the drugs and tarts? They'd close us down, and we could all be arrested.”
For once, what Norman said made sense, but I wasn't sure what we could do about it. I wasn't about to tell some six foot muscle he couldn't sell his dope, nor was I about to attempt to clear the lounge of prostitutes. My life might have been shit, but it was the only one I had and I didn't want to lose it. I wasn't paid enough to risk a knife in the gut. Of course, I didn't say anything of this to Norman. I just asked what we were expected to do.
“Obvious, I would have thought. We just put the word about that the police will be keeping an eye on the place. Those who have any brain cells left will probably work it out for themselves.” He turned away. “Right, time to open up.” When he returned, he said: “Oh by the way, I've got the night off tonight and the boss has got a Freemasons do. So you'll have to tell them about the police. Don't worry, a couple of the casuals will be on with you.”
2
Working split shifts meant I had a few hours off in the afternoon before returning for the evening. That lunchtime, trade was slow: few of the Irish customers ventured out, and those that did were quiet and surly. The lounge generally wasn’t busy at that time of day: it tended to be evenings when the dealers and prostitutes and their punters came out to play. When we closed, it didn’t take long to get rid of the few customers and to do some perfunctory cleaning.
Walking home, I heard the sound of breaking glass. Looking up I saw the shattered stained glass windows of the Blessed Martyrs Catholic church. There was a mob of about thirty cheering men. Above the noise was the voice of someone I assumed to be the mob leader. Speaking in a loud Brummie accent, he was shouting: “Death to all Paddies! Hang the Irish Murderers!” The slogan was taken up by the rest of the mob, repeated in rhythmical strident tones. I dearly hoped there was no-one in the church: if there were, they would be at serious risk of injury or worse.
Like most Catholic churches, the presbytery was next door. I wondered if the mob realised this, if they knew the house next to the church was the priests’ home. I soon got my answer: someone picked up a stone and threw it at one of the presbytery windows, followed by others who did the same. Passers-by headed away from the mob, some running, some walking quickly, all avoiding eye contact with the crowd.
I may have been a lapsed Catholic, but the sight of a church being desecrated was unimaginable, a form of blasphemy so severe I expected the pavement to open up and take the whole mob down to Hell. Like others I did nothing except hurry away, hoping the priest was not in the presbytery. In the distance I heard sirens, but my relief at the sound did nothing to assuage my guilt.
3
I wasn't looking where I was going, and turning a corner I barged into someone coming the other way. “What the fuck…” a woman’s voice said, followed by: “Oh, it’s you, Brendan.” Michelle brushed herself down and picked up the cigarette that had fallen out of her hand. “Why're you in such a hurry? A queer basher after you?”
“Er. No. Nobody knows I’m queer, do they?”
She smiled. “You’d be surprised.”
“But nobody knows – except you and…”
“Some of these rent boys can’t keep their mouths shut. Or maybe someone saw you with him. And I wouldn’t put it past that wanker Norman to spread rumours. He’s vicious, wouldn’t trust him. Anyway, there’s rumours.”
“Shit! Shit! Shit!”
She touched my arm. “Come on, I’ll make you a cup of tea.” As we walked towards her flat, she asked: “If it wasn’t queer bashers, then what was it?”
“I saw this mob smashing up the Blessed Martyrs and chanting anti-Irish stuff. I just wanted to get away as quickly as possible.”
We got to her flat – not the one she worked from, but a small flat above a newsagents’. The back entrance to the building smelt of piss, but her bedsit was clean and well appointed. Most of the furniture looked second hand, but well maintained. There was an acoustic guitar resting against the wall and there were bookshelves – not the sort of things I expected to see in a whore's home, but what did I know? And there was a telephone: something of a luxury in that part of the city.
There certainly wasn’t any sign of male occupancy, yet Norman had said she was living with her pimp.
As we waited for the kettle to boil, she said: “Brendan’s an Irish name, isn’t it?”
The kettle whistled. She got up and made tea the traditional way: warming the pot, putting leaves in, pouring the water over the leaves. She brought the pot, two cups, sugar bowl, milk and tea strainers to the table.
“My parents were Irish, but I was born over here.”
“Just as well you don’t have an Irish accent. After yesterday, you’d be a target. And you being queer as well.” Her voice tailed off and she shook her head.
We'd known each other for a while by then, had become friendly and were gradually beginning to trust each other. Over the cup of tea she told me she too had Irish parents and “Michelle is only my working name, I chose it because it sounds a bit foreign and sexy. My real name is, like yours, Irish – Kathleen.”
“Kathleen – that’s a nice name.” I looked around the room. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but this isn’t the sort of décor I expected in a prostitute’s home.”
She offered me a cigarette, took one herself and lit them both. “And what did you expect?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Just not this.” I waved my arm around the room. “It looks so clean, so tidy, so civilised. There’s books and music and paintings…” My voice tailed off.
She stared at me. “There’s an old saying. If you’re in a hole, stop digging.”
“Sorry.” I blushed, “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
There was silence for a moment, before she burst out giggling. “Okay, you’re forgiven.” Then more seriously: “A lot of tarts do live chaotic lives. I’m just a bit luckier. I’ve managed to avoid smack. All I do is a bit grass, it helps take the edge off … things.”
“Norman said you lived with a pimp who took all your money.”
“What the fuck would that wanker Norman know about anything!” She stood up, anger showing on her face. “Winston doesn’t live here. He’s got a key, but I don’t encourage him to come round. Yes, he gets some of my earnings, but I manage to keep a fair bit back. I’ve even got a savings account at the post office, which he doesn’t know about.” She stopped. “I hope you know I’m trusting you here. I’m telling you stuff no-one else knows. You’re the first one I’ve let in here – apart from him. If he found out I was talking to you like this, he’d kick the shit out of me.”
“You can get me in the shit too, you know.” I thought about how to frame my next question, and decided to just come right out and ask it: “Does he beat you often?”
She shrugged. “He can be pretty violent. All the drugs and booze means he can’t get it up very often. And when he can’t fuck me, he blames me. It’s amazing what you can hide with make up.”
She picked up her guitar and checked it was properly tuned. “D’you like folk music?” she asked.
“Some.”
“Here’s one of my favourites.” She began picking the guitar. Her smoky contralto had a depth that could only have come from life experience. Her diction was near perfect, and I could hear every word. I could tell why it was a favourite of hers: it told the story of a young woman who was accosted by three men, but bested them and stole one of their horses.
“You’ve got a wonderful voice. That’s a really great song. Who wrote it?”
“Who knows? It’s a traditional song, goes back a long way. I learnt it from an LP by Frankie Armstrong. There’s loads of traditional folk songs written from the woman’s point of view. Sometimes when I’m singing that one – it’s called ‘The Crafty Maid’ – I imagine I’m that woman, and that no man is ever going to force himself on me again.”
She smiled, a faraway look in her eyes. “I really enjoy singing and playing the guitar. Sometimes I think it's the only thing that keeps me sane.”
“How did you end up a prostitute? I mean, you’re a great singer and you’re good on the guitar, how come you didn’t end up as a musician?”
“Ha! You think I could make a living busking, do you? There’s fuck all to be made from singing folk, unless you’re lucky, particularly if you’re a woman. Not everyone can be Sandy Denny or Norma Waterson. I’d love to be able to, but…”
“I just don’t know how people get on the game”
A humourless smile crossed her face. “You don’t get on the game. The game gets you.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
She raised her eyes to the ceiling, exasperated. “Well. It helps if you’re abused by your father and blamed by your mother, and if you end up in a kid’s home, where the staff make you give them blow jobs, and if you then run away and end up on the streets, with fuck all to live on. And where the pigs move you on, apart from the ones who fuck and bugger you first. And where you’re raped so often, you might as well make a pound or two out of it.” Tears were rolling down her face and she was only a step away from hysteria.
I put my arms round her. Gradually, her sobs became slower and her breathing began to return to normal. She continued to hold on to me, refusing to let go, still weeping.
Neither of us heard him enter. He grabbed me, pulling me away from her. He thumped me in the face and stomach, and kicked me in the balls. The last thing I remembered before unconsciousness was Kathleen screaming “Noooo!” as he smashed her guitar against the wall.
Chapter Four: Frankie
1
“My guitar!” I screamed, thumping him in the stomach, “you've smashed Frankie.”
Winston grabbed my fists to stop me hitting him. “Oh, so that's what his name is? So is Frankie boy your bit on the side then? So I don't satisfy you, you have to get some puny white boy. Or is Frankie boy just some special punter? I told you never – never to bring punters here. Well, when he wakes up...”
“If he wakes up. You've got it all wrong. Frankie is my guitar. And no, that lad isn't a punter. If you must know, he's that queer boy who works at the 'Star'. And if you know what's good for you, you'll piss off before the police and ambulance arrive.” I went to the phone 999.
After a few stammered unintelligible phrases, Winston ran. I'd learnt a bit of first aid at the children's home and I knew better than to move Brendan, particularly with him bleeding from the head, after falling against the edge of the TV. I checked his pulse: he was still breathing, but there was so much blood I was afraid he would die before the ambulance arrived. I pressed a clean tea towel against the wound: I didn't know whether it was enough, but it was the best I could do.
According to the ambulance crew I had done the right thing. The police were less sympathetic. Two burly uniforms arrived. I knew one of them: I'd given him a blow job once in exchange for not being arrested; the other pig was new to me, and I soon hoped I'd never meet him again. Before I even opened my mouth he said: “Why the fuck did you hit him? Could do you for assault, you know.”
“I didn't – it wasn't me. It was my boyfriend, well – my ex-boyfriend now. He busted my guitar as well.”
“Ha! Boyfriend! Fucking pimp more like it – even if he exists.” He turned to his colleague and said: “Hey, Sam, how do you know when a tart is lying? When she starts speaking.” He doubled over, laughing at his own weak joke. No-one else was laughing.
P. C. Sam looked like he wanted to be somewhere else, almost as if he were embarrassed by the blow job I'd given him, which he should have been: it took him so long to come, by the time he did my jaws ached. Still it was better than being arrested.
There'd be no favours this time. I wanted that wanker arrested, put behind bars where he belonged, but it soon became clear that wasn't going to happen. They couldn't make up their minds between two scenarios. Either Winston had beaten Brendan because I was giving him a free fuck or I had beaten Brendan because he wouldn't pay for a fuck. They asked me ever more leading questions, and my denials were met with either laughter or threats.
After a while they decided to assume it had been Winston who had attacked Brendan. “It'll be best all round, like. After all, if we arrest the tart, just look at all the paperwork. And no point in looking for this Winston guy – he'll be well away by now and he'll have got himself an alibi.” As they left I was told just how lucky I was not to be arrested. Bastards!
2
But what else do you expect from the pigs. In a way they were right: they could have easily arrested me, fitting me up on a soliciting charge. Or they could have arrested me for possession of cannabis, if they'd been bothered to do a search. If the police hadn't been so busy looking for innocent Irish people to arrest for the bombings, they would have probably taken me in custody.
I began to tidy up. I picked up the broken body of Frankie, cradling her like a baby, the tears rolling down my face.
Frankie: a name that can be either female or male. But my Frankie was definitely a woman. The name wasn't chosen at random, and when I got a replacement shortly afterwards, the new guitar was also called Frankie.
One night a while back, business was poor, the weather was appalling and I was cold, wet and miserable. I went in a pub, really just to warm up, and I heard the most beautiful voice coming from the next room. When I asked about it, I was told there was a folk club there. I went in. What happened next was a bit like Paul on the Road to Damascus. The most beautiful music came from this partially sighted woman's voice. One moment she was singing a lullaby, then she was romantic and sensual, then singing with a chuckle in her voice, sometimes she was loud and raucous, other times quiet and despairing. But always strong, proud and assertive.
And the songs! Oh what songs! I'd not heard much folk music, and knew little about it. But here was this woman singing all these tales of the experience of women. About a woman seduced by her master, and giving birth in bushes before killing the bastard baby. A woman who died of syphilis. Women who defied convention by choosing who they would marry or even choosing not to marry. Women who dressed as men and joined the army or navy. Women who killed abusive husbands. And women who stood up to men and made them look like fools.
I bought one of her records, and she signed it for me. I was too shy to say much to her other than to thank her for the most enjoyable night of my life. I named my guitar after Frankie Armstrong.
As soon as I got home, I began to learn the songs. According to the sleeve notes, they were all traditional. I never learned to read music, I always played by ear, so it was trial and error working out how to play all these wonderful songs on the guitar. And then I learned the words. I fell in love with them, old stories of the experience of women from past generations. I could relate to them, I could understand how those who wrote and sang them must have felt. And no matter how bad things got, no matter how much I hated the men who used my body and hated myself for letting them, listening to these songs and even more playing and singing them made me stronger.
Frankie kept me sane. But I only played and sang them for myself. On the few occasions others had heard me play and sing, they were at best indifferent and sometimes told me I wasn't any good.
Only one person ever complimented me. Only one: a queer barman. He was the only man who had ever treated me with respect. He said he liked my singing and playing, he told me I ought to try and earn money from music, he even suggested I could earn enough to give up the game.
And now he was in a hospital bed or, for all I knew, the mortuary. Though if he'd been dead, the pigs would have taken the assault on him more seriously. At least, I hope so, but you never know with them.
3
I was nervous when I went to visit Brendan: I had no idea what state he would be in, even whether he would want to see me. I'd phoned beforehand to check what ward he was on and what the visiting hours were. When I approached his bed he seemed to be sleeping, so not wanting to disturb him I sat down as quietly as I could. He must have heard something: his eyes opened and focussed on me.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Awful,” he said. “I can't describe the pain. It's beyond anything I've ever felt before. I seem to spend most of my time sleeping.” The effort of speaking seemed to be too much for him: he closed his eyes and was soon asleep again.
I waited, sitting in silence, not wanting to disturb him. I reckoned he was better off sleeping. Time passes slowly sitting next to the bed of a sleeping patient in hospital. A young nurse smiled at me. “Is he going to be okay?” I asked her.
“Oh, I think so. It's a nasty injury he's had, but he's in good hands here. Are you a relative? We have no-one down as next of kin.”
I hesitated for a moment then shook my head. “No, not a relative. I'm his girlfriend.” Okay, I wasn't. But what was I supposed to tell her: actually, he's queer and I'm a tart and he was beaten up by my pimp?
“He'll probably sleep for a while now. Best not to disturb him.”
I stood up. “Okay. When he wakes up can you give him this.” I handed her a get well card, which I had signed with my real name. “Tell him I'll come back tomorrow.”
I left the over bright overheated hospital for the gloom of November drizzle. I thought about going to the 'Star' to turn a few tricks and earn back the money I had spent earlier on a new cheap second hand guitar. But I didn't feel up to playing nice with any pervs, so I went back home. As well as the guitar, I had spent a bit on changing the lock. A bit late perhaps but at least it helped me feel safe. I smoked a joint and played the guitar. I must have fallen asleep: when I woke, rare sunshine was streaming through the window and I had a crick in my neck.
After a shower and breakfasting on some stale bread and margarine, I went out to buy some fresh food. When I passed the 'Star' I was surprised to see it in darkness and the doors locked, despite it being past opening time. It was later that day I found out why.
About the Author
Born in Manchester in 1951, Kevin Crowe has lived in the Highlands since 1999. A writer of fiction, poetry and non-fiction, he has had his work published in various magazines, journals and websites. He also writes regularly for the Highland monthly community magazine Am Bratach and for the Highland LGBT magazine UnDividing Lines.