Behind Bars:
Part One
by Kevin Crowe
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: In the days following the IRA pub bombings, Birmingham is a nervous place. The Police are nicking everyone they can find, including Brendan and Kathleen.
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: In the days following the IRA pub bombings, Birmingham is a nervous place. The Police are nicking everyone they can find, including Brendan and Kathleen.
Chapter Five: Brendan
1
I just wanted to sleep. Every time I woke up the pain was almost unbearable. I began groaning and turned over, hoping that lying on my side would be more comfortable. It was then I noticed a card on the bedside cabinet which I reached out to grab, immediately screaming in pain. A young nurse came to my bed and smiling passed me the card, telling me my girlfriend had brought it in for me yesterday. Puzzled, I was about to tell her I didn't have a girlfriend when I looked at the message inside the card: “Lots of love, Kathleen xxx”.
“Do you remember her coming yesterday?” the nurse asked. I shook my head, and then wished I hadn't. “Not surprising really, you were very groggy. She said she'd be back today. How are you feeling now?”
“Crap. Can you give me anything for the pain?”
“Afraid not, at least not for a while yet. Are you well enough to answer a few questions? Just for our records.”
“I suppose so.”
She smiled again. When she did so her face lit up, her eyes sparkled and her cheeks became dimpled. The only question I had to think about was when she asked the name of my next of kin. I decided to give Kathleen's name: there was no-one else really. The nurse thanked me, told me to get some rest and to press the bell if I needed anything.
I was feeling sorry for myself. It wasn't just the pain and lying in a hospital bed. Here I was, in my early twenties, with nothing to show for my life. What sort of loser was I when the only person I could put down as next of kin was a tart?
But there really was no-one else: I had no friends and no siblings, my grandparents and extended family lived in Ireland and both my parents were dead: killed in a road accident.
I'd already left home by then: when I finished school I got a job as a labourer in an engineering factory and as soon as I could I rented a cheap bedsit. I suppose I was a typical teenager: rebellious, thought I knew it all and my parents knew nothing, often surly and monosyllabic when I wasn't being downright nasty. Being an only child meant I was used to having all their attention and I took that for granted. My attitude wasn't helped by my confusion over my feelings and by the mixed messages I received: on the one hand I was supposedly loved by my parents, by Jesus, by the church. On the other hand everything I had been taught told me my desire for other men was a sin, one of the worst sins there was. I stopped going to church after my last confession, when I told the priest about my feelings. His response was hardly helpful. Perhaps a different priest might have been more sympathetic. Perhaps. At least the confidentiality of the confessional meant my parents weren't told. I don't know how they would have reacted, but I do recall them laughing at all the pansy jokes that were on TV at the time.
Ironically, I got on better with them once I'd left home. I had Sunday lunch with them most weeks, began to treat them with respect and they treated me as an adult. When I passed eighteen, dad started taking me to the pub on Sunday lunchtimes.
Then they were gone. Their car was found wrapped round a tree on a country lane in Devon on their way to their summer holidays. There was no-one else involved and the police thought dad might have fallen asleep at the wheel. Whatever the cause, I was bereft.
The Requiem Mass was an ordeal: all their relatives – my uncles and aunts and nephews and nieces and cousins – travelled over from Ireland, and I hardly knew any of them. The church was full of strangers, all claiming to be related to me. They had arrived the day before for the wake. I had no idea how to organise these things, after all I was still a teenager, so I was grateful to the undertaker and parish priest who had arranged both the wake and the funeral tea as well as the Mass. All I had to do was be there and be nice to all these strangers.
I couldn't manage it: I went into my shell and I must have come across as morose and sulking. I hardly said a word and left the funeral tea early. I've not seen any of these stranger relatives since.
2
When I woke, Kathleen was sitting by the bed.
“Hi. You looked so peaceful I didn't want to wake you. How are you feeling now?”
“Rough. But better than earlier. I'm sorry about your guitar.”
Tears began to well up in her eyes. “I’ll never forgive him for that, the bastard. The fucking bastard.” With an effort she managed to control herself. “At least he disappeared before he could do much more harm. Thanks to you.”
I was puzzled. “What did I do? I wasn’t even conscious.”
“Yeah, that’s the whole point. He saw he’d knocked you out, got scared, and fucked off.” She paused. “When you fell you banged your head against the edge of the TV, that’s what knocked you out – and you were bleeding from your head. It wasn't just him that was scared, I was too. I thought he'd killed you until I felt your pulse. Fortunately I did some first aid at the kid's home, so I knew what to do.”
“So it's thanks to you I'm alive.”
“I wouldn't go as far as that.”
“Thanks anyway.”
“After Winston fucked off, I rang 999 and the ambulance and pigs came.” She was silent for a few moments. “The pigs knew I was a tart, and at first they thought we’d been fighting each other. They thought perhaps you were a punter and I’d ripped you off. Anyway, I told them what had happened, that we’d been attacked by him. Didn’t get much sympathy from the bastards. Said it was probably what I deserved. They weren’t about to charge a pimp for hitting his tart – particularly when they thought I was giving you a free fuck. I – I couldn’t put them right on that: it would’ve meant telling them you were queer. All I wanted to do was to get you to hospital. Anyway the cunt's in prison now.”
I was confused. “But I thought you said they wouldn’t arrest him.”
She giggled, the first time I had seen her eyes light up since I had woken. “Aye. That’s right. But it seems there is some justice after all. Call it poetic justice. Call it karma. Call it what the fuck you like. If we hadn’t been beaten up, we might have been arrested as well.”
“I don’t understand.”
“God! You blokes can be thick sometimes. The 'Star' was raided last night. After what happened on Thursday, the cops were raiding anywhere the Irish went. It was some plain clothes pigs. They were offered dope and girls. Jeez! You’d think the boss would’ve had the sense to warn people. It was obvious the place was going to be busted.”
“Er, well, I was supposed to tell the dealers and pimps and girls to keep things quiet. The boss delegated to Norman, and Norman arranged to have the night off and told me to do it. But, well, I couldn’t really be there. I suppose the boss is really pissed off. I’ve probably been sacked.”
“Dunno,” she said. “The pub is closed at the moment, probably will be for a while. And on the grapevine I’ve heard the cops took the boss away. He’s probably the one who’s going to get sacked. I wouldn’t count on you having a job, though.”
3
Soon enough she was proved right: not only wasn't there a job for me to go back to, but I didn't even get my final week's wages. Kathleen was supposed to meet me when I was discharged from hospital, but there was no sign of her. I hung around for a while, but she didn't turn up, so I made my own way home. I had to walk across town, because I had no money for the bus fare. The miserable weather served to increase my frustration at Kathleen's non-appearance.
As soon as I got in, I made a cup of tea. I was just settling down when there was a banging on the door. “Hold on, I'm just coming.” I shouted, thinking it was Kathleen, who would get a piece of mind. When I opened the door, the coppers pushed past me. It didn't take them long to find the grass, nor did it take them long to trash the place. When I objected, I was shown their search warrant, which puzzled me: I doubt they would have got a warrant for a small amount of grass.
I was hauled off to the police station, where I was booked and charged. It soon became clear the grass was just an excuse to get me in custody. My name had come up in relation to the IRA and when they started questioning me about any involvement in terrorism I began to get scared. I asked for a solicitor.
“Well, well, why would an innocent man ask for a solicitor? Got something to hide, have you?” He looked at his notes. “Do you know Norman Brown?”
I nodded. “Yes. He's head barman at the 'Star'.”
“He's been telling us a few stories. He's told us you're queer. Now, we wouldn't want any of those Irish murderers in the cells finding that out, would we? Let alone the dealers you got your dope from.” He was silent, letting that sink in. “Now, if you co-operate with us, they needn't find out.”
There was nothing I could tell them. I tried to explain I was just a barman and I wouldn't know a terrorist if I saw one. They weren't having any of it.
I was locked in a small cell. Dirty whitewashed stone walls, covered in graffiti ranging from the illegible to the illiterate, from the pornographic to the political. Along one wall was a hard wooden bench covered by a woollen blanket smelling of unwashed bodies. That was my bed. In one corner was a bucket: my toilet. Apparently this was a holding cell, and at some stage I would be either released or charged. When I didn't know.
The worst thing about being there was the locked door, the denial of freedom. I really have no idea how anyone can spend a month, never mind years, in prison. Just knowing I couldn't walk out, that my every move was monitored, that I had to do whatever I was told was the worst feeling I had ever had. Being locked up is punishment enough for any crime.
Over the next few days they continued to interrogate me, sometimes late at night or early in the morning, sometimes during the day. Lack of sleep made it difficult for me to concentrate.
The room was bare and without windows, the plain white walls and ceiling were yellowed with nicotine. There were a rectangular metal table, chained to the floor, four plastic chairs and an ashtray.
There were two of them, sat across the table from me. They never told me their names. I tried thinking of them as Bill and Ben or Tweedledum and Tweedledee. They were of similar height and build, and both towered over me. The only difference I could see was that one of them (Tweedledum) had a moustache, while Tweedledee didn't. They stared at me in silence while I fidgeted, unable to sit still, and averted my gaze. The longer the silence went on the more uncomfortable I felt. I had lost all sense of time: I didn't know whether it was night or day. All I knew was that I was hungry, thirsty, tired and very scared. I giggled at the names I had given them.
Tweedledum turned to Tweedledee and said: “The queer cunt finds it funny. Do you see anything to laugh about?”
Tweedledee replied: “Nothing. Nothing at all. Shall I ask him?”
“Go ahead.” said Tweedledum.
Tweedledee leant across the table, shoving his face so close to mine I could smell his rancid breath. He snarled at me, spraying saliva. “What the fuck's so funny? Come on share the joke with us. We like a laugh.”
“Nothing” I said.
“So why were you laughing?”
“Dunno”.
Tweedledee looked at Tweedledum and said: “He doesn't know why he was laughing. Is he just thick? He doesn't look stupid. Do you believe him?” Tweedledum shook his head in answer. “No, I thought not. Perhaps he thinks it’s funny to plant bombs and kill people. After all these Paddies do have a queer sense of humour, particularly when they're queer.” He then banged the table. Hard. Making me jump. “So, nancy boy, do you find murdering innocent people enjoying a drink to be funny? Do you?” I was shaking with fear, tears were beginning to flow and my nose was running. A look of disgust crossed Tweedledee's face. “For fuck's sake, give him a hankie will you.”
Tweedledum shrugged his shoulders. “We haven't got one. He'll have to use his shirt: it's so dirty anyway a bit of snot won't make any difference.” He looked at me and smiled, though it was more of a grimace really. “Well, Brendan, we can help you, you know. But only if you help us. Know what I mean?”
“Can I have some water?”
They both shook their heads. Tweedledum said: “No. Later perhaps, but not now.”
He nodded to Tweedledee who opened a file, studying its contents. He looked up and said to me, with a sneer of disgust on his face: “We know you're queer. Norman told us. Oh, and a nice little rent boy as well.”
“It's not against the law,” I dared to say, immediately regretting it.
“Of course not. The buggers are legal now, aren't you? Whether or not it should be is a different fucking matter altogether. But that's beside the point. Do you think our guests care whether it's okay now to be queer? Do you really think some of the big bad niggers we've got in here really care? Or the paddies or tinkers or anyone else in here? If we put you in with the biggest, baddest, most violent ones, what do you think would happen?” He looked over at Tweedledum. “Is that right? There's a shortage of cells at the moment? Who do you think we should put nancy boy with? Who would most appreciate his company?”
I was squirming in my seat. This didn't go unnoticed. “Ha fucking ha! Nancy boy's scared, scared shitless.”
Tweedledum intervened. “Nah. Best not. It's a nice idea, and it'd be fun to do. But best not. Just imagine all the paperwork if he died in custody! It'd be a nightmare.”
Tweedledee nodded. “Yeah, you're right. Shit, I hate paperwork.” He looked at me. “What are we going to do with you? Really, what the fuck are we going to do with a queer Irish druggie who plants bombs?”
Tweedledum looked at me. “Where were you on the evening of 21st November? We know you weren't working: Norman told us that.”
“Yeah. It was my day off. I was at home drinking and watching TV.”
“And can you remember what was on?”
“The Sweeney.”
Tweedledee laughed, and asked Tweedledum: “Do you believe him? I mean, he could just have looked at the Radio Times.”
“That's true.” Tweedledum turned to me again. “Can you prove you were in your room getting pissed? Was anyone with you?”
I shook my head.
“So for all we know you could have planted the bombs.”
“I didn't. I didn't! I don't know anything about politics. I don't know anyone who's in the IRA. I don't.” By this time I was shouting.
Tweedledee left his seat and grabbed me, pulling me to my feet. He thumped me hard in my stomach. I bent over in agony and thought I was going to be sick. He pulled me up straight and thumped me again. This time I was sick.
“For fuck's sake! Look at the mess you've made.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Sit back down and just answer our questions without shouting, or next time you'll get a kick in your balls.”
I wiped my mouth with my arm, but bits of vomit were still in my mouth. “Please,” I croaked, “Please let me have some water.”
Tweedledum left the room, leaving me alone with Tweedledee who said: “I hate your sort. I hate queers and I hate druggies and I hate paddies, so I have three good reasons for hating you.”
I said nothing. Tweedledum returned with a cup of water. I took a sip: it tasted foul, like the cup was dirty, but it was water and I swallowed some.
“We know you had an interest in Irish politics,” Tweedledum said, looking at some notes in his file. “According to our records, you attended a meeting of the Troops Out Movement at the Irish Centre in Deritend a few months ago. And you signed a petition. I hope you're not going to deny it. Otherwise you might make us really angry.”
“I didn't know the meeting was taking place. Honest, I didn't. I was over there for a concert and ended up in the meeting by accident.”
“What a fucking load of crap,” Tweedledee said. “I believe you, thousands wouldn't.” He leaned across the table. “Now, tell me, if you were only there by accident, how come you signed the petition?”
“The petition was circulated and everyone signed. What do think would have happened if I hadn't? I didn't really have any choice.”
“Nor did all those people who died in the pubs.” He took six photographs out of the file and pushed them across the table. “Do you recognise any of these?”
I looked at the faces. “No, never seen them before.”
“Are you sure? None of them ever been in your pub? You didn't see any of them at that meeting you accidentally went to?”
“No.” I pushed the photographs back across the table.
Tweedledee and Tweedledum stood up. “I think we're finished here for the time being,” Tweedledee said. “Let's get him back to the cell and see if we can't get him to tell the truth.”
Tweedledum opened the door. As I began walking, Tweedledee put out his foot and I tripped over it, falling head first onto the concrete floor. He pulled me to my feet, ignoring the blood pouring from my nose. “Careful now,” he said, “if I didn't know better I'd say you'd been drinking.” He cackled.
As they returned me to my cell I was shaking with fear. Over what I assumed were several days, they continued to interrogate me, asking the same questions over and over, sometimes threatening me, occasionally beating me. I soon reached the stage where I would have said anything, admitted to anything, just to get the bastards off my back.
I didn't get the chance. They lost interest in me, dragged me to the magistrates court where I was charged with possession of cannabis and released on bail. Without any money I had to walk home in filthy clothes and stinking like a tramp. I think I may have been muttering out loud. I got some stares and people avoided me.
I was angry: at the police, at Norman, at the bombers and at Kathleen. I was also scared. I'd been beaten up by a pimp, ended up in hospital, lost my job, busted for drugs, accused of being a terrorist and interrogated for several days. I didn't know how much more I could take.
Chapter Six: Kathleen
1
I was worried. I was also feeling guilty: as so often I just didn't seem to be able to do the right thing. I had broken a promise: I had told Brendan I would be there to meet him when he was discharged from hospital, to help him home, and I failed him: I wasn't there.
Since then I'd been round to his flat most days, but either he wasn't in or he wasn't answering. I left notes for him, but after a week there still hadn't been a reply, or any sign of him. I contacted the hospital and they confirmed he had been discharged. So where was he? Had he moved away? Was he ignoring me, cutting me dead? Was he in trouble?
I just wanted to explain why I hadn't been there, tell him I had no choice in the matter. Perhaps my mother was right, and it was all my fault. I was hoping he was okay. I was praying he was okay, praying for the first time in many years. Once a Catholic always a Catholic, I suppose.
Shit! For Christ's sake! I don't owe him anything: it's not as if we're lovers or anything. He's just a queer barman who would have fucked me for free if he could. I'm better off without him: Frankie wouldn't have been smashed to bits if he hadn't been with me.
But that was my fault: I invited him round, knowing full well Winston would be angry if he found out. It's my fault he got beaten and ended up in hospital. I'm responsible.
And it's my fault I wasn't at the hospital. Oh, I can rationalise it all I like, but if I hadn't decided to go out working the streets, I would have been there to meet him.
I should have known better. It wasn't like I was broke: I could have left it a few days before going back to work, until it was safer. But no, I thought I was invulnerable, I thought I was going to be okay. I had eaten into my savings in order to buy Frankie's replacement, also called Frankie, and I thought I could replace those savings by working.
Well, you know what thought did? Made you follow a dustcart and think it was a wedding, as one of my teachers used to say, before he gave me the strap.
So like the silly bitch I was, I put on my working gear, slapped paint all over my face, stuck a smile on my lips and went to work. If I'd considered for just one second what I was doing, I would have realised just how crazy I was. None of the other girls were on the streets and that should have made me pause: some of those smack addicts are in so much hock to their dealers, they have little choice. But even those, with their hollow pupils and emaciated frames, weren't working. Just me. And all the police crawling the streets, looking for terrorists and anyone with an Irish accent. And if none of them were available, any working girl would do.
I soon realised how fucking stupid I was, but by then it was too late. Before I could turn round and go back home, one of the brave men in blue stopped me and asked what I was doing.
“Just out for a walk,” I said.
He raised his eyebrow in disbelief. I don't blame him. Who goes out for a walk on a wet and windy winter evening showing off their legs and tits and dressed like it was midsummer day in the tropics? Whores, that's who. In any case, lots of the police knew who I was, though this young looking PC was a stranger to me. With his blonde hair, thin frame and lithe figure, he was the sort of pretty policeman often used to entrap queers in public toilets.
“Would you open your handbag please?” At least he asked, I suppose; not that it made any difference.
I sighed and handed him the bag. At least I'd left my grass at home. He searched the bag, finding all the usual stuff: make up, cigarettes, tissues. And several packets of condoms.
“Now, what would you be wanting all these for?”
I sniffed. I was cold standing still and my nose was beginning to run. “Better to be safe than sorry,” I said.
He laughed. “Let's see how many are here.” He counted them out. “How many men are you expecting to meet?” He held up a tube of KY jelly. “And what would this be for? You surely don't need this for a cunt as loose as yours is. For the kinky ones perhaps? You know, the ones who like to fuck your shithole? I think you'd better come with me.”
2
It was a bit of a farce at the police station. When he booked me, he was beaming with enthusiasm at having arrested someone. His colleagues were less impressed. “What have you brought this tart in for?” one of them asked.
“She was soliciting.”
“Oh for fuck's sake. You were supposed to be looking for suspicious paddies. We didn't send you out there to pick up a tart: we can arrest her sort any day of the week.”
“Or let them off if they give us a blow job,” another colleague said. The two older officers started laughing. One of them asked: “Didn't you get a blow job? Is that why you arrested her?”
The young PC blushed. “She offered me one for free.”
“And you turned it down? What a fucking prat!” He sighed. “Oh well, now you've booked her we've got no choice but to follow procedures. Waste of fucking time, particularly all the paperwork.”
“You never moan like this when I bring in queers from toilets.”
“Yeah, well, arresting queers is one thing: they're fucking perverts, as bad as kiddie fiddlers. But this – what she's offering is normal. Look, it's okay pulling her sort in when we're quiet and looking for fun, but at the moment we've got our hands full with more important crap.”
I was getting pissed off. “Hey, I'm still here, you know.”
“So you are. Put her in a cell, give her time to calm down.”
They kept me in that cell until the next morning. It wasn't the first time I'd been locked up, but no matter how often it happens it doesn't get any easier. As ever, the time passed slowly. I tried singing but was told to “shut the fuck up”. I lay down on the hard bench, covering myself with the single itchy blanket. I suppose sleep came eventually, because I was woken up by a pig banging on the cell door.
When I eventually came before a magistrate I felt dirty and unkempt despite my best efforts at cleaning myself in the available basic facilities. I was certainly not dressed for the occasion, and I saw or thought I saw court officials wrinkling their noses in disgust. Perhaps they were just bored after a morning of dealing with a succession of petty cases. I was charged with soliciting and bailed to appear before the court a few weeks later. As I left the court I was hit by the damp cold that slithered into every bone and muscle in my body. I looked like what I was: a prostitute released from the cells. I didn't even have a jumper to cover my near nakedness and protect me from the worst of the weather.
3
There was a knock at the door. I opened it to find Brendan standing there. “Thank God,” I exclaimed, hugging him. He stepped into my flat. “Where have you been?” I asked him.
He sat down. “I could ask you the same question. You do realise I was relying on you? When I was discharged I didn't even have the money for the bus fare.”
“I'm so so sorry. I spent the night in cells after being arrested.”
He stared at me, eyes wide open. “You too! What did they get you for?”
“What do you think? Soliciting. Bailed to appear at court in the new year.” As I brewed some tea, I explained what had happened.
He remained silent for a time after I'd finished talking, then he said: “I do wish you didn't earn your living that way.”
“And what way would that be?”
“You know, being a prostitute. It's so degrading.”
I could feel the anger in me beginning to boil over. “What the fuck do you know about degrading?” I shouted. “I'll tell you what's degrading: being abused and beaten by your parents, being raped by those who are supposed to look after you, being treated like a lump of shit just because you're homeless. That's what's degrading.” I sat down, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm down. “Working the streets is my way of taking control of my life. Can't you understand that? I've had a fucking awful time, and the last thing I need is your moralising.”
Brendan stared at me, nostrils flaring. He took a sip of his tea, placed his cup on the side table and began to speak so quietly I had to make an effort to hear him. “I too have had a rough time. Not only was I beaten up, ending up in hospital. Not only have I got no job to go back to. But I have just spent a week under arrest, being interrogated, deprived of sleep, and beaten up by police. Do you know what it's like to get thumped in the stomach, not once, but several times? Do you know what it's like to get slapped and kicked and tripped up? Do you know what it's like... Ah, forget it.”
I wasn't finished. “A week of abuse! Ah, diddums. Try a lifetime of abuse at the hands of virtually everyone you know, then you can come back and tell me what a shit week you've had.” I turned my back on him.
He opened his mouth as if to speak, seemed to think better of it and stayed silent. The atmosphere was oppressive, heavy with the weight of words that couldn't be taken back. Brendan was fidgeting, fiddling with his cigarette packet, went to remove one but replaced it. He picked up his cup, then put it down without drinking. He was looking everywhere except in my direction. I was feeling guilty, resentful and angry all at the same time. In my mind, I went back over how the row had begun. I decided Brendan was probably right: prostitution was degrading. But I was just too fucking proud to admit it.
I picked up Frankie mark two and began strumming her, my fingers creating a mournful melody. Brendan looked at me. “I see you've replaced Frankie.” I nodded. “I'm glad.”
I began speaking over the melody. “I'm sorry I lost my temper. It must have been the last thing you needed after what has happened.”
He smiled. “And I'm really sorry if I upset you. I didn't mean to.”
When he told me all that happened after his arrest, I was shocked. “Surely they can't keep you that long without access to a lawyer.”
He shrugged. “Apparently when it comes to terrorism they can do what they like. Or so they said. I tell you, I don't mind admitting I was fucking scared. I thought I was going to be there for ever, or at least until I said I'd done something I hadn't. I was really close to making a statement saying I was guilty. If they hadn't lost interest in me I probably would have done. Instead, I'm just being charged with possession of cannabis. I'll just plead guilty when it comes to court. I still don't know why they didn't continue to force me to confess.”
I smiled. “I reckon I know why. They've arrested some people who were on their way to Belfast. I gather some of them have already confessed.”
“Oh yeah! Well, if my experience is anything to go by I doubt their confessions will be reliable. Probably been beaten out of them. Anyway, it looks like we're both going to be in court. I suppose we'll need solicitors.”
I giggled: “A solicitor for soliciting.” Brendan groaned. I told him there was a solicitor locally who represented anyone picked up by the police for soliciting, and I'd ask her if she could help him.
“That'll be good. But how am I going to afford her?”
“Don't worry about that: it'll be covered by legal aid, I think. And you can tell her what the pigs did to you.”
“Thanks. Tomorrow I'd better sign on the dole now I haven't got a job. And the landlord's given me notice. Says he doesn't want any trouble with the police and now I haven't got a job wants to know how I can pay the rent.”
“Fuck. When have you got to be out?”
“He's given me two weeks to find somewhere else.” He was thoughtful for a few moments, then broke the silence: “But, hey, I'm really pleased you've got a new guitar. You're really good. You really should try a bit of busking. Much safer than...”
“Don't start that again. Please.”
He held his hands up. “Okay. But do think about it.”
“Perhaps. Anyway I think we could both do with a joint. Let's have a smoke while thinking about what you're going to do.”
He grinned and licked his lips. I was just about to get the makings when there was another knock at the door. When I opened it, Winston was standing there. I screamed.
1
I just wanted to sleep. Every time I woke up the pain was almost unbearable. I began groaning and turned over, hoping that lying on my side would be more comfortable. It was then I noticed a card on the bedside cabinet which I reached out to grab, immediately screaming in pain. A young nurse came to my bed and smiling passed me the card, telling me my girlfriend had brought it in for me yesterday. Puzzled, I was about to tell her I didn't have a girlfriend when I looked at the message inside the card: “Lots of love, Kathleen xxx”.
“Do you remember her coming yesterday?” the nurse asked. I shook my head, and then wished I hadn't. “Not surprising really, you were very groggy. She said she'd be back today. How are you feeling now?”
“Crap. Can you give me anything for the pain?”
“Afraid not, at least not for a while yet. Are you well enough to answer a few questions? Just for our records.”
“I suppose so.”
She smiled again. When she did so her face lit up, her eyes sparkled and her cheeks became dimpled. The only question I had to think about was when she asked the name of my next of kin. I decided to give Kathleen's name: there was no-one else really. The nurse thanked me, told me to get some rest and to press the bell if I needed anything.
I was feeling sorry for myself. It wasn't just the pain and lying in a hospital bed. Here I was, in my early twenties, with nothing to show for my life. What sort of loser was I when the only person I could put down as next of kin was a tart?
But there really was no-one else: I had no friends and no siblings, my grandparents and extended family lived in Ireland and both my parents were dead: killed in a road accident.
I'd already left home by then: when I finished school I got a job as a labourer in an engineering factory and as soon as I could I rented a cheap bedsit. I suppose I was a typical teenager: rebellious, thought I knew it all and my parents knew nothing, often surly and monosyllabic when I wasn't being downright nasty. Being an only child meant I was used to having all their attention and I took that for granted. My attitude wasn't helped by my confusion over my feelings and by the mixed messages I received: on the one hand I was supposedly loved by my parents, by Jesus, by the church. On the other hand everything I had been taught told me my desire for other men was a sin, one of the worst sins there was. I stopped going to church after my last confession, when I told the priest about my feelings. His response was hardly helpful. Perhaps a different priest might have been more sympathetic. Perhaps. At least the confidentiality of the confessional meant my parents weren't told. I don't know how they would have reacted, but I do recall them laughing at all the pansy jokes that were on TV at the time.
Ironically, I got on better with them once I'd left home. I had Sunday lunch with them most weeks, began to treat them with respect and they treated me as an adult. When I passed eighteen, dad started taking me to the pub on Sunday lunchtimes.
Then they were gone. Their car was found wrapped round a tree on a country lane in Devon on their way to their summer holidays. There was no-one else involved and the police thought dad might have fallen asleep at the wheel. Whatever the cause, I was bereft.
The Requiem Mass was an ordeal: all their relatives – my uncles and aunts and nephews and nieces and cousins – travelled over from Ireland, and I hardly knew any of them. The church was full of strangers, all claiming to be related to me. They had arrived the day before for the wake. I had no idea how to organise these things, after all I was still a teenager, so I was grateful to the undertaker and parish priest who had arranged both the wake and the funeral tea as well as the Mass. All I had to do was be there and be nice to all these strangers.
I couldn't manage it: I went into my shell and I must have come across as morose and sulking. I hardly said a word and left the funeral tea early. I've not seen any of these stranger relatives since.
2
When I woke, Kathleen was sitting by the bed.
“Hi. You looked so peaceful I didn't want to wake you. How are you feeling now?”
“Rough. But better than earlier. I'm sorry about your guitar.”
Tears began to well up in her eyes. “I’ll never forgive him for that, the bastard. The fucking bastard.” With an effort she managed to control herself. “At least he disappeared before he could do much more harm. Thanks to you.”
I was puzzled. “What did I do? I wasn’t even conscious.”
“Yeah, that’s the whole point. He saw he’d knocked you out, got scared, and fucked off.” She paused. “When you fell you banged your head against the edge of the TV, that’s what knocked you out – and you were bleeding from your head. It wasn't just him that was scared, I was too. I thought he'd killed you until I felt your pulse. Fortunately I did some first aid at the kid's home, so I knew what to do.”
“So it's thanks to you I'm alive.”
“I wouldn't go as far as that.”
“Thanks anyway.”
“After Winston fucked off, I rang 999 and the ambulance and pigs came.” She was silent for a few moments. “The pigs knew I was a tart, and at first they thought we’d been fighting each other. They thought perhaps you were a punter and I’d ripped you off. Anyway, I told them what had happened, that we’d been attacked by him. Didn’t get much sympathy from the bastards. Said it was probably what I deserved. They weren’t about to charge a pimp for hitting his tart – particularly when they thought I was giving you a free fuck. I – I couldn’t put them right on that: it would’ve meant telling them you were queer. All I wanted to do was to get you to hospital. Anyway the cunt's in prison now.”
I was confused. “But I thought you said they wouldn’t arrest him.”
She giggled, the first time I had seen her eyes light up since I had woken. “Aye. That’s right. But it seems there is some justice after all. Call it poetic justice. Call it karma. Call it what the fuck you like. If we hadn’t been beaten up, we might have been arrested as well.”
“I don’t understand.”
“God! You blokes can be thick sometimes. The 'Star' was raided last night. After what happened on Thursday, the cops were raiding anywhere the Irish went. It was some plain clothes pigs. They were offered dope and girls. Jeez! You’d think the boss would’ve had the sense to warn people. It was obvious the place was going to be busted.”
“Er, well, I was supposed to tell the dealers and pimps and girls to keep things quiet. The boss delegated to Norman, and Norman arranged to have the night off and told me to do it. But, well, I couldn’t really be there. I suppose the boss is really pissed off. I’ve probably been sacked.”
“Dunno,” she said. “The pub is closed at the moment, probably will be for a while. And on the grapevine I’ve heard the cops took the boss away. He’s probably the one who’s going to get sacked. I wouldn’t count on you having a job, though.”
3
Soon enough she was proved right: not only wasn't there a job for me to go back to, but I didn't even get my final week's wages. Kathleen was supposed to meet me when I was discharged from hospital, but there was no sign of her. I hung around for a while, but she didn't turn up, so I made my own way home. I had to walk across town, because I had no money for the bus fare. The miserable weather served to increase my frustration at Kathleen's non-appearance.
As soon as I got in, I made a cup of tea. I was just settling down when there was a banging on the door. “Hold on, I'm just coming.” I shouted, thinking it was Kathleen, who would get a piece of mind. When I opened the door, the coppers pushed past me. It didn't take them long to find the grass, nor did it take them long to trash the place. When I objected, I was shown their search warrant, which puzzled me: I doubt they would have got a warrant for a small amount of grass.
I was hauled off to the police station, where I was booked and charged. It soon became clear the grass was just an excuse to get me in custody. My name had come up in relation to the IRA and when they started questioning me about any involvement in terrorism I began to get scared. I asked for a solicitor.
“Well, well, why would an innocent man ask for a solicitor? Got something to hide, have you?” He looked at his notes. “Do you know Norman Brown?”
I nodded. “Yes. He's head barman at the 'Star'.”
“He's been telling us a few stories. He's told us you're queer. Now, we wouldn't want any of those Irish murderers in the cells finding that out, would we? Let alone the dealers you got your dope from.” He was silent, letting that sink in. “Now, if you co-operate with us, they needn't find out.”
There was nothing I could tell them. I tried to explain I was just a barman and I wouldn't know a terrorist if I saw one. They weren't having any of it.
I was locked in a small cell. Dirty whitewashed stone walls, covered in graffiti ranging from the illegible to the illiterate, from the pornographic to the political. Along one wall was a hard wooden bench covered by a woollen blanket smelling of unwashed bodies. That was my bed. In one corner was a bucket: my toilet. Apparently this was a holding cell, and at some stage I would be either released or charged. When I didn't know.
The worst thing about being there was the locked door, the denial of freedom. I really have no idea how anyone can spend a month, never mind years, in prison. Just knowing I couldn't walk out, that my every move was monitored, that I had to do whatever I was told was the worst feeling I had ever had. Being locked up is punishment enough for any crime.
Over the next few days they continued to interrogate me, sometimes late at night or early in the morning, sometimes during the day. Lack of sleep made it difficult for me to concentrate.
The room was bare and without windows, the plain white walls and ceiling were yellowed with nicotine. There were a rectangular metal table, chained to the floor, four plastic chairs and an ashtray.
There were two of them, sat across the table from me. They never told me their names. I tried thinking of them as Bill and Ben or Tweedledum and Tweedledee. They were of similar height and build, and both towered over me. The only difference I could see was that one of them (Tweedledum) had a moustache, while Tweedledee didn't. They stared at me in silence while I fidgeted, unable to sit still, and averted my gaze. The longer the silence went on the more uncomfortable I felt. I had lost all sense of time: I didn't know whether it was night or day. All I knew was that I was hungry, thirsty, tired and very scared. I giggled at the names I had given them.
Tweedledum turned to Tweedledee and said: “The queer cunt finds it funny. Do you see anything to laugh about?”
Tweedledee replied: “Nothing. Nothing at all. Shall I ask him?”
“Go ahead.” said Tweedledum.
Tweedledee leant across the table, shoving his face so close to mine I could smell his rancid breath. He snarled at me, spraying saliva. “What the fuck's so funny? Come on share the joke with us. We like a laugh.”
“Nothing” I said.
“So why were you laughing?”
“Dunno”.
Tweedledee looked at Tweedledum and said: “He doesn't know why he was laughing. Is he just thick? He doesn't look stupid. Do you believe him?” Tweedledum shook his head in answer. “No, I thought not. Perhaps he thinks it’s funny to plant bombs and kill people. After all these Paddies do have a queer sense of humour, particularly when they're queer.” He then banged the table. Hard. Making me jump. “So, nancy boy, do you find murdering innocent people enjoying a drink to be funny? Do you?” I was shaking with fear, tears were beginning to flow and my nose was running. A look of disgust crossed Tweedledee's face. “For fuck's sake, give him a hankie will you.”
Tweedledum shrugged his shoulders. “We haven't got one. He'll have to use his shirt: it's so dirty anyway a bit of snot won't make any difference.” He looked at me and smiled, though it was more of a grimace really. “Well, Brendan, we can help you, you know. But only if you help us. Know what I mean?”
“Can I have some water?”
They both shook their heads. Tweedledum said: “No. Later perhaps, but not now.”
He nodded to Tweedledee who opened a file, studying its contents. He looked up and said to me, with a sneer of disgust on his face: “We know you're queer. Norman told us. Oh, and a nice little rent boy as well.”
“It's not against the law,” I dared to say, immediately regretting it.
“Of course not. The buggers are legal now, aren't you? Whether or not it should be is a different fucking matter altogether. But that's beside the point. Do you think our guests care whether it's okay now to be queer? Do you really think some of the big bad niggers we've got in here really care? Or the paddies or tinkers or anyone else in here? If we put you in with the biggest, baddest, most violent ones, what do you think would happen?” He looked over at Tweedledum. “Is that right? There's a shortage of cells at the moment? Who do you think we should put nancy boy with? Who would most appreciate his company?”
I was squirming in my seat. This didn't go unnoticed. “Ha fucking ha! Nancy boy's scared, scared shitless.”
Tweedledum intervened. “Nah. Best not. It's a nice idea, and it'd be fun to do. But best not. Just imagine all the paperwork if he died in custody! It'd be a nightmare.”
Tweedledee nodded. “Yeah, you're right. Shit, I hate paperwork.” He looked at me. “What are we going to do with you? Really, what the fuck are we going to do with a queer Irish druggie who plants bombs?”
Tweedledum looked at me. “Where were you on the evening of 21st November? We know you weren't working: Norman told us that.”
“Yeah. It was my day off. I was at home drinking and watching TV.”
“And can you remember what was on?”
“The Sweeney.”
Tweedledee laughed, and asked Tweedledum: “Do you believe him? I mean, he could just have looked at the Radio Times.”
“That's true.” Tweedledum turned to me again. “Can you prove you were in your room getting pissed? Was anyone with you?”
I shook my head.
“So for all we know you could have planted the bombs.”
“I didn't. I didn't! I don't know anything about politics. I don't know anyone who's in the IRA. I don't.” By this time I was shouting.
Tweedledee left his seat and grabbed me, pulling me to my feet. He thumped me hard in my stomach. I bent over in agony and thought I was going to be sick. He pulled me up straight and thumped me again. This time I was sick.
“For fuck's sake! Look at the mess you've made.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Sit back down and just answer our questions without shouting, or next time you'll get a kick in your balls.”
I wiped my mouth with my arm, but bits of vomit were still in my mouth. “Please,” I croaked, “Please let me have some water.”
Tweedledum left the room, leaving me alone with Tweedledee who said: “I hate your sort. I hate queers and I hate druggies and I hate paddies, so I have three good reasons for hating you.”
I said nothing. Tweedledum returned with a cup of water. I took a sip: it tasted foul, like the cup was dirty, but it was water and I swallowed some.
“We know you had an interest in Irish politics,” Tweedledum said, looking at some notes in his file. “According to our records, you attended a meeting of the Troops Out Movement at the Irish Centre in Deritend a few months ago. And you signed a petition. I hope you're not going to deny it. Otherwise you might make us really angry.”
“I didn't know the meeting was taking place. Honest, I didn't. I was over there for a concert and ended up in the meeting by accident.”
“What a fucking load of crap,” Tweedledee said. “I believe you, thousands wouldn't.” He leaned across the table. “Now, tell me, if you were only there by accident, how come you signed the petition?”
“The petition was circulated and everyone signed. What do think would have happened if I hadn't? I didn't really have any choice.”
“Nor did all those people who died in the pubs.” He took six photographs out of the file and pushed them across the table. “Do you recognise any of these?”
I looked at the faces. “No, never seen them before.”
“Are you sure? None of them ever been in your pub? You didn't see any of them at that meeting you accidentally went to?”
“No.” I pushed the photographs back across the table.
Tweedledee and Tweedledum stood up. “I think we're finished here for the time being,” Tweedledee said. “Let's get him back to the cell and see if we can't get him to tell the truth.”
Tweedledum opened the door. As I began walking, Tweedledee put out his foot and I tripped over it, falling head first onto the concrete floor. He pulled me to my feet, ignoring the blood pouring from my nose. “Careful now,” he said, “if I didn't know better I'd say you'd been drinking.” He cackled.
As they returned me to my cell I was shaking with fear. Over what I assumed were several days, they continued to interrogate me, asking the same questions over and over, sometimes threatening me, occasionally beating me. I soon reached the stage where I would have said anything, admitted to anything, just to get the bastards off my back.
I didn't get the chance. They lost interest in me, dragged me to the magistrates court where I was charged with possession of cannabis and released on bail. Without any money I had to walk home in filthy clothes and stinking like a tramp. I think I may have been muttering out loud. I got some stares and people avoided me.
I was angry: at the police, at Norman, at the bombers and at Kathleen. I was also scared. I'd been beaten up by a pimp, ended up in hospital, lost my job, busted for drugs, accused of being a terrorist and interrogated for several days. I didn't know how much more I could take.
Chapter Six: Kathleen
1
I was worried. I was also feeling guilty: as so often I just didn't seem to be able to do the right thing. I had broken a promise: I had told Brendan I would be there to meet him when he was discharged from hospital, to help him home, and I failed him: I wasn't there.
Since then I'd been round to his flat most days, but either he wasn't in or he wasn't answering. I left notes for him, but after a week there still hadn't been a reply, or any sign of him. I contacted the hospital and they confirmed he had been discharged. So where was he? Had he moved away? Was he ignoring me, cutting me dead? Was he in trouble?
I just wanted to explain why I hadn't been there, tell him I had no choice in the matter. Perhaps my mother was right, and it was all my fault. I was hoping he was okay. I was praying he was okay, praying for the first time in many years. Once a Catholic always a Catholic, I suppose.
Shit! For Christ's sake! I don't owe him anything: it's not as if we're lovers or anything. He's just a queer barman who would have fucked me for free if he could. I'm better off without him: Frankie wouldn't have been smashed to bits if he hadn't been with me.
But that was my fault: I invited him round, knowing full well Winston would be angry if he found out. It's my fault he got beaten and ended up in hospital. I'm responsible.
And it's my fault I wasn't at the hospital. Oh, I can rationalise it all I like, but if I hadn't decided to go out working the streets, I would have been there to meet him.
I should have known better. It wasn't like I was broke: I could have left it a few days before going back to work, until it was safer. But no, I thought I was invulnerable, I thought I was going to be okay. I had eaten into my savings in order to buy Frankie's replacement, also called Frankie, and I thought I could replace those savings by working.
Well, you know what thought did? Made you follow a dustcart and think it was a wedding, as one of my teachers used to say, before he gave me the strap.
So like the silly bitch I was, I put on my working gear, slapped paint all over my face, stuck a smile on my lips and went to work. If I'd considered for just one second what I was doing, I would have realised just how crazy I was. None of the other girls were on the streets and that should have made me pause: some of those smack addicts are in so much hock to their dealers, they have little choice. But even those, with their hollow pupils and emaciated frames, weren't working. Just me. And all the police crawling the streets, looking for terrorists and anyone with an Irish accent. And if none of them were available, any working girl would do.
I soon realised how fucking stupid I was, but by then it was too late. Before I could turn round and go back home, one of the brave men in blue stopped me and asked what I was doing.
“Just out for a walk,” I said.
He raised his eyebrow in disbelief. I don't blame him. Who goes out for a walk on a wet and windy winter evening showing off their legs and tits and dressed like it was midsummer day in the tropics? Whores, that's who. In any case, lots of the police knew who I was, though this young looking PC was a stranger to me. With his blonde hair, thin frame and lithe figure, he was the sort of pretty policeman often used to entrap queers in public toilets.
“Would you open your handbag please?” At least he asked, I suppose; not that it made any difference.
I sighed and handed him the bag. At least I'd left my grass at home. He searched the bag, finding all the usual stuff: make up, cigarettes, tissues. And several packets of condoms.
“Now, what would you be wanting all these for?”
I sniffed. I was cold standing still and my nose was beginning to run. “Better to be safe than sorry,” I said.
He laughed. “Let's see how many are here.” He counted them out. “How many men are you expecting to meet?” He held up a tube of KY jelly. “And what would this be for? You surely don't need this for a cunt as loose as yours is. For the kinky ones perhaps? You know, the ones who like to fuck your shithole? I think you'd better come with me.”
2
It was a bit of a farce at the police station. When he booked me, he was beaming with enthusiasm at having arrested someone. His colleagues were less impressed. “What have you brought this tart in for?” one of them asked.
“She was soliciting.”
“Oh for fuck's sake. You were supposed to be looking for suspicious paddies. We didn't send you out there to pick up a tart: we can arrest her sort any day of the week.”
“Or let them off if they give us a blow job,” another colleague said. The two older officers started laughing. One of them asked: “Didn't you get a blow job? Is that why you arrested her?”
The young PC blushed. “She offered me one for free.”
“And you turned it down? What a fucking prat!” He sighed. “Oh well, now you've booked her we've got no choice but to follow procedures. Waste of fucking time, particularly all the paperwork.”
“You never moan like this when I bring in queers from toilets.”
“Yeah, well, arresting queers is one thing: they're fucking perverts, as bad as kiddie fiddlers. But this – what she's offering is normal. Look, it's okay pulling her sort in when we're quiet and looking for fun, but at the moment we've got our hands full with more important crap.”
I was getting pissed off. “Hey, I'm still here, you know.”
“So you are. Put her in a cell, give her time to calm down.”
They kept me in that cell until the next morning. It wasn't the first time I'd been locked up, but no matter how often it happens it doesn't get any easier. As ever, the time passed slowly. I tried singing but was told to “shut the fuck up”. I lay down on the hard bench, covering myself with the single itchy blanket. I suppose sleep came eventually, because I was woken up by a pig banging on the cell door.
When I eventually came before a magistrate I felt dirty and unkempt despite my best efforts at cleaning myself in the available basic facilities. I was certainly not dressed for the occasion, and I saw or thought I saw court officials wrinkling their noses in disgust. Perhaps they were just bored after a morning of dealing with a succession of petty cases. I was charged with soliciting and bailed to appear before the court a few weeks later. As I left the court I was hit by the damp cold that slithered into every bone and muscle in my body. I looked like what I was: a prostitute released from the cells. I didn't even have a jumper to cover my near nakedness and protect me from the worst of the weather.
3
There was a knock at the door. I opened it to find Brendan standing there. “Thank God,” I exclaimed, hugging him. He stepped into my flat. “Where have you been?” I asked him.
He sat down. “I could ask you the same question. You do realise I was relying on you? When I was discharged I didn't even have the money for the bus fare.”
“I'm so so sorry. I spent the night in cells after being arrested.”
He stared at me, eyes wide open. “You too! What did they get you for?”
“What do you think? Soliciting. Bailed to appear at court in the new year.” As I brewed some tea, I explained what had happened.
He remained silent for a time after I'd finished talking, then he said: “I do wish you didn't earn your living that way.”
“And what way would that be?”
“You know, being a prostitute. It's so degrading.”
I could feel the anger in me beginning to boil over. “What the fuck do you know about degrading?” I shouted. “I'll tell you what's degrading: being abused and beaten by your parents, being raped by those who are supposed to look after you, being treated like a lump of shit just because you're homeless. That's what's degrading.” I sat down, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm down. “Working the streets is my way of taking control of my life. Can't you understand that? I've had a fucking awful time, and the last thing I need is your moralising.”
Brendan stared at me, nostrils flaring. He took a sip of his tea, placed his cup on the side table and began to speak so quietly I had to make an effort to hear him. “I too have had a rough time. Not only was I beaten up, ending up in hospital. Not only have I got no job to go back to. But I have just spent a week under arrest, being interrogated, deprived of sleep, and beaten up by police. Do you know what it's like to get thumped in the stomach, not once, but several times? Do you know what it's like to get slapped and kicked and tripped up? Do you know what it's like... Ah, forget it.”
I wasn't finished. “A week of abuse! Ah, diddums. Try a lifetime of abuse at the hands of virtually everyone you know, then you can come back and tell me what a shit week you've had.” I turned my back on him.
He opened his mouth as if to speak, seemed to think better of it and stayed silent. The atmosphere was oppressive, heavy with the weight of words that couldn't be taken back. Brendan was fidgeting, fiddling with his cigarette packet, went to remove one but replaced it. He picked up his cup, then put it down without drinking. He was looking everywhere except in my direction. I was feeling guilty, resentful and angry all at the same time. In my mind, I went back over how the row had begun. I decided Brendan was probably right: prostitution was degrading. But I was just too fucking proud to admit it.
I picked up Frankie mark two and began strumming her, my fingers creating a mournful melody. Brendan looked at me. “I see you've replaced Frankie.” I nodded. “I'm glad.”
I began speaking over the melody. “I'm sorry I lost my temper. It must have been the last thing you needed after what has happened.”
He smiled. “And I'm really sorry if I upset you. I didn't mean to.”
When he told me all that happened after his arrest, I was shocked. “Surely they can't keep you that long without access to a lawyer.”
He shrugged. “Apparently when it comes to terrorism they can do what they like. Or so they said. I tell you, I don't mind admitting I was fucking scared. I thought I was going to be there for ever, or at least until I said I'd done something I hadn't. I was really close to making a statement saying I was guilty. If they hadn't lost interest in me I probably would have done. Instead, I'm just being charged with possession of cannabis. I'll just plead guilty when it comes to court. I still don't know why they didn't continue to force me to confess.”
I smiled. “I reckon I know why. They've arrested some people who were on their way to Belfast. I gather some of them have already confessed.”
“Oh yeah! Well, if my experience is anything to go by I doubt their confessions will be reliable. Probably been beaten out of them. Anyway, it looks like we're both going to be in court. I suppose we'll need solicitors.”
I giggled: “A solicitor for soliciting.” Brendan groaned. I told him there was a solicitor locally who represented anyone picked up by the police for soliciting, and I'd ask her if she could help him.
“That'll be good. But how am I going to afford her?”
“Don't worry about that: it'll be covered by legal aid, I think. And you can tell her what the pigs did to you.”
“Thanks. Tomorrow I'd better sign on the dole now I haven't got a job. And the landlord's given me notice. Says he doesn't want any trouble with the police and now I haven't got a job wants to know how I can pay the rent.”
“Fuck. When have you got to be out?”
“He's given me two weeks to find somewhere else.” He was thoughtful for a few moments, then broke the silence: “But, hey, I'm really pleased you've got a new guitar. You're really good. You really should try a bit of busking. Much safer than...”
“Don't start that again. Please.”
He held his hands up. “Okay. But do think about it.”
“Perhaps. Anyway I think we could both do with a joint. Let's have a smoke while thinking about what you're going to do.”
He grinned and licked his lips. I was just about to get the makings when there was another knock at the door. When I opened it, Winston was standing there. I screamed.
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.