Runner .... written Feb 2004

RUNNER!
Isn’t it amazing how quickly one petty, puny, fragile human life can be turned upside down?
One minute I was happy as Larry and twice as excited, on the verge of the breakthrough to professional success I had sought for years, the next I was a hunted, wanted man on the run for my life.
I saw the crowd as soon as I turned into Campbell Street, still over a hundred yards away from my own wee flat. I’ll never again, as long as I live, take accommodation on the ground floor with windows opening directly on to the pavement.
Although the speedo might say I was doing 20, I travelled that 100 yards in slow motion, as in a dream, while the certainty gradually dawned on me that the crowd was in fact gathered around my own living-room window.
An angel on my shoulder told me not to even slow down as I got closer, far less dare to stop at my usual parking place….which was full of angry chanting figures. The only one I recognised was the nutter who had attacked me in the Paki’s shop the day before, when I popped in for milk to keep up my coffee addiction. (I like it white and sweet).
Without indicating, I wheeled left into Blythswood Street and pulled in to a halt just before the hedge on the corner obscured the view of my own building and the mob outside it, which seemed about 50 or 60 strong.
I switched off the stereo and wound down the window. (Technophile I may be, but I’ve never had electric windows yet). It was starting to turn dark, so it was easy to see that most of the neighbours were at their windows sharing the excitement.
Even at maybe 40 yards it was clear what the crowd were shouting. Half of them were chanting “Paedo! Paedo! Paedo!..”. Half were chanting “Beast! Beast! Beast! Beast!…” Even over that I could hear the ugly nutter I had already met shouting “We’re gonna get you, ya fuckin pervo beast!” It was obviously he who had organised this little calling party. I know it seems odd to the inexperienced person when they hear the phrase “my blood ran cold”. But no other words could better express the chill that came over me. The chill that accompanies the realisation that your life could end in the next minute or two.
Panic petrified me. A strange thought passed through my numbed brain, suggesting I should turn the stereo back on for a few more bars of Eric Clapton singing “See What Love Can Do”. The inspiration was quickly squashed with the realisation that I was lucky none of the mob had spotted me driving past, and it was best now to be invisible and silent.
It was darkening by the moment, as I looked over my right shoulder at the ugly scene outside my flat. Even above the thundering thudding of my heart I could clearly hear the crash of one of my front windows imploding. A huge cheer went up. I noticed Mrs Whatsit, on the first floor at number 22, move back from her window and disappear from view. Probably to call the Police, I thought.
A silly voice in my head began to repeat senselessly “What will I do? What will I do? What will I do?”
Half a dozen would-be mobsters passed me on the other side of the road, ugly blood-lust on their faces. I busied myself with some fake fumbling under my dash-board, avoiding eye contact of any kind.
In slow motion again I watched, numb, as Lead Nutter set light to a rag sticking out the neck of a bottle, then hurled it through the open space where my living room window used to be. Mere seconds later the faces of the crowd were illuminated by the flames roaring up in what, I now realised, used to be my private little pied-a-terre.
A strange thought came over me: “It’s been a long while since I was personally involved in such live excitement - not since Stuart and I were working together on VIP Services.” Followed within seconds by an even stranger thought: “A bit stupid having a back-up disc if you keep it right next to the computer, eh?” Then I began to think of the valued possessions that were probably already being consumed by the flames.
The crowd was now cheering and jeering. Mrs Whatsit re-appeared briefly at her window then vanished again. A few people at the outskirts of the mob began to walk away, obviously not wanting to be caught on the scene when the 999 emergency services eventually arrived, too late as usual.
I knew my life had now moved into a new stage, regardless of whether I was ready or not. No doubt about that.
“No point hanging about here. Nothing you can do now, except get into trouble” said the helpful angel on my shoulder. I agreed. Fortunately my old banger re-started first time, so I attracted no attention to myself. With one last glance at the inferno now visible in my former living room window, I was off . Limbs trembling, mind numb, I drove. And drove. And drove.
Next thing I was aware of was when I pulled into an empty space in the car park at MacDonalds on the Guildhall Road, switched off the engine and realised my body was trembling uncontrollably. I had just escaped being torched as a paedophile monster. Me, who likes nothing better than getting stuck into a woman my own age, in her 40s, and have never touched a child under 20 for any reason in my whole life….except maybe when I poked Millar in the eye in Second Year, after he head-butted me out of the blue.
Suddenly, and I couldn’t explain this to you, my mind craved a joint, a spliff, a reefer. Escape, by any name, in any form.
I had the terrible feeling everyone was watching me - as though I had a huge poster above my head proclaiming “Paedo Beastie” - while I robotically stood in the queue, ordered Double Cheeseburger and Large Fries and carried it over to the quietest corner in MacDonalds. I wondered if I had turned off the lights on my car. I took off my jacket and put it on my seat to show I hadn’t abandoned my meal, went out to the car park and checked. Yes, the lights were off, but I was sure everyone was staring at me as I walked shakily back to the table.
I had no appetite. The chips tasted like sawdust as I mechanically fed them to my mouth. When I got round to putting the burger between my teeth I wondered, for the umpteenth time, “What percentage of this is really beef, or even meat?”, trying to silence the other voice that kept thundering “What am I gonna do? What am I gonna do?”
If I had had a spliff, no doubt I would have been celebrating the “Paedo escapes torching” aspect of this unexpected adventure. As it was, straight, I was just thinking “The threat isn’t over yet. Where am I gonna go? What am I gonna do?”

It had started a week earlier………………….
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For the first time I was appointed Lead Researcher. Two years, off and on, I had been employed by Shake-It Productions as an Assistant Researcher, doing what I considered silly assignments like watching all the interviews with Johnny Rotten in the archives and creating an index of all his comments on record on this or that subject.
Compared to what I had been earning before that….6 years out of 9 unemployed, it was quite a cushy number, relatively well-paid. Maybe 14 or 15 times what I had been getting on the dole. Enough to enter into plenty of hire-purchase agreements….for the computer, video, TV, and a few other goodies that I now considered ‘necessities’.
I did a particularly good job on the Special about Chrissie Hynde, digging up enough little-known facts to fill a whole 50-minute documentary. Joe McNulty, the MD of Shake-It, was sufficiently impressed that when I went to him with my latest idea he bought it hook, line and sinker. He made me Lead Researcher and gave me 3 months to come up with enough for a one-hour one-off.
The subject was the hypocrisy of the British Government on Drugs. The thesis was that most, if not all, of the popular music produced in Britain over the last 40 years had been produced under the influence of illegal drugs. Two whole generations of Brits had grown up, modelled their life-styles and directed their lives under the influence of drug-inspired music yet, publicly, our nation decried these drugs as ‘evil’.
I reckon I was doing alright on the research. There was plenty on record, even if hidden away and little examined, to prove that the Beatles, Stones, Dylan, Queen and many other of the mega-stars of the 60s, 70s, 80s and 90s had made heavy use of cannabis and acid. Many of the top acts of the 90s had been even more open about their use of the same drugs, along with Ecstasy and Coke. I even had a quote from Elton John himself that he’d managed to get through half a million in Coke for himself and friends, in one year.
However, Joe called me in one day and said it wasn’t enough.
“There’s nothing special in here,” he said, banging his hand down on the 30-odd page printout of my research so far. “This is all common knowledge really. We need something new. Something shocking. Something that’s gonna make the News Headlines once the programme comes out. Can’t you get someone….and not some has-been nobody can remember….to talk about their drug use, that nobody’s heard of before? What about Paul Simon…or Madonna…..or Robbie Williams? No, skip Robbie, everyone does know about his drugs already.. What I mean is…we need a revelation. Something new and shocking. Can you get me something like that?”
“Yeah, sure” I replied without thinking, wondering to myself how I could back that up.
“And I need it fast,” added Joe. “I can’t give you more than a couple more weeks. What can you come up with?”
“Well…..” I hedged, trying to think what was the most promising-looking lead I hadn’t followed up yet. “Errm….what about if I can confirm an interview with the guy who used to supply Queen?”
“Come on, Jock. Do you think anyone’s seriously going to be surprised to hear that Queen did lots of drugs? No, we need a surprise. More like Aledd Jones on smack…if you see the way my mind is going.”
Looking at the prospect of being back down at the Job-Centre within a matter of weeks, I bluffed wildly.
“Right. I see what you mean. Well, I do have a couple of leads I haven’t looked into thoroughly, that seem quite promising. I’ll get on to them right away, Joe.”
“You do that, Jock. Look, I like you and I like the work you’ve done for us, but……..”
Of course I knew what was coming, before it did come. Business is business.
“…two weeks, max, to come up with something that surprises me or, like it or not, I’ll have to drop the whole idea.”
While mouthing reassurances even I could hardly hear, I started mentally and physically backing out of his office. “Sure Joe…”….. “Right Joe”…..”I’m on it, Joe”…….
I was nearly at the door when he barked again, suddenly.
“Like, Jock, have you got any dirty on any politicians…..especially openly ‘anti-drug’ politicians? That’s the sort of thing we need. Hmmm?”
I couldn’t think of anything in that department except some scatty little groupie who was ‘absolutely sure’ she’d seen ‘Red Ken’ Livingstone snorting tons of coke at a party. But, when I’d pressed her, reminding her of the laws on slander and asking her if she would confirm that on camera, she had backed out with waffle about “lots of drugs at the party” and “Ken Livingstone was there” - the usual unusable, unsubstantiated
rumour.
Still, I bluffed: “Sure, Joe. I’ve got a few leads like that. I’ll get right on to it.”
“You do that, Jock,” he said, as I got the door open. I was out through it quick, but not before another “You do that!”
It was just two days after that I got my break. Some Welsh guy, who used to be a Sound Manager for Take That and, before that, Led Zeppelin. Seems both bands had roughly dropped him, he’d been unable to get another booking and now he was ready to blow the whistle for all he was worth.
I met him, as arranged, in a pub called “The Elephant and Drawbridge”, off Byres Lane. A skinny, hairy little guy with half a dozen nervous twitches in his face. He wanted a Southern Comfort so I bought him a double and also passed him two £20 notes to get him talking.
It was all the usual stuff, unusable hearsay, until he suddenly came out with “I could introduce you to the guy that supplied all the major bands in London all the way through the 70s and 80s. He could tell you anything you want to know.” His face began twitching twice as fast, as if he was sure he might get his throat cut for what he was doing.
I just had a gut feeling he wasn’t lying.
“Alright, Daffyd,” (I had learned how to pronounce his name properly as it always helps in the interview business) “but it needs to be soon. My boss is barking for results, like….yesterday.”
Daffyd nodded vigorously. “This guy doesn’t deal drugs now, so he’s got nothing to lose. But…..” I knew what was coming “money would help. I know he’s like me. Nowhere near enough of the readies. So….” His twitchy eyebrows both went up, at different angles.
“Yes, sure.” Now I was bluffing, as if I had unlimited expenses and we were talking small-fry. “ Tell him I can offer him £200 for half an hour’s chat….with more if what he gives me is usable and my boss is willing to have him interviewed. OK?”
I guessed both Daffyd and his friend must be on the dole currently from the speed with which he went off to phone him. He was back in five minutes with a wide grin. “Tonight, 8 o’clock. He says it will be his pleasure, but the money will help too. He…urrr…wants the cash up-front.”
“No problem”, said I, thinking ‘this comes out of my money if I don’t get anything worthwhile’.
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I visited the cash-machine and had the notes ready in my breast pocket before entering “Her Majesty’s Pleasure”, right on the stroke of 8 o’clock. The large empty pub on the Old High Road was, I was sure, close to wherever my new informant lived.
Daffyd drew my attention with a larger-than-usual twitch of his whole head before I was even through the door. I approached the table. The other guy was at least 8 inches taller than him, even sitting down. ‘Public school type’ I thought as I approached, and felt my guess confirmed when the stranger jumped up to shake my hand. Well, now he knows I’m a non-Mason, I thought, as I always do in such circumstances.
My new acquaintance turned down the offer of a drink, making a motion with his hand towards a barely-started half-pint of what I took to be lager, on the table. Daffyd, whose beer was nearly finished, proved up for another Southern Comfort. I settled for a pint of Guinness myself. I hate the stuff, so there was no chance I would guzzle it fast and lose track of what I was doing.
As soon as I was settled, and Daffyd already half-way through his SC, I pulled the sheaf of twenties from my pocket, reaching with my other hand for the walkman in my side-pocket.
“You don’t mind if I record this?” I asked.
“No” replied the tall stranger, his fingers already gripping the banknotes. Then, with barely a glance at our mutual friend, he added “That you off, now, Daffyd?”
The Welshman hesitated a moment. The tall man peeled off one twenty, holding it towards his twitchy friend, while pocketing the rest.
Daffyd grabbed the note and it vanished just as quickly as the others, somewhere in his nondescript grey puffa jacket.
“Right, then, I’ll be off,” he said, lifting his spirit glass and emptying it in one gulp. He rose and made to leave but, obviously electrified by so much money changing ownership so rapidly he turned to me and said, almost pleading, “If I can help you again…….?”
“Yeah, sure, Daffyd” I told him “No problem. I’ve got your number.”
Daffyd smiled, then vanished.
I put the walkman in the middle of the circular table, pressed RECORD, and checked my watch. As far as I was concerned, that was the start of my thirty minutes.
My new informant told me his name was Julian, adding pointedly “That’s all you need to know for now…..I’ll give you my phone number if we’re still friendly when your time’s up, OK?”
I nodded, then Julian started talking. It wasn’t really an interview. For 25 minutes I said nothing, as this tall man with the posh accent poured out exactly the sort of information I had been seeking for three months.
I was glad to have the cassette recorder running, since I would never have been able to remember all that he said with accuracy otherwise. What I was listening to was the customer details of a major Cocaine-supplier who had been active all the way through the 80s and half of the 90s. I heard the names of at least 20 major rock music acts and as many television personalities, with quantities of drugs supplied and how often.
“You know how it is…” said Julian,( I half nodded, though I had no idea ’how it is’), “ that sort of person likes to score as little as possible, so they always buy as much at one time as they can afford.” I nodded at that, since it did make sense, but my jaw was dropping towards the table to hear how well-known personalities I would never have suspected would buy a half-kilo of white powder from this man maybe 6 times a year.
After about 25 minutes of delicious facts, facts, facts…..that I knew were just going to delight old Joe, Julian suddenly turned it round to ask me a few questions.
“Panorama, is it?” was his first.
“No” I answered, “this is more your independently produced ITV Special, you know?”
“Right” he nodded. “And what’s your ‘angle’, if you know what I mean?”
Cards on table time, I thought. “The angle, as you put it, is this: The hypocrisy in our drugs law. For 30 or 40 years our society and our media have been down on drugs as a dangerous unwanted phenomenon. During the same time it has become more and more common knowledge that a vast number of the people occupying senior positions within the government and media, who officially condemn these drugs, actually consume much greater amounts of them than even the average users.”
I was really just quoting, almost verbatim, what I’d put in my original proposal to Joe three months earlier.
Suddenly Julian seemed to have gotten his second wind. No need to prod him. This man wanted to talk. I soon learned the reasons why.
“Right. Well, my friend, you have come to the right man. Between 1980 and 1995 I supplied nearly two million pounds worth of Charlie, Cocaine, and every single particle of that powder to what you would call Celebrities, people prominent in the public eye.”
Why did it stop, I wondered, also pondering on how much of that two million ended up in Julian’s pocket as profit. No need to even open my mouth, though.
“June 15th, 1995, just as I’m converting all my capital into new stock, as you might put it, I got busted. I still don’t know exactly how, but I know this much. It left me without a penny to my name and not one of these fucking people would lift a finger to help me. No-one would finance my defence or stand in my corner….even punters like Marty Dingham who had been buying ummm…..5 or 6 kilos a year off me, for 15 years. They let me go down. I got 10 years, because of the quantity I was busted with. Oh, I got out after 5 years, but that was 5 years in complete poverty, while those pratts continued to swan around in their professions without a moment’s problem. After all, with such a lucrative expanding market, there’s always someone else ready to step in and meet the demand….coke just gets easier and easier to find. I reckon the head of the market is probably the CIA. Anyway, I lost everything and no-one has raised a finger to help me then or since, so why should I keep my mouth shut? Shame the whole lot of them, if you can.”
Shocked, I wondered if it might give us both some breathing space to offer him another drink. But, no, this man had his head screwed on as tightly as mine. He just wanted to talk. It took another tack now.
“Listen” he continued “I haven’t been able to get back into the business since I came out of prison. Money talks, as they say, and everything else walks. It takes capital to get going in cocaine, and I mean cash, cash, bloody cash. Since I came out I’ve been living in a dingy little flat, in the wrong end of town, on bloody government hand-outs. Even the guy who works in the dole office can afford to buy coke in bigger quantities than me, though ten years ago I could have bought and sold him a hundred times over. I’ll blow the bloody whistle on anyone I can.” After that outburst, he suddenly went quiet, thinking.
For half a minute the walkman ran on with a slight inexplicable clicking every few seconds, recording nothing but the murmuring sounds from nearer the bar of the few customers who had come in since me. I was just about to prod him with a new question when he burst back in:
“Can you get me any more money, for an interview where I’ll give you some really juicy stuff?”
“Errr..” was all I had time for before he continued. “Look, Alan, isn’t it? You get me a little bit of real money, and I mean thousands, not hundreds, and I’ll give you enough to fill your whole program. I want to get back at these bastards even more than you do, and you can understand I do have my reasons. Five years is a huge chunk out of anyone’s life.”
He paused again, as if waiting for a response for me. But continued before I had a chance.
“Put it like this, maybe, Alan: you’ve heard all the names I’ve already mentioned.” He motioned at the walkman, the clicking now inaudible behind his outpouring. “I can give you much more about them, much more than has ever even been hinted at in any of the media. But, you get me….ummm, ten thousand….in cash….and I’ll tell you which member of the Royal Family was my top customer for nearly ten years.”
My heart was racing….this could lead to the TV equivalent of an Oscar, couldn’t it? Whatever is the top prize for Investigative Journalism. Certainly worth a lot more than 10 measly grand.
Julian now bent over, his mouth closer to the walkman so that he was obviously speaking much more to the microphone (and Joe!) than to me.
“I’ll spell it out to you, folks…”(He knew he was speaking to more than me! Choosing his words carefully and precisely.) “For ten years I received more than sixty thousand pounds sterling per annum to feed the drug habit of a prominent member of the British Royal Family and his ‘significant other’, as our mutual friend Del-Boy would put it. For precisely ten thousand pounds sterling, in cash, used notes and numbers out of sequence as you might expect, I will give you enough detailed information to create a scandal that cannot be silenced for years. I will talk directly to your cameras, as long as you put my face behind one of these fuzzy effects, you know?”
He glanced up at me, then at the clock behind the bar, then at his own watch, sat back up straight, then added “and now, my friend, I believe you’ve already had three minutes free from me so….” With that he reached out and pressed the STOP button on my walkman.
The half pint of beer still remained barely touched in front of him. He fumbled with his right hand in his jacket pocket then dropped in front of me a card with just a phone number written on it. I saw from the dialling code that it was a mobile phone number. Already he was rising to leave, a wide smile on his face.
“Well, Alan, it has been a pleasure. I expect I will be hearing from you before long.” I knew, too, that he would. His hand shot out for a brief parting shake. While I stood gaping in dumb-founded shock, he added quickly, “When we meet again, I will be in a completely different disguise. You know how it is when you’re bringing down Royalty.” A chuckle, then he was gone….those last few words echoing in my brain, competing with my attempts to compose my prize-winner’s speech for the awards ceremony. (“Little did I know, when I first went to meet Mr X, that….”)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Joe was much more business-like about it than I could ever have been.
We had listened to the cassette recording of the interview together.
“Alan,” he said, stopping the tape and pressing REWIND, “You go over to the Deli, get yourself a coffee and a sandwich and come back here in ….forty minutes. Right?”
“Right” said I, elated. I could see he was excited, as much as I was, though he was much more experienced in keeping his emotions masked.
I got one of Zona’s Specials, a sesame seed bun packed with ham, lettuce, tomato, cucumber, radishes and mustard, a half-pint plastic mug of coffee and sat in the late Spring sunshine, gloating over the biggest lucky break since I had pushed my way on to the bottom rung of the Television business. While I ate my lunch I watched an exhibitionist twenty-year-old secretary bird re-arrange herself constantly on a bench on the other side of the little garden square, keeping me and probably another half dozen outdoor diners watching for the occasional brief flashes of white knickers. After this special hit the screen, I could probably direct my own and go into semi-retirement in Majorca. Two programmes a year after that should keep me in the style to which I wished to be accustomed.
When I returned, Joe was brief and to the point.
“Your man can have the ten grand if, and only if, he delivers the goods he promised. That means he gets sight of the cash at the start of the interview but he gets it in his hands when we’ve got the whole lot in the can. That means he needs to name witnesses of some sort who can’t be brushed away by some official statement from St James’s Palace or Buck House or whatever. You got it?”
“Yeah, sure” I replied, “I’ll tell him that.” Then, as it occurred to me, “The witnesses might want cash too, Joe.”
“Of course they will. Don’t try to teach me this business. No-one sticks their neck out for nothing. But no-one will get as much as this man, or anything near it. You understand?”
“Right-oh. We are on a winner here, though, you know that Joe.”
“If! You hear what I say? If this guy delivers what he promises….and he doesn’t get the cash until he does….we might be on a winner, as you put it. Meanwhile, before parting with any more cash, I’ve got to get our Legal boys to check on a few things. You don’t just go throwing eggs at the Royal Family, even in this day and age, without being sure of the ground you’re standing on.”
“What do you want me to be working on meanwhile?” I asked him, hoping he would say something like “Go and take a week holiday in Switzerland, all paid.” (Huh, fat chance!)
“What I want you working on is…..” It didn’t take him long. I guess that’s why some people are employees and some are bosses. I could never come with answers as quick as Joe. “Put together a rough script based on the best of the research you’ve already done. Leave about 20 or 25 minutes for whatever this guy is going to come up with. Make up a list of questions to ask him, just in case he misses out any of the goodies he’s got. You understand?”
“Yeah, sure” I said, but meanwhile thinking “No need to type too fast if I’m still being paid by the hour. In future I’ll be paid per project so when I work fast it means money going into my pocket faster.”
One thing I’ve noticed about Joe McNulty is his ability, no…habit, of catching you half way to the door with some extra communication that sends you out of his office reeling, one way or another. Today was no exception. It was just that little one-word hook that caught me: “And…”
“Yes?” I turned half in dread.
“…as I said, this all depends now on the green light from our Legal boys. You understand?”
“Yeah. Sure” I answered, as I usually do, but thinking “What the hell has it got to do with them? If there’s a guy willing to testify he sold cocaine to a member of the Royal Family, how can we get into any trouble for relaying that to the general public? The truth is the truth.”
I know what you might be thinking: “How naïve this boy is”. You’re right. That describes me - up to this point - in one word. A naïve innocent, believing the whole world is run on principles of truth and honesty. Huh!
I turned to Joe at the door. “You don’t mind if I do the script at home? I’ve got most of my notes on my own PC.”
Joe knew I wasn’t a slacker. I might type slower than I was physically capable of, but I wouldn’t do something else and pretend that I was working on my assigned project.
“Alright, but keep in touch. We’ll be wanting to interview this guy Julian as soon as possible and Karen will need to be briefed by you before she goes in.”
Karen Wright was the ’face’ who had been chosen to front the documentary. Currently she was flavour of the month with the moral majority, the personification of innocence and purity, therefore entitled to question everyone else’s morals. She certainly hadn’t been mentioned by any of my informants so far as a secret drug user!
Half an hour later I was in my favourite position. In front of my own PC in my own little living-room, steaming mug of coffee to the side, stereo blasting out Bob Marley on both sides. Busy determining the exact wording of the programme which would open the greatest Royal Scandal since the Abdication in 1936.
2.15, according to my favourite Roman-numeral clock on the wall to my right. (III past II). Just another 3 hours, give or take a few minutes, then I’d be back into my own time, able to get on with my novel ‘Gimme Gimme!’, based on my experiences with my now-hated ex-wife Heather (Boo! Hiss! What a selfish bitch.)
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18 hours later, wishing I hadn’t finished the whole bottle of whisky (half would have been more than enough), I shrugged the dressing-gown over my pyjamas and struggled wearily to the door. I thought it would probably be the overdue package of 4 free CDs from the Britannia Music Club (Send no money now!), too large for the postman to get through the letterbox but, no, it was two skinny police constables, overloaded with an assortment of clubs, cuffs and electronic equipment strung around their waists. They were both in their early twenties, young enough to be my own sons. I woke up quickly, dreading news that another of my rapidly-reducing family had succumbed to the grim reaper.
“Mr Duncan?”
“Yes” I replied, glancing down to the neatly engraved plate boldly stating “A. Duncan” just above the letterbox.
“Can we come in?”
“Yeah, sure” I mumbled, turning to lead them into the kitchen….to avoid having them notice any unpleasant smells which might be lingering in my bedsit living-room. I hoped I might have time to get the kettle on before they hit me with any bad news.
I was already filling the kettle through the spout, when the taller of the pair said, again, “Mr Duncan?” in such a manner it suggested he would prefer I turn and face them and….well, face whatever music was coming to me. So I did, in the process glancing around to locate the nearest chair, in case the news should prove overwhelming to the degree that I must sit down.
“We’ve received a complaint..” he continued. My hungover mind went pyoing! A complaint. Against me? Someone has complained to the Police about me? Duh?
“A complaint about me?” I croaked incredulously, as innocent men do….and probably guilty men too, now that I come to look at it.
“Yes. I’m not able to tell you who but…..(he was obviously embarrassed about this)….someone has complained that you have had young children in this flat who are not your own, and……..”
I had that same sensation as when, at the age of 14, my mother confronted me with a letter from my American pen-pal, Paula…from Boston, Mass…. which she had opened before I got home from school. The room seemed to sway from side to side in front of me.
“You what?” was all I could come out with.
“At the moment, sir, it is just an allegation, but you understand we have to look into it. Do you mind if we have a look around your flat?”
Half of me wanted to explode in anger at this ugly intrusion into my life which, although lonely, had been going rather well for several years after I got over the worst upsets of my divorce. The other half, fortunately, prevailed. I slumped into the chair I had already earmarked and mumbled, confused, “Look around? Yeah…sure.” (not sure at all, of course.)
I don’t think the constables had any more idea what they were supposed to look for than I did. Children’s underwear? Tiny feet or hands sticking out from under the bed? What?
It turned out they did know in advance, however, what they were going to do in my flat. After opening and closing a few cupboard doors in my kitchen, glancing into the bathroom and a cursory look round my living room, the taller of the two, apparently the only one gifted with the power of speech, indicated with a wave of his arm my PC, which sat near the window on what anyone else would have called a kitchen table (£5 at the Women’s Guild Jumble Sale).
“Mr Duncan….I’m afraid that, because of the nature of the complaint, we are going to have to take your computer in to the Police Station for examination. I hope you understand.”
Understand? Of course I understand. Gary Glitter, Pete Townsend, Matthew Kelly and all that. Sure, I understand. There’s a bloody witch-hunt on and someone’s pointed the finger at me. I’m just terribly relieved. Not only is that computer not connected to the Internet, it never has been. You’ll find absolutely nothing on that computer that shouldn’t be there. Oh, I’m not happy that you’re going to read notes I thought would always be private to myself, but you’ll not find any evidence on that hard disc of any offence whatsoever on my part. Now I began to feel just a little outraged. And I realised these were just young constables I was dealing with, rookies nearly, not your Inspector Wotsit of The Yard.
“Really? And you can’t tell me who’s made this complaint? Well….(fortunately I managed to bite my lip before committing a real offence)…You take that computer…you examine it as quickly as you can and you get it back here as fast as possible, because I use that computer for my job. Every day!”
The taller looked at the smaller, still silent, then back at me. “Really, sir? And what kind of work is that?”
Again I was seeing red and on the verge of screaming out “Writing bloody pornography about grown men shagging tiny little children you fucking stupid moron!” Fortunately what actually came out my mouth was “I work as a researcher for a Television production company.” I detected a silent wave of respect pass through the pair. Obviously, in their eyes, far above their humble social position.
“Well, take it…” I said, offended now by their presence, angry and ready to explode. I walked away, towards the kitchen, to put the kettle on (My response to many of life’s little annoyances). Over my shoulder I added “…but you be careful it doesn’t get damaged, and get it back here as fast as possible. You understand?”
While they were busy unplugging my system and gathering up the leads, I busied myself putting on the kettle and measuring coffee granules into a mug.
A couple of minutes later the shorter of the two stuck his head into the kitchen and broke his silence with “Mr Duncan….we might have to ask you later to come into the station for a little chat.” I couldn’t think of anything better to reply than “Mmmph!” or similar….not enough to get myself arrested.
A few seconds later it occurred to me to run after them, out into the building’s common hallway. “Hoi!” I shouted, “Who made a complaint?”
Tiny, carrying keyboard, speakers and mouse, retained his customary silence, but the tall fellow, carrying the bulky PC and screen unit half-turned and said in an apologetic tone “I’m sorry sir, we’re not allowed to tell you that.”
Slamming my door I huffed back into my kitchen to pour the water into my coffee thinking, “What kind of country is this? Anonymous complaints they’ve got to act on and can’t tell you who it is? Worse than fucking 1984. Hmmmph!”
Two days later, I still hadn’t got my PC back from the Police, in fact I hadn’t heard a dicky-bird from them. Fortunately I had been able to find most of the information I needed to compile a rough script using my PC in the office which, as usual, meant suffering the inconvenience of having my train of thought interrupted every twenty minutes by Harry Evans and his interminable flow of football trivia. Anyone who knows anything about me knows I couldn’t give a monkey’s about anything to do with football but, even after nearly 4 years working in the same office, old Harry doesn’t seem to have learned that simple fact.
So there I was trying simultaneously to concentrate on pertinent questions to ask Julian whatever-his-name-was and to block out the latest annoying titbit about Man U’s last game or Liverpool’s chances in some European tournament I don’t even know the name of, when Joe buzzed me on the internal phone to go through to his office.
“Sorry, Jock. It’s off. Not just the interview with this Julian fellow, but the whole programme. The Legal boys have advised me to scrap it, at least for the foreseeable future. I know you’ve put good work into it, so sorry, and all that. It’s off. We’ll just have to get you a new project, OK?”
Well, that was the second time in two days someone had sent my life reeling without even bothering to explain why. Joe’s not the sort of person you get openly angry with, as he’s got the power to make you unemployed in seconds flat, but I still don’t take things like this quietly, do I?
“It’s off? Hey Joe, wait a minute. Three months I’ve worked on this. I’ve just spent the last two days typing solid. You said yourself the work I’ve done on it was good. So what’s the objection?”
“Well, I can’t really explain it myself. It’s complicated Legal stuff. The Crown has special Laws protecting it. I don’t know them but the Legal boys tell me there’s just no way we could make this program if it mentions the Royal Family in the same sentence as ’drugs’. And, like I said on Tuesday, without that angle there’s nothing really new in your material. Never mind, old son, you still get paid and we’ll get you a new project toot sweet, OK?”
As I said, Joe is just not the sort of guy you stand in front of and shout at, no matter how you feel, so I just twirled on my heels, stomped back to my desk and sat staring at my screen for half an hour, half-watching the screensaver bouncing around. I suppose if you had come up close, you might have heard a strong word escape my lips every minute or so. Mostly ’cunt’, as that’s the strongest one I know, but never loud enough to be clearly made out even by old Harry, 6 feet behind me.
Eventually I decided to make use of the company’s flexi-time policy. I’ve never done so before but I couldn’t imagine myself producing anything else of value that afternoon and I didn’t want to find myself deleting all that work I had typed in in a hot-blooded wave of anger. I didn’t even go to see Joe. I headed straight for the door and just as I passed Pam’s desk (she’s the receptionist and telephonist) I muttered the one word “flexi-time!” and stormed out.
I managed to do another whole bottle of whisky that evening. You’ll never guess what came on the TV about 9 o’clock while I was channel-hopping in boredom? That’s right. A BBC documentary on the alarming increase in the use of cocaine among the middle and upper classes of Britain. I managed to find an empty tape and slam on the video within a couple of minutes of it starting, so I could study it again when I was sober. Most of it was about coke use in the Stock Market. In fact most of the program centred around one young broker who explained that most of the action on the trading floor was created by folk like him, literally ‘whizz-kids’ who used coke to speed up their reaction times. The goal was to make a quick killing and retire before 30 with enough to see them through the rest of their lives. It turns out most of them do retire before 30, not rich but bald, broke and burnt-out.
Next day I didn’t feel like working. In fact I didn’t feel like getting out of bed before noon. From my bed I phoned Pam and got her to ask Joe if he had decided yet what my next project would be. He hadn’t so I said I would ‘be in touch tomorrow’ and went back to sleep. When I woke again, round about my third mug of strong coffee, I rewound the video tape and watched the BBC special on coke again. A nice idea came to me. If Shake-It wasn’t up to making the special using my research, maybe I could find someone with the bottle at the BBC or in some other independent company? Yeah, why not?
When my head finally cleared (I really shouldn’t do so much whisky) it occurred to me to go round to the Police Station and get my computer back. They had already had enough time to not only read every word in my system but to look up all the definitions of each word in the Shorter Oxford.
The officer behind the counter left me waiting 15 minutes while she went to check what was happening with my PC. The answer wasn’t what I wanted.
“I’m sorry, sir. The officers dealing with this case are not on duty at the moment. Your computer isn’t at this Station but has gone to Headquarters and I can’t tell you when they will be finished with their investigations. I’m sorry, that’s all I can tell you at the moment.”
“You’re not sorry for a second, bitch. You couldn’t care less.” That’s what I thought, but not what I said. I watched my own brother being arrested once, about 6 years ago, just for shouting in the Police station. Never mind what crime he might or might not have committed. Just swearing at an officer behind the counter was enough to get him a night in the cells and a suspended sentence. You won’t catch me making that mistake.
‘ Right-oh’ was my cheery response, then I got out quickly to let the rhododendron bushes hear the stream of ‘fucking stupid cunts’ that escaped from my lips. I mean, how can millions of pounds’ worth of cocaine change hands every day and our Police forces do nothing about it? There’s obviously corruption all the way up and down the line. If anybody with £100 to spare can find the white powder easy as falling off a log, how come thousands of Mr Plods search all day and find none?
I stopped off at the Paki’s on the way home and that’s where I first met the nutter. I’m just standing in the queue and this ugly little bastard next to me starts laying into me. “I know you. You’re the Beast. You’re that fucking pervert the Police are after. You’re a fucking Paedophile, ain’t yer?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about” I said, looking at the Paki and wishing he would just hurry up and take my money for the milk. But this moron beside me won’t let go.
“Fucking Beast. Somebody ought to let you have it. You should get fucking ripped for what you do.” Then he turns to the Paki, who’s had friendly chats with me for months. “This cunt’s a fucking Paedo perv. He fucks about with little kids. Should be locked up. Or fucking burnt.” The Paki looks at me, obviously wishing he wasn’t there, or that I wasn’t. After all he likes my money, but he doesn’t want blood spilt in his shop. He obviously doesn’t want to have to step in and defend me from an unprovoked attack.
It’s weird. I’m about 6 inches taller than the nutter, but he’s on one and can’t be stopped. “I’m gonna get you, ya fuckin dirty perv. You’re a Beast and you’re gonna die!”
Thank God, the Paki’s finally got round to taking my money. I’m shaking, as one normally is when one’s life is being threatened, but I turn to the little twat and deliver it between his eyeballs: “I’ve got no idea what you are talking about, but you should be careful who you accuse of what. There’s a law against that you know.” Then I walk out of the shop, but not fast enough to escape his next threat. “I know you, pervert. I know where you live. You’re gonna get it, ya cunt!”
As I was getting into my car, wondering if it was a complaint from this sub-human moron that led to the Police coming in and taking my computer, I realise that he’s seen and can identify my car. If I park it outside my flat like I usually do, it will act like a flag that can lead him to my door. So I parked it across the road, about 50 yards up, but I didn’t realise it was already too late.
After I went indoors, I pretty much forgot about the incident in the Paki’s. I was more pre-occupied with the idea of taking my Royal Family Member Coke Scandal to another television company. I decided to get back in touch with Julian, tell him about the set-back and assure him I would soon manage to find another buyer for his information.
“The number you have dialled is not available at present. It may be switched off. Please try again later.”
Alright, I thought, I’ll have lunch then try again. In the fridge I found the Beef Lasagne that had been on Special Offer at Safeway, two for the price of one. I pre-heated the fan-assisted oven, got one of the mini-meals out of its plastic wrapper, shoved it on to the middle shelf and set my little timer for 25 minutes. While I waited I wandered back through to the front room.
Seeing the empty table where my computer should have been gave me a funny feeling. Just when things should be going much better for me they were, obviously, instead going wrong.
From the little bookcase over behind my television I got last year’s copy of the Blue Book, the directory of independents in the Media and Arts. Back in the late 90s I had actually paid to have myself listed for one year as a Freelance Researcher. The entry had brought me precisely zero enquiries, so I never repeated it. Now, of course, I was embraced by the listing for Shake-It Productions, independent producers of Documentary.
Who would I take my story to? Best would probably be some operation about the same size as Shake-It, with a proven track record for successful controversial one-offs. Or should I go first straight to the top, the Big One, Panorama? Who does Martin Bashir work for, I wondered, remembering his notable successes in scandal exposes in recent years?
Speed-reading through about 80 of the blue pages I had marked a dozen ‘likelies’ or ‘possible’ with a red felt-marker by the time a ping from the kitchen informed me my lasagne was ready to eat.
Complimenting myself on my cooking abilities, which had only really started to develop in the last few years since my divorce (Heather was a great cook), I flicked through the marked entries again as I ate, attempting to organise them into the order in which I would approach them.
“Shit” I thought as I finished the lunch “I can’t do much without my notes. To make a successful presentation to anyone I’ll need to be able to quote names and facts from my research. Since I’ve become dependent on the computer my memory is not so precise as it once was. I need my notes.”
Oh well, I’d just have to go into the office and print out another copy of that 30 page presentation I’d given Joe the other day. Pity I didn’t have a copy of the script I’d typed up over the last few days, but I hadn’t a chance to copy it on to disc before the Police took away my PC.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I knew there was something wrong as soon as I stepped into the office. Old Harry was standing by Pam’s desk. The two of them looked at me with what seemed embarrassment as I entered, then went silent. I knew they must have been talking about me.
The surface of my desk was empty. The PC was gone. What the hell was going on?
“Oh Alan,” said Pam, apologetically as it sounded to me, “Joe said to tell you to go straight in. I tried to ring you this morning.”
“What’s going on?” I asked her, confused. She and Harry looked at each other in such a way I knew whatever the news was it wasn’t good for me.
“Just go through and see Joe.” she said. “I’ll tell him you’re here.” She lifted the phone and pressed ‘1’.
“Ah, Alan,” said Joe, with no warmth or friendliness, “Take a seat.”
“Take it where?” would have been my normal response but today there was no joke anywhere in my mind. I sat down slowly, clumsily even, wondering what the next shock was going to be.
Joe was far from his usual self. He wasn’t even looking at me. He was staring at a large round purple glass paperweight on his desk, just occasionally glancing up at me but without making direct eye contact. When he spoke, it was slowly, hesitantly, as though the words were hard to find.
“We…..ah…..had the Police in this morning. Ah…..Special Branch, I believe. They….ah….they’re investigating the….ah…attack that was on the news last night.”
“Attack? What attack?”
“Didn’t you see the news last night?”
“No.” I replied honestly, amazed at his inability to look at me.
“Oh,” he said, in a tone that seemed to accuse me of being a liar, “There was a……ah….serious attack on a 7-year-old girl……ah….over in Handston……ah….near where you live….and….ah…”
“They think that had something to do with me?” I burst out.
“Well….ah….they’re making enquiries and…..I don’t know why, but they wanted to know about you.”
“What? My personal life?”
“Yes, and…..ah….they had a warrant to take away your computer. Something about….ah…checking the hard disc.”
I was angry at Joe. The way he was speaking, I had already been found guilty. How on earth could he accept a story against me like that?
“Anyway…ah, Alan….I’m sure you realise that it’s important to keep Shake-It out of any….ah…scandal, if you know what I mean?”
“No, I don’t, Joe? What do you mean?”
“Well…ah….what I’m saying, really, is….ah….it would be better if you don’t come in to the office for a while. Ah….what I mean is….while these investigations are going on…..”
I made a noise something like “Pfw?”
“You’ll still be on salary….ah…at least, for a couple of weeks until….ah….we know more about…..”
“Joe! There’s something really heavy going down here!” The room was swaying before me again. “Somebody’s attacking me! This has got something to do with that guy Julian’s story and the Royal Family. I know it!”
“Oh, I don’t think it has anything to do with that, Alan. I don’t know why they are investigating you, but I’m sure it isn’t connected to..”
“No, listen, Joe. Since I came to you with that story everything’s gone upside down for me…like-”
Joe was rising to his feet, telling me that way that the interview was over. “I’m sorry, Alan, but….I’ve got the company’s reputation to think about. I’m sure you understand. Stay in touch. The officers said if they need to speak to you further they’ll get in touch with you at home, so…” His arm waved towards the door. Interview over.
I wanted to scream and shout and swear…someone had successfully knifed me in the back and I hadn’t a clue who or how. My mind scrabbled like a cornered rat frantically seeking escape. Joe had put his arm on my back and was pretty nearly pushing me out the door!
“Hang on!” I thought of something. “Just who were these ‘Legal boys’ you said you had to check with? You know, the other day?”
Joe still wasn’t looking at me. In fact, he was looking out the window, towards the new multi-storey building being constructed across the road. But he did answer my question.
“Davidson & Passmore. You know, everyone uses them. Just to make sure you’re not going into dodgy territory before you put out a programme. Anyway……”
“More like bloody MI6 if you ask me. I’m surprised at you Joe. Can’t you see this is just to stop someone pointing a finger at one of the Royal Family? Who really is guilty?”
“Sorry, Alan….as I say, you stay in touch.” He had opened the door and was pushing me out of his office.
Harry and Pam were looking at me like I was a revolting monster. I had to say something.
“Aw, you people fucking disgust me!” Then I stormed out.
I sat in my car without starting it, thinking. Yes, it probably was MI6, or worse. It just made me all the more determined to expose the Royal Family Coke Scandal.
I’ve never wanted a mobile phone - sometimes I prefer to be unobtainable. I went to a call-box, put a pound in and called Julian.
“The number you have dialled is not available at present. It may be switched off. Please try again later.”
Damn it! I wanted to do something about this immediately. I phoned Daffyd, at his home, and he did answer. I told him I needed to see Julian again right away and there was £20 in it for him.
“Oh, sure, Mr Duncan. I’ll go round and see him right away. Do you want to phone me again in half an hour, or will I phone you?”
“No, I’ll phone you. Half an hour.”
I drove over to the Old High Road, figuring that would be close to wherever I would meet up with Julian. I had a can of Fanta in the car while I waited impatiently for the 30 minutes to tick away.
Daffy was back in his flat to answer his phone at the appointed time.
“Sorry, Mr Duncan. I don’t understand it but he’s moved out. Done a moonlight.”
“What?”
“Gone, Mr Duncan. His landlady says he just vanished overnight, with his things. Didn’t even ask for his deposit back.”
“Have you any idea where else to get in touch with him?”
“Sorry, Mr Duncan, I haven’t a clue.” I was sure he didn’t as I knew how much £20 meant to him.
“Alright. Well, thanks.”
“What the hell’s going on?” I wondered, as I drove for home. This kind of stuff’s great when you’re watching some LA thriller on the telly. It’s not much fun at all when it gets this close to home.
I saw the crowd as soon as I turned into Campbell Street, still over a hundred yards away from my own wee flat. I’ll never again, as long as I live, take accommodation on the ground floor with windows opening directly on to the pavement.
Although the speedo might say I was doing 20, I travelled that 100 yards in slow motion, as in a dream, while the certainty gradually dawned on me that the crowd was in fact gathered around my own living-room window.
An angel on my shoulder told me not to even slow down as I got closer, far less dare to stop at my usual parking place….which was full of angry chanting figures. The only one I recognised was the nutter who had attacked me in the Paki’s shop the day before, when I popped in for milk to keep up my coffee addiction. (I like it white and sweet).
Without indicating, I wheeled left into Blythswood Street and pulled in to a halt just before the hedge on the corner obscured the view of my own building and the mob outside it, which seemed about 50 or 60 strong.
I switched off the stereo and wound down the window. (Technophile I may be, but I’ve never had electric windows yet). It was starting to turn dark, so it was easy to see that most of the neighbours were at their windows sharing the excitement. (Silhouetted by their own electric lights.)
Even at maybe 40 yards it was clear what the crowd were shouting. Half of them were chanting “Paedo! Paedo! Paedo!..”. Half were chanting “Beast! Beast! Beast! Beast!…” Even over that I could hear the ugly nutter I had already met shouting “We’re gonna get you, ya fuckin pervo beast!” It was obviously he who had organised this little calling party. I know it seems odd to the inexperienced person when they hear the phrase “my blood ran cold”. But no other words could better express the chill that came over me. The chill that accompanies the realisation that your life could end in the next minute or two.
Panic petrified me. A strange thought passed through my numbed brain, suggesting I should turn the stereo back on for a few more bars of Eric Clapton singing “See What Love Can Do”. The inspiration was quickly squashed with the realisation that I was lucky none of the mob had spotted me driving past, and it was best now to be invisible and silent.
It was darkening by the moment, as I looked over my right shoulder at the ugly scene outside my flat. Even above the thundering thudding of my heart I could clearly hear the crash of one of my front windows imploding. A huge cheer went up. I noticed Mrs Whatsit, on the first floor at number 22, move back from her window and disappear from view. Probably to call the Police, I thought.
A silly voice in my head began to repeat senselessly “What will I do? What will I do? What will I do?”
Half a dozen would-be mobsters passed me on the other side of the road, ugly blood-lust on their faces. I busied myself with some fake fumbling under my dash-board, avoiding eye contact of any kind.
In slow motion again I watched, numb, as Lead Nutter set light to a rag sticking out the neck of a bottle, then hurled it through the open space where my living room window used to be. Mere seconds later the faces of the crowd were illuminated by the flames roaring up in what, I now realised, used to be my private little pied-a-terre.
A strange thought came over me: “It’s been a long while since I was personally involved in such live excitement - not since Stuart and I were working together on VIP Services.” Followed within seconds by an even stranger thought: “A bit stupid having a back-up disc if you keep it right next to the computer, eh?” Then I began to think of the valued possessions that were probably already being consumed by the flames.
The crowd was now cheering and jeering. Mrs Whatsit re-appeared briefly at her window then vanished again. A few people at the outskirts of the mob began to walk away, obviously not wanting to be caught on the scene when the 999 emergency services eventually arrived, too late as usual.
I knew my life had now moved into a new stage, regardless of whether I was ready or not. No doubt about that.
“No point hanging about here. Nothing you can do now, except get into trouble” said the helpful angel on my shoulder. I agreed. Fortunately my old banger re-started first time, so I attracted no attention to myself. With one last glance at the inferno now visible in my former living room window, I was off . Limbs trembling, mind numb, I drove. And drove. And drove.
Next thing I was aware of was when I pulled into an empty space in the car park at MacDonalds on the Guildhall Road, switched off the engine and realised my body was trembling uncontrollably. I had just escaped being torched as a paedophile monster. Me, who likes nothing better than getting stuck into a woman my own age, in her 40s, and have never touched a child under 20 for any reason in my whole life….except maybe when I poked Millar in the eye in Second Year, after he head-butted me out of the blue.
Suddenly, and I couldn’t explain this to you, my mind craved a joint, a spliff, a reefer. Escape, by any name, in any form.
I had the terrible feeling everyone was watching me - as though I had a huge poster above my head proclaiming “Paedo Beastie” - while I robotically stood in the queue, ordered Double Cheeseburger and Large Fries and carried it over to the quietest corner in MacDonalds. I wondered if I had turned off the lights on my car. I took off my jacket and put it on my seat to show I hadn’t abandoned my meal, went out to the car park and checked. Yes, the lights were off, but I was sure everyone was staring at me as I walked shakily back to the table.
I had no appetite. The chips tasted like sawdust as I mechanically fed them to my mouth. When I got round to putting the burger between my teeth I wondered, for the umpteenth time, “What percentage of this is really beef, or even meat?”, trying to silence the other voice that kept thundering “What am I gonna do? What am I gonna do?”
If I had had a spliff, no doubt I would have been celebrating the “Paedo escapes torching” aspect of this unexpected adventure. As it was, straight, I was just thinking “The threat isn’t over yet. Where am I gonna go? What am I gonna do?”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It’s impressive how rapidly your wits sharpen up when there is a real and immediate threat to your life.
I had driven to the Services on the Ring Road, taken an unused A5 Reporter’s Notepad from the glove compartment and was now on my third coffee. I reviewed the facts as I had written them:
1. Someone wants me dead.
2. I don’t know who. Probably connected with Davidson & Passmore/Royal Family Scandal. Maybe MI6???
3. My informant has disappeared…..maybe dead?
4. I am homeless…don’t even know where I am sleeping tonight.
5. I am probably unemployed…or soon will be.
6. I don’t have any close or trusted friends.
7. The Police are after me…I’m being framed for some despicable crime.
8. I have lost all my personal possessions except what I carry with me.
9. I must not come to the attention of the authorities.
10.My car is traceable. Better get rid of it soon.
11. I can get cash from auto-tellers with my credit card, but that gives away my location . ‘They’ could put
a stop on my account so I can’t withdraw cash.
12.Where will I go?
13.What will I do?
I thought 13 was unlucky so better make it 14 with…..something….. anything!
14.Who can I look to for help?
I read the 14 points over and over again, expecting some sudden flash of inspiration. I cursed myself for my lifelong habit of burning all my boats behind me. I never just ended a relationship or close friendship. I had to end them with hatred and hurt, setting it up so they could never be repaired. My mind helpfully reminded me of proverbs like “How can you move unless you have a direction to move in?” and that great German one “What’s the use of travelling fast if you don’t know you’re on the right road?” Very wise, but not really very helpful!
On the 4th or 5th run through ‘the facts’, draining the coffee, I snapped into decisive action. Better get some things done before it got too late, then get my head down for the night.
I filled my tank with petrol, using my credit card, before leaving the Services. I drove to the nearest town, parked in a pub car park and walked down the High Street. No telling how soon ‘they’ might put a stop on my credit card, so better make as much use of it as I could before they do.
Fortunately these days you can use just about any credit card in just about any bank machine. My PIN is easy to remember - 1958, same as my birth-year. I can’t fully explain my reasoning, but I thought drawing one large sum was more likely to attract attention and trouble than numerous smaller withdrawals. I took £100 from each of the cash machines in that small town, so I soon felt much more comfortable with £800 in my pocket. I figured that was enough for one night, I could try again tomorrow. I also figured my actions may have already tripped an alert so best get away from that town immediately.
I got back on the motorway and wondered “Where to?”
Glastonbury!
Why? Well, the last close friends I had, probably the two closest friends I had ever had, were my brother Stuart and my wife Heather. When they had an affair, I was upset. When they moved in together I went crazy. I divorced her, disowned him and damned them both to Hell. That was 5 years ago now, and I hadn’t heard of them since. All I had heard was a rumour that some mutual friends had met them in Glastonbury when they went to the Festival, and that they were probably living there.
Oh well. It wouldn’t be easy meeting either of them again, but no other alternative was coming to mind.
I checked the road maps in my 3-year-old AA Member’s Handbook and decided the easiest course was to follow the Motorway to near Bristol then get more specific directions.
I love driving at night. Hot air blasting up from under the dash, cool music nicely balanced on the stereo, cruising along at 70. I find it easy to imagine I’m flying a light aircraft.
In this case with just a tiny tinge of fear each time I caught the glare of someone else’s headlights in my rear-view mirror. After all, who else can overtake you at 70 except the cops?
I pulled in at the last Services before Bristol for a final coffee, stocked up on cans of soft drinks, salted peanuts and Werthers’ Originals, then halfway between Bristol and Glastonbury, I stopped for the night in a quiet little country lay-by. The adrenalin had been pumping since mid-morning and I was exhausted, so I had no sooner wound the seat down and pulled the tartan travelling rug over me than I was asleep. My last thought was “I wonder which member of the Royal Family it is?”

* * * * * * * ** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * * * * * * * *
It’s a completely different kettle of fish roughing it in your 40s than it is in your twenties, the last time I had tried it. I woke shivering in the pre-dawn, overwhelmed by the stink of my own stale sweat. Even though it was almost May the windows were covered in condensation, inside and out. My neck ached, my back was swore and both my legs were dead. I had twisted and turned all night trying to find a position where the circulation to my legs was not cut off. There’s no way a 6-footer like me can get comfortable in a tiny 4-door family saloon. I ran the engine for 5 minutes with the hot-air blower at maximum before the chill lifted. I still felt more tired than before I had gone to sleep.
A strange déjà vu came over me as I first spotted the main landmark of Glastonbury. It’s one of those sights that’s clearly ‘once seen, never forgotten’. An oddly shaped hill with an incongruous stone needle at the top - the famous Tor. Even at 8 in the morning and a distance of maybe 2 miles there were clearly distinguishable if tiny human figures moving around at the base of the tower. If anything I would describe the feeling that arose in me as one of ‘coming home’. Yet the only time I had ever been in Glastonbury before was over 20 years earlier when, as a pair of hairy young hippies of 18 and 20 Stuart and I had passed through on a coach from Portsmouth to Cheltenham. Even then I had only managed to rouse myself from drowsiness enough to notice some brightly-coloured psychedelic flowers painted up the front of a building, thought something like “Far out” and gone back to sleep.
I stuck the car in a Safeway car park and sauntered into Glastonbury. The place appealed to me instantly, for colour and uniqueness. Even at that early hour the High Street was quite busy with colourful, ’alternative’ characters, many of them lugging rucksacks and sleeping bags. At least I wasn’t the only one sleeping rough around here. It seemed to be quite the fashion.
There were about 10 cafes within a hundred yards advertising colourfully that they served only the BEST pure OrganicVegan fare - at rather high prices. I’m not a faddist so I moseyed on till I found what looked more like a ’greasy spoon’ joint offering Full English Breakfast for £3-95. I sat by the window eagerly guzzling bacon, sausage, eggs, tomato, fried bread, mushrooms, toast, marmalade and coffee and watching the motley crew of hippies smiling, chatting and embracing each other in the street. Could be just the right sort of place for me, I thought, realising I would do well to get out of my expensive black leather jacket and into something more resembling the local ‘uniform’. Who knows, these Vegans might be so animal-rights conscious I could get lynched for wearing half a cow’s skin on my back!
I was half hoping my luck, so poor of late, might rapidly turn and I might spot Stuart, Heather or both - probably dressed in rainbow-coloured baggy woollen jumpers down to their knees - within minutes. I didn’t, though there were plenty of rainbow-coloured characters to inspect.
After breakfast, I strolled back down the High Street and plonked myself down on one of the benches outside the railings of the local church. I realised that the intense panic of the day before had mostly vanished. The £800 in my pocket was considerably reassuring and it was unlikely whoever might be after me would think to look here. I had no past links to Glastonbury. Neither Joe, Harry, Pam or any of my former neighbours had even heard of Stuart or Heather and there was no mention of them in either of my computers, or in the flat. Oh, sure, Heather was the subject of my unfinished (barely-started) novel “Gimme Gimme”, but I had been careful to change all names and locations from the real ones.
I realised I would not be going back on my tracks. The world I lived in up till yesterday was past and gone and I was now into a new one. I was, again, a freewheeling hippy ‘on the road’, looking for a new incarnation.
“Here for Belthane?” A friendly plump woman in her late 30s or early 40s with long grey hair and Eastern style clothing had sat down next to me. Not just at the other end of the bench. Her elbow was only inches from mine. I hadn’t a clue what she was asking me. It might even be she was trying to sell me some drug I had never heard of.
“What’s Belthane?” I replied, trying to smile and forget I was a wanted man on the run.
“You don’t know what Belthane is?” She seemed delighted to launch into an educational briefing. “It’s one of the ancient Pagan festivals that were traditional in England long before Christianity got here and tried to suppress them all.”
“Oh” I expressed interest which was, I suppose, quite genuine. It was, after all, the first time in living memory I had been approached and spoken to on the street by a woman who wasn’t a tart ’on the game.’
She re-arranged her sari - or whatever it was - and continued enthusiastically, sliding her bottom, as it seemed to me, a few inches closer to me along the bench. I didn’t know whether I was being picked up or proselytised into some new religion. It didn’t matter. I was enjoying it. I am completely unused to forward women (except Heather. Grrr!)
“Oh yes. They say Belthane is named after Bel, or Ba’al, the God of Fire. You might have heard of his other name, Beelzebub - though the Christians would tell you that’s the name of the Devil or Satan. Anyway, Bel is the God of Fire and we celebrate his festival with a bonfire. There’s a lot of good sense in the festival if you look at it closely.”
She had fixed my eyes with her own and her intensity made the street vanish somehow, so I was only aware of what she was saying.
“We always celebrate Belthane overnight between the 30th of April and the 1st of May. What we’re celebrating really is the final end of Winter and having survived it. Even the ancients knew that it’s extremely unlikely to get cold weather after this point in the yearly cycle and there’s no need to gather or hoard firewood for the next 3 or 4 months.”
All I could do was nod and let her continue. Everything she had said so far seemed quite sensible and devoid of any black magic nonsense. She was quite attractive in an indefinable way, even though she had obviously made no attempt to disguise the fact that her hair was grey from roots to tips.
“So, we celebrate Belthane with a bonfire, starting at sunset on the 30th. We throw on the fire all the deadwood we can find. That means literally all the dead wood that we can gather up around the fields and woods, but also the deadwood in our minds. We symbolically throw on the fire all our upsets and grievances and all the sadnesses we have accumulated over the long winter which is the hardest season to survive. Most people die in the Winter you know.”
Again I nodded. It seemed sensible and I had no information to the contrary.
“So we stop looking backwards at the hardships we have survived and we start looking forward to the good times we are going to enjoy. Belthane is, for the Pagans, the official start of Summer, the season of fertility and growth. Another way of looking at it is that Belthane is the arrival of the Goddess. It’s She who creates and supports all life and growth…”
I saw her nod to another middle-aged woman with long grey hair, passing us on the pavement, with a baby carried in a blanket wrapped round her upper half. There seemed to be an element of pride in her nod, as though she was pleased to be witnessed introducing another lost sheep to the flock.
“So another aspect of Belthane, apart from signalling the start of the season for planting and cultivation , is that it’s the start of the season for human procreation. In the dawn, when the Goddess has arrived in the form of the Summer Sun, couples of child-producing age who have jumped over the fire together during the night are hand-fasted by one of the Druids, then they can go off to…….”
“Hand-fasted?” I really had no clue what that meant.
“Oh…hand-fasting is the Pagan equivalent of marriage. You see, it was the Christians, the Romans, who imposed patriarchy on our culture, with their rules of life-long marriage to the one partner. That’s not natural, you don’t see it in the birds or the animals. Even though we tend to believe that all scientific knowledge just arrived in the last few centuries, people knew certain basic truths thousands of years ago, even before writing and reading. One of these, that modern scientists are only just beginning to discover, is that the longer a male stays with the same sexual partner, the more likely it is for the male genes to dominate in the offspring. Have you read a book called ’The Selfish Gene’?”
“No,” I replied honestly fascinated, “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Well, that’s a fairly recent book that says the main thing that controls and shapes our lives, although it is all unconscious, is the desire to reproduce our own personal genes. The DNA within each of us seeks to reproduce a new generation that is as near as possible an exact copy of itself. According to the book, whether we know it or not, that is what controls our social behaviour, our choice of partners and all sorts of things….”
She had noticed, like myself, that a colourful young hippy couple, somewhere in their early 20s, had dropped their backpacks on the pavement and sat down on the bench beside me, on the other side from her. They were obviously listening intently to what she was saying, though politely looking the other was as though engrossed in what was happening further up the street. That only encouraged her further. There was no stopping her now.
“Anyway, in a patriarchic culture, social and sexual behaviour is controlled by what is best for the reproduction of the male genes. Men seek women who are submissive and loyal, since the longer the couple stays together the more likely it is that the father’s genes will dominate in the off-spring. The 3rd or 4th child with the same mother is much more likely to be like his father than the first. Something to do with the fact that the DNA information in sperm is constantly being updated, while the DNA in a woman’s eggs is fixed for life even before she is born.”
“Amazing!” I said “Most people have probably never even thought of this sort of thing.” Equally amazing, was that the male of the hippy couple, whose hair was longer than his partner’s, had just coolly lit up a big fat spliff and my nose had just detected the unique sweet smell of skunkweed. My Pagan priestess didn’t even bat an eyelid.
“No. We probably all know this information, but on an unconscious level. Anyway, lots of researchers, particularly here in Glastonbury, have now uncovered evidence that before Christianity arrived our culture was actually a matriarchy. The women were overall in charge. Probably in the hunter-gatherer period. They lived together in a tribe, following customs that were tuned to the cycle of the seasons. It was the women who chose or accepted partners and all the children were basically brought up by all the women. And that’s what we’re really getting back towards with the re-establishment of Goddess-worship here in Glastonbury”
She obviously realised then that she might have digressed somewhat, as she continued, “Anyway, I was explaining hand-fasting. The idea is that a couple who propose to live together, at least to the extent of having intercourse and attempting to produce a child, have one hand tied to one hand of each other. They have to remain bound or fasted to each other like this for 24 hours. If they do, then they remain bound to each other in loyalty for a year and a day. I believe that is just so the mother can have protection and support through labour and the first months of the child’s life. If they don’t last the 24 hours with their hands bound and one wants out of it, the deal is off and they are each free to go looking for another partner. In any case, the relationship comes to an end after a year and a day and they are then free to either renew their vows of loyalty by being hand-fasted again, or they are each free to go and find another partner. You understand?”
“I think so. It’s amazing. In a lot of ways it makes more sense than lifelong marriage. If you have to keep renewing the vows or bonds, there’s a lot less likelihood of ‘taking for granted’, isn’t there?”
“Exactly. Anyway, Belthane is the traditional time for most people to get hand-fasted. If you go up the Tor on Sunday, which is the 30th, you’ll see that Pagans and Druids gather from all over Britain and even Europe for Belthane. Different orders of Druids have their different rituals and ceremonies, but there is also lots of drumming, chanting, dope..” (she could not help a significant glance at our hippy neighbours) “..and even magic mushrooms”.
“Well,” I said, “Thank you very much for that. It was very informative. You should write a book about it!”
“I have written a couple of books on these subjects. They’re down in The Speaking Tree.”
“The Speaking Tree?”
“That’s a bookshop just down there towards the Market Place. There are lots of good New Age books in there you won’t find many other places.”
“I must have a look.”
I felt grateful to her. It was the friendliest and most informative conversation (or lecture) I could remember ever having from a woman. I had a tiny glimmering of wonder as to whether she might even be looking at myself as hand-fasting material? Certainly, my worries of yesterday now seemed far distant.
“Here..” I said, remembering my manners, or perhaps starting to discover them for the first time, “Could I get you a ……coffee? Or something?”
“Oh no, but thanks. Maybe later. I’m actually just waiting for the Assembly Rooms to open, at 10 o’clock” She pointed down the street, but all I could see were shops and cafes. “We’re having a Goddess gathering before Belthane. I wouldn’t say men are excluded but you’d possibly feel out of place…especially if you’re new to it!” She laughed, and added “So I’d better get going. By the way, my name’s Serena, what’s yours?”
She had her hand out to shake. It was one of those funny handshakes where both hands are pointing upwards, rather than down. Her hand was warm and strong…and large. Like mine!
I realised in a flash I didn’t want to use my real name as I didn’t want in any way to invite the trouble I had narrowly escaped to catch up with me.
Anyway Serena didn’t sound like a given name, more a self-chosen one.
I hadn’t a clue at that point where it came from but I found myself saying, while squeezing her hand gently, “I’m Will. Nice to know you, Serena.”
Then she was up. “See you around then, Will.” Lovely smile. Good teeth.
“Undoubtedly!” I smiled back, quite genuinely.
Ten seconds later I noticed the young hippy to my left was holding the smoking reefer next to my knee, in a gesture that obviously indicated I was being offered a toke. Why not? When in Rome…..
Cupping the spliff in my hand I raised it towards my lips. It occurred to me I hadn’t used cannabis for over 5 years, since about half way through my divorce. What was I feeling? Fear? Optimism? Hope? Dread? I couldn’t say. Let’s just call it excitement.
I estimated there remained only 2, at maximum 3, tokes left on the spliff and thus my anonymous benefactor would not be expecting me to pass any of it back to him. So…..no rush (other than the rush I was just about to experience).
In the manner taught to me all those years ago when I was 18, I sucked heavily, locked off my lungs and prepared to hold the smoke in for as long as I could to maximise absorption. Whooosh!
I felt as though I had just been injected with warmth and happiness. I felt as though I was the sun, emanating heat and light in all directions. I felt like I had just been released from the dreadful heaviness of dying into the wonderful lightness of life. I felt a wave of tingling orgasms surge through me carrying their sparkling happiness into every corner of my aging body. I felt the one-ness of all life, my love for all creatures and their love for me. I felt a complete wally for having gone so long without this feeling. I felt I must laugh out loud or burst. I felt that I had to release my breath before I passed out.
When I did let my breath out, it was as a long bassy chuckle. I turned to the young couple, both now dazzlingly beautiful like characters in a Pre-Raphaelite painting and said, probably very loudly, “I must thank you, sir, from the bottom of my heart!”
“No problem. You’re welcome.” said my new best friend, adding “I’m Mark. This is Claire.”
“I’m Will,” said I and we all smiled at each other. I glanced around and I’m sure everyone in the whole street was smiling. I realised there were another two tokes coming my way, but no hurry. “I’ve got to tell you…I haven’t used this stuff for over 5 years….I know, very stupid, masochistic even…..but there’s an awful lot happening for me right at this moment …”
“That’s alright,” said Mark “You just enjoy it. Did you really not know that was Serena that was talking to you?”
“No.”
“Well, she’s really famous…in New Age Circles.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said, “Not surprised at all. Very nice woman. Very clever too…” I looked down the street and was just in time to see Serena, looking incredibly beautiful, turning into a previously un-noticed alleyway between two shops.
I looked at the remainder of the spliff, chuckled and began to sing…
“Ex….cuse me while I light my spliff
Good God I need to take a lift
From reality I just can’t shift
That’s why I’m hanging on this riff….”
Both Mark and Claire were now laughing too. Next I found myself performing a short medley…”Oh what a perfect day…….Lively up yourself, don’t be no drag!” Then I realised the burning joint would go out if I didn’t use it, so I raised it to my lips and took another long, deep drag. What followed was a long stream of lightning realisation and releases that would take a whole book to express in words, but I am sure you will understand if you ever really got high on cannabis. In a word…bliss!
It turned out there wasn’t a third toke for me, there was only roach left. It turned out that didn’t really matter, as I was flying eight miles high. So high I couldn’t even figure out how high that was in millimetres!
I sat there silent for what seemed to me a long, long time, with an inane grin from ear to ear that I shared with every passer-by on the pavement, more and more busy as the morning progressed. A tiny child proudly pushing his or her own push-chair gave me a smile that produced pleasure that couldn’t be bought with any amount of money.
Eventually I found I wanted to rap. Lots and fast. I wanted to express aloud the torrent of thoughts passing through my brain and thus share the happiness and realisations with the friends who had helped release them.
“Mark! Claire!” I began, “You know what? I’ve been taking it all far too seriously! Life was never meant to be as heavy and serious as I’ve been taking it recently….for the last five years actually. If you’re not enjoying it, what’s the point in it?”
On and on I went, in that vein, until it seemed I must have rabbited for an hour and it suddenly occurred to me I might be boring the pants off both of them so I pulled the reins in hard.
“Sorry,” I said, “How are you folks doing?”
“Fine, fine,” said Mark, “That’s top quality dope, as you know.”
“Do you two live in Glastonbury?” I asked, then realised it was a stupid question, considering the backpacks sitting at their feet.
“No, we’re just here for Belthane. We come every year. We’ve been camping up at the base of the Tor. Where are you staying?”
“Actually, I just got here this morning. I haven’t solved that yet. Is it easy to get accommodation around here?”
“You must be joking!” Mark laughed. “Glastonbury’s probably got the worst homelessness problem in the country. The authorities don’t want it becoming Mecca for hippies….more than it already is….so they don’t make it easy. You know, if London had the same percentage of the population homeless as Glastonbury does, there would be more than half a million sleeping rough every night.”
“Really…is it that bad?”
“It’s that bad. There are people sleeping rough up the Tor, in the Abbey grounds, in every alley, hundreds crashing on people’s floors or living room sofas, there are bender sites in the woods, then there are about a dozen illegal travellers sites outside the town…no, it’s not easy finding accommodation here and there are certainly a lot of people looking.” He laughed again.
“What about bed and breakfast?”
“Oh, there’s some, but it’s expensive…at least we think so.”
Suddenly, to our left, a young man with a pony tail but half-shaven head started playing bagpipes. Within a few bars I recognised “Scottish Soldier”.
“Busker” said Mark. “Glastonbury’s got lots of them.”
“Great!” I said, then got back to the subject. “I don’t think I’m up for another night of roughing it, at least not tonight. I slept in my car last night, and I woke up feeling sore and knackered. I can’t really take it at my age. I think I’ll look for a cheap bed and breakfast, at least for tonight, to get cleaned and refreshed.”
“Oh well,” said Mark, “If you can afford it. But then, if you want to stay in Glastonbury, you should probably look at something like buying a caravan on one of the travellers sites. Down at Middle Drove you can usually pick one up for £100 or even less, if someone’s in a hurry to get rid of it.”
“Middle Drove?”
“That’s a traveller’s site about a mile out of town. It was originally legal. The council provided them with water supply and toilets but told them they had six months to find somewhere else. They’ve been there for two years now. That’s where we’re going just now, to visit some old friends. We can take you down there and introduce you if you like.”
I just went on my instant gut reaction.
“That’s very kind of you but…err, I don’t think I want to do that today. I’ll get a B & B for tonight, and meanwhile have a look around the place.
I’m not even sure if I want to stay here yet.”
“Oh, you will. If you like dope that much, you’ll want to stay here. Everybody smokes it. That’s what Glastonbury’s all about.”
“Great. By the way….I don’t suppose you’ve got any to sell yourself, have you? I wouldn’t mind having a wee stash.”
“Sorry, Will, we only brought enough for personal. You know?”
“Oh, right.”
“But there’s tons of it about. You’ll have no problem. You can easily get
Soap-bar down at Middle Drove, £10 an eighth.”
“Well…from what I remember, I don’t think I really want ’soap-bar’. I would prefer that quality green stuff, like what’s floating around my body right now!” I laughed again. It was good dope.
Eventually Mark and Claire had to get on their way and I started feeling peckish for a spot of lunch. With assurances that I’d see them later, I waved them off but Mark came back a minute later and discretely dropped a few joints’ worth of skunkweed into my hand.
“You can let us have some of yours when you get it” he said.
“I will,” I assured him, “Belthane, if not sooner.”
My heart was warmed by that “One Love” bond of comradeship and unity that seems to exist between cannabis-users…..even if it is and always was just a drug-induced delusion.