In 1987 a close friend of mine died in police custody. This is his story. I’ve changed his name to protect the privacy of his family. It's part of my new collection of 20 autobiographical short stories:
Hoovering Ceilings - Life Upside Down.
Enquiries to: charlieadley1@gmail.com
***
Sometimes They Die.
You’re on the third bus of your journey across London, looking forward to seeing Jimmy feeling happy.
At last, after years of trying, he’s finally got his council flat swap sorted.
The small middle-aged woman in the seat next to you suddenly pipes up:
“On your way to work?”
“No, visiting a friend.”
“Who’s that then?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think you’d know him. Bloke called Jimmy Williams.”
“ ‘Course I know him. Jimmy Williams, as in Tom’s brother? Him who just got his council swap?”
“Yeh, that’s him.”
“Oh, he’s dead, that one is. Jimmy Williams, Tom’s brother who just got his council swap. He’s dead.”
“No, he’s not dead. He’s my mate.”
“Oh sorry but he is you know. Don’t know much, but I do know he’s dead. Seems he got pissed and wrecked a pub. Whizz-head, weren’t he? Snaps your bloody brain that stuff does. Yeh, wrecked this pub, then next day he never knew he’d done it, so off he goes, back down the same pub. Walks in, bold as bloody brass, asks what the hell happened here. Plain didn’t remember. They reckoned he’s taking the piss. You would, wouldn’t ya. Anyways, The Boys arrive down and before you can say shit, he’s banged up. Everyone knew he shouldn’t have gone for that council swap. The Boys was wetting themselves about him. Never made it to the hearing, he didn’t. Still, like I say, don’t know much.”
No.
Not possible.
Jimmy is a common name.
He’s a tall blond lad, with kind eyes that suppress a wildness, which often appears in his behaviour.
With plants and animals, though, Jimmy is exceptionally gentle.
At first you go round to his gaff, buy some of his newspaper-wrapped homegrown and bugger off.
After a few visits, you find yourself playing cards with him.
The way Jimmy talks about life is admirably crazy, and his stories of the road are strong and hard.
Jimmy knows all there is to know about growing marijuana in north-west London. You sit for hours, peering into the cupboard where he’s rigged up lights for his plants, while he talks of trace elements and humidity.
He nurtures those plants with the utmost care, looking to far-off November, when they will offer fully mature sticky flowers, devoid of seeds.
The next time you go to see him the plants are gone. The distinctive minty aroma of immature homegrown fills the flat.
“Where are the plants, Jimmy?”
“Smoked ‘em, Charlie.”
His oval furrowed face spreads into a charismatic childish grin.
“They weren’t that strong, Charlie. Would’ve been better to leave ‘em, s’pose, but got bored, didn’t I, so I pulled ‘em, dried ‘em and smoked ‘em. Got a buzz, y’know, but nothing special.”
Jimmy takes you to a pub where you can buy anything you want. You get some whizz, but Jimmy doesn’t seem happy.
“Dunno, Charlie, ‘s funny stuff, the old fast one. Don’t do nothing for me no more, not unless I put it into me arm, y’know.”
This comes as a shock to you. Half a gram of the powder dropped into a vodka on a Friday evening sends you righteously doolally for the rest of the weekend.
“Used to do it a lot, see,” explains Jimmy, “but it don’t seem to agree with me. I try to stay off it, mostly.”
Through the Winter months you sit on his ragged grey carpet, near his tiny electric heater, playing Gin Rummy.
“Dunno Charlie, someone like you shouldn’t be hanging around with someone like me.”
“Why not, Jimmy?”
“ 'Cos you’re cleverer than me, Charlie.”
“Ah, but you know more than I do, Jimmy.”
“Maybe I do, but that don't mean you’re not cleverer than me. Deal the cards Charlie, I can feel a Gin coming on.”
One day you find a belt tied in a loop on Jimmy’s bathroom floor.
“ ‘Ello ‘ello, what’s all this then?”
“Yeh, been a bit stupid, ain’t I? Got this here, didn’t I, see?”
He reaches under his mattress and produces a crumpled letter. It’s an injunction, forbidding Jimmy from seeing his children.
You know he has two kids, but you never ask, ‘cos he never offers to talk about them.
“Oh Jimmy, why? Why now?”
“It’s her, innit! She’s got herself a new man and she don’t want wild-boy Jimmy getting in the way. I used to go down and hide in the bushes, see, and watch ‘em leaving school, yeh, but they knew I was there. Bloody bush wasn’t big enough, was it! Never spoke to ‘em or nothing, just wanted to look, y’know? Got herself a new bloody man now, hasn’t she. Don’t want me to be their father no more.”
Your middle-class liberality is offended.
“But you are their father, Jimmy! You’ve got rights like she has. You can fight this! Surely this isn’t the end of the road.”
“Nah, Charlie, got form, ain’t I, see. Nothing spectacular but it’s enough. A bit of a punch-up when I was 19, and then I got done for the lead off’ve the church roof too. Trying to be Jack-the-bloody-Lad weren’t I. Done me time, but oh they got my file, and, here, look, here’s a picture of 'em. It’s from about three years ago now, but see, that one’s me daughter and that one’s me little boy. Well, he was, like, ‘til that bloody letter come."
“No Jimmy. They’ll always be your kids.”
“Yeh, well tell me this, Charlie, eh. What bloody use is it having bloody kids you can’t bloody see? Eh? So Steve come round and we mainlined some whizz. Ain’t proud of it Charlie, but that’s the way it is, y’know. That’s the way it bloody is.”
Jimmy can’t get a job or see his kids because of his form. Trapped in a council flat in a wealthy London suburb, he dreams of a house transfer back to Hayes, where his family lives.
Sadly nobody wants to swap their affordable life in Hayes to live in Jimmy’s pricey neighbourhood.
Jimmy has a big addictive hole, which he tries to fill by exploiting his garden to its full potential.
Onions.
Jimmy says he’s going to grow onions, and the next time you see him the whole garden has been turned over to onions. Hundreds of them.
“Lovely, Charlie. Build up the liver, onions do. Build the liver and clean the blood.”
Like everything that Jimmy grows, the onions flourish, and then he eats them all, every single one, by the plateful.
My god his breath stinks, but his skin glows.
Potatoes.
Jimmy says he’s going to grow potatoes, and the next time you see him the whole garden is turned over potatoes. Hundreds of them.
“Lovely, Charlie. Vitamin C in the skins, roughage and carbs. And they’ll taste a bloody sight better than them onions!”
The potatoes grow, large and prolific, and Jimmy eats every single one.
Next you find him digging a deep round hole.
“Ducks, Charlie. Know someone who’s got ducks. This is going to be their pond, see?”
Off you go together to visit one of Jimmy’s many mates, Comic scenes ensue as you both career around, trying to catch a pair of ducks. Eventually you manage and Jimmy puts them in a VCR’s cardboard box.
Jimmy is over the moon, striding along the street with the ducks thrashing about in their box.
He has recently read several books about ducks.
“As it ‘appens I know quite a lot about ducks, Charlie.”
“Tell you what though, Jimmy boy. Be bloody funny if The Boys pulled up now and asked us what we had in the box. ‘Oh no, Officer, it’s not a VCR, it’s actually a couple of ducks, on my mother’s life!’ ”
Jimmy roars with laughter.
Through plane tree Autumn leaves the late afternoon sun shines dappled gold.
It’s a gentle moment of joy shared with Jimmy that you treasure.
By November Jimmy’s ducks have flown and he is out in his garden, a blur of hammer and nails, building a wire fence.
“Lop-eared rabbits, Charlie. Brilliant they are. A mate of mine’s got seven. Bloody great they are, lop-eared rabbits, Charlie. You’ll love ‘em.”
The rabbits arrive and thrive. Jimmy knows them all by name, even when their numbers grow, but soon there arises a conflict of interests.
Jimmy’s built their wire run around the edges of the garden, and in the middle built a greenhouse.
He sits feeding his beloved rabbits by hand.
“Now look here, you lot, this is the deal, see. You listening? Right, now see that greenhouse over there? That’s out of bounds, right? You can go anywhere you like, but you stay out of there, right? Deal is, stay out here and I feed you. Get in there and you feed me. Right? Fair enough?”
Rabbits are notoriously disobedient. They burrow into the greenhouse, and devour all the marijuana plants.
Always a man of his word, Jimmy offers you a plate of rabbit stew.
“Sorry mate. Never eat anything that had a name.”
“Fair enough, Charlie, I respect that, but it’s your loss. With all that gear in ‘em, you get a fair buzz off’ve eating the little perishers. Stupid bloody things.”
Years pass and Jimmy tires of trying to find benign ways to feed his addictive cravings.
There is always the whizz and, more and more, there is always the whizz.
Then one day, when all seems hopeless, he ushers you in with a fabulous smile on his face.
“Bloody got it, didn’t I Charlie! Got my transfer through, didn’t I? Geezer come round yesterday, says he wants to swap! Lives just round the corner from me old Mum, don’t he! Just round the corner, Charlie. Bloody fantastic, eh? I’ll be right there, with all me family and all me mates. You’ll still come round and see me though, won’t you Charlie?”
“Course I will mate. Brilliant. Can’t believe it!”
Off the bus, you wander the labyrinthine lines and circles of identical houses.
Eventually you find his new flat.
Swallow from a dry mouth.
Knock on the door.
He’s out, probably visiting his mum.
You start talking out loud to yourself, alone on the streets of this sprawling housing estate.
“Right Chas. What you’ve got to do is go down the Nick and find out.”
The copshop air reeks of cheap pine disinfectant.
The Duty Sergeant looks up Jimmy in his book.
“Oh yes, Jimmy Williams. Died on his way to hospital.”
“Why was he on his way to hospital?”
“I wasn’t on duty that night … sir.”
“Please go and find someone who was.”
He looks at you with profound contempt and goes out the back.
Another one comes out.
“What exactly seems to be the problem, sir?”
“My mate, Jimmy Williams. Trying to find out if he’s dead, and if so, what happened. Jimmy Williams. Tell me. Tell me what happened.”
“Oh, Jimmy Williams? Yes, found dead in his cell. Terrible shame.”
“But the other one said he died on his way to hospital.”
“Ah, did he? There you are, then. Now, is there anything else, sir?”
You beat the counter-top, weeping, yelling for someone to tell you what happened.
An older one comes out and the others leave.
“Now then, sir, what’s seems to be the problem? Calm down sir. Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“I don’t want tea. I want to know what happened to my mate.”
“Not a lot to know really. Shame, young bloke like that. We got him into an ambulance, quickly as possible, but he died at Uxbridge General Hospital. Such a waste.”
Back outside on the grey damp drizzly streets, you whimper and sob.
You have to call Dave, up in Yorkshire.
Oh god.
Over the road.
Red phone kiosk.
He needs to know and you need to stop feeling so bloody alone.
“Dave mate. Charlie. Got some bad news.”
©Charlie Adley
29.01.2023
