Vanity. Ares

Kofi Boamah

Vanity. Ares

a novel

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© copyright of Kofi Boamah

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Vanity. Ares

a novel

Kofi Boamah

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Part I

Chapter 1 — Genesis, Noise From Above (Is it

God?)

I don’t know why I was in Marseille. At that

time things were in a daze and these happenings

amounted to my life. I had been sleeping on

Gerard’s settee for a few months and made no

headway in any of my scams, cons or tricks. I’d just

spent the time earning a pittance in a few jazz bars

and clubs: the trombone is not always seen as the

sexiest of instruments. Gerard would always say:

“Why don’t you learn how to play the piano?”

I would act as if I were entertaining this

possibility (gentle nodding), but I wasn’t. A man in

his mid-twenties learning a new instrument well

enough to receive money from the playing of it was

just not something that was particularly possible in

my eyes. As usual, I would smile and tell Gerard

that it was a good idea, mostly because I could sense

his irritability at my presence more and more; There

was less milk in the fridge available to me, I enjoyed

meat and this was in short supply as time went on.

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In the beginning it was all meat and milk,

but the manna stopped falling from the sky and I

was becoming the third wheel, especially in his

girlfriend’s Martinq’s eye’s— a small an petite

brunette. No, she did not try and mask her disdain

for my presence — she disliked me and did not

mind letting me know. “When will you leave, it’s

been a while you know?” she said, and that was the

second day of my arrival to Marseille. I told her that

I needed time and I did.

I knew a few different confidence tricks that

I used quite well in my time living in Manchester,

but my French was not so good, so these tricks

lacked the necessary confidence in order to

succeed in such matters. I knew Gerard from a

friend of a friend — a man named Carter

introduced us when Gerard was in London, years

before. He is a blues singer and we quickly became

friends, we often gigged together and there was a

feeling of a debt owed as I once lent him six

thousand pounds. A real tidy sum of money that he

needed for reasons I never quite knew, but I liked

Gerard and being that I saw him as a smart guy I

knew that in one way or another I could use him.

That is one thing that I’m not, stingy; as an orphan

I had always the necessity to get used to things

changing and sharing - the upside of moving

around a lot. The downside was of course the

multiple families I had to endure and endure did I

have to.

I remember one family that rarely did much

else but hit each other; the Father hit the Mother,

the Mother hit the Son, the Son hit the Daughter

and the Daughter hit the cat and it was like a

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domino game of chaos. I lived in that house which

was just off Clerkenwell Road for eight months and

they were eight months quickly etched into my

neurosis.

After a few weeks of gigging at a few stops in

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Marseille, I realised it was a dead end. Having made

my way there in order to perhaps settle there, I

knew I could not. Although the debt owed to me

had been paid back years before by Gerard, he

knew that it was only right he took me in. It was

actually a lot of fun to begin with; me and Gerard

would spend time and he was very amiable and a

lively sort of character at that. I guess you could call

him my friend, but I don’t really know what that

means. No, perhaps we were friends. Martinq was

of course irritated that he was distracted away from

her: gauged from the kissing of her teeth when told

that we were going to a gig or such and such. She

had very nice pair of breasts Martinq, I would

sometimes study them when she came into the

living room and I thought highly of them. But, her

disliking of me seemed rather hasty at first, as I had

giving her nothing to really dislike me for, or so it

seemed. But, she would ignore me when it was just

me and her in the apartment, and if she did speak

it was to grunt something to the effect of: “You are

here.” I would have patience because I was there,

as she asserted. But I did not know where I was, in

the real sense of the word. No, my life was

completely formless at that time and I had started

to think that it should take some sort of form, or

structure. I had thought that I should go back to

London, perhaps after a gig where there were

simply what can be described as a non attendance.

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I remember looking down from the stage to see a

man in a cream trench coat and another haggard

looking old lady, with bags underneath her eyes

eating a glazed chicken. I collected my pittance

and knew that the bar owner was stiffing me out of

a few Euro’s due to my lack of French, I tried to

argue but felt I could not be bothered. I took my

trombone and walked back towards Gerard’s.

Gerard and Martinq had a fiery relationship

— they would argue endlessly about any such

thing. I could hear most of their arguments,

usually about who would turn the light off at night.

That was their favourite argument. “...It's your

turn, I gave you two blow jobs,” Martinq would

say. “You do it with no real belief, lazy,” Gerard

said once, and on they would go for perhaps half

an hour when I assumed Gerard would get up and

turn off the light, as I would hear a man’s groan

and then the light switch turn off. They also had a

very frisky sex life; they were very loud when

having sex. “Pull my hair, twist me,” Martinq

would yell. Curiously they did not care about my

presence in that regards. They would sometimes

finish a session and come out of the room to chit

chat, sometimes about the weather, sometimes

about Boris Vian or Segre Gainsbourg. Gerard

loved Boris Vian just as much as myself.

In terms of my sex life, I had a few

rendezvouz’s, but just random one night stands, I

was not that un-satisfied in this sense. But, one

night after me and Gerard had finished watching

Paris Saint German on the television — It was a

Champions League match and they had beaten


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Spartak Moscow, so Gerard was in good spirits

when the match was over. He would always call

me, ‘Greeko’ when he was in a good mood,

unoriginally because I was simply of Greek origin.

Well, I knew it was not original, but homelessness

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did not attract me much, therefore the gimmick

had life. So I was Greeko and when there was an

issue of chipping in I was back to being Ares.

But, that night maybe it was the booze; I

had drunk at least a bottle of cheap white wine

and Gerard had drunk the same, or perhaps more.

He then said: “Greeko! what do you think of

Martinq?” I said, “She is nice, nice breasts.” Our

other conversations were mostly what Martinq

deemed vulgar. “Is that all you guys think about?”

Martinq would say. Myself and Martinq had a

strange relationship by that time; she had walked

in on me taking a shower one day and although

her disdain still seemed apparent — the cutting of

eyes and questions of when I was going still

continued, but she seemed to indulge in a sort of

enjoyable villainization of me; I caught her on two

occasions after the shower incident smirking when

talking to Gerard about me. I even remember one

time she said: “...Maybe Ares should become a

pornstar, then he’ll earn some money maybe.” She

spoke with an irony, and I would have thought

about her words at the time, but again I am not a

fan of homelessness. No, I thought it was just a

weird tick Martinq had; a way of endearing to

people. But after the match Gerard did ask me

what I thought of her, and then proceeded to

insinuate that perhaps we could have some sort of

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threesome. I was indifferent to the idea, but I felt it

would be rude to refuse. They did not provide meat

or milk, but a roof nonetheless. I wondered of the

territory we were stepping on as Gerard spoke with

his mopy, curly hair and his denim shirt, but I

agreed as I had not much on, my mind was inclined

to the fact that I would have to make my way home.

Home is where the hatred is, said Gil Scott Heron,

one of my favourite artist’s and it was, it was...

I had no real reverence to London, but I

thought perhaps I should make my way back. But, I

had no real pressing concern to leave. Although

before I did end up leaving myself, Gerard, and

Martinq did indulge in this aforementioned

threesome. Yes, I was ushered into their bedroom

and we did all have intercourse. I for a time sat on

the bed and watched whilst Gerard and Martinq

had relations. I remember I was deep in thought

about how I was going to purchase this salami

sandwich from a few bus stops away. It had a thick

layer of cheese and I always noticed that the guy

making the sandwich would use fresh bread; not

the kind you would buy from a supermarket but the

kind you would purchase from a baker: that

impressed me. But, my mind was troubled just as

much as my financial situation was. However, that

night ended with me back on the settee, and the

next day came. I woke up and had no gigs that

evening and just a small remnant of an idea with

Gootau, a Senegalese born Gambler that I had met

on a night out. We were discussing using internet

shops to get account information and purchasing

mobile phones and socks. He was seemingly


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obsessed with socks: “In Senegal, if I corner the

market on socks, I will be a very rich man,” he

would say, whilst tipping his burgundy hat. He

had a big pair of white front teeth and a burgundy

hat, it seemed that he loved that hat; he would

wear it every time I saw him. Like his charms, his

face was a little off. I guess it was the wonky nose

and skin that was very terse, a rough face he had,

but gentle eyes — which was one of the reasons I

trusted him. That was an important part of being

into scams and such, it gave you an ability to size

people up.

Yes, Gootau was okay by me. I remember I

had just gotten off the phone to Gootau, after

telling him that I would meet him later, when

Martinq, who was a Law Student at the time, came

into the living room. Surprisingly, she did not cut

her eyes or ask when I was leaving, she just sat

down on the edge of the settee, where my duvet

still sat, quietly. The night before seemingly

strangely normal, as if a gentle stroll down

Montpelier. Gerard had gone to work, that office

job he would always speak ill o,f, shaking his fist

anytime he mentioned his boss, and the day ahead

seemed quiet.

Although, Martinq did not speak to

me kindly when she did speak, that had not

changed even though I had given her a good

rough handling the night before, even to the point

where I wondered if I had rogered her too

thoroughly, as I really put on a show. I thought I

was invited so I might as well cordially give a good

show. I did not think much else, even when I

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woke up, I had forgotten about it. Gootau then

called me again and I remember taking a quick

shower and telling Martinq that I would be back

later, she did not groan or speak roughly, I even

remember she said something like: “I’m cooking

some chicken.” My mind only caught her words

when I was on the street and walking quickly to

meet Gootau. Unfortunately, Gootau had nothing to

really say: “My friend Winston, said he would bring

the socks man, no mobiles and no socks man...” he

said in his African accent. I think he saw me as

someone he could use to speak to the police if he

fell into trouble, he seemed to constantly mention

that I looked white: “The police don’t bother you, if

they try and bother me, you can tell them I am your

friend, you look white, you alright,” he would say on

a number of occasions. I agreed with him (but was

indifferent inside), assuming he had some sort of

problem with his passport or Visa. I really did not

care much. But, upon hearing that Winston was not

going to bring us any goods, I left Gootau and

actually took my time. I walked through the park on

my way back to Gerard’s. I sat on a bench listening

to a Jazz session of Boris Vian, and wondered

whether to go and see Jean, a bar owner, about

performing. My wallet was extremely unhappy with

the choices I had made in life; if I had a penny for

my thoughts I would have been in a deeper

recession than the EU was in at that time. I spent

quite a lot of that afternoon in that park, thinking.

I then went back to the apartment and could

smell the cooked chicken from the hallway

entrance. It was a rich smell. I hoped Martinq would

give me a slither or at least a good bite, as I had only


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eaten a burger that day. Funnily enough Martinq

offered me a plate full of food, I ate it happily and

drank down a little milk even. I assumed the

threesome built bridges perhaps normal

discussion could not? I did not know. Although

we did not talk as I ate, as she seemed to be

studying. But after I finished my milk Martinq

simply said in broken English: “I like your dick!

it’s even better than Gerard’s, his has a strange

arch that I don't enjoy...” I did not know what to

say, but I thought as we had been acquainted the

night before that it was perhaps ‘Kosher’, I

remember thinking. So I thought after the

chicken, and the milk and the lack of apathy, that

it would have been rude to refuse her use of my

tools. I saw it as just a tool. So we went in the

bedroom as I had done the night before and again

I had started to give her a good rogering, yes a

solid rogering that we were both fully immersed

in. Before Gerard came into the bedroom. “What

is this?” he yelled. I turned my head and looked at

his face and said: “We had a little chicken and she

wanted a little going over,” I did remember using

the word: “going over” because that is what it

seemed, it did not seem like some sort of "affair",

at best it was bad scheduling perhaps. But, an

"affair", no! It was nothing of the sort, I had no

feelings for Martinq and we spoke more in the

time we had intercourse than had we spoken

since I had arrived. But Gerard did not see it as

any such thing. He was incensed and me and him

got into a mighty fracas; of course he threw the

first punch and I threw a right hand that seemed

to have knocked him out. I put my clothes on and

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gathered my things.

“Get out of here, you loser!” yelled Gerard

when he got up off the floor and Martinq was

holding some tissue to his bleeding nose. I tried to

get to the bottom of how I acted wrongly, but

Gerard seemed unable to see parallels from the

night before. It seemed strange that my meat was

kosher the night before, even when he left the

room to get himself a drink. No, but as he was not

there that afternoon as Martinq and I were having

intercourse, allegedly it had developed into an

affair. It seemed rather confusing, as I would have

understood his stance, but at the time I even

remember having flash-backed memories of him

saying: “Slap her harder, teach her a lesson.” Yes,

those memories wafted into my mind as I was

packing up my trombone. But, It seemed I had

overstayed my welcome. He even threw a few of my

things out of the window. I slept on Gootau’s dirty

floor that night and then took the train to Paris in

the morning. As I tripped and hurt my leg I went to

a hospital in Paris after getting off the train and

then spent my last bit of money taking the Eurostar

back to London. I left France feeling like a nomad

from having nowhere to call home, which brought

back memories of moving from orphanage to

orphanage throughout my childhood.


Chapter 2 — Prequel, A Lack of Fine Art, The Stage

Location

I knew a few people and one in particular

was a landlord I knew I could outwit, at least until I

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could get some money together, perhaps gigging I

thought. But I got to Hackney. Just off Pembury

Estate there was this house where I knew a few

junkies had lived and I guessed been turned into

some low rent housing. I got there and managed to

persuade the landlord that I could pay with a

cheque, of course the cheque would not have any

money on it. But, it bought me time, at least two

weeks I guessed, to get something together. I

moved into this run-down flat that made me dream

about the Western hemisphere of London; greener

pastures.

But this destitute version of East London is

where I had to stay. When I entered I firstly

noticed a little red book with the word’s;

‘Quotation’s from Chairman Mao Tse Tung’ which

slightly explained the Chinese noodle smell in the

room, as I assumed it was left by the unfortunate

person that lived there before me. The book was

sat on the right on a dresser table in behind a

television that looked like it was built in the

prehistoric days before digital set boxes, smart

phones and high speed lap tops. I soon came to

find out that it was actually an analogue T.V —

which explained the fuzzy phosphorescence when I

would turn it on, hoping to watch the Simpson’s or

any other type of cartoon, because I never really

had the chance to watch many cartoons throughout

my childhood. I blamed this on being an orphan,

an official nomad by birth right.

After throwing my trombone and Adidas bag

on the dusty floor (which I had accepted was my lot

in life and all my belongings) I then remember

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laying down on the bed, and feeling slightly at odds

with the world — as I had left France in such a

huff and ended up in a place with no chicken or

casual threesomes after football matches; just a

squalid flat full of outsiders, me. Perhaps I fit right

in, but that did not help me sleep at night in those

conditions; all grimy, with dim bulbed lights and a

very loud fridge. The room smelt of dust, though it

was simple; a bed, a desk, a microwave, a kitchen

sink that seemed to make noise when the room

bedside me used theirs, the old T.V set, the dresser

with the red book on it and a cupboard with only

one hanger. It was no fancy chateau by any stretch

of the imagination; no art on the walls or Persian

rugs, but it was okay I guessed.

I wrote down some ideas for scams, and

thought about ways in which I could retrieve

money. I had an idea to start some sort of pyramid

scam, as I still had a suit; a navy blue suit I got from

an alcoholic in Marseille: gambling debts will price

down an expensive suit, even to twenty Euros if I

remember correctly. Perhaps, thirty Euros maybe.

But, I thought I would go down to the Jazz Clubs,

for a start; perhaps give the crime a rest for a

moment. I slept that first night and the next day I

made my way to my old stomping grounds —

Ronnie Scott’s down in North London.

After a few weeks, I played perhaps two

nights a week regularly, but I had also signed-on,

which gave me the feeling that I was slowly dying; a

slow death, full of bad breath and forms. I was

struggling: I only ate twice a day sometimes, and


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had no money to even gamble or move around

much. A few club owners paid me over the

counter, sometimes a hundred, sometimes fifty,

but I was simply living hand to mouth. I paid the

Landlord Gordot, but the initial wait offended

him; upon taking my cash he kept saying: “People

like Brandy pay in advance, sometimes two weeks’

young man, and look at who I have living here.”

As he spoke I could see the disdain in his eyes

from the grimace on his old wrinkled face. I told

him that some rent is better than no rent as I had

asked another tenant in the building Beckett, if

there had been anyone living in the room before

me, and he said it had been empty for at least

eight months. So I used this to my advantage and

Gordot seemed to accept that I had a slight point.

I then quickly gauged from Gordot’s words

that he was quite familiar with Brandy, another

neighbour that seemed to harbour the same

feelings; casual hate — as I would say hello when I

saw him walking up to his room and he would

mutter some sort of response and always be too

busy; sometimes scratching his bald head or

sometimes eating. I did not know why Brandy

would take such an instantaneously cold stance,

but after a few weeks I had heard from Beckett

that he was an ex-military soldier that got hooked

on drugs, and apparently one day I had walked in

the house smoking some weed and he had

followed me in just as I had entered and this made

him dislike me; along with me failing to pay

Gordot my initial deposit and rent on time,

allegedly.

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I did not think that this was enough to

dislike another man, especially since out of the

eight people living in the house I was probably the

least dubious, well in my eyes, especially in regards

to drugs. Beckett, smoked at least Marijuana,

perhaps even dust or Crack; I smelt something odd

from one of his joints as we walked to McDonalds

one day. But I did not complain, I was not there to

win a pageantry, but I did like Beckett and he was

quickly becoming an ally of some sorts, as I would

also let him into my room and we would chat

about random topics; sometimes life and its

meaninglessness (usual hipster chat) and other

times he would talk about Anais, his girlfriend, in

humorous ways — like one time he told me as she

was so gullible she had believed him when told

that if she spun around in a circle high on drugs

that she could die. He told me that he would play

games with her alluding to him committing suicide

in such a way, after smoking what I assumed was

weed, but I wondered if other drugs were involved

too, and she started to cry when he spun in a circle

thinking that he was really going to die. I thought

Anais had to be written off as stupid, but I met her

one day as I came back from an afternoon walk and

she did not seem so dumb. Instead she just

seemed polite as I remember we had a long

conversation about the Olympics and Usain Bolt —

she said she loved Usain Bolt and that black guys

were so exotic, before telling me that she was born

and raised in Leeds. “There’s not many up there,”

said Anais of Black people. I said, sure but thought

it was strange that she was speaking about black


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men in such a way, being that Beckett was the

complete opposite: a tall, scrawny, bum looking

white guy in his twenties — his moustache and old

tweed jacket that he seemed to always wear gave

me such a bad impression.


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Of course, it would not have taken Freud to

deduce that she had a slight penchant for the

“Exotic” black man and all that “thrust” as she put

it herself. “Their thighs look like they can really

thrust,” she said, seeming to just speak without

much thought. As she spoke about 'them', I

wondered if I was attracted to her, but I

concluded that although she had a rather nice

body that I thought was voluptuous — thick

thighs, which made it apparent that she probably

did not miss a meal — I was not so attracted to

her, as I found her skin perhaps too milky white

and her face childish, too round and full of

youthful innocence. When I added that Black

people had good genes, she did say, with a

childish grin: “Yeah a lot of them wear Levi’s.” I

found this quite stupid, but again polite rather

than totally stupid at that time, I gave her the

benefit of the doubt. Eventually we parted ways,

me into my bedroom and her bobbing up the

stairs perhaps to Beckett, maybe awaiting her with

more pranks in mind, I assumed, as he seemed

very jaunty and bubbly; always ready to be

distracted, perhaps with a trip to the shop or some

weed. It seemed he had some sort of job in the

local Tesco Supermarket, but mostly he hung

around the house a lot; they lived right above me

so I would hear noise much of the time when I

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was in.

Chapter 3 — When It Rains It Pours

It’s funny how nature seems to resemble

human nature; because when it rains it does in turn

pour; as well as living in squalor I had lost all my

money a week before I had received that pittance

from the government. It was 4:1 and I had put all

the money I had left on that Horse. Dancing Rain,

was the name of the horse, it came second to last

and meant I was not doing as his name alluded. I

left, walked back to my room, which seemed all

topped off when it did begin to actually rain. I got

back to my room; four walls, noises from up above,

(no not from God) and a loud fridge lacking milk,

lacking meat and in turn an empathy for my

happiness. I remember vividly deciding that the best

thing to do when you have not much on, is sleep,

yes, I just slept with thoughts on my life, my

happenings.

Life creeps up on you slowly, like a thief in

the night; somewhat frustrating like Jesus. It

promises its arrival: ‘I will cometh the hour,’ says He

(life), according to the pitiful knowledge I have of

Jesus Christ, and then mostly you just wait. When I

was young I was most fascinated by religious folk

speaking in tongues, once upon a time—It was my

fifth-tenth birthday and I had just moved from the

Bushs’ or whom I quickly deemed as: ‘The Family

of Hitter’s’ which I hated and always wondered why

they had fostered me, I suspected for the sake of

extra child benefits. After the Bush family I moved


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to a mixed race family near Leytonstone or maybe

Walthamstow, called the Olatunde’s. Apparently, I

was to stay at the Olatunde’s until I was eighteen,

which was the golden age for an orphan — the time

when life’s turbulence became your sole propriety;

yours and not the government’s. Nonetheless, I

moved into this new house with the Olatunde’s.

They consisted of a white mother, called Cher, a

black father, Olu and two daughters — Estelle and

Cecil.

Estelle and Cecil were both older than I. I

think Cecil was sixteen and Estelle was about to go

to University so maybe she was eighteen, I don’t

really remember. But, I was happy to be there,

perhaps as happy as an abandoned orphan could

put on, though happy nonetheless. Cher, who had a

great round face, and Olu fostered children mainly

because of their love for Jesus, and for that I

allowed my apathy and teen angst to appreciate

that. On my second day of arrival me and the whole

family went to a church, quickly noting that Mr Olu

Olatunde had a strong influence on his family’s

lifestyle; he was a devout Christian apparently.

The service was long and arduous, yes the

preacher kept repeating himself: "And God came

through!” The sentence: “And God came through!”

seemed to be bandied about throughout the service.

Where within, there was a woman, wearing a red

hat, talking about some sort of problem with

money, where she had lost some money, something

to do with something I missed because I was

looking at Cecil’s young breasts sat next to me,

jiggling of youth. But, I did remember thinking that

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for the complexity of the woman’s story, it seemed

like she had made some sort of illogical mistake that

was perhaps less to do with God and more to do

with just making silly life decisions, I remember

thinking just that. Anyway, the lady in the red hat

finished the illogical story with the words: “And

God came thru!” It seemed like common sense

came through, but apparently it was Jesus. When

that lady finished her testimony the preacher said

Amen and there begun a deluge of sound; at least

half the congregation begun speaking in what I

came to know as tongues: “Hmmmmgagvavida,

obolkindabolindaobolinda, hmmmmgagvadia,

obolkindabolinda, somannan sway!” I heard. I

wondered of the authenticity of those speaking in

tongues and thought: was it really brought on by

this Holy Spirit? I was not sure, and that perhaps

concluded my thoughts on God at the time; Yes, my

view was that I was not sure.

But it was fascinating to watch and extremely

fascinating to actually to listen to some parts of the

preacher’s sermon’s at those times. He would speak

with such vigour, and such veracity that sweat

would drip down his little black face, and he would

summon the back of his voice after he’d loudly

cleared his throat and sometimes whispered for

dramatic effect; “The shadows of God are a

mystery,” he would say with a hissing sound at the

end of the sentence, always a hiss that did add

emphasise to his words, as I would remember it. It

was riveting to watch and gave me a lot of insight in

the way the human mind works, in some regards: of

people’s wants and giving them what they desire.


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This was definitely a skill that was harnessed

through going to Church with the Olatunde’s. I

realised that people have a need for illusion, you see,

whether you fully believe or not, as I remember after

Church a few weeks after I had arrived; Olu had just

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given his lungs a good session of speaking in

tongues, and we were on our way back to the house,

walking. Cher was saying something about how she

did not really understand why a black woman at

Church, an Usher, seemed to have a chip on her

shoulder as apparently she would always attend

Church without a smile. “That Black woman is a bit

hostile sometimes, probably why she is always

looking for a husband. She could smile a bit,” said

Cher. Then I remember Cecil, looking at her Father

and interrupting her Mother half laughing, to say:

“In your tongues I heard you say: hmmmmbalala - I

willa watch that tonight - bmmmmababalla. Dad do

you know what you’re saying when your speaking

like that?” I then thought Cecil was going to get a

telling off as Mr Olatende was very strict; he didn’t

allow his daughter’s to listen to the Rap they would

seem to talk about all the time: Nas is so cute this or

did you hear that ‘She Said’ song by Ludacris, and

they would begin to sing the lyrics in laughs and

giggles: “She said she was Christian she was brought

up in the Church! In the Chuuuch!” Mr Olatende

looked puzzled from the frown on his forehead, I’d

imagined he would say something stern perhaps

detecting the obvious sarcasm in Cecil’s words, but

he then said something I will always remember;

“What you believe is always true, regardless.”

Although, like Cecil and Estelle I was not

25

particularly keen on Church or Chuuch as they had

nicknamed it, I have always remembered those

words over the years and that wisdom. I stayed with

the Olatende’s until I was seventeen and it was

appreciated, though me and Mr Olatende fell out

when he caught me smoking weed in my bedroom

and of course he reacted angrily. Funnily enough

he did not catch me doing the array of other things

I would do to Cecil. As Cecil would soon, after I

arrived sneak into my room in the middle of the

night, maybe after the second week and we would

have sex and pillow talk. She liked to bite me. It

was actually quite nice, but a few months into our

arrangement she got this older boyfriend from

Chingford and the late night sessions would stop. I

felt teen heartache by this. Although, by that time I

actually met an older woman just before I turned

sixteen, so it was not so bad, the teen heartache.

The older woman’s name was Claire, she was 31

and a divorcee. Claire had big breasts and a pop

belly. She worked at the betting shop off

Leytonstone High street, and as I flunked out of my

GCSE’s I was mostly just bumming around on my

own and sometimes with a friend, Ronnie.

Ronnie mostly spent his time trying to

become a minor gangster, having been influenced

by the movie Scarface; he would speak about

Scarface all the time. But I was on my own when I

met Claire. We met in the betting shop; she helped

me put on a few bets and kept accidentally

touching my thigh. She was happy she had

someone she could use, I guessed. “Good you’re

around,” she would say, when I’d go to her flat. I


26

would sometimes stay in the beginning, and

Ronnie mentioned once that Claire was a

pedophile, but I didn’t really see it that way; I

thought if this is a crime count me in, because she

would want me to have sex with her for hours,

and she sort of took me under her wing, in a

sense. Spending time in her flat learning how to

please such a woman. Hey, I had nothing better to

do and that was another reason for entering into

the life of gambling, cons and scams; I had not

much on really. Especially after Mr Olatende

kicked me out for smoking weed and ironically

not for doing everything imaginable to his

daughter. But, after being kicked out, round about

the time I was seventeen, I went to live with Claire

for a while and worked odd jobs; in a music shop

in Walthamstow and a for a short while before

getting fired, at a florist on Leytonstone high

street.

The florist was owned by this lady called

Magdeline and I found her wretched; old and

bitter, she would nag incessantly about any such

thing, I would mostly ignore her. She even

wanted me to learn all the names of the flowers,

which I actually would try and do, though not as

enthusiastically as she would demand because the

complaining would still continue. But this was not

what led to my sacking; it was a Saturday and I

had turned up to work two hours late, my excuses

could not garner any belief within her and she in

turn fired me. "I've had enough of you, and you

always get my Roses mixed up with my Lilies, I've

had enough, you're fired!" yelled Magdeline.

27

The day I got fired I put a bet on Leed’s FC

wining and I won. On the days I would go to school

years before this point I would enjoy the music

classes, where I tried to play the school’s trombone,

therefore, using the money from the bet on Leed’s

I decided to buy a trombone and learn how to play

it. At the time of collecting my winnings I did

wonder whether to try and visit the country a care

worker had told me my biological parents came

from (Greece) because I wanted to just see it.

However, in the end I bought the trombone and

took it back to Claire's, whom I was living with at

the time. Claire was ok, a bit of an alcoholic; as she

would drink and in a drunken rant would

sometimes sing Velvet Morning by ‘The Verve’ with

anti-Semitic slurs; “Ares, you filthy Jewface!” she

would yell, which I found strange as she actually

grew up Jewish, but of course was a lapsed one,

hence the drunken slurs. However, for all intent

and purposes I enjoyed her, I would perhaps feel

obliged to use the word love, if I felt normal, but I

don’t know what that meant; I’m not an Artist:

Sure I had begun to play the trombone, by that

time, but I didn’t really know the intricacies of

life’s meanings.


But, the act of our relationship did perhaps

resemble love; there were hugs and kisses,

thoughtful hints — like Claire would leave me

some whisky, and she would help me with bets and

things of that nature. I remember on Sundays she

would always go down the Antique shop on the

high street and sometimes I went with her, and

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watch her buy bits and pieces I simply deemed

junk. "It's the little stuff that matters Ares," she

would say. Usually I replied, "Are we going to be

any longer?" "You've got no imagination," she

once replied and I guess she impressed upon me

an insight into the reality of growing up, as it

seemed that one's imagination would reduce as

the years passed by, but from Claire's perspective

it increased. She told me that she had spent a

little time in a madhouse, and I would notice that

she was open to acting on a whim. This was

apparent after one day sitting in her flat drinking

with her and her neighbour Bobby, whom had

such a large nose that I would find it difficult to

not be distracted by it. "Do you want to try some

B?" said Bobby (B being for Heroin). "Sure, let's!"

replied a drunken Claire, in a fashion that was as

casual as can be, and so casual that I thought that

if I were not there she would have gone along

with this plan. I of course stopped her in her

tracks as for me the buck stopped at Cocaine:

Heroin was just going too far.

Bobby soon left and I made sure that

he rarely came to drink with us again. Apart from

this whimsical strand to her character Claire was a

simple person to get along with, being that she

mostly enjoyed watching television. We would

watch Eastenders and this would add a structure

to my life I probably never had before this. I of

course wanted to be out and about making

money, but I enjoyed those times, mostly because

it added a calm to my life, and as we watched in

silence nothing was expected of me and this

29

allowed me to enjoy her company throughout those

years. Although, she had a six year old son called

Blake, a pesky terror I hated, as when I was

learning to play the trombone, which was what I

did a lot in Claire’s apartment, Blake would hassle

me and pull at my leg. Thankfully I was able to still

learn the Trombone, regardless, and within a year

or so after I’d moved in I started playing in a few

bands in Jazz bars in London. I learnt the

technique from the guy I bought it from also and

enjoyed playing it, although it did tire my lips.

Soon, I even started to tour Britain and the

world, with a Band called, 'Sordello'. But, not

before Claire had passed away; Yes on my

nineteenth birthday, as Claire was leaving KFC,

according to the police she was a eating a chicken

wing and holding the bucket and licking her

fingers — she was quite uncivilised, all the alcohol

I deemed — and as she crossed the road a brown

Vauxhall Tigra crashed into her and killed her on

impact. My emotions perhaps resembled upset; I

had a strange feeling in my stomach I could not pin

point upon hearing the news. Claire had eaten her

last wing...

But, the band Sordello was going on a tour,

funnily enough a few days after my nineteenth

birthday and the death of Claire. So I did go, but

left feeling a little unsure of myself; I don’t know if

I was distraught, no her Grandma was distraught.

Her Grandma quickly moved into the flat and

luckily I had the gig with the band and was going

on the tour across Europe, as Claire’s Grandma

hated me and told me to leave and that I was a


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“Goy!” and an “Uncircumcised gentile!” she said

whilst even spitting once. "You Philistines throw

your wad anywhere!" she added for good

measure, just before I left the flat. Of course I

had places to be, so I left. I wanted to take

flowers to the funeral; a morning glory or roses,

as Claire did in fact like roses, and KFC chicken,

unfortunately, but my life took me away

physically and the flowers were never laid at her

funeral, and in a way my mind had no chance to

conclude this issue.

Now on the tour, I got close to the sax

player, Rambone, a posh, gregarious fat fella who

was a great conversationalist, and was well read

too, particularly in poetry as when we went

clubbing and toured he used to recite poem’s by

famous writer’s and one in particular struck me,

he said it was by “Esteban Aurelio” and it went:

'Bit divisive I am.

Often asked if I am indecisive,

As I was unsure,

read the saws;

So now can I see?

Start a religion:

Tithes and offerings key,

For Churches where hospitals should be;

A bird in the sky is fanciful to me...'

I think that poem stuck with me most because he

told me that the Poet had won a Noble prize for

literature, and at that time I was uneducated in

every way so this spurred me on to find out about

such things. Rambone lent me some of his books

on the tour, and after that point I read a little, but

31

soon found that knowledge was full of semantics. I

remember reading a book of poem’s Rambone had

given me by a writer called Tristan Tzara, whom

Rambone had told me was of some sort of

movement called Dada, I read a poem of his called

‘Proclamation Without Pretension’ and I remember I

said to Rambone; “I just don’t get it; What the hell

does; “We are in search of, the force that is direct pure

sober.” actually mean?” “The Dada movement is all

about anti-art dude it’s like proper cerebral, read a

bit more, you’ll get it," said Rambone, "but I know

you’re just into moolah and tits, big juicy tits...” He

was right in the last extent; I was mostly interested

in women and money really, I found other things

saturated in these two desires — such books

seemed a reach for me, at the time, but I remember

amusingly thinking that Rambone was weirdly

juxtaposed and eccentric, because of such things he

would say, some of which I would feel was going to

kill me with laughter and then he would say

something completely poignant. He taught me a

lot; when he would explain the meaning of poems,

it seemed that Rambone knew so much. Therefore,

being that I knew Rambone to be cultured, I would

also listen to him speak, and especially to women

whom he would speak to very easily and with so

much wit, it was hard not to pick up tips. Most of

the time, he would always tell the women that he

was “interested” in them in his posh London

accent; “...I am really interested in you,” Rambone

would say when talking to a girl in a Swiss Bar or a

receptionist at one of the Hotel’s we would stay in

throughout the tour, and he rarely went to bed


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alone.

I enjoyed the tour with the Sordello's

mostly because my trombone had always made me

feel free, and also because of Rambone. Myself

and Rambone did in fact became quite friendly

and we even decided that just me and him would

stay in Italy, Rome for a while, playing in a club

where he knew the owner, one Fabrice. It was our

last stop for the Sordello's (the band) and the rest

of the bandmates went home. The time spent

touring was really my education; I learnt about

people, I learnt about myself and I learnt about

life. I did think about Claire from time to time;

taking on a firm dislike of course for KFC

Chicken, but otherwise I tried to move on and I

somewhat did.

I would sometimes talk to Rambone about

this eternal quest, in a sense, and he would say

such things as: "I am agnostic when it comes to

happiness. It's like Kafka's 'The Castle'," he said,

"You should read that too." A very cultured

person Rambone, at the time, half the things he

said were a blur.

I soon met a guy named Rafaele Xavi in

Rome maybe two weeks after me and Rambone

both moved into this flat rented by this bohemian

Artistan guy (Rumi), that would just let us all

sleep there as he didn’t care whom he lived with.

It was crowded with lots of Artists and so it was

not really ideal in my eyes, but somewhere

nonetheless. Though, myself and Rafaele Xavi

had met at this small Bar called Mexico City in a

corner off of a place called Via Della Pace, that

33

myself and Rambone would sometimes go to.

Rafaele was there and rowdily drinking with three

or four women. Me and Rambone got talking to

him and he was quite gregarious as he started to

laugh and joke with us about the women he was

with, funnily enough. Rafaele would speak in

English, though bad English as he was Italian and

not fluent, but spoke well enough to only have to

speak English to us. He sat on a stool at the bar,

maybe a few yards from where me and Rambone

stood. The ladies seemed to be enjoying Rafaele’s

company — smiling and laughing around him and

drinking the drinks he would buy them. He must

have overheard me and Rambone speaking

English as he turned to us and said: “The women

only wanna de one thing, and they are lika suga to

a honey, look at this one,” said Rafaele smiling at

a girl with beautiful long brown hair for her to

smile back, totally unaware that she was being

laughed about. Or maybe they all were aware, and

they just enjoyed the fact that Rafaele was

spending money; buying them drinks. But, me,

Rambone and Rafaele got talking, I was

particularly interested in where he had bought his

black leather jacket, as I took a liking to it. I asked

him where he bought it and he then told us that

he had basically finagled it from a man, stealing

from another man; a somewhat ironic crime

within a crime, like inception but with sweaty

Italian men with hairy chest’s and Tony Montana

dreams.

So it became apparent that Rafaele was

indeed a criminal, and what we soon found out, a

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

34

con man. We got comfortable and sat in a corner

with the girls, one for each of us and a spare, my

one perhaps being the least attractive; as her nose

was as big as a cheap pub Sunday Dinner, all the

extra’s and an arch to go with it, but I cracked on.


AA

Rafaele was wild, I remember that night he

snorted cocaine off one the girl's breasts and

poured a Vodka Martini over his hands to cleanse

them of his sins, he joked, wildly too. “I giveda the

happiness, they giveda the money,” Rafaele would

say, expressively emphasising the words with his

hands. He taught me a lot of tricks; tricks for

poker, tricks for impersonating people, tricks to

get people to you believe you.

There was one time me and him were

walking through the City and we saw an Artist, a

painter on the side of the street standing next to a

large canvas with a picture of a bird on it — a

yellow background, red bird, sunset and water —

I thought it was a nice picture. It was apparently

painted through the use of a muse the artist

explained: “It’s all about the Empyrean, thesa the

signs leading to God,” said the Artist, fixing his

yellow hat, before continuing to speak, but in

Italian, turning away from me (Perhaps he sensed

that I was not Italian) and concentrating more on

Rafaele, who was in fact becoming friendly with

him — smiling and conversing with a friendly

level of eye contact; the type you have when you

are at the level above just a quick stop and chat, I

thought. Mind you I was just watching but hearing

small bits I could understand and was only told

what happened once it was over, and me and

35

Rafaele were walking away.

Basically, Rafaele liked the painting and

thought he could perhaps make a little money

from it. He explained to the painter that he was a

curator mainly for this gallery in Milan, and even

gave the painter the correct name of the gallery

and told him that he could get the painting a

commission as another collector that lived in Bari

would perhaps like it, as the colours reminded him

of Rothko Rafeale said. Raffaele added that he was

actually going to see the collector that lived in Bari

that coming weekend and that the painter should

give him the painting to take with him. At first the

painter was reluctant, I could tell from his body

language as I noticed this point and slightly

followed what was happening. The painter stepped

back and kept saying: “E Costoso! E Costos!”

Which I knew meant: it is expensive, referring of

course to his painting. But, then Rafaele’s

explanation seemed so plainly honest, to me even

at the time, so much so that I forgot that it could

have been a con. As Rafaele’s explanations seemed

to get more and more long winded and spoken so

quickly, that it seemed to verify what he was saying

as a default, in effect. As I stood, in retrospect, I

could see the intricacies of the transaction being:

How could a perfectly sane looking man, dressed

as well as Rafaele (Always a nice white shirt, and

Armani Jeans with the logo on the pocket) be

telling the painter such lies so freely and easily?

Well, that is what the painter concluded as after a

few minutes of this, I made out him remove his

yellow hat in a sighed fluster and then saying; “Ok


36


A

ti sembra di guardare affidable, hai detoo che sei di

Bolagna troppo?” Basically at the time, I knew the

word seem (sembra) and reliable (affidable), so I

made out that the painter said I can trust you, your

face is ok and I also noticed the word Bologna.

Rafaele kept saying Bologna, which then

provoked he and the painter to then have a long

discussion about Bologna, that I was keenly

observing, trying to interpret what was happening

and it seemed to be so full of camaraderie; back

slaps, laughs and even some type of football chant

towards the end: “For Bologna Ale, For Bologna Ale,

We will always be with you, Come on Bologna Ale…”

The painter and Rafaele sung the chant quite a

number of times, the painter perhaps taking the

tenor pitch — a higher pitched voice —and Rafael

more of an Alto pitch as he had a rather deep

voice, but it wasn’t a restrictive one, as it always

seemed just as flamboyant as his personality. They

were laughing and joking by this time, for the

painter to then give Rafaele the painting still in

high spirits and smiles, and off we went down the

road. Me and Rafaele walked a few metres of ear

shot of the painter, who I saw was still stood where

we had spoken, looking towards us momentarily

and smiling from the corner of his eyes.

I said to Rafaele: “Nice painting, I did'nt

know that you Curate.” “Whata ya mean? I justa

made it up,” replied Rafaele. I was in shock; I

could not believe how believable a person could

be. Then Rafaele basically explained that he

started to work on the technique for conning

artists a few year’s prior, as he knew a few Art

37

buyers in Milan, and that he could get at least five

hundred thousand Lira, maybe even six hundred

if he put on some nice chat: “You know these

Artists are all so dey wasa da word,” I remember

Rafaele started. “They are vain. A little sugar on

their lips, olive oil, parmasean, they’re Artist’s they

will make their own meaning. All raabissh!

Alway’s about de money.” “But, you were so

detailed I had no idea you were telling lies.” I

remember saying. “Ares, Ares, Ares, you’re da

younga, you donna know dey way da lifa work;

when you want something you make sure you tell

the lie, make ita longer with places, people, things

and they will understand,” Rafaele replied. “I will

teacha you.” “But, what about Bologna did you

really live there or something?” “Fuck Bologna!

I’ve never been there before, I only know it from a

friend and the football. I am from Emilia

Romagna, I am Parma till I die! Bologna.

Raabish!” That was my advance course (I like to

think of it) and introduction to the world of cons

and scams, through Rafaele; I had been only felt

like beginner before that.

Me and Rafaele after that day did quite a lot

of scams together, some involved using me as

tourist; where I would let him take pictures and as

other tourists would see that Rafaele could be

trusted, this would in turn give the tourists the

confidence to hand their camera’s to Rafaele and

sometimes me for pictures — pictures in front of

the Coliseum, the Pantheon and we even did a few

in front of the Palazzio Farness — Basically, Rafael


38


A

or I, would run off with the cameras and a few

camcorders, even. The tourist's would usually

stand with their mouths open, in disbelief when

Rafaele would scuttle away — he had such a bow

legged run — and I would in turn tell them that

there was no point going to the Police.

Some of the Richer tourists would shrug, as

Rafael bow leggedely run off, and then they would

shake their heads and walk off. Life went on for

them. But once, near the Coliseum, a Russian

tourist that Rafaele had just stolen their camera

from, actually chased him for apparently forty five

minutes — Rafael said he played hide and seek for

forty five minutes — Moscow breeds tough people.

The brother of the girl that chased Rafael told me

that they were from Moscow and that life was hard

in Russia. I said that I was sorry and walked off.

Was I sorry? Karma was something I wondered of,

though I don’t think I really knew what that meant.

Perhaps I found sorry pointless. Sorry really does

nothing, so I usually did not feel anything. Even

then, sorry felt like a cop-out you only use to save

face. An orphan has a diminished view in regards

to reputation up-keep and saving face, especially

being that my life had been chequered.

I eventually left Rome after drugs had taken

a considerable toll on my lifestyle; Cocaine was my

choice of drug and its allure was an altar I had been

praying at for a few months, when in Rumi's

apartment not paying much attention to anything,

as I think I was playing with the camera that I was

39

beginning to use to take pictures, I heard the sound

of the front door open, I turned my head and there

was Mario Amara, strong chin, greasy hair and 5"3

worth of Napoleon complex with a grudge — He

was a Sardinian guy that myself and Rafaele had

got into a disagreement about drugs and a stolen

Art piece; which was actually by that time stolen

from another thief, funnily enough — there was a

pattern here I suppose.

It was probably the cocaine I knew I

shouldn't have gone for that second bag, but Mario

Amara just shot a revolver and a bullet hit my right

arm, I started screaming belligerently rolling on the

floor even more dazed from the concoction of

gunshot wounds and Cocaine. I along with the

camera and the Cocaine then hit the floor as blood

oozed from the top of my right arm. Mario was a

bottom feeder with slight mafia ties, and

unfortunately an old looking revolver. Rumi — the

guy that owned the apartment — and a few of the

other housemates got into a fracas with Mario and

he ended up scuttling away, apparently. They drove

me to the hospital and it seemed karma had

decided that I would need to leave Rome, which I

did, though I lived to tell the tale. And I was okay,

but I could no longer strut about Rome in the same

fashion, I even think Rafaele had swanned off to

Parma a few days before too, Rambone told me he

had got into some trouble with a few well known

criminals at the time and wanted time to clear the

air. I would often think of Rafaele Xavi, our paths

failed to meet again. Even Rambone was shook up

by the whole gunshot affair and ended up leaving


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to eventually become a War Correspondent I

heard, years later from a fellow Sordello member.

He always seemed the sanest crazy person I knew;

risking his life in an orderly fashion of this

chosen occupation would be fitting for him. After

Rome I spent a little time in Montpeliar,

Manchester which was interspersed with time in

London and eventually Marseille before I arrived

back to London again.

Chapter 4 — Maria & 'Rude Intrusions

After the loss at the races, and that horse;

Dancing Rain failing my wallet, I knew I had to

gig more. I had to make more money. So along

with a few gigs at Ronnie Scott's, I started to gig

at 606 Club. That was the time when I met Maria;

a gorgeous brunette, breasts perky and young,

upon meeting her I’d instantly assumed that she

was 25 or maybe 26, as she had a face full of soft

skin, a small nose and an attitude — yes a big

attitude; the first thing she said to me was; “I

know we’re playing together, but I hope we’ll be

doing just that, and that only. I don't want you

staring at my ass.” I told her I did not know what

she meant, whilst my eyes moisturised her butt

checks, but I knew inside; An attractive girl gets

hit on more than she is able to dish out respect

for men. Plus, I did in fact want to try my hand at

Maria, but we started to become friendly, instead,

of course this was driven by her.

We gigged one Sunday and went for some

drinks after the gig, nothing happened and I took

41

myself back to my room; four walls, noise from

above (not God), and that Sunday passed,

uneventful due to Maria’s diligence and protection

of her flower, her good spot, her sweetness. At

that time, I was still unpopular with quite a few of

the residents of the house. I knew this because

Beckett would fill me in on that next Monday

morning, in which the night previous was to be

honest spent dreaming about Maria. On the

Monday, Beckett told me that Carly, a rather butch

lesbian that lived on the second floor hated me. I

sighed and realised that it had probably started

that night when Beckett had a few people over to

his apartment room: there were a few druggy’s in

attendance — I could tell from the tract marks on

a few of the guys arms and of course there were a

few of Beckett’s friends from within the house.

Carly was in attendance and she was talking to

Anais, Beckett’s girlfriend, about something I

could initially not work out, as I stood near the

kitchen sink, drinking a beer and eating a great

slice of pizza: pepperoni, barbecue sauce, extra

cheese. I remember telling myself to savour the

food because I was running out of money at the

time, as usual.

As Anais and Carly spoke I then overheard;

“Can you believe that Amber just forced the dildo

in, she is freakishly strong, I was really upset with

her, it’s like rape, isn’t it?” said Carly, before I

moved a little closer as it did pique my interest;

yes it was interesting as it seemed unusual: a

female raping another female, this seemed

strange. “She just acted like it was ok, but it’s not


42


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okay, and now she’s just over there talking to your

boyfriend like it’s nothing, jerk,” Carly went on in

her American accent, which became more

noticebly recognisable; I did note that I had never

been a fan of that type of accent. But I gauged the

scene; they were talking about Carly’s lesbian lover

Amber, whom Carly lived with and looked very

attractive; slim, big breasts, a nice oval shaped

face, small features and soft olive skin — I think a

mix of Italian and black. Upon seeing Amber for

the first time, days before, I wondered what she

had against the penis; what had the penis ever

done to her? For her to turn her back on the those

with them naturally attached? But as it stood she

was Lesbian and in this relationship with Carly,

where according to what was being said as I stood

eavesdropping next to the sink, that she had

allegedly “raped” Carly when sex was unwanted

and that was the picture I got. I found the use of

the word “rape” unfortunately placed in the

vicinity of such a conversation. I remember

thinking instantly that “rape” was a word

completely misused in this context, even if it was

intercourse that was not fully cordial.

Carly committed the crime of being

unattractive in my book: all box like and nasally,

which made me think that she should be grateful

for some action. Plus, I was not convinced rape

could not involve a penis for that matter. So I said

as much, slightly accepting that I was butting-in,

but trying to joke around a little, and shed a little

lightness on the scene: “...If Amber is raping,

generally, tell her she has volunteer victim right

43

here, right now. She can rape me up as much as

she needs to,” I said, trying to be amiable. I

thought it was a funny joke. I remember Anais

chuckling at the words, but Carly seeming

unimpressed, butchly slouching her shoulders and

walking to another side of the living room with a

grimace, as if I had interrupted her interview with

Oprah. She was upset with me, but I thought we

had patched things up, when myself and Carly

later that night spoke and I apologised, although I

probably did not mean it, however I told her that it

must have been a misunderstanding. “A

misunderstanding?” said Carly. “Well, is rape not a

man thing?” I said, just off the cuff. She replied

that I was out of order and that feminist’s fought

for years to remove such prejudices. “Such

prejudices,” I remember Carly saying. I found this

shocking, that a woman wanted equal opportunity

even in regards to rape! Rape! I would have

thought they would want to devalue the female

rape, if it exists, but she seemed to differ.

Though at the time I thought we were offay,

as I remember then telling her that she was right

and then a little later laughing at the same time

when Beckett came to tell us another story of

Anais’ dippyness — of which the polite impression

I first got was slightly waning by that time, though

not totally; she still had the detritus of the benefit

of the doubt. So on the Monday after the previous

bad night of Maria’s rejection and the lonesome

sleep, according to Beckett the water was not

under the bridge, but flooding, in regards to

Carly’s feelings for me. I shrugged and said to


44


A

Beckett: “Fat lesbians are always so harsh, perhaps

the raping cut all her feminism down a peg or

two!” Admittedly, I did say that. “Yeah, she is a

right moody feminist aint she?” Beckett agreed. I

believe I was innocent in the matter, but regardless

I had to add Carly to the hate list, which now

consisted of; Gordot — who wanted to kick me out

from the moment my first cheque bounced and I

missed payment of my rent, the neighbour Brandy

— who always avoided eye contact contact when

he saw me on the stairs, and now Carly, the

feminist. I remember thinking; 'Come on Carly

that’s barely rape! It’s only plastic!'

Beckett had a Playstaion one, not the newest

ones, I think called PS3. I was always estranged

from toys, being that I am an orphan and I moved

around frequently. But, myself and Beckett would

in fact play Tekken, and I would lose and it

seemed that we were friends. Beckett told me that

on Mondays Anais would be at college or

University learning, apparently. I started to doubt

this as it became more apparent from Beckett’s

stories that she was not the sharpest tool in the

box; I came to accept that she was a bit dippy, but

polite though. I invited Beckett to my gig that

night and he said he was happy to join and that

Anais could meet us there, supposedly able to

make her own way there.

Chapter 5 — Blurs & Fascination

I gigged and finished. There was a decent

crowd that night; maybe thirty people. Anyway,

45


Maria did one more Jazz solo and then myself,

Anais, Beckett and her decided to drink together.

But as Anais wanted to take some money out of

an ATM, we all walked down Islington Road,

chatting and talking. I remember noticing an old

lady wearing a green hat and two teenaged

looking boys riding BMX bikes on the side of the

road. Memories of these sort are sometimes

innocuously enjoyable. As we were having a

decent time chatting, we decided to walk a while

after going into a Tesco and buying cheap

alcohol; I remember buying two bottles of the

cheapest red wine in the supermarket. Alcohol

had replaced Cocaine by that time; much easier

on the wallet.

We drunk and eventually took a black cab

to Dalston, as Maria knew this bar she said was

cozy and cool; I assumed that meant it was full of

hipsters. “Let’s go to Alibi, I have some friends

that live around there, it’ll be so un-blasé, just

chill, drink,” said Maria. I said, fine and we split

the Cab bill, thankfully for my wallet it was not

much; only a few quid or the price of a bus ride.

We got to the bar and drunk some more. I got a

Vodka and Coke and drunk that down. Maria was

barely warming to me, she was perhaps just

entertaining my advances. Her attitude never did

relent; fierce but quite humorous, as she then

told stories and one about kicking a man in his

balls which I found full of black comedy; she had

a dry laugh — it was slow and stuttery. It came to

maybe about, one or two, I can't fully remember,

but Maria had given me another one of those

46

looks; raising her eye brows and cutting her eyes

when I said something to the affect of: “We could

just go back to my place.” She ignored my words

and I was indifferent to pushing on to persuade

her. Though by that time I was drunk and I


A

remember seeing double and being unable to fully

comprehend what was going on — two bottles of

red wine and more would do that to you.

Opposite sat Maria and on the right side of

myself sat Beckett and Anais chatting amongst

themselves, kissing from time to time. I drank

staring at Maria’s breasts, I have always been a

breast man, perhaps because I never had a mother

I have always regarded the suckle of the breast

highly, though at this time I think 'The Breasts'

had appeared; The Devil in a red dress, allusions

of temptation. I first noticed 'The Breasts', which

were round, perhaps noticeably fake, but I could

not know, mostly because at the time I was drunk

off my face and because a breast seemed a breast;

breasts at that time were not shrouded in any type

of politics; they were unblemished in that regards.

In a rather deep voice I remember 'The Breasts'

then saying: “Can I sit here? my friend hasn’t

turned up.” Meanwhile being that it was one or two

am I knew what that really meant; asking to sit next

to a drunk man in the middle of the night when

there was so much space to sit elsewhere, is simple

code for wanting to sleep with someone; this is the

same universally, in Italy, Swizterland, wherever.

I said, sure, especially since Maria was

nonchalant by the presence of someone new, as

usual by that time. She just smiled at 'The Breasts'

47

and was seemingly not jealous. The perky doubles

sat, and a little while passed before Maria made an

excuse; telling us that she had to go and see her

niece the next day, to then leave with a wave. That

left myself, Beckett, Anais and whom I only knew

as 'The Breasts' at that inebriated time. We had

gotten a little touchy feely; maybe I don’t

remember, but this was without an introduction.

After I sampled a feel of them, 'The Breasts' then

spoke, I remember that: “You're fierce! My name's

Myra, can I buy you a drink?”

I was so woozy at the time, the music played

quite loud and I remember not really knowing

what was going on; the wooziness — zoning in and

out of consciousness had taking reigns. I said

something along the lines of: sure, go ahead. I was

too drunk at the time to think that it was unusual

for a normal woman to buy a man a drink. But

Myra then stood up and waddled to the bar, fixing

the short red dress, that I noticed fit like a glove, as

the bottom was round and so round I remember

questioning it's authenticity also, however by that

time that was the best I could do in terms of

making a person out; I was drunk on Brandy, two

bottles of red wine, and at least four glasses of

Vodka and Coke. But Myra brought another Vodka

and Coke for me, and all I can remember from that

night was that we chatted for awhile and then we

all went back to the house.

We, Myself, Myra, Beckett and Anais caught

the night-bus, I barely remember the rest, it was a

blur. But to my knowledge I got back to my room;

four walls, noise from above (not God) and Myra


48


A

followed. We had intercourse that night in a

drunken fashion I can barely remember and it was

no clearer the next morning; I just knew I had slept

with someone because the room was a mess, I was

naked, there was red lipstick all over my white

pillow and remnants of memories of Myra; I

assumed freaky things occurred.

I found myself with a stinging hangover and

upon closer inspection of the damage; bite marks

on my neck and no feeling in my right leg. A

Normalish night out. Of course Myra was not there

and I wondered, but walking to the fridge I quickly

saw a note consisting of a number and that I

should expect a call later as last night was:

“Amazing!" I put the note back on the table and

looked into my wallet; Priorities. Being that I

hadn’t paid rent for awhile and it was Tuesday, I

hadn’t received my benefit’s yet; I was skint, as

usual and stressed by this.

I calculated it and I had about ten pounds in

total, to my name; it was troubling, and so I

decided to call Ronnie my friend, if I can call him

that. But he was always into dealing weed, and at a

time when I was going out with Claire, he was

dealing a little LSD. I called him and asked if he

had any business going; anything I could partake

in. He said he would meet me on the top of Mare

Street at one that afternoon, in coded language

that made it seem that he was Pablo Escobar. "I

don't have anything to do with Betty White, but I

could know Sally, if you get what I mean?" said

Ronnie. I was in no real mood for obvious

innuendo's but I entertained him and said I'd meet

49

in a little while. It was eleven, so I napped, then

looked out my window at a few people running for

the bus. I enjoyed looking out of that window, and

then I finished the rest of the last carton of milk

before I went to meet Ronnie. We met on Mare

Street and he walked back to my place with me.

We smoked weed for an hour maybe, chatting,

smoking and I think I heard Brandy on the

landing; I heard his chesty cough and I made out

his snigger. I assumed Brandy’s problem with me

could not be taken personally, as it really was not

my fault that he was suffering from some sort of

post traumatic disorder, as apparently Gordot told

me as much. However, Brandy believed things,

and was bitter regardless; he disliked me, but I

ignored the snigger and carried on smoking with

Ronnie. What else was I to do? I mused.

Ronnie was my oldest friend, but that word

is one in which I am quite indifferent to, if I am

honest. I knew him since I lived in the house

before the Olatende’s; the house full of hitting,

The Bush family. We had gone to the same

secondary school together in Hackney and we

shared similar interests of money and women.

Ronnie noticed the letter from Myra on the

kitchen counter and kept saying: “A hot bird

leaving you messages. About you’re broke? living

the dream, You old dog!” I doubted being in any

sort of dream, maybe a light nightmare I

remember musing, but I was more interested in

how I was going to get some money together. But,

fortunately, Ronnie left me about eight bags of

weed; maybe three ounces, which is about three


50

hundred pounds worth. He told me that if I sold

the drugs that we could split some of the money, as

his cousin was growing weed in-house, according

to his explanation he described the situation as

being “full op” he kept saying. “We got the lights,


A

the equipment, we even got heat detectors, ‘cos

you know they’ve got helicopters and stuff. It's a

full op mate.” said Ronnie, proudly nodding his

head at this. I said, “Good for you guys, just don't

get caught.” I was happy for Ronnie and his

cousin, mostly as it meant that I could possibly

pull some money together.

Later that day Ronnie and Beckett also

became friends as Beckett came down to smoke

some of the weed and they bonded over the

rehashing of the humour of my story of Gerard,

Martinq and me leaving because of the

misunderstanding after the threesome. The

evening came that Tuesday and I walked back to

my room: four walls, noise from above (not God)

having sold a bag of weed to a Rasta guy I knew in

Pembury. Although I had put a bit of dust I found

on the edge of the window seal into the bag in

order to increase the price, The Rasta tasted some

of the weed; taking a toke to then say: “Bumbaclart

man came wida fire weed ya know. Where you get

the ting?” I told him that it was from a batch from

Romford, and knew that Ronnie and his cousin

were growing some really good stuff from his

reaction. I sold the stuff, left the Rasta and got

back to my room. Maybe twenty or thirty minutes

had passed and there was then a knock at the door.

I forgot to look through the peephole and opened

51

it to see a face with a medium sized nose; not

small or large one — perhaps large in retrospect,

lips quite pouty, very strong chin, long blonde

hair close to the colour of the skin it hung from

and it was apparently Myra (aka 'The Breasts'). I

definitely knew it was Myra because of the

mammaries — they were in another red dress

which was figure hugging and worn underneath a

blue jean jacket that actually reminded me of Cecil

Olatunde. Sober, I found the voice a little off, as I

opened the door as Myra said: “I thought I would

come and see you, last night was amazing, I

brought red wine.” If I am honest we then had

intercourse, sure, maybe five or six times and the

next day came. I went to sign-on and Myra waited

in my apartment, this would become a routine for

about three or four weeks, I don’t remember

exactly. But, it was quite an ample amount of time

that passed; enough for Myra, or whatever, to

show tendency’s related to love; confiding in me,

washing my clothes, hanging out in my room,

buying me things, such as a Cross pendant and a

Lady Gaga CD. I never liked Lady Gaga and said

as much; The song, ‘Poker Face’ annoyed me, but

Myra would say; “Lady Gaga is fierce,” and “Babel

was fabulous!” or “Zebra Katz is so fierce Ares,

don’t you think?” I would never reply with much

more than a shrug to what I quickly deemed as

Myra’s favourite words: “Fierce” and “fabulous”.

I just never really listened to what Myra

said, in a way I was lip syncing a relationship, as I

was indifferent to it all at the time, it all seemed

rather uneventful. A lot of times I would be


52

looking through the newspaper race section for

good bets and Myra would be on the bed with a

laptop listening to music I was not keen on. But, I

loved one song regularly played; by an Artist

which Myra told me went by the name of Frank


AA

Ocean, because the chorus to a song called ‘We

All Try’ sounded good to me. Though when

listening to that song, I remember wondering;

‘What are we all trying to do?’ but regardless, I

liked it. The rest; rubbish.

The surface of things is usually the realm I

mostly reside in, depending on what I’m doing, as

if I’m in the midst of a scam or con, then the

surface becomes multilayered and textured — the

emotions that are at play, in a con, will be that way

inclined: meaning that you will need to be

sensitive to symbols and ticks of intricate

meaning. Hence, my general life at the time

seemed innocuous and devoid of the necessity of

deep below the surface insight; simply, Myra, and

The Breasts along with her bottom, all but seemed

fake but kosher at the time. There was a day Myra

brought a strap-on dildo and I think we had a

heated discussion about it's usage. Apart from

this, things were uneventful in my eyes; I was

getting some money together and I even thought

about going back to Manchester, but decided that

another move was not a pressing concern.

At that time Myra liked to go to a few clubs

in Soho, but I was not at all familiar with the

area’s night life and said as much, which meant

Myra would, some nights, go alone. Myra would

arrive back at my flat late at night and did in fact

53

like what could be referred to as Kinky sex;

spanking and biting mostly, which perhaps we

indulged in, sometimes in the afternoons as I did

not have much to do. Although I had money on

my mind usually, so I thought nothing more of

Myra and all these happenings at the time,

spanking included.


Chapter 6 — Burrito's, £4.23p & Kaizer Chief's

It was a Saturday, perhaps four or five

weeks after I had met Myra, and we both sat on my

bed in my room. I had then begun to divulge the

details about why I had left France, because of the

misunderstanding with Gerard, Martinq and the

threesome, and the story seemed to be met

affectionately; with Myra excitedly asking: “You

and the Gerard guy slept together in Marseille?”

said all in one breathe. I of course corrected Myra

and said myself and Martinq had relations in the

presence of Gerard partaking in relations with

Martinq at the same time, I made sure I

emphasised the difference between the two

separate activities, and added that I was not that

way inclined, no. Not that way inclined. But the

story did seem to make me seem a way; a tad

liberal and open, perhaps? In retrospect I don’t

really know.

Myra then told me about growing up and

the stories seemed uneventful at the time; there

was one about needing to find the true person

within, Myra of course saying things such as: “It's

always important to really find the person inside.”

54


A

I never would understand such words. After that

story came another about drugs; Myra apparently

had taken LSD once and fell to hurt the left thigh

— well that is what was said when I noticed some

sort of scar on the pelvic area and thigh region, but

in retrospect Myra was always quick to put on some

clothes after intercourse, and we also only had

relations with the lights off. I thought that this was

strange, but my mind was preoccupied and at the

time I assumed there were the usual body issues,

but why would I think about it so deeply? I didn’t

think about it deeply, I was just going through life;

spending time, just spending time.

Usually in play in the dark, of course, my

penis seemed to be okay with the situation, as it

stood. Plus by that time my mind had not really

taken in the full situation, thus the incidents

amounting to my life just revolved around that room

which was completely unavoidable at the time — I

felt that Myra was just an aspect of my life blowing

in the wind, it seemed; time was moving forward. A

few more weeks had passed and we sat in a similar

position on the bed, talking or with me really half

hearing Myra go on about things I don’t remember

now, before there was a knock at the door. It was

Sunday and my routine had meant that I had not

much on, money will do that to the scenes that you

try to create in life, and I was very short of it. I had

problems with the procedure of my signing-on

check and that was the major culprit that day.

Bored, I put some clothes on and opened the door,

to see that it was Beckett; shaggy hear, dirty

attempting to be white t-shirt. He told me that they

55

—his friends and some of the other housemates—

were having another get-together. As he spoke,

inviting us, I was indifferent, but as I was broke

again and because I had lost more money

gambling I was partial to know if there would be

food so my wallet could be relinquished of some

of the heavy burden of my life. Beckett said there

would probably be pizza and I said that myself and

Myra, of course, would make our way upstairs in a

short while.

It was about eight o’clock when Beckett

made his invite, after this I did remember it

seeming as if Myra wanted to tell me something, in

retrospect. Though at the time having started to

talk a few times with words to the effect of; “Our

bodies don’t lie, I have real feelings for you and I

want you to know that,” jabbered Myra, stopping

at anything I thought was significant. I deemed

these words as slight ramblings and don't think I

thought to even look whilst Myra spoke; I think I

was drinking the last remnants of milk and feeling

the room; the four walls, noise from above (not

God) was making me feel claustrophobic. More so,

I did not think anything of Myra’s rambling’s as I

was in my usual realm of living on the surface; I

was not participating in a con or scam so I had no

reason to think deeply. We, myself and Myra, were

just going to go upstairs and hang out with Beckett

and company and that was seemingly it. More

pressing, I thought about maybe going to see the

Rasta’s next door neighbour in Pembury to sell a

bag of the weed, but the Rasta at that time owed

me money, so I did not trust any transaction


56

involving him or his friends.

On our way out of the bedroom door, Myra

said: “I don’t like pizza, I want to go out and buy

something to eat.” I said, fine and then Myra

mentioned that Mare Street was close. “I'll meet


AA

you in the noise above, upstairs.” I replied. Myra

walked down the stairs and I walked up to

Beckett’s. I entered Beckett’s living room and

inside I saw: Carly next to Amber, Anais talking in

a far left corner to a black guy with picky hair and

a yellow t-shirt. I remember liking the black guy’s

T-shirt. Beckett was sat down on the settee in the

middle of the room, talking to a guy I had known

from a few weeks previous called Fat Marshall; he

was as his nickname suggested, fat with a double

dose of chin.

There were a few others bobbing around,

but they were unfamiliar, I deemed them: Tom,

Dick and Harry’s or nobodys, in my book. I

manoeuvred into the kitchen past Amber drinking

a Smirnoff and speaking to Carly, (the feminist)

stood just at the doorway to the kitchen. Carly did

not acknowledge me, though I said hello to Amber

and she smiled and said hello back with a gentle,

un-typically lesbian flick of her long flowing hair

which looked the embodiment of femininity, and

that of which the dildo and whole rape fiasco

seemed to naturally oppose; maybe she kept her

freaky nature well masked behind her pretty

exterior. But more importantly at that moment, I

was hungry of course, one of the main reasons I

wanted to get up to Beckett’s. When I got into the

kitchen, a young man with an orange and black

57

Supreme hat stood next to the fridge on the left

and in front of the table, texting. I assumed the

man in the Supreme hat wanted a little quiet as

the Kaiser Chief song, ‘I Predict A Riot’ played in

the background, not too loud as I could hear

even Beckett talking to Fat Marshall about

something that involved the band ‘Arctic

Monkeys’ but loud enough to hinder

concentration.

In the kitchen, I smiled at the lad wearing

the Supreme hat, he smiled back and got back to

whatever he was texting, I guessed the text

involved drugs, or a bird — he looked at me with

slanted eyes which came across as shifty. I saw

no pizza just a few Heinekens sat on the table. I

took one of the bottles of Heineken, opened it

with my teeth and started to drink it down as I

leant on the sink and just stood, reminiscing

about a Burrito I had become very fond of, but

could ill afford at the time — having just looked

inside my wallet and found in total: £4.23p. It

was a steak Burrito I had in mind; one from

Burrito Cafe in Islington, next to the tube

station, it had; cheese, a little avocado,

mayonnaise, juicy steak drizzling with a little oil

and maybe a little salad. I remember my

thoughts concentrating quite hard on this

Burrito and perhaps ways in which I could

procure one. I wondered if I did in fact have

money in my overdraft account, but quickly

doubted it. I then mused about the possibility of

selling some of the weed left in my apartment,

given to me by Ronnie, when the young man in

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

58

the Supreme hat took a bottle of Heineken and

walked out of the kitchen, to stand in front of

Beckett and Fat Marshall still sat on the sofa, and

all was in my line of vision. Although I then noticed

that strangely there was a mirror in the kitchen


A

leaning against the wall. But I ignored all this and

continued to observe the living room for a moment,

before Myra walked into the kitchen holding a

bucket of KFC Chicken, chewing obnoxiously; it

was loud enough for me to hear and interrupting

the moment.

This and the KFC, in general, disturbed me

from memories of Claire, I remember feeling

slightly unsettled in turn, as my time with Claire

was probably the only time in my life that I felt

secure; yes, her death always festered from the time

it occurred, especially when in the vicinity of any

type of KFC outlet or apparatus. Myra then started

to talk about random topics, stood next to the

kitchen cupboards opposite the fridge and to the

left of me whilst leaning on the fridge; just

spending time, I garnered. After a little while Myra

stopped talking about why I did not like Lady Gaga

or something like that, and said: “...I need to speak

to you about something, actually,” uttered Myra,

still chewing the remnants of what had killed Claire

— maybe this was after Carly, the feminist and the

lesbian had come into the kitchen, said hello to

both myself and Myra and left. I could sense that

Carly still did not like me as the hello was spoken

in a monotone groan and the wave was slow and

looked lazy. Carly, picked up two Heinekens and

left the kitchen, once this happened Myra started to

59

speak again — I noticed Myra’s stuttering—but I

was also still thinking about the steak burrito I

had in mind, to be honest. Basically, I was only

half listening to Myra speak, as I was also still

slightly disturbed by the KFC Chicken wings.


Myra said, “Do you think you love me?”

Appeasingly, I said, "Sure." mostly due to having

experiences in the past where I came to the

conclusion that, in such circumstances, the truth

is less interesting to people than illusion, similar

to the epiphany Mr Olatende had brought into

my existence: “What you believe is always true,

regardless.” I slightly began to live by this ethos

and pathos I found unassailable, like a mantra

that sits comfortably on a day dream. “Well, I

love you but I want to tell you something Ares,”

Myra continued, verbatim, just with those words.

At that moment Beckett walked into the kitchen

with the pizza boxes and said that we could give

him money towards them, before opening a box

to uncover a pepperoni pizza on top of three

other boxes, now sat next to the Heineken. He

then left. Of course, I could not refuse meat, I

even wondered if I could wash it down with milk.

But, more hungry than thirsty I took a knife from

the drawer and begun taking a slice of the

pepperoni pizza, once I had done this a few other

guests: Fat Marshall, the lad in the Supreme hat

and Amber proceded to take some food. My head

turned back to Myra, who kept talking about stuff

I don’t remember in a jarring way and even

clicked the fingers of the right hand holding the

KFC to get my attention, which was set on

60

Amber’s buttocks perhaps — she wore the leggings

that hugged the female figure and I remember

thinking that Myra was comparably boxy.

My gaze turned back to the boxy Myra and I

was then thinking that I wished I had that Burrito,


A

and I was bothered by this, flustered and I really

wanted that KFC bucket, held obnoxiously by

Myra, to not be there. I then moved to the table

and started to cut another slice. The scene was

Myra, myself and the empty kitchen which was

quiet at that point, before Myra broke the silence

that still consisted of chewing KFC wings, perhaps

barbecue, Claire’s undoing lingering amongst the

chicken seasoning and party noise. “I wanted to

tell you something,” said Myra after a few words I

did not catch. “Basically, it’s really been troubling

me of late, especially after I had opened up about

my life. I feel I should tell you that I was not born

like this.” I say, “What do you mean?” as I was still

cutting a slice of pizza, that disappointingly

because it was not a Burrito left me feeling a little

gloomy and flustered. Plus, to make things worse

there was only a fifteen-inch vegetarian pizza left. I

felt a coldness within my heart upon this

realisation. But, my ear was, in fact, slightly

burning, as Myra’s word’s seemed strangely weird.

I remember thinking: 'What do you mean I was

not born like this Myra? What were we talking

about in the first place?' I mused these things

whilst cutting some garlic bread with cheese on it,

a little paprika. Myra continued, un-prompted, to

say: “I did not know I would fall for you, and you

would fall in love with me, as you just told me. I

61

don’t know what to say? But I thought that I should

tell you that…” Stuttering, Myra then paused as if

it were the moment of the plot twist in a movie and

I was another person; I remember thinking this

whilst I sliced the garlic bread not hearing Myra

speak anymore, but intently listening by that time,

curiously, ardently. My interest was wholly piqued.

After the stutter and silence Myra went on

and said: “I was born a man… I am actually a

transgender woman, post op, of course, but does

that really matter? especially since you love me…”

At the corner of my eye looking at Myra through

the mirror leaning on the wall, I was shocked; my

ear was burnt off, not burning but seared beyond

recognition. I remember the words: “...of course...”

like it was yesterday. Of course you are post op, I

thought. If my face could have illustrated how I felt

inside it would have been ugly; monstrous, even.

Total anger within me, as my mind raced with

epiphanies, thoughts and confusion. I don’t really

remember exactly what happened next, I think I

instinctively released the knife, I was cutting the

cheesy garlic bread with, into his arm and then

begun to tussle with Myra. We tussled, I think, and

I stabbed two more times to be now on the floor on

top of with him not moving so much. I remember I

stopped after the second stab because the KFC,

now fallen with a piece resting on my arm,

distracted me: two tragedies intersecting. Myra

gripped my arm and I then stabbed three more

times. The rest was a huge blur of screams and

shouts from within the party. I did not run, or even

think about doing so, I think I was held in some


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AA

way, I think Carly may have accosted me. The

police arrived quite soon after and I remember

being hand cuffed and about ten police cars and

maybe four vans. An officer said emphatically and

with a little spit flicking out of his mouth, due to

his enthusiasm for the words: “You’re nicked!” I

sat in the back of the van, because I was

provoked; total provocation in this incident that

would come to define much about me. I guess

within the van the feelings within me failed to

form, hand cuffed and walking away from the

scene the look on Carly's face was one in which

would have not been unfamiliar at a Zoo; the

spectacle of my existence had come into being,

and what was just a gloomy Sunday had become

something completely different — something

rather abnormal. The roses on which Myra had

laid thorned would lead to a demise of some sort,

on my way to Hackney Police Station, the

disguises the Devil had taken played on my mind

— at the mercy of fate.

Part II

Chapter 1 — Allegory of a Portrait Unknow

As soon as I was arrested I was examined;

the first was formal, requiring me to tell them my

name, address and then also included a few

informal words from one officer: “You’ve been a

very naughty lad aint ya?” said the Hackney police

officer; a short one with black hair and a young

63

looking face. I did not know what to say, I

assumed it was said rhetorically and therefore said

nothing, indifferent to how I should react. The

officer looked at me with an arched neck as if I

had missed my lines and I was supposed to shout:

"I'm bloody innocent, you son of a bitch!" or

something ridiculous like that. I did nothing of the

sort and a few others joined the young officer, like

a crowd, in arching their neck's and squinting

their eyes as if I was unusual and they wondered

of the portrait of me. They then lead me to a room

where they took finger prints and pictures of my

face, and then into a cold cell, smelling of a

demise; four walls, noise (not God), the smell of

bed changes that emphasised that I was just a

statistic, and a stainless steel metal toilet with the

remains of un-flushed faeces.

Sat in the prison cell, I remember thinking

quite a lot about the Burrito, funnily enough that

was the first thing that hit me when the prison cell

door closed and I looked around the cold smell of

failure and doubted that I would get to that

Burrito place; I knew as much. I was locked up,

but I held that I was not guilty and once I

explained the sensitive nature of the provocation I

would perhaps be free. A Little time passed and

an officer knocked, then opened the door and led

me to an interview room that I would frequent

quite a few times that night. An officer then asked

if I wanted a Lawyer and I said: “I will not speak

without one.” Because I knew from my time spent

in the system years before that each word was

paramount, I knew this.

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While I waited I thought about Manchester,

and felt that there could be remnants of my

conviction for that failed Ponzi scheme and those

two months I had done for that. Two months I

would have liked to have not remembered, but as I

looked around the interview room at the

windowless window, memories flooded back of

that prison stint. I gauged it would take

adjustment to get used to my new predicament,

though adjust I would have to. Then in walked a

man, white haired, white bearded man, not very

tall, perhaps 5"7 in height and with a quick jerky

handshake, that felt like his heart was not in it.

This was a good sign for my freedom as I assumed

he was my Lawyer. I noticed that the man’s black

suit seemed unkempt, accentuated as his blue tie

did not hang all the way to the tip of his yellowy

white collar: he seemed like he would not be out

of place in a bar drinking away the bad memories

of his day at work. His unkempt suit seemed ashy;

a dusty black colour I mused was not intended to

be this way. He introduced himself after taking a

seat opposite myself: “My name is Huld Connor,

and I’m your Lawyer. I am from Law firm Miller &

Co, Walthamstow.” he said. A little put off with

the mention of Walthamstow, I said, “So you're

my Lawyer?" and he nodded. The affect of

monetary differences had on life choices came

into my mind whilst he gently nodded; having

money would surely enable one to inspect such a

person more thoroughly in comparison, but it

seemed I did not have such a luxury as his dusty

suit marinated my universe and my enforced

65

soliquoy for freedom had to begin with an

audience via Walthamstow. Yes, I did remember

feeling that it was quite ominous that my freedom

was now reliant on a Law firm from Walthamstow

and on a man in a dusty suit. Plus, he spoke in a

noticeable stutter: “Okay, so tell me what happened?

I need all the deets to help you,” he said, I

remember his use of the abbreviated "deets", and

funnily enough his lack of awareness of it seemed

instantly apparent, whilst he jotted notes on the

opposite side of the table and scratched his white

beard. I was nervous by this, but I remember

feeling like the whole situation was a big to-do, a

formality.

I quickly imagined the unfolding of the

procedure from old memories of Manchester

being: discuss what happened, then the police

investigator interrogates me, more form filling,

room moving and a cold cell — wash rinse and

then continue. It seemed that my estimation was

correct in that sense as I told my Lawyer the story

and the fact of Myra’s revelation even shocked him;

when he heard of it he moved back in his seat and

his eyes became fully open and wide for a moment.

I explained the situation as I saw it and he went

quiet for a second and then told me: “Of course we

will need to check validity of the accusation of this

Myra being born a man, but for the time being can

you refer to Myra as a 'her' or a 'she' please?” I

said, “No. No chance.” Connor then looked at me,

then said that he will need to speak to the

investigative officer and left the room. I sat for


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AA

maybe thirty minutes, staring at the clock on the

wall as Connor walked back into the room to say:

“Okay, we are checking the allegation that Myra

was in fact born a man.” He also kept saying,

“Born a man, born this way” on numerous

occasions he would stop the flow of conversation

and say, “Born a man, born this way” it became a

bit irritating as to me Myra was a man. I said that

it was total provocation and Connor replied: “The

way you explained i, it's fine, difficult with all the

politics of course, but why did you stab her?" —I

at that point interrupted him and inserted a

"him" and Connor would try to correct me again.

This tussle seemed to continue throughout our

initial conversation: “Well regardless whether

this is true or not I would advise you using the

term, her. We don’t want it to seem like

something else do we? There’s lobby’s for that,”

said my Lawyer a few times. I remember

wondering what this something else was initially,

but after the subsequent interview with one PC

Jabar, I knew what this something was and that

things were not going to be easy. They were

prosecuting me for Murder. I said I wanted to file

or counter prosecute against their prosecution in

turn, one of criminal deceit and provocation. A

man cannot just wear a dress and become

Elizabeth Taylor because they had some sort of

backdoor operation, I gauged.

As if I came across as wet behind the ears,

PC Jabar then said: “I will take it into

consideration, but there is a procedure and we

67

are investigating, of course.” I doubted it, but I

gave my statement, I did not use the term 'her'

when referring to Myra, who was at that time Tom,

Dick or Harry to me. It was all absurd. But PC

Jabar continued to tell us that the crime was now

under investigation, after I of course gave my

name, date of birth and I told the officer that I had

been deceived into an arrangement with Myra for

about a month or so and that he revealed that he

was in fact a man out of the blue. PC Jabar

interrupted and said, "Allegedly we are

investigating this." I said, he provoked me and

deceived me, and it came to a head at Beckett’s

party where I admitted that I stabbed Myra, from

instinct. "Six times", said PC Jabar. I said, yes. I

did not attempt to lie because there were many

witnesses and I was provoked. Highly provoked. I

tried to ask how he would feel, noticing a wedding

ring on PC Jabar’s finger and he just said: “There

is a procedure and we’re investigating all you've

said. I'm not on trial you see, that's you.” 'Touche',

I thought while we continued to play a little

conversational tennis.

There were of course a few more questions

and answers, then I was escorted back to my

prison cell, home. When I entered my cell and a

few minutes had passed an officer came, the door

was opened and my Lawyer entered to proceed to

tell me that I would definitely not be let out on bail

due to the severity of the case. "No bail I'm afraid,

I hope the bed isn't too hard." said Connor. After

this he then explained that I would be held in

Belmarsh Prison awaiting a court date at Bow


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Magistrates and of course that there would be

more procedures and interviews. "There will be a

few more forms, procedures and such, but this is a

priority," he said, and how lucky was I! Again the

feeling of it being a to-do wafted into my mind.

Especially as Connor was in fact quite jolly at that

time; speaking with a smile and a pacey tone. I

think he deemed that the case would be big,

perhaps an opportunity for him, I guessed;

perhaps even once in a lifetime. He seemed to a

smile a bit more than I would expect, although he

still avoided eye contact, a deadly strike against

him noted — the remnants instilled from cons.

Before he left my cell he gave me a handshake,

just as weak as his initial one, and a pat on my

shoulder that I felt was in an effort to try to build

camaraderie. Before he left, he also said: “I could

use a good coffee, and a bath.” which made me

feel that he was rather unprofessional and would

not have been my first choice. The ineptitude of

him and the whole procedure seemed like

punishment enough, more so as I was not fed, no

Burrito’s, nothing. This was made worse as I had

not even tasted that last slice of pizza. The rest of

that night into the dawn was full of time mostly

spent with the lingering smell of KFC emanating

off my uncleaned arm and my stomach growling.

With a growling stomach and just the

sound of my thoughts, that first night was when

the nightmares first occurred; I was in a room;

four walls, noise from above, not God, as it

sounded like Jazz: a piano playing boogie woogie

69

style, along with a Sax and trombone in a melody

that sounded a bit like a fragmented session of

Boris Vian’s ‘Le Desertaur’. As the music played

and I stood in the middle of the room, and out

my mouth spewed blue morning glory flower

petals. Within the room, which was empty, apart

from two chairs where Claire sat eating KFC next

to Myra sat in silence eating a Burrito, was a

mirror positioned on the wall right behind Myra.

I did not move from the shock of this. Though, in

the mirror’s reflection I saw myself as a child,

crying, but no tears were coming out of my own

eyes, just the flowers still spewing out of my

mouth. Myra then said in his deep voice: “Want

me, love me, love is between two beings,” which

prompted flashbacks of sexual intercourse

between me and Myra in my prison cell,

overtaking the previous scene and the empty

room. There was then sound of a loud trombone.

That first night I remember waking up at the

moment of all the heavy flashbacks in a cold

sweat.

I stayed up the rest of that night, laying

and staring at the grey ceiling feeling that my

mind was shrinking. It’s not the severity that it

was a crime, it was the acknowledgement that it

was a crime that I wanted. I held that Myra (aka

Tom or Dick or Harry) committed the initial

crime and I simply reacted. In my eyes I was

innocent under provocation, which I stated from

my first interview but it seemed to be dismissed.

Although I never saw PC Jabar again, he was

right in that I was only interviewed by higher


70

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAA

ranked officers, from then on. Apparently,

according to my Lawyer, a few days after that

first night, the incident had hit the news and my

case had become quite "unique" he said, making

national and even international news,

apparently. Regardless of my choices on that

eventful day, it was apparent that from the core

Myra had disturbed me; intrinsically I was wholly

shook-up from the first second of the revelation

that soon reigned like Babylon. How would it

not? The sky does not remain blue after such a

palette had painted upon my canvas, mired in

my exasperation to form a non existent colour I

was not inclined to take notice of. I hated to look

into the sky. The poem that Rambone would

recite would come into my head, gently subdue

me: "...A bird in the sky is fanciful to me.”

It was then said that my first interview had

errors, so I had to be re-interviewed again by an

officer, to be particular citing lack of information

and filing errors, this happened quite a few times

in the next few months; incompetency was

casual. My Lawyer prepped me and told me that

I should be careful with every single word that I

said, mostly due to fact that they were

investigating every aspect of my life. “They are

talking to everyone," he said. "Tearing through

your whole life. I think they are even talking to

the orphanage.”

I did not know where he was going with

his words and instructions totally, but he then

explained that it had been an important point to

let me know that gender politics in general

71

society, meant that I should refrain from using the

pronoun ‘he’ in regards to Myra. Although, by that

time, it had actually been corroborated, that in fact

Myra had been born a man, called Winslow,

Connor kept telling me that I should not refer to

him in such a way. For this point I felt angry and

that perhaps I would get a different Lawyer. I held

that the fact that Myra was a man was THE

cornerstone of my case and my truth, hence my

refusal to refer to him in such a way. Connor was

stressed by this and kept puffing his cheeks and

saying: “If you look homophobic or hateful, it will

harm your case Ares. It really will.” I remember

sighing a sigh for the universe’s sickening ozone

layer of politics, pollution and masks. I told my

Lawyer to instigate a better defence. I thought a

better lawyer could probably have helped the

procedures, but I suppressed such thoughts at

those times.

I was to be re-interviewed and it was

Thursday. I remember at that time I held that any

time away from the cell was usually welcomed, as

most of the day was spent standing, sitting,

wondering about what I was wondering about, and

then I would usually think about how I would have

liked to have spent the day. Mostly, I day and night

dreamed, as they both converged, about just doing

mundane things: ironing, sitting on a bus, eating

meat or taking a stroll down a sunny City street. I

tried to make a heaven out of my hell, in my mind,

but from that first night, hell mostly persisted, as

my dreams were overtaken by recurring nightmares

and my desires were suppressed and unable to off-


72

set this. Any thoughts on women, for example,

were quickly attempted to be pushed out. Hopes

became an affliction in the prison cell of the four

walls, noise from above (not God).

I was escorted and then sat in the interview


A

room next to my lawyer, chit chatting about the

word Transphobia. Connor had said I could be

called "Transphobic" and I wondered how I could

be deemed so, having never heard the word

previous to that moment. An officer, having

knocked, then entered the room. He was a fat man

as his white shirt revealed rolls, and he had big

cheeks. The fat man wore black trousers and had a

noticeably bald head that looked as shiny and

creamy as a babies bottom, he introduced himself

as inspector Josef. He said that he was there as

there had been filling errors in the last transcript,

which was cut short by mistakes, which my lawyer

had claimed was great news, and that since the

point of the incident there had been no

happenings that could add to my convictions, and

that everything was smoother than he had ever

seen it, particularly in regards to my court hearing

at Bow the next day.

According to Connor the CPS sometimes

took months to see to cases, but mine would be

pushed through, "really quickly", he said. I did not

think things were fast mind you, but having gone

through the same type of procedure years before

in Manchester, I could see an element truth in my

lawyers words — the last time I think I waited two

months for the CPS to see to my case, and one

time the court was adjourned just because my files

73

had accidentally had hot chocolate spilt on them.

I told PC Josef my details and he went on

to question me about the incident. I told him what

had happened; no different to what I said from

the day of my arrest. I was even asked about my


sexual orientation, I told him that I was and have

always been straight and I noticed two things

before PC Josef replied: Firstly, I noticed Connor

get slightly flustered, puffing his cheeks and

secondly, I noticed PC Josef cut his eyes at my

response. I thought at the time: 'What was I

meant to say?' as it was apparent that lies were not

going to get me anywhere due to all the witnesses

and my acceptance of the incident. No, I wanted

to get to the belly of the beast, if I can say, the

intricate ramifications of the incident and the

intrinsic nature of the key elements within the

eventful incident that had led me to the police. I

felt therein lied the truth of the matter, the real

unabridged, pure truth and there my freedom lay,

in my eyes. Provocation, reaction to a crime that

had been corroborated (in my eyes) from the

minute it was apparent that Myra was in fact this

Winslow.

However, there were in fact loopholes to

this truth, I came to find; loopholes to 'the light'. I

deemed the truth of the matter, 'the light', as it

was apparently a point of prosecution that I may

be a homosexual—Connor warned me that this

could be an angle they would use to instigate that

the incident that occurred was a hate crime

alluding to deep closeted homosexuality. The

procedure troubled me and PC Josef made

74

allusions more clear when he interrogated me

with the question: “You’re telling me you had

sexual relations and a relationship with this Myra

Rose and you had no idea that she was a

transgender?” I replied to him, and of course said,

no, and the subsequent raising of his eyebrows

seemed to deem my words as lies. He then asked

why I had done what I was admitting to, without

collusion, I said, provocation and he said, can you

elaborate; I did and told the inspector how I felt

and that I had been stressed about my

happenings, and to be specific I mentioned the

vegetable pizza — I thought a fat man as PC Josef

could understand the heartache of a vegetarian

pizza when in the belly of the beast of hunger. He

did not seem to agree with me as he then asked,

"Why six times?" he said. I said, I don’t know and

to this it seemed Connor was happy with my

answer, as his projected line of defence was to be

that it was a crime of passion; the delay in the

totality of the six stabs seemed to question this,

but of course I tried to explain that I was troubled

with the Burrito and I was distracted, but PC

Josef did not react, he just asked more questions

as the procedure went on. Yes, more questions

and more words, but I think I zoned out, as the

expansive nature of the procedure: moving from

room to room, filing in forms, thinking about

every word that left your mouth, all this exhausted

me— and that which lied ahead with the

inevitable trial, made me feel as if I could not go

on.

75

Around those times my will to live

concaved: I had no more will to continue, will for

any sort of beauty, will for music, will to fight,

will to desire or will to dream. Yes my will to live

was reducing just as quickly as the nights

accumulated and I was less and less able to brush

away the nights and their lingerings. It was sat

being interviewed by fat PC Josef that a feeling of

nausea began to set in and beyond that other

feelings and thoughts occurred through this

kaleidoscope. Although, I sometimes thought of

perhaps a Burrito or maybe a woman, but after

this point, whilst looking at the double chin on

PC Josef, each of my thoughts felt mired in the

wasteland of this nausea. As I sat I did muse that

the last time I was with someone in a sexual act

was that of which I would have loved to forget.

But, these thoughts persisted, and I saw images of

Myra's face as I was escorted back to my cell,

alone: standing, sitting, and sometimes I did not

feel like doing either of these things and would in

turn be in a crises, as initially there was no

alternative action. In my prison cell, I thought a

lot about how normal people lived, but realised

that I had never bared witness to this norm, as

since birth I have known strife, trouble, moving

and procedures. Of course procedures were my

least favoured of these activities.

Every day I had an hour a day to walk

around outside in the yard, in the beginning I

rarely enjoyed this time: I felt that the other

inmates had seemingly so much more fervour for

the lifestyle of Prison, as I saw them running,


76

playing football, laughing with other inmates,

going to the gym and so on. I mostly sat, smoked

and tried to do so in silence. One time I was told

by an inmate that had tried to become familiar

with me in the yard, Faustun, that another

inmate by the name of Clinton had stabbed

another just for allegedly dropping his extra

Ravioli a few weeks prior; with it all having

culminated in a fight Faustun called, “The

Grudge match”. “You can’t go round just

dropping people’s Ravioli, there’s rules, there’s

parameter’s, you don’t break them for nobody my

friend. That’s what the grudge match is all

about,” explained Faustun, as I barely paid

attention to him, sat on the bench, probably

musing that he was not in fact my friend, but just

part of my happenings that had become familiar

in those first weeks. But, as time passed other

people seemed just as much of a cage as my cell,

with me preferring to keep myself to myself.

Alone, I spent time making up stories in my

mind, this quickly became particularly enjoyable

and I started to reminisce over seemingly

innocuous events. To the extent that I would

accept that such events may have not been so

interesting in the light of freedom, but I was

inprisoned. For example, I initially had a dream

where would bump into a stranger and have

humorous conversations sometimes about velvet,

food or pets, also Claire came to mind one time

when through the flap of my cell door two beady

eyes appeared and this reminded me of her eyes,

especially the lazy eye.

77

In the months before the trial the officers

would sometimes ask if I wanted to see the Prison

Priest or whether I was Muslim. I would say no,

and no because that to me was an even deeper

prison than the cell I resided in, and of the Prison

of mysterious hopes leading to what? No, I greatly

appreciated not having any thoughts on any such

matters. The belief in God is an expensive one,

and for people that lived normal lives; ones not

tainted. Expensive because hopes, real hopes,

mostly need money, stability, bibles and ability to

interpret the poetry within such matters. Of

course I had tried to get into books from my time

with Rambone on tour, but my slight dyslexia

stopped me from understanding them and this

told me that perhaps it was a sign that all that

knowledge and God was for the official intelligent

people that won Noble Prizes and recited poetry.

My dyslexia stopped me from making a play

for God, not that I had an urge to believe anyway.

I could ill afford Religion throughout my years

since birth, so when the officers asked, I did not

entertain it. Besides any thoughts that would get

me excited were not wanted from the moment of

my arrest, as the reality was simple: I would sit in

Prison awaiting freedom and the only freedom I

had, was in my mind, and as the time elapsed this

was getting smaller and smaller from all the

aforementioned experiences saturated in the

nausea. Time passed. The nights were not the

best, as time dragged along more slowly.

Insomnia felt like I had entered a parallel

universe of nothingness, because I could barely


78


A

sleep at night with thoughts on my trial, and this

was so from the moment I had reached Bellmarsh.

I would sleep during the day, and then spent the

night conjuring up thoughts of how it would feel to

be successful, imagining perhaps driving a flash

car, eating great food, traveling without worries —

these thoughts would quickly take over my mind.

But the reality was a court case, which initially was

seven weeks away after my first interview with PC

Josef, initially.

§§§

One Tuesday, a week after the Bow

Magistrates Court hearing had set my trial date,

Connor came to visit me to go over my defence. I

remember getting angry because I was not

confident in him anymore and I said as much: “Are

you going to get me off! Perhaps I should change

Lawyer!” I yelled after he had mentioned The

Pronoun. I did yell. Connor replied, “Just calm

down. I am going through the procedures as best I

can.” After that slight fracas between us, perhaps

nervously playing with his tie and stuttering, I

could tell that he could see that I was angry and

serious, and maybe to build camaraderie he started

to gossip, as if it were a carrot and motivation for

me to not start another procedure removing him as

my lawyer. Due to the nausea I did in fact calm

down, as I was too tired not to; exasperated. He

then confided that there was quite a lot of media

surrounding the case, he usually never went into

too much detail but that day he said: “The thing is,

79


I should not tell you this...” and then proceeded

to speak and tell me something: According to

Connor a man born on the same day that looked

the same as me, alleged that he was my twin,

separated at birth to a different Orphanage.

Apparently my twin had seen me on the internet

as there was less security in the media on such

things, said my lawyer, and had been recognised

as me since the incident had made the news. I

asked how Connor knew this and he said, he

read it on the internet, and I asked if it was not

just a hoax and then he told me that he thought

it was true because the picture and interview on

Youtube seemed to corroborate the story. After

this, Connor, looked around and behind him, as

if to declare that he should not be telling me

such things, then said my alleged twin brother

was an accountant living with a Greek family in

Dorset. As much as I hated his technique to

appease me and saw behind the curtains

instantly, his updates gave my mind a gentle

prod of which reminded me that I still existed.

"It's a crazy world," added Connor. I thought

much about how my alleged twin’s life could be

different compared to mine, and he came into

my mind a lot when I was alone in my prison

cell.

There was another hearing, perhaps two

weeks after that meeting with my lawyer, at Bow

Magistrates, where I learnt that my trial was in

fact being moved, and from my arrest it would be

five months and not seven weeks between the

arrest and the trial. We waited at Bow for the

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AA

Magistrates to finish a hearing that involved a

young black boy. When the black boy’s hearing

finished, he came out into the hallway and was

upset; shaking his head. Then Connor did as he

would do usually, when confiding to me

something he deemed inappropriate: he looked

around and spoke in a whisper so the police

officers that were escorting me and talking

amongst themselves, probably about doughnuts

would not hear. “I need to actually talk to you,” he

said, before asking the Police officers if he could

speak to me in a room alone before that particular

hearing. One of the Police Officers, an Asian one

with buck teeth, then escorted me to a little room,

where Connor and I sat. “I need to ask you

something that is again, Lawyer client

confidential, you did not hear it from me,” started

Connor whilst taking a seat. “Basically something

has come up, in the media, as usual and it has

been speculated that you in fact did something

dubious.” I just sat and listened and my Lawyer

then told me that apparently my sanity was in

question as a newspaper ran a story alleging that I

had done the hokey pokey after stabbing Myra,

and I had no knowledge of doing any such thing.

“That’s a stupid question, anyway what about this

hearing,” I said, trying to focus on what was at

hand. “Ares, I need to know!" he said. "Did you in

fact do the hokey pokey and turnaround?” “No! I

did not do the hokey fuckin' pokey!” But, after

this I remember one Officer actually nicknaming

me hokey pokey. But from that point Connor kept

asking if it were true, and I told him that it wasn't.

81

He seemed adamant to know the truth, as he said

the prosecutors were having a field day at this

possibility and that he wanted to know if he had

to change the line of defence perhaps to plead

insanity. I told him that it was best that we stuck

to the truth, as I felt pleading insanity was a big to

do, that did not align with my beliefs. The hearing

finished that day, and I went back to my cell and

more time passed. Within this time, I did not

even really feel even such things as nature, which

apparently was changing throughout the

subsequent days, as my time in the cell would

discombobulate my mind’s eye. No changes, just

darkness, light and noise. But, only in my

nightmares would music ever play: Boris Vian’s

‘Le desertaur’ usually and a few times I heard the

piano keys of the Ryuchi Sakamoto song, ‘Bibo no

Aozara’, I remember that last song because it

became a favourite after I heard it when watching

the movie ‘Babel’ with Myra. Plus, Boris Vian was

the song I would play in my gigs quite often, so it

was perhaps embedded in my mind. The keys

were familiar and the melody was one I liked.

But after that hearing there were a few

more, wherein details of my old crimes, previous

convictions, Myra’s medical history and a few

other issues I deemed trivial at the time arose.

The nausea played an even louder melody within

the chords of my being by that, just awaiting my

trial, in my cell, where all I knew were the four

walls, politics of the hearings, standing, laying,

walking, sitting, stand-sitting and I had called it

stand-sitting because that became a prominent


82

activity for me. The moment between standing

and sitting was something that I enjoyed, in

moderation and some days I allowed myself

twenty stand-sitting moments which would be

broken up by all the sitting, standing and laying.


AA

I did wonder whether to do exercise, such as

push-ups and press-ups, but after watching an

inmate in the yard showing off his body to

another, I deemed it all vanity and decided

against it. Hopes an affliction. I mostly avoided

other people, but one day on the court yard,

when Faustian was probably at the gym and I sat

alone, smoking, taking in the non sights, a Jew

called Roth wanted to know why I was so close to

Faustun. I knew of Roth from Faustun and he

was apparently a powerful mover, amongst the

Jew's and serving a life sentence for killing a man

at an Ice Cream truck. "You are close?" he said of

Faustun. "Are you an Arab?" "No, I am just

sitting here." "Well, correct but I see you and you

seem to not get involved in anything but you

speak with him," started Roth. "You into the

drugs with the Arabs? You have plenty money?"

By that time, I accepted that we were inclined to

having a conversation, as the hour in the yard

had just started and he had then sat next to me.

He seemed talkative and this turned out to be so.

Roth had grey hair and a penchant for speaking

animatedly in opposition to his his facial features

which were plain, ordinary. "No, I am just

awaiting my trial," I said. "You innocent?" he

asked with a self indulgent splaying of his arm

that seemed done to entertain himself. "Who is? I

83

just hope I won't be here any longer." "Well,

you're right, who isn't guilty of something?" "I

don't know, I am just sitting here," I said as we

then sat in a tentative silence. I did not feel to

break. This was a normal procedure and I did not

want to show enthusiasm I did not have.

"Let me tell you a story because I have

noticed you a few times before and the look on

your face is one that looks lost," he said standing

up to gesture his arms more clearly. I could not

say no, because it seemed a to-do, so I listened.

"Well, there was this castle, two men at the front

and a door, a big door. A man came up to the

door and asked the two men: "Can I come into

the castle?" Perhaps he had heard rumours that

the castle had treasures," the words hung in the

yard's cold air, "The two men said that the castle

was a place you couldn't come and go from and

that in order for the man to enter he would have

to enter forever. The man was troubled at first

but looked at the castle and remembered all the

rumours throughout the town. The two men also

said that to enter you would have to sign a legal

agreement that said: "I AM A THIEF," I

remember Roth repeating "I AM A THIEF",

before he animatedly carried on, "So the man

said to himself; "If it's nice what does this

matter?" He took a moment to think this and

eventually he signed and went to enter. One of

the door men walked him into the castle and then

hand cuffed the man and said: "We are taking

you to prison!" The man was led up a staircase

but was so shocked he ran from the grasp of the


84

door man and committed suicide by throwing

himself off from the banister! and as he hit the

floor his head hit three other dead bodies….do

you get the story?" "Well, somewhat," I said

accepting that in prison it seemed that everyone

had wisdom to impart; water and oil, in my eyes;

Plus, suicide seemed just as absurd as persistence

— why we humans go on in life is a question

though? as if stroking a dog that is gnawing at our

necks! "He excused himself didn't he?" I mused

aloud. "You do excuse yourself you see. Well, it's

a metaphor for life don't you think? Things are

what you want them to be," said Roth, sitting

back down. "As I see you, looking lost, but in

reality the only thing you lack in here are

women." I didn't know how to reply to this, as the

conversation was seemingly reaching a point of

banality, in my eyes. But, I remember that story

because it made me think at the time, mostly of

the ridiculousness of life or my life for that

matter. I had not signed up to be a prisoner, but

prison as a location was soon a concept I had to

accept was something that happened within a

person's mind, Roth's story did tell me that

much. But, mostly I felt such stories lived

amongst the infinite vortex of nothingness: your

balance is unbalanced and the seams of even your

unconscious thoughts so mundane, so distilled.

The world owes much to the entertainment of

vanities, perusals of curiosities and closer to me at

that time: monotonous stages and a violent

serenity.

85

Chapter 2 — The Sun Never Rains

A knock at the prison cell door and the trial

had arrived. Those five months were spent with

me having no real understanding of time. This is a

huge part of prison; that feeling of complete

detachment, not of solitude, no you get used to the

solitude, mostly because in prison you are

surrounded by imbeciles—the other inmates are

stupid, which is probably why they are where they

were. If this weren’t the case they would be being

stupid freely, but they were caught being stupid so

they were officially stupid. The guards were also

mostly stupid, if they weren’t they would be Artists

or Lawyers, but no they were guard inmates,

resolving issues arising from spilt Ravioli, for

instance. I always found it ridiculous that the only

thing that differed from myself and these guards

was that they were being paid, but like the

prisoners, the guards held grudges too: there was

one male guard that seemed to wink at me on my

way out of the shower once, and I just walked

straight past. I did not know how else to react to

this. But, a few days had passed and that same

Officer knocked on my cell door and told me that I

would not be allowed into the yard that day: “I

could even get you thrown in the hole,” he added

as he swung his keys and his two eye's googled at

me, I then shrugged and from his frown I sensed

that he had done this because I had ignored his

wink a few days before. He was then more

offended by my indifference, as if I failed to


86

respond in the manner I was supposed to, he went

quiet with squinted eyes. I forgot to care. That is

what Prison allows for: ability for microscopic

analysis of what occurs through your eyes and


AA

ears. Everything gets playback in the grey matter

of prison time with intention or not. Again, people

are stupid, I always had this thought in my mind

and sometimes Mr Olatende’s words would ring in

my thoughts: “What you believe is always true,

regardless.”

So In a sense I had long accepted the need

for stupidity, as I believed that the need for

ignorance was true, especially in the eternal

search for happiness; clear insight would give a

person's mind nothing enjoyable to do. I started

to think that: 'Why cloud your mind with the cold

harsh realities of the truth, of non stupidity?' I did

wonder. No, I realised that stupidity makes the

world go round; it enables a joke to be funny, it

enables you to be able to sit in a cell staring at

four walls; with noise above (not God), a toilet, a

door, silences, and stupid shouts that of course

were provoked by stupidity, I guessed. It’s all a todo,

life. That is what I thought most when in my

cell awaiting my trial in those five months.

There was actually a day that they asked if I

wanted to go to the gym: an officer came to my

cell and asked me. I thought about it sat on my

bed: ‘Why would I be going to the gym? What for?

Whom do I have to impress? Was it not just

Vanity? Should I just suppress such thoughts at

best? but then I thought I would have this

87

confliction of why I was doing what I was doing

and that would lead to a dead end.’ I then mused

on the gym as perhaps a fitness activity, but having

known many old people — even one ninety year

old man — that never went to the gym and

smoked like a chimney, according to him as we

spoke at a bus stop when I was stuck in Montpelier

years before—from this I came to the conclusion

that fitness was a mystical event just like waiting

for God. I assessed that fitness was to allegedly

become healthier, this as an allegation made me

conclude that I would rather just stay in my cell.

Besides at that time I had thoughts on freedom

and the court case, activities and other people

were like moving prisons for me.


§§§

Though I remember Ronnie did in fact pay

a visit in the months leading to my trial. I walked

into the visiting area and he told me bits and bobs

of news; that he started a plumbing apprenticeship

and that he had this girlfriend that had extremely

big nipples, he said. The visiting area was loud,

and I felt indifferent to raise my voice because I

felt that Ronnie was only lip syncing friendship.

Or so I wondered, as I don’t remember fully but I

concluded that friendship was a mask for our

selfishness, and the concept that: 'no I am not

selfish I have friends or I listen to my friends', for

example. This means that such a person has got to

be good, apparently. Formalities were slowly

88

etching away from what I felt I had to partake in.

But, myself and Ronnie did in fact go through the

motions of chat, and I mostly watched the

prisoners besides me. In particular one, on the

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA right side of me — a young looking black man,

AA

was being visited by his girlfriend, I assumed as I

kept hearing; “But, you’re my baby mother,” said

the black man. I noted that the girlfriend

mentioned the black man having to spend five

more years in Prison, and that when he gets out

he should become a mechanic, she said. The

black man then said: “Yeah, I know mans needs

to get this ting poppin’ in this life ting, yeah I’m

on that, I even been going to the library and that.

And I go gym and ting. But wah gwarn doe? You

saving yourself for me then...” The girlfriend,

who was rather attractive; symmetrical face,

unblemished chocolate brown skin and

noticeably large breasts, of course I had not seen

the flesh of a pair, live, in such a long time so I

enjoyed their vibrancy, their sway, their juices as

Ronnie went on about things I was not really

paying attention to. "You're shit is everywhere

mate," he said as a guard peered at both of us as

if to warn us that he was listening.

I then heard the black girlfriend then reply

to whether she was saving herself for the prisoner

with the words: “Yeah, course innit, don't worry

about that.” I knew this was a lie, mostly from her

shrug and un-animated facial expression which

seemed incongruent to such a pledge and rather

thoughtless, as a reaction. Plus her words were

89

spoken so quickly, I doubted that she really had

thought about what he was proposing: that an

attractive lady, perhaps in her mid twenties, with

ample breasts—I did not see her full body, but


from her neck I could tell that she was not fat—

was not going to sleep with anyone whilst the

inmate was in Prison. This proposal seemed like

she was merely doing as Ronnie was; paying lip

service to things that really were completely not

the way they looked on the surface. No, I doubted

that she wanted to be there, and I doubted she

would wait six years to have relations again, but

there was a need to perhaps put on a show. At that

point I realised these shows were being recorded

all around: the guard was the lead in his own

Broadway show, as he swung his keys, stood a few

feet away from Ronnie and I. The inmates were in

the midst of their shows: sometimes playing the

aggrieved victim, and lashing out at a guard,

sometimes playing the drug dealer and so on. I

deemed this the elegant circle of the stupidity of

life: A cyclical circle; round edges, hard and soft as

both easy and difficult issues occur but a circle

nonetheless, as the same things had to occur, in

my eyes: the sun comes up, the sun comes down,

someone commits a crime, someone gets rich, a

girl lies to their imprisoned boyfriend in order to

help them act out a good life show — I realised all

this as I soon left Ronnie and the black man with

the girlfriend in the visiting area.

The notion that things were what they seem

was one in which that had met an untimely death

90


AA

years before; the masquerade that I saw life as,

was simmering and attempting to overfloweth

within my cup. I mused that life really was about

finding good pockets to act out a good show; in

that one gets a good job, which they'll internally

hate, have a kid or maybe two, and on the outside

it seems great, but the show really has many

scenes in which the participators or actors

involved hate. A sort of fakery that becomes the

status quo; The Masquerade. Whilst I stared at the

wall on the right side of my cell opposite my bed,

because it was my favourite wall as it had grey

cracks on it, (reminding me of Claire's bedroom) I

concluded that day that the show must go on and

life must continue whether I liked it or not, which

gave me a feeling in my stomach and turned the

sky a cruel unnoticeable colour that would never

relent — On rushed life, the trial, the sun rising

and setting. The sun never rained; Monotony

prevails in prison. Hopes persist.

Chapter 3 - Trial, Perdition & Mayonnaise

After the knock, I was told that it would be

thirty minutes until I would be escorted to the

court to begin my trial. Whom that knocked was

the officer that felt I slighted him in the whole

wink fiasco — Faustun had told me his name was

Coctau. I said ok, and I got back to doing what I

was usually doing, nothing. The time elapsed and

Coctau and another black officer — that was

particularly jolly — escorted me out of my prison

91

cell. Coctau pushed and shoved me along, whilst

firmly gripping my arm, probably to stamp his

masculinity, I gauged. But, in reality this was in

fact more stupidity; complicated Freudian

stupidity, that I thought assumed I was being

punished though these happenings were of the

eclectic variety like vignettes of poetry in the

scenes of my life. I walked along, finding this pain

the punishment I would have preferred, but that

which that prevailed was slower and the walk to

the van felt as if it were to perdition.

Just as offensive as Coctau's rough handling

was the cheeriness of the black officer, listening to

the black officer say: “It’s great when there’s a

little sunshine, makes you feel that there’s hope.

You know? Hope is needed.” which annoyed me,

as he would speak whilst also whistling and I

found this jarring. I would have preferred him to

grab my arm just as hard as Coctau, but instead he

kept hitting us with hopeful chatter about the

weather and that there was going to be Ravioli that

day for lunch, and how the inmates loved Ravioli. I

did not enjoy his words, deeming them as more

stupidity; a trivial geniality.

Rather happily I was led into the back of the

van, where I sat alone, no more trivial talk or nails

dug into my arm, just the silence of the dimly lit

van, the cold hard surface. Strangely, my mind at

the moment the doors were locked, my mind came

to Jesus, I don’t know why, but as the van started

to pull out of the prison I had a few thoughts

about him and concluded them with the thought

that he probably had felt the same, walking to the


92

Cross. Well, I felt victimised, I felt betrayed, but

mostly I felt nausea. A feeling in the pit of my

stomach as if it were too empty or too full. This

nausea subdued any feelings of fight in me and

made me more inclined to just want to sit in the


AA

court and allow the procedures to occur.

This whole incident, unlike my previous

stint in prison, did not need much thought about

witness corroboration or maybe a cover-up or a

lie, or that I would have to remember a facial

expression I needed to pull in order to

authenticate part of a made up alibi. For this I was

rather glad, whilst I sat in the van, because there

was simply a need to get to the purity and light of

the truth. The light was my aim, which would be

revealed if we were able to stick to the incident

being fuelled by provocation, and total

provocation. How a person such as Myra could act

in such a way, and a way which I thought would

have at the least embarrassed me intrinsically and

then the prosecutor’s blame me for reacting

bemused me. I wondered this as the van pulled

out of the prison. Provocation was my line of

defence, and that in which I believed in,

regardless, as Mr Olatende had said.

After a few minutes as the van drove along,

my mind came to Burrito’s; avocado, guacamole, a

little Mayonnaise, fajita bread, extra parmesan and

perhaps a Coke or a Diet Coke to feel slimming. I

thought about these things because it was the

simple things that hit me when in that van and

freedom dangled. I thought about what was

happening outside of the van, hearing cars drive

93

by and I imagined people running to catch a bus

or walking to get a fresh haircut at the barbers or

checking their mobile phones for messages from

their Mother — These were some of the things I

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA guessed were happening as the van drove to the

court. At one point, about half way through the

journey, I heard the end of what seemed like a

conversation between a mother and a child about

a lollipop. “Not another Lolly! Sugar is not good

for you,” I heard a feminine voice say, before a

child-like voice replied: “But I only want to eat

lollies Mommy.” What a request. The sugar had

vacated the life that I led. It was at those times

that the deficiency of my powers would parade,

saunter, exacerbate. A few more metres ahead of

that conversation at perhaps a traffic light I

guessed because the van stopped, I heard a

conversation between a big issue seller and a

passer-by: “Getcha big issue! Hey, love. You don’t

want one? Smile, you’ll be pole vaulting in no

time,” said a cockney voice. “I doubt I’ll be pole

vaulting with a broken metatarsal," said a high

pitched feminine sounding voice."Doctor said

two months, so no smile today!” I remember

thinking that perhaps she had broken her foot

painting her house or falling badly when she was

bending over to stroke her pussy. I wished I could

have been stroking a pussy, petting a dog or

doing anything but be sitting in a dimly lit van.

But as it were I just sat and soon we reached the

court. Entering the court I looked at the clock on

the wall and it was 9.30 am. The court case was

94


AA

apparently a two day affair, said Connor on my

way into the court room. He also whispered; “All

that hokey pokey nonsense was not verified by

any of the witnesses, so it was all hype and that

newspaper may now be taken to court for it,

although I shouldn’t tell you that, but good news.”

After hearing his words I thought that hokey

pokey was not going to be a big turnaround for

me. The realm of sanity perhaps questionable

from the banality of the constant procedures and

accusations.

Guilt seemed only a by product, or to-do;

in that you look hard enough and there it lies.

Though I did not feel guilt but a reckoning,

shadows of nothingness brought on by my lawyers

update. We then entered the courtroom, which

had a pathway leading to the judges stand and a

witness stand beside it to the right. On the right I

saw two benches already full of jurors, I quickly

counted ten. I then saw whom I imagined was the

prosecutor, stood at a desk just in front of the

seating for the public, sifting through some

paperwork. Whereas Connor was having a few

words with a guy holding a notepad and what

looked like a bag for a camera — that I guessed

from my previous court case could not be used. I

assumed the guy holding the notepad was a

journalist, as he spoke with a squint that made his

face look inquisitive, intelligent and very much

like one. “It looks like a two day one Tone,” I

heard Connor say from behind me. “Could be a

longie, but bloody el Huld, this is a biggie aint it?”

95

replied the journalist as he used his notepad hand

to pick the edge of his nose, nonchalantly. I

envied a nonchalant nose pick at the time, but

eyes were on me and I could do no such thing

with any leisure.

Connor caught up to me walking a little

ahead towards the front of the court and told me

that amongst the witnesses called to the trial

which I thought were just: Carly, Beckett, Anais,

Gordot, Maria and Brandy, he said that the

prosecutors had dug quite deep into my whole life

and they had in fact also called Mr Olatende to be

a witness for the trial. "They've ravaged

everything, they probably know more about you

than you," he said, and I assumed that he also

meant my previous stints in Prison and the

confidence tricks. From this I mused: ‘Whom a

person put’s their confidence in is far from a

crime in my book' but not according to the

prosecutor's as Connor then said: “Cesare is

brutal! a real killer, so please try and stick to what

I told you. But the con stuff…” before trailing off,

distracted by his blue tie, which made me notice

his red shirt. My head in a whirlpool; a red shirt

and blue tie made no sense to me.

I was then escorted to a seat next to

Connor and I remember taking notice of a lady I

assumed was a clerk sat in front of the judge and a

man with a pencil drawing just ahead of where I

sat. I looked behind and saw people at the back I

knew as the journalists and in the public seating

area my eyes caught that of Anais’, who smiled at

me, prompting me to smile back. As I sat still


96

positioned in my seat by Coctau whose nails were

fondly gripping me, I remember the pain feeling

rather casual by that time. I then looked at the jury

again and noticed a lady wearing a blue blazer and

a white shirt. As my eyes glanced at the lady I


A

wondered why I had in fact noticed her in the first

instance, but I did nonetheless. I then thought I

should look at the other juror’s and the rest

seemed a blur, apart from a man wearing a turban.

Looking at the turban I questioned whether such a

man would be prejudiced by his attire. I thought

he would be as the turban was clearly a declaration

that unless he was a lapsed Sikh, in his eyes I was

guilty regardless, as I further mused that the case

would be full of accusations of debauchery, sexual

exploits and deep analysis of gritty details, that I

even wanted to forget. A guessed that a religious

man would surely not understand the grey that I

deemed as truth; I was not sure at that moment.

Perdition came back to mind along with memories

of Myra’s strong chin; a missed sign, I gathered.

I did want to bring my truth to light, but

peering back at that turban I came to realise that

the nausea within me had overcome me, more so

by that time and fighting did seem a big to do. I

positioned myself in my seat unsure of what type

of facial expression to take; it was like walking onto

a stage, but having to act as if every eye was not on

me — it felt somewhat like an act or play; A

masquerade to an affect: I was the accused and I

had to play the remorsefully accused perhaps? I

was not sure, and I wondered what type of

97

expression would suit such an act of the trial —

the options being perhaps a sad frown, or perhaps

I was supposed to look to the floor once the judge

read out the accusations or maybe take on a blank

expression of neither a smile or frown; something

in the middle, as if I was just taking stock like the

face I would have after a strong round of drinks

gave me a life-is-happening-and-I-am-just-a-witness

look to it. I continued to wonder and questioned

whether to even look defiant; perhaps clench my

fist on occasion in order to illicit an indignant and

staunch innocence. I knew I had to decide quickly

as all the eyes in attendance within the courtroom

felt as if they were on my face, which was full of

hair as I had let it grow those last few months

before the trial. In the end, I chose to allow my

expression to be the type I would have after too

many glasses of Brandy, and I made this choice

because I felt stiff and that things were rather

anti-climatic in feeling — Just before the trial

begun it all seemed rather mundane: papers

ruffled, chat was had, jokes between the clerk and

the illustrator were enjoyed.


Chapter 4 — 9.42 - Monday, La Masquerade Act 1

In the chatter, the Judge spoke: “Can we

get a little quiet,” she said, as I noticed her

scratching her wigged head, which was looking

out of the window above the jurors. From this I

guessed that she was probably having the same

thoughts on freedom as myself. That is when I

98

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAA

realised, Prison or not, the trials and tribulations

of life centred around the whims gathering

money would need to explete. Life felt

uncertain; the only thing that was certain was

the tax of it and of course death. Death was not

so scary, much more frightening was the

realisation and threat of being eternally caged in

the violence of serenity. I then noticed the judge

look away from the window to the press in

attendance, and then she looked at me and let

out gentle puff of her cheeks, that I guessed only

I had noticed, because many in the room were

still chit chatting. I thought about what those in

attendance could be chatting about, and

wondered whether they were talking about what

they were to eat that evening or money

problems perhaps, or I imagined small

problems, which made me envy them. But, the

gentle puff of the judges cheeks told me that all

people, large or small, were in some percentage

of a cage; of which I of course guessed, being on

trial, that I was in a higher range of percentage

than them; As my bodily freedom was still

withheld, and freedom was to perhaps be

further taken from me. This fact troubled me.

Troubling as it was, I then concluded that

all in the courtroom were definitely in some

percentage of prison, I comforted myself with

this precept as I looked at the lady in the blue

blazer and thought, 'This includes you too.' In

my eyes her prison was maybe one that perhaps

she was unaware of, but to me just a few of her

actions and presence alone told me so; for one I

99

caught her looking at her watch just before we

begun, this gave me a clear indication that she

was in a prison I deemed: having-to-do-what-youdon’t-want-to-really-do;

a prison many people

can’t escape. Secondly, the lady seemed to avoid


small talk with the man beside her; looking away

when the man seemed to want to develop a

conversation. I could not hear what was said but

imagined the lady in the blazer made it short.

Words, accusations, statements, descriptions

commenced after the judge declared that court

was in session and that she needed order within

it. My mind did wonder about the Judge’s

gender, but I had no real conclusions on the

affect of this fact at that time. In light of this fact I

surmised that the situation was not a menu and I

was not ordering a Burrito, and that was clear in

my mind.

The prosecutor, Cesare begun to pick my

defence apart instantly, which again had a

strange anti-climatic lull to it. Perhaps it was my

lack of adjustment to the time, space, speech and

action continuum of normal life, and one in

which I did not truly adjust to, but as Cesare

went on, I remember feeling alien, absurd and

that the nausea was distracting me from listening

to everything being said. Besides, I was still free

in my mind and this was still a treasure,

regardless, as I accepted that what I believed was

true — I lived this. Feeling rather happy to be

out of prison, whilst I sat amongst the court’s

initial proceedings, I remember being slightly

disappointed as I would have loved to have taken

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the time to peruse all the interesting ticks within

the court’s happening’s, but being on trial I could

not enjoy such mental vanities. I felt that I was in

a room with no exit — my freedom was on trial,

and the procedures were in full effect, as Cesare

spoke words I was not truly listening to. This was

before the first witness or even myself had been

questioned. I listened and just heard the sound of

sirens outside, and the gentle chattering amongst

those in attendance consumed most of my

attention. I remember listening for sounds I could

store in my mind to enjoy later and observing

actions for the same purpose.

I turned my head to the right behind me,

and saw a white lady in a tight green meshed

scoop necked top, chewing gum, next to a man

fidgeting. I turned my head back around and I

then wondered of lunch; hoping it would not be

ravioli, as I did not want to eat that. As this ran

through my mind the judge turned to me and

asked me to walk to the witness stand in order to

question me. I did as she had instructed and stood

in the witness stand whilst she went through a few

segments of the incident; a few vignettes. She

asked whether I accepted that I was in fact at

Beckett’s party, I said yes and this continued for a

while with questions ranging from my date of

birth to particular’s of the incident. After this

initial run down the prosecutor was allowed to

address me and Cesare opened with the words:

“What I will make clear is that this man — via that

of which will be given clear evidence for — should

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be shown the maximum extremity of our beloved

British Law,” just those concise words he said.

He then asked how I met Myra and I said in a Bar

in Dalston, and that I did not remember the

name of it. Cesare then quipped: “I am mistaken,

I thought you had met her on one of your trips to

Soho…?” I looked down at my lawyer and his

cheeks puffed, to which made me instantly

assume that politics were already very much at

play, which meant that I did in fact have to bite

my tongue in effect, feeling annoyed by the

slyness, the masquerade.

I took note of the clever way in which

Cesare quickly and nonchalantly accused my

sexuality, without a sweat of a brow or a hearty

speech and mused that he was very swift. I then

reaffirmed that it was not Soho, but Dalston, and

then felt that my mind would go into overdrive if

I picked up every infliction of politics and

insinuation. From the moment of Cesar’s initial

subtle insinuation it seemed like it was all force

and subterfuge; as reactions within the course of

the trial were muted in favour of concentration,

quiet and masks. Such reactions in such quarters

as yelling in anger or snapping were, I surmised,

deemed inappropriate and not in line with the

necessity to act a certain way. In contrast, I

deemed the accusations such as Cesare’s subtle

initial question could have been met with a

punch to the face or maybe even a black eye, on

the streets. Street justice is what came to mind

whilst Cesar continued to question me. I

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concluded that I preferred the justice on the street,

it's results were quicker and less verbose.

The questions continued and it came to why

I had left France, Gerard, Martinq and the menage

a trois. I wondered how this came out in the trial,

but quickly remembered Connor telling me that

the prosecutors had done their ground work. I

guessed Brandy or Carly having heard of it from

Beckett and Anais had told Cesare. At this point I

wondered how many angels can fit on the head of

a pin? How a truth can occur from a fallacy?

Conflict entered my being to add to my nausea.

Although the confliction of truths was a poetic

vignette I had actually recognised a few weeks

before the trial. Sat in my cell came the

recognition that told me that I needed a truth, the

next person needed a truth and so on, but two

truths may not agree, so whom is telling lies was a

question I still was musing on at the time. What is

truth? I answered Cesar with what I felt was my

truth: “Yes, I did have a threesome with a few

friends,” I said those words. “That is not a crime!”

Obnoxiously Cesar then said, “Well, it can then go

on record that your sexual habits have been

experimental. Do you agree?” I saw where he was

leading to and said, “I am not Gay!” This was then

met with whispered utters from the jury area, the

public area and the press area — the whispers felt

careless, but the nausea stopped me from over

thinking my reaction at the time. I noticed that

Cesare then looked at the jury with what I thought

was a smirk, as if to say; I rest my case a

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homophobe, guilty! After this he turned back to

me and asked me of my occupation. "What is

your occupation Mr Dionysus?" said Cesare with

an air of superior knowledge. I said, “I play the

trombone.” “But you were signing on, and had

been since arriving back to London two months

prior to the incident. Is that correct?” said

Cesare, flicking his wrist towards me for an

answer. “Yes,” I say. “And you met Myra after a

gig in this Dalston bar. Correct?” Again, I

replied, “Yes” after a stutter and all at once

realised that I had incriminated myself without

any way to escape the trap he set, as smoothly as

one of Rafaele’s cons on a warm Rome day.

Cornered, I then added: “It was all going to be

cleared up,” I said. "It's not how it seems."

Cesare smirked again, and Connor puffed his

cheeks in a moment of silence and no solace.

The judge was then asked by Cesare for the

approval to question the possible premeditation

of the incident and the judge said, “Go ahead”

and then he asked whether I in fact knew that

Myra was a transgendered woman and if I had

planned an attack. Connor interrupted Cesare

and said to the judge, "The prosecutor’s words

are not corroborated with evidence!" the judge

agreed and said: "Can the prosecution rephrase

the question?” before Cesare mentioned an

alleged argument between myself and Myra a

week before the incident: “You were arguing

with Myra a week before the incident. Is that

Correct?” asked Cesare, and I was slightly taken

aback by the question as I had no memory of

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any such argument and so I said, “No, I don’t

remember that.” Cesare then moved a few steps

towards the jury and said: “Let it be known for the

record that the defendant has in fact denied

arguing with Myra Rose a week before the incident


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in question," he asserted. "But, I do have to ask,

did you have intercourse with Myra Rose?" "Yes,"

I accepted. "Would you say that you enjoyed it?" "I

did not know if I should think anything of it at the

time," I said. "So you enjoyed yourself can I say?"

"Well, in hindsight, no." "Can it be said that you

were heard spanking Myra Rose, I apologise judge,

I just really have to make this point clear." "Sure,

go ahead," said the judge, peering down curiously.

I saw where the prosecution was going: My every

infliction and happening before the arrest had

now amounted to possible courtroom accusations.

I did have to admit that I may have spanked Myra,

but I had no idea I would be sitting in court for

such activity. I could barely defend myself in this

regard. "Well, how you find this out?" I asked.

"Well, the walls were rather thin at your past

residents. So it can be said that your body desired

whom you are now refusing to accept as what she

was, a lady," said Cesare. "So your body has

concluded some element of responsibility, of

course you would not agree to guilt. But, do you

agree that your body was able to function?" "The

light was usually off and I was deceived!" I said.

"Very deceived!" "Well, Ares I don't think in the

midst of a spanking you were speaking of

deception, were you?" I stopped more anger from

cascading out of my mouth and just shrugged,

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feeling that the prosecution would just engender

whatever truth they wanted out of my words. I

held back any words on the matter.

After this shrug, the prosecution then

proceeded to comment on my criminal past by

stating that a “Huge pile” of class B drugs were

found in my apartment and that I had a

“chequered life”, said Cesare. I remember

cutting my eyes because I felt that the odds were

being stacked against me. I was fed up. I looked

at the juror in the blue blazer and saw her

shaking her big cheeked face, and I assumed the

grey matter within the turban was full of

judgement too. I raised my chin and pulled it

from side to side. I looked at the turban again

and just felt that it’s presence only served judges

and jurors and that was probably it’s function, in

my eyes: the ability to allow a person to partake

in a good judgement from the pedestal of

seeming righteous. Religion a melody sung

within the tune of the masquerade. I did

randomly think about Jesus again at this point, I

don’t know why, but I remember thinking about

the small amount of Bible quotes I knew of and

in particular one quote I paraphrased down to

not being able to throw the first stone due to a

person’s intrinsic guilt or original sin. Even

though I stood in the witness stand accused and

on trial, my dislike of the man’s turban made my

position feel contradictory and made me

question the concept of judgement; these

wonderings made me think about how people

live in society, laws and how this could


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successfully happen without judgement seemed

idealistic; I at that moment accepted that someone

had to judge, and that perhaps it was wrong of me

to feel aggrieved by the turban, by way of society’s

right to judge, though the conclusion on the

matter had not fully formed in my mind.

Still perched in the witness box that had

become a stage, I looked at the frown on

Connor’s face which told me that the trial was not

going well at that time. But there was one or two

more questions, I don’t remember and then the

last question. “Why had you thrust the knife six

times,” asked the prosecutor. “Not once, not

twice, but six times.” Continued Cesar before

repeating himself again: "Six times!” “I was

provoked," I said. "Intrinsically by him!” “By

her?” said Cesar from the edge of his nose, and

full of insinuation. I was then silent before he

turned his insinuation into a question: “Would

you refer to Myra as a man or a women, in

retrospect?” Without hesitation and in a slight

yell, Connor said, “Judge! The prosecution is

badgering the witness for opinions.” The judge

seemed to think for a second as her mouth moved

as if she were sucking a Wurther’s original; her

cheeks concaved for a moment and then she said:

“It is a perfectly legible question… You can

answer the question,” said the judge, looking at

me. I said, “He is a man, that is why it was

provocation. He committed the initial crime.”

before being interrupted by the judge who said,

“Enough!” before I heard utters within the

courtroom and loud fidgeting. I looked around at

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that moment and my eye’s stopped at the lady in

the green top chewing the gum in the front row,

whom had stopped chewing at that moment as

her jaw swayed opened, as if in shock and

needing no chewy movements to allow my words

to marinate in her mind. A mutiny I remember

thinking and one full of stupidity! I intended to

make the point that I thought would shed light

on the whole issue when I then said: “If I woke

up and said I was a table would I be one? No! I

would be what I was!” I said just that fuelled by

the annoyance of what I saw as the liberal

agenda, which seemed to waft into the court

room through the prosecution in the blink of

iota. I at that moment felt it was absurd and that

the truth within the trial lied beneath all the

words, allusions, statements, gum chewing and

inside the light of common sense. Cesare said

that he had no further questions and walked

jauntily back to his seat as if my last words had

sung a short jazz session he had enjoyed.

The session did not masquerade but

hammer home that which occurred could be my

undoing. The case continued and the next

witness called to the stage was in fact Carly. I did

not know what to expect, but had been warned

by Connor and my own assumptions that Carly

as a feminist would take a negative stance

towards me. The dildo was probably the closest

she got to a desire for what a man had. She

walked to the witness box, looking as masculine

as ever, glancing at me right in the eyes as if to

declare that she was not afraid of me. My joke


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about that dildo, rape and her girlfriend Amber

sauntered into my mind as I looked back at her.

Carly then stood in the witness box with

her ironed white shirt looking as lesbian as her

fresh box like hair cut and pierced nose; all of

which reminded me Justin Bieber that day. No

song's would be sung and the chords within her

words would be cutting. “How did you know of

the defendant?” Cesare asked. “We lived in the

same house,” said Carly. "For a while." “How did

you feel about him?” said Cesare, before my

lawyer objected with the words: “I object!” just

like that. The objection as staunch as my desire

for the dust that emanated from his suit to

vanish. “For what? Overruled,” shrugged the

judge with a frustrated head shake, that looked as

if she thought: 'This is the second time I’ve had

to overrule you, are you some sort of amateur?'

Carly said, “Well, to be totally honest, we had our

differences, let’s just say that. I’m not gonna be

in court telling lies.” Listening to this I felt that

her American accent was nasally and jarring,

prompting me to think that I really had never had

an affinity for such an accent; it seemed idealistic,

maybe all the influence of movies, I reckoned.

The prosecutor asked Carly to describe some of

these points of differences and she said that she

found me “dubious” before pausing and then

adding: “He seemed like he was all lost, and just

like bad news.” “I object to that your honour, this

is not a Starbucks this is a court,” said Connor

half standing to talk. The judge just looked at my

lawyer in the silence and that was all she did for a

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moment, as if becoming tired of Connor’s

objections. Cesare continued in the subsequent

silence: “Can you elaborate on why you thought

he was in fact bad news?” he said. “He made

some very wrong jokes. I was having a super

sensitive discussion with a friend and he butt in

and made a remark that I thought was at least

homophobic,” explained Carly looking at me as

she spoke, and when she finished her words they

were met with whispered gasps from the

congregation, which sounded like a gentle

session of the speaking in tongues I had become

familiar with at the Olatende’s Church. The

sound: “Hmmmmbalalahuh!” came to my mind

fleetingly.

Upon being gently prompted by Cesare

with a flick of his wrist, Carly happily added:

“Basically, we had a disagreement where he

seemed to conclude that a woman, even with the

use of apparatus, could not rape. I completely

disagreed as the woman I am and I felt that this

was discriminatory and homophobic.” “Ladies

and gentlemen of the jury, find that the

defendant has in fact been one to hold hateful

assertions on such issues of sexuality for a time.

This corroborates that, at least his ethics are

dubious,” declared Cesare, and so gentle were

his skills in the tete the tete of court

proceedings: if I were watching him on television

I would have been engrossed by the level of skill

he utilised along with his cultured style. I

remember taking notice of the word dubious as

it was said with such emphasise and loud aplomb


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it felt as if the stage had encountered a great act or

scene. The court’s happening then started to feel

like life in general to me by that point: a stage and

one in which procedures are accepted, a few good

things said, a few bad things said and one act’s out

differing roles and scenes, before departing.

Memories of the black prisoner and his girlfriend

came to mind within the furore of court room

teeters. There was a feeling that the declarations

and questions seemed to be of issues that, in my

eyes, were unrelated to getting to the truth of the

matter. This assertion played in my mind as

Cesare then asked Carly how I had stabbed Myra:

“Was it with aggression, anger or not?” he said.

"Did he grimace?" Carly said, “No he seemed

expressionless.” This seemed encouraging to me

initially, as it was more in line with the way I saw

the truth: a blur, expressionless and of distilled

provocation. Being no stranger to violence I don't

remember the expression my face took in the

midst of the act of the incident with Myra,

admittedly. But Cesare then twisted the situation

to suit the prosecution’s conviction and said: “This

proves that he meant it and the expressionless

instead of a grimace - which would have been

normal in order to deem the act a crime of passion

- show’s that the man sitting right there Murdered

the victim in cold well thought out stabs that were

interspersed with breaks.” “What constitutes a

grimace?” said Connor. The judge waved away the

question as if swotting a fly: "That's Semantics."

she said. Biting my lip, Cesar’s declaration and the

judge’s waving away of my lawyer prompted a

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deep sullen sigh, as it seemed that the debate of

the aforementioned non grimace could have both

been used by the prosecution against me, either

way. This seemed so as within that sigh were

thoughts that, if I was in fact full of expression and

grimaced it could then be argued that I was a

severe danger to the public, but being that I may

not have grimaced it was deemed premeditated; a

no win situation. Connor did warn me of the

prosecutor’s swiftness, but any thoughts on his

advise brought along frustrations of his dusty suit

and Walthamstow office. This gave me a deeper

feeling of nausea. "If there was a grimace, we

would have a witness to tell us so," said Cesare

with the atmosphere taken on a false politeness

and generous one up manship.

I turned my head behind to the right and I

noticed Beckett and Maria sat in the front looking

on, next to Anais with her mouth slightly open,

which did look a little dumb. I moved my gaze

from Anais' dumb look and looked back at Maria’s

face, soft lips and pout which seemed to look the

way she would look when I would suggest she

allow me to take her to my bedroom. Though after

that look I tried to not gaze at Maria, as I knew that

the trial was at least continuing for the rest of that

day and the next, so I did not want to get myself

excited by her beauty. Pleasure a mirage. Carly

was in fact then cross examined by Connor and his

efforts seemed to me marginal, at best; in terms of

producing a fight back, as his voice seemed

monotone and as lifeless as his old suit. Connor

asked with a slight rubbing of his forehead, as if


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openly declaring his stress: “Do you feel the

defendant knew of Myra’s status as a

Transgender?” “I did not know, maybe. He seemed

like a bad apple to me. I remember hearing him

slating a Lady Gaga video, and I assumed he was

bigoted and dubious, as from our first

conversation he was a jerk to me.” “Is it a crime in

your eye to be as you say a "jerk"?” asked Connor,

which I accepted indicated slight skill, but the

monotone voice still persisted and the old suit still

hung on his back, draped. “It is to stab someone to

death,” replied Carly. Connor did not have a

comeback and I slid a little more down in my seat.

After this comment Carly was told by the judge

that she could step down and walk back to her seat

and I watched her do so.

She sat next to Amber to whom I surmised

had a face that made me question the legitimacy of

her lesbianism; her face seeming too pretty,

opulent in a way. The court was the adjourned for

an hour lunch.

I was escorted out of the court room and I

found it unfortunate that there was a small Prison

at the Old Bailey, where I was taken to and served

a luncheon of what I considered just lumps of

potatoes masquerading as mash, two sausages,

gravy, and an orange juice. I sat in the cell

attempting to eat the lunch when one of the

sausages fell onto the ground. I sighed a deep

breath, one that felt was for all my hopes, dreams

and good feeling on that day. The fallen sausage

would have been a trivial moment in the bosom of

freedom, I reckoned, being that if it had occurred

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outside the four walls of a prison cell it could have

been replaced, but in that cell the fallen sausage

seemed to ooz the blood of my sanity and propel

the nausea, which felt stinging. This prompted my

mind to feel like a switch had been turned off and

one that could not easily be switched back on, I

fathomed quietly in the dark cell; Because of the

fallen sausage I could not eat the rest of the meal,

so I just sat on the edge of the bed staring at the

wall in thought. After the lunch break had finished

I was escorted back to the court and the trial

continued. I sat back down next to Connor in

search of light and hope. The next witness called

by the judge was Beckett, whom strutted to the

witness box with his arms languidly dangling either

side of his body, as he peered at me with a facial

expression I remember feeling friendly; a half

smile. He stood in the witness box and the first

question put to him by Cesare was: “What do you

make of the defendant’s character?” “I think he’s

an alright kinda guy," said Beckett. "A good guy.”

Then Cesare asked why and Beckett said: “He aint

never did anything wrong in my eyes ya know? This

whole Myra situation is out of order.” The desire

for positive words that could shed light on my truth

were still in search of, as I wished that Beckett had

worn something that looked more tidy. He dressed

in a T-shirt which I saw had a hole in its blue collar

and black jeans I noted were as dusty as Connor’s

suit; this in conclusion made him look like a bum.

Cons and tricks told me all about the importance of

appearance: a blue suit and a note pad was for me a

powerful tool. Beckett's clothing, alone would


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prohibit his words summoning any type of

awakening. Cesare then asked Beckett: “What do

you do for a living?” “I work in Tesco,” Beckett

answered. This seemed to be met with a silence I

assumed was premeditated and staged, as Cesare

just looked at the jury for a moment speaking as if

through the silence and his glare, which I accepted

said: 'Look at this bum that works in Tesco, whom

is clearly great friends with the defendant. Don’t

take anything he say’s seriously, he’s a loser! Just

look at his attire!' For that reason I saw Cesare as

Connor had deemed him pre trial, an assassin that

was so nuanced in the subtleties of articulation. I

then supposed the whispered mutterings in the

court spoke of prejudices denouncing Beckett,

standing in the witness box looking like a scruffy

man. The court uttering's sounded like the voices

of dissent, concluding that Beckett's words were a

write off and that his words had no real power over

their opinion’s. Cesare broke his performed

silence and his next word’s confirmed, to me, his

subtle word play genius: “When you hung out, as

you say, what did you do, smoke? Have you ever

smoked with the defendant Mr West?” Beckett

said, “No, no I aint.” his voice high pitched,

ominously. But I momentarily thought this was a

nice touch by Beckett, thinking it could possibly

help not to be seen as a smoker, but again in an

instance Cesare had subtly cornered him into a

false sense of security, of not snitching, it could be

said. “You have never smoked with the

defendant?” started Cesare. “Well, an ex soldier

that fought for our great country, tooth and nail to

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the bitter end has gone on record and said that he

on at least one occasion, and he thinks there were

many more, saw and heard you entering the

defendant’s room and smelt Marijuana emanating


from the apartment with you in the room," his long

nose perched on a pedestal. "Is this then a lie?” “I

aint done that, nah,” said Beckett with a look at my

face as if to announce to the world; “I am with you,

my freedom fighter friend. I am with you!” I felt

that I would have been grateful if it were my

previous case years before, up in Manchester, but

again I had decided to stick to the truth (the light),

long before. In the light of his last statement, it was

apparent that Beckett had not gotten that same

memo, and because of this there was room for slip

ups, of which became evident when Cesare said:

“You have been caught in possession of class A

drugs have you not Mr West? two thousand and six,

I believe," he said. "You are currently still doing

community service for this." To which Beckett

stuttered some words I did not care to even fully

listen to, brought on by increasing feelings of all

the nausea. In lieu of Beckett’s disappointing

performance and the fallen sausage at lunch, at that

moment, within me there was a feeling that my

freedom was as whimsical as Myra’s alleged

femininity. All I wanted was someone to declare

simply to the jury: Mrya was a man, this man is free.

I started to zone out of the court's happening's.

The next time I paid attention to the trial,

Beckett was being cross examined still, but I knew

Cesare had already dealt his devastating blow, and

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even more so when he went in for the kill and

asked about the whole ménage a trios incident

with myself, Martinq and Gerard: “Did you know

of the defendant’s reason for leaving France?" he


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said, with an air of self indulgent impress. "You

had of course learnt of the ménage a trios?”

Beckett replied, “I actually don’t really remember

all that really. I know Carly mentioned it, but I

aint really know really.” I shook my head at

Beckett’s response, mostly because the picture

seemed to be becoming more distorted and my

truth seemed like a twisted metal. As my truth felt

like that; only my truth. I found this unfortunate

as being on trial meant my truth was of course not

the blatant Universal truth, that would see me

eating Burrito’s or perhaps in a Jazz bar giggling

with Maria. Beckett soon stood down and the

judge then called Maria to the witness box, whom

then walked to the witness box looking like a true

starlet with her hair looking as if she had just

been to the hairdressers, and her red lips looking

like a fancy make-up Artist had applied their

touch.

At that point, in my mind, I had renamed

the witness box the stage of the masquerade; as by

then that which occurred within in it seemed so

full of antics the public, the juror’s, the press and

myself were merely vainly role-playing. With

Maria’s flowing brunette hair and bright red lips,

which like all great starlet’s exuded a confident

authentic nonchalance, accentuated by her face

expression that looked moody from her gentle

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pout. This all culminated in her actions coming

across as one big sigh. I enjoyed watching her

buttocks as she walked to the stand, but looked at

the jury and did notice a bald white man and

member of the jury watch me do so; just catching

a glimpse of me glancing at Maria’s buttocks to

then look at my face, and this action was done two

times in quick succession. I looked back at the

bald white man and I felt it was all duplicitous; in

that he had an earring and a tattoo on the right of

his sleeveless arm hanging off his broad

shoulders, which gave me the impression that he

could handle himself. More so, I thought he was

duplicitous because he looked like he probably

read the Sun, probably drove a white van and I

guessed that he was a plumber or an electrician.

At the time I mused that the bald white man

would probably had reacted just as I had in such a

situation, as all Sun readers would not be into the

trials clever nuances and political correctness, all

spearheaded by the prosecutor. I took my eyes off

of the bald white man and looked back at the

witness stand as Maria stood with a straight

posture and a high chin, looking as if she were

looking down at us, and suggesting that the trial

was all a big to do, she was too good for.

The Prosecutor asked her: “How do you

know the defendant?” “A few Jazz Clubs, we

gigged together and became familiar,” replied

Maria with shrug, matter-of-factly. “How do you

feel about Mr Ares Dionysus?” inquired Cesare.

“He’s alright to me,” she shrugged, again. “So

Maria, the night Myra and Ares met, you were in


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attendance, correct?” “Yes, I was there.” “How did

the sequence of events play out?” asked Cesare.

“Well, we were drinking and it was getting late

and I saw Myra ask to sit down next to Ares, who

looked drunk and from the way he was behaving


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with Myra, as soon as she sat down, I knew he

must have been drunk," she spoke with a shrug.

"Ares slurred when he said “sure” and maybe ten

minutes later I left. That’s it,” explained Maria

with all her words spoken in a clear eloquence

that I thought could have won her an Oscar on a

different stage. “You said in an earlier statement,

correct me if I am wrong, that the defendant, to

use your words - “was all over Myra”, is that

right?” probed Cesare gesturing some of his

word’s with his hands in front of his face - his

fingers splaying. “Well, no you are taking what I

said out of context,” said Maria before my head

picked up, and I felt a little warm feeling inside

my stomach of a pleasant surprise. I could have

kissed Maria right there, not in a sexual way but

more for philia, friendship. She continued, saying

in a quip: “He was drunk, and if I remember I

said that I thought he was too drunk to know who

his hands were all over. Just those words. Not

over all her, as you put it.” Cesare’s head arched

back and he seemed to ask his next question

without the usual aplomb, but a slight monotone

intonation that told me he was made coy to

further cross examine Maria after her correction

of his words; with even anger allegorised. Maria's

testimony was not working in favour of the

prosecution. Although, I do remember Cesare

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making some allusion to whether I had tried to

sleep with her, but I don’t recollect much of

what was said after that. I think I zoned out

completey, as if I were already locked up, feeling

strange to be sat in the court without some sort


of imprisonment; of a small room or hand cuff’s.

Soon, I watched Maria climb down after what I

thought was a perfectly excellent scene, putting

me in a better light, I hoped anyway. A stellar

performance. She swayed back to her seat. The

last witness that day was Mr Olatende,

surprisingly. I had noticed him at the back of the

court near to Connor’s journalist friend, about

halfway through the trial that day when I peered

at the clock on the wall and thought that the

clock ticked a melancholic tock. Plus, I

remember his shirt being immaculately white,

and as white as the shirts that he would wear

when he would force myself, Cecil and Estelle to

go to Church. I did not know what to expect

from his witness testimony before he had begun,

unlike Brandy and Gordot; whose calls to the

witness stand I knew would work against me —

they had probably written scripts. I mused of

what Mr Olatende would say about me.

Upon being asked Mr Olatende explained

that I had lived with him when I was fifteen,

until seventeen. “He was a decent little kid,” he

added when Cesare asked what he thought of

me. I thought things were perhaps moving into

the light, until Cesare asked why I left. Mr

Olatende actually stuttered and seemed to be

unprepared for the question, due to this. “Well,

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he wanted to move on with his life as an adult, I

suppose,” hesitated Olu, whilst straightening his

white and cream looking tie. “But, according to

the records, a care worker arrived to your home

and you said, I quote: “He was a bad influence,


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with all the weed smoking, he’s about eighteen,

perhaps it’s alright that he did leave.” End quote.

Is this correct Mr Olatende?” said Cesare with a

simultaneous pulling at his red tie, the devil!

Only then did I notice the prosecutors silk red tie

accompanied by an ominous smile on his well

moisturised face for a solid piece of prosecution.

Olu was again stuttering somewhat as if he was at

a loss for words, saying: “Well, that is water

under the bridge. That was years ago…He moved

on.” he said all at once. The nail on the cross I

hung from, was cemented in regards to Olu,

especially so when Cesare said: “Have you seen

him since you deemed him a bad influence?”

“Well…. no,” started Olu clearing his heavy

throat, “No, I haven’t.” Cesare sat after a few

other queries I knew were merely second fiddle

to Mr Olatende’s acceptance that since he had

deemed me a bad influence he had never seen or

heard of me. The judge asked if my lawyer had

any questions and Connor said: “No, I think that

will be alright for Mr Olatende”, which I found

strangely devoid of fight and as if he had thrown

in the towel and perhaps even used it to massage

Cesare’s ego. Nonetheless, the trial had run over

its 5pm schedule and the judge told the court

that proceeding’s would continue the next day. I

entered my cell, after that first day of the trial and

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it smelt of death and a subtle odour of old sweat of

my past sitting, standing and sit-standing, which

was my magnum opus of action, of course. The

Rose flower came into my head that night and I

kept thinking about how exotic they were. I didn’t

know why I had thought of this flower.

Interspersed with thoughts on Rose's I played

back my memories of the trial, in order to drown

out the stupidity of the shouting that I would hear

in the middle of the night, from the other inmates.

"You don't know how I get down in these streets,"

a inmate yelled. "I just need one wank!" said a

deep gravely voice from above (not God). “I need

to see a person higher up!” I recognised another

inmate shout, as I wondered what person higher

up and what all these shout’s were searching for. I

thought maybe drugs fuelled these allusions to

grandeur and degenerate talk. I remembered that

apparently LSD could be smuggled in books, so

the distribution of books had been rescinded

about a month before my arrival. Disappointed I

had heard about this about a month after my

arrival from Faustun the Albanian inmate that

would try to become familiar with me. He said that

a big dealer had been caught just before I had

arrived, which made me question the nuances of

catching inmates with drugs and concluded that it

must not be that hard, as we were all locked up.

But this seeming oversight or failure to stop drug

culture within the Prison seemed to resemble that

of general life; in the sense that a stage act of

seeming to outlaw that of which is very much part

of the show was in fact part of the canto’s of life’s


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poetry - the show must prevail.

Chapter 5 — Gordot, A Dash of Brandy & Anais -

La Masquerade Act II


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The night did pass and the next day arrived

and again Coctau and the same black officer

escorted me to the van, just as the day before.

Coctau gripped my arm and stuck his nails into

them, whilst we walked and the black officer and

him were having a chat about the economy and

how it was “great” that they had a job. I mused,

that they were just as much prisoners as I, and

perhaps even more so; being that they were

unaware of the invisible key, cell or lock that was

imprisoning them, clear from the cage their trivial

conversation smelt of, I knew they were not as

free as they would think. I spent the van journey

to the court, mostly thinking about meat perhaps

eaten with a little milk, I deliberated. This meat

was imagined to be the good meat and the kind

Martinq would cook, in Marseille, and keep from

me, most of the time. Nocturnal, dream-like, saga,

perdition, were some of the words that then

rained as hard the weather that day. The rain hit

the van and I became aware that I was on my own,

alone in the grand scheme of things. I was

drowned in my mood, and the melody was one I

could fail to escape. Everyone in the court scuttled

into the room; the rain enrapturing its droplets on

the beady faces that looked worried, sombre by

the wetness - one man jostled into the press area

with a flabbergasted wet face looking sullen from

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obviously being caught in the rain.

In the weather altered atmosphere the trial

re-started. I had sat down next to Connor, and

been looking at the jury, in particular at the man

that was in the turban the day before, whom had

changed and worn a red one instead of the black

one, he had also worn a black suit jacket that day

and a bright yellow tie. I wondered why he would

wear a bright yellow tie and mostly spent the

morning musing this, the day would pass

regardless. I also noticed that the lady - that had

worn the blue blazer the previous day - wore a red

blazer. I wondered what all these attire choices of

the jurors meant and realised that it meant just

more nausea, stages, acts and masks - because I

didn’t feel the truth lived in such thoughts. I

concluded in this regard that, in my opinion, the

truth was in fact under a bushel and masked

behind the preoccupation with the days

happenings. I wondered why one would hide a

light under a bushel and I wondered this whilst

Gordot, the landlord, was making an effort to nail

the cross ever so slightly, when stood in the

witness stand putting in his two cents; he

answered to Cesare’s question of: “Was he a good

tenant?” with the words: “He was a bad tenant, I

tell you!” started Gordot, with a grimace on his

wrinkly face, “He killed someone for God’s sakes!

In the old days you could just call someone crazy

and throw away the key. These days people ask

maybe we should not have keys! There’s all these

systems and procedures. Rubbish! Do you not


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expect our country to not suffer? This guy is also

never the type of the person that you want to rely

on, too busy drinking milk!” Connor then

objected, citing that the witness was “rambling”.

Regardless of his objection, like a fallen sausage,

the cat was out of the bag, as the words were

leaving Gordot’s mouth, and were damning of my

character. There were more similarly answered

questions, that of which I switched off to, but

Cesare’s last question, which when answered put

me in a fatally ill postured light, came like liquor;

slow, trickling. “How do you reckon he paid the

rent? And did he pay on time?” said Cesare,

playing with his expensive looking blue tie that

coordinated with his socks: it was silk and Italian

looking. Gordot said, “It was like waiting for God

to arrive! He would always feign some sort of

story about his trombone. Trombone this!

Trombone that! all these long tales and never any

rent! Lock him up, I say, lock him up! Good

riddance!” Again I daydreamed mostly from that

time, although I still asserted that my mind was

free. Though I wanted to speak on many

occasions, especially whilst Gordot gave witness,

I decided against this and just bit my lip. I still

had a little hope, even after Gordot’s act full of

anger and animosity towards me. After he

answered Cesare’s last question I heard titters

from around the court room and I remember

feeling that the creative act of the stage of the

witness box was not just performed by the one in

which stood within it, but by the whole court

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room; the spectators brought the act to life by

bringing their preconceived notions,

interpretations and thus contributed to the whole

act.

Connor tried to muster a defence, but

whilst he queried Gordot, Walthamstow lingered

in my mind and I remembered a conversation

Connor had with PC Jabar. This came to my

mind as it that consisted of hearty laugher that I

assumed had history, in retrospect, to the extent

that I wondered whether there was collusion in

the choosing of Connor as my public defence

lawyer. Upset, I found his defence poor, as he

spoke his hands seemed as if they were stuck to

their sides, unlike Cesare whom when speaking

reminded me of Tony Blair; eloquence, technique

and skill to twist a sentence. Besides I always

knew the police had in fact chosen my lawyer, so

with all the ineptitude’s I had gone through in

the procedures leading to the trial, I guessed that

this too was some sort of incompetency and

accepted corruption within the Policing system -

in lieu of the economy which the last few years

before, was said to be in a bad state according to

the news I would sometimes read on the bus, or

see on the television. The state of the economy

made me think that even two-bit lawyers with

dusty suits had to find ways to befriend police

officers and drum up business, and was probably

why the dusty suit sat next to me. The judge

seemed irritable throughout the morning of that

second day, especially with Connor; correcting

his use of the word transsexual on two different


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occasions with a scolded smirk directed at him.

This then occurred once again when Brandy, the

ex soldier, had taken stage and like Gordot was

rambling similarly, when asked if I had been

involved in any drug activity he knew of, saying:

“I smelt the weed come from the room and I

heard him arguing and the saw him arguing with

that person, how should I say? Shim? Him?

She….anyway you know who I mean.” The judge

interrupted and asked if he could be more

explicit in regards to the alleged argument and

Brandy said with a dash of flippancy: “I walked in

from a trip to the pharmacy, you know the

government would think that being that I fought

for her, this country, they would pay for my

prescription, but they don’t, they give all the

money to people like ‘em!” announced Brandy

pointing to me when he said; “‘em!” before he

repeated: "People that take all the government's

money." Connor on the basis that Brandy was

going off topic timidly then objected with the

words: “Your honour come on.” but his voice was

low and weak as perhaps it still had remnants of

all the judges previous scoldings; exasberated.

However, in that instance the judge did in fact

not overrule Connor to then ask Brandy to try

not to go off topic but he continued in a similar

vein: “Well, I heard a discussion about some sort

of Gaga or something. I did not hear much of the

words, but as I walked up the stairs I saw who I

thought was a lady and Ares talking loudly on the

landing. Ares looked unhappy and threw his

arms down, before walking past me down the

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stairs. I of course heard the spanking too!” I

listened to his explanation and was in fact

reminded of that day, but only then - It was the

day Myra (or Winslow) had bought me the Lady

Gaga CD and I told him that I did not like the

Artist, and he seemed upset, as if it was symbolic

of something, in hindsight I should have noted

his despondency and the chin that looked

extremely strong that day. But, upon this

recollection, brought on by Brandy, I thought that

the moment in question was at best a ‘heated

chat’, regardless of my opinions on the chat, I

sensed that Brandy had subsequently manoeuvred

the case into a mutiny. The Prosecutor turned to

me and looked at me in the eyes with what looked

like a glint full of conquest over me.

I looked at Connor, sat beside me, looking

even less confident than the day before. My lawyer

did then stand up with his suit still containing the

yellow stain on his left thigh that I had noticed in

passing the day before, and I imagined that it was

from a Burrito or a pizza; not a vegetarian one, but

perhaps Beef or Spicy Beef. I was bored by that

time and the trial seemed to be dragging on. The

wind had started to blow outside. Sat in the court

cell in the Old Bailey, I had an early lunch, and

again I had the same mash potatoes and sausages;

I wondered if this was the exact same meal I had

not eaten the day before, because it felt like I was

in the midst of a déjà vu brought on by paranoia

and idle wonderings. In the reverie however, I did

eat the meal with my mind plagued with


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A

perspective's on the lady in the green top that was

chewing the gum the day previous; wondering if

she wore a bra that day, and whether that

restricted the movement’s of her chest. I

concluded these thoughts with the assertion that

such matters could be thought about another time.

After lunch the judge called Anais to the stage

whom I was in the process of accepting that it was

far beyond her brain capacity’s capabilities to

muster intelligent thoughts, it was a wonder how

she could have intended to actually become a

lawyer. However, bearing the process of those

thoughts, I guessed that Beckett, being for all

intent and purposes my guy; meant that he would

have perhaps prepped Anais in how to help me, if

he was the friend his acts illustrated he was. After

her walk, that looked plodding from the stumpy

way I thought her head bobbed up and down, she

took the stage of the witness box and it was

instantly apparent that Beckett had in fact done

nothing in terms of preparing Anais, she answered

Cesare’s question of; “Did you know about this

threesome, between the defendant and his two

French friends?” And why he had in fact left

France?” Anais replied, “No…” and then after a

pause changed her answer to: “Yes.” Upon hearing

this I assessed that Beckett had in fact not prepped

her and was probably too busy playing Playstation;

Tekken, I mused. I wished I could have chosen my

witnesses, but that was the work of the Judge, but I

wished Anais had stayed at home perhaps

daydreaming about that in which I knew was her

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temptation from the first conversation we had

had: black men thrusting. Most of the rest of her

answers were blurred in me listening to the

silence in my mind. But my attention came back

to the witness box when the Judge asked Anais if

she had seen me stab Myra. “Yes, I was there

when he kept thrusting Myra,” said Anais,

measuring all her words with concentration as if

she thought she were eloquent and intelligent. I

imagined that she had learnt the word thrust after

watching all those black Athletes at the London

Olympics the previous summer. She then

repeated twice the words: “Yes, he did in fact

thrust six times, I am afraid.” Frustrated, at that

point, in my mind I felt I was waiting for God, but

all I could see was Gordot, sat behind me on the

left that day, peering at the proceeding’s with his

eye contact fixed on Anais, whom was muttering

in what to me was really a complete ditz, by that

time: “I don’t know really I had a pizza in my

hand, it was blocking my view. I don’t pertain to

know how I to remember exactly where I stood,

but I saw it,” jabbered Anais after being asked by

the judge to explain where she was in the party;

her words were intermingled with big words I

knew she could not handle. Un-secure in the

knowledge of where I would lay my head after the

trial the words that formed and fell out of the

mouth of Anais diminished the remnants of

hopes that were blowing in the rainy wind, that

was persistent since I had come into this life.

After this Cesare was concentrating more of his

questions on why I in fact took three stabs at

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A

Myra initially and why three more “…quite a bit

later?” he said. “Well, I guess he wanted to teach

her a lesson, but there was a bit of a gap, I am

afraid I do remember that, sorry,” said Anais, of

which I estimated that her apology put me in a

ridiculous and perilous light; seeming as if she was

my friend; as she kept saying “I’m afraid”, which I

thought would illustrate that she was reluctant to

admit that I had committed the act, but even

though she was my friend I was in fact guilty of

Murdering Myra to "teach her a lesson". Cesare

then replied, “The argument stated by Brandy and

now with this admission from Anais, his friend, it

corroborates that in fact the crime was not one of

passion, but one of calculation and the bringing to

the boil of his hate, only of which a therapist

should really help with. As he calmly stabbed

three times and then three more times. Is three

times not enough!” "He is not mentally crazy,

maybe he is crazy elsewhere," added Anais after

the silence. "Where?" said the Prosecutor,

flippantly mocking. "Well, I am not sure." "In your

eyes he was sane. Ok," surmised Cesare. "Well

thank you." When the Prosecutor finished

speaking I looked at Connor, sat beside me, and

saw his cheeks completely puffed out with air. He

cross examined Anais but the situation did not

improve, as she finished her testimony and walked

back to her seat, dimly head bobbing her head,

with Cesare looking on with a well postured air of

superiority. Connor then gave his closing

statement. He took the stage as I looked behind at

Beckett next to Anais and thought: 'No prep!' Due

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to this, my head felt too busy to really listen to

Connor’s last plea, but I caught a few words of it;

remembering him saying: “The defendant was

provoked, he is not on trial for being a good

person; he was deceived and reacted,” he said,

concluding my defence. Of this, I remember

initially thinking that Connor’s words were spoken

in a concise fashion, as he stood in the middle of

the court addressing the turban, the Sun reader,

and the imprisoned lady wearing the red blazer,

amongst the rest of the ten person jury. Upon

hearing Cesare’s last statement I became

underwhelmed by Connor’s concise conclusion.

Connor sat down, Cesare stood up and

buttoned his black suit jacket, which looked as if it

were just dry cleaned the day before and able to

have easily fit in on a Sidney Poiter Movie set; his

jacket was crisply ironed. He stood, five yards away

from me, with his back half towards myself and the

judge; facing the jury. I remember him not

speaking for a moment, as the court fell into a

deep silence and the type of which would enable

all those in attendance to hear a pin drop, before

Cesare swung his arm with his thumb as a pointer,

again reminding me of the long speeches Tony

Blair would give in Parliament; eloquent and full

of hand gestures. Cesare then began in the silence

that then felt grand: “This man is a threat to what

is good in our society. Drugs, check. Debauchery,

check. Experimental and dubious morals, check.

No remorse, check! A complete insensitivity to the

complexities of gender issues, check! Is he a liar?


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Well, he has been a con man and sentenced for

such confidence tricks and pyramid scams.

Would he lie? To save himself? And not reveal his

knowledge that he had in fact, for example,

argued with Myra about being Transgender?

Certainly! his dubious past can corroborate that

he would lie. What I want the Jury to do is

conclude that this man is guilty of Murder, not

Manslaughter or anything else, but cold blooded

Murder, of which the three stab’s much after the

victim had been plundered! accounts for. Dare I

speak about his obvious desire for Myra Rose and

the evidenced spanking, as such! Murder!” Upon

hearing the final word: “Murder!” I remember

this final speech invoking uttering’s that I

assumed would have been applause if it were

perhaps on a West End Stage. There was

subsequent silence as Cesare walked and seemed

to saunter, with a noticeable straight posture,

back to his seat with his suit looking clean,

expensive and as cultured as the man within it. I

looked at his trouser's in particular and noticed

the pleated line being still visible. I turned my

head away and as I positioned it towards the

Judge I become aware of Connor’s trousers; the

expected pleated line in the bespoke suit seemed

ironed out and bespoke seemed a phrase wide of

the mark for that which hung, draped. At this

point my nausea sucked in a notch and I sat

awaiting proceedings, I noticed that there was

quite a lot of fidgeting and sound of chatter. I saw

the clerk feverishly writing what I deemed were

the final lines of the stage, the lights, the

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masquerade. I looked and saw the animator

positioned to the left and examined his face out

of curiosity to notice that his white hair and black

beard looked ordinary and his face expression

similar, as if his only mission was to be the Artist

he was, not form expressions. Injustice seeped

within every iota of my being. The animator

added a few extra strokes to the drawings he had

made, before he put his pencil down on the

canvas and smiled at the clerk. The trial was

adjourned until the next day as Connor told me

that Jury could not come to a decision in time

and needed a night.

I was then escorted out of the court room

before I heard Connor a few steps behind me say

to his journalist friend: “Tone, when you get

some time can you please shut-up?” “It was a

tough inning’s today,” said the journalist.

"Another day, another story. Apparently the next

case is one involving a prostitute and crooked

police officers." I distinctly remember this

exchange invoking feelings that I could not afford

laughter and that it was an expensive tender I

could ill afford, as I was escorted to the van and

then back to my room; four walls, noises from

above (not God). On my arrival back to my prison

cell it felt like it was caving in, more and more,

not physically but mentally; as a memory of a

glimpse of the bird I saw on my way out of the

dimly lit Van came rushing back to me, and its

enviable freedom completely juxtaposed where I

stood. I was never a fan of birds though. My

stomach, at that point, felt just like my mind:


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twisted. I then laid down in the cell, and knew

that my existence was hanging by a thread; in

that I had not yet been sentenced and my heart

dreamt of being in places the opposite of where I

was. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, I felt

that the white bird I glimpsed illustrated that the

world would continue to spin; regardless of

pestilence, quake, fire or injustice: the birds still

would fly, prostitutes and crooked cops would

replace stories of fatal injustice and life would go

on. These thoughts made me wonder if I was

going out of my mind, but I concluded that I did

not believe in that, and perhaps I was going

through crazy, as opposed to being crazy; there

seemed a difference. The punishment of prison

is worst in the light of sheer silence, the death

penalty seemed more gallant and fitting, but in

reality a prisoner's demise is self-inflicted, slow,

quiet as lust, and forcibly introverted.

Chapter 6 — The Penitent Thief, Coctau & Avocado.

La Masquerade Act 3

Another night passed and the next

morning came. The court case continued, like a

casual smoking kills sign on a pack of Marlboro's;

duplicity gently envelopes. I was taken to the

court at the same time as the previous day

(around 9 O’clock). That day I was escorted by

Coctau and a bearded officer I recognised as the

same one Faustian had excitedly told me was

crooked, a few months back. Upon seeing the

bearded officer's face it brought back memories

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of the specific moment when Faustun had begun

to stage scenes I felt insinuated a friendship.

Whilst talking to Faustun in the yard that day,

we spoke about the Arab inmates and Jewish

inmates having competing sect’s within the

prison. "Everyone is in some sort of gang," I

said. “The Jew’s have all the money, but are

wimps. The Arab’s think with their balls, so they

are strong,” said Faustun, whom by that time I

already secretly disliked, mostly because his hair

reminded me of Gerard and in my eyes he had

betrayed me and set off this domino effect,

which had me sitting in the prison yard in the

cold learning of Arabs and Jews. Whilst mostly

just hearing Faustun, as opposed to listening, I

zoned out and wondered why Gerard could not

just have accepted me giving Martinq a going

over, thus initiating my abrupt return to the

place where only trouble resides for me,

London. I zoned back in because I remember a

rain drop hitting my bottom lip, to then hear

Faustian say: “But, yeah you see that officer,” he

said, pointing at the bearded officer that was

escorting me with Coctau. “Well, I heard from

Pusha, that black guy, you know the one with

the cain rolls?” I think I said, “Sure, why not.”

“That guy told me that the guard right there is

supposedly got a nice little earner going with the

Jew’s and the Arab’s on the drug tip. I even

think he’s looking to expand to the NF white

guys.” announced Faustun, speaking in a way I

always thought from the moment we met, was

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too fast. But I followed some of what he was

saying and remembered that alleged crooked

officer's face, especially his wonky noise. As we

walked through the Prison on our way to the van,

that alleged crooked officer spoke to Coctau,

whom was still grudging from the wink fiasco —

still roughly handling my arm whilst walking. I

noticed a cockney accent in the crooked officer's

voice and assumed that he was most definitely

crooked: "You know it's all about finding a little

way round these things," he said. I felt like a

prophet being led to the van, as the cockney

officer spoke whilst staring at me: “I reckon it was

provocation, I do. A bird turning round and

telling you she is a man...” “Don’t say that Titus!

you bloody big mouth Arab!” said Coctau, firmly

gripping my arm with his nails digging in. “He’s

as bad as the rest of ‘em.” This was said just as the

van door closed and that was as far as the

complexity of my judgement went, in their eyes, it

seemed.

Now, in the dimly lit van, thoughts that I

still had a strong percentage of freedom in my

mind gave my existence less of an absurd

perspective, though I accepted that it perhaps

reduced after the stress of the court case,

exponentially. The detritus of my freedom

remained as the van drove; I gauged it had

reduced by 20% by that time, mostly from the

suppression of anger fuelled by the memory of

Brandy’s witness statement, the day before, which

seemed that he had thought of long before he

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stood in the trial’s witness box; as I remember

him taking in a breath before he spoke as if

speaking from a script. This annoyed me sitting

in the Van going back to the Old Bailey; having

flashback’s of some of Brandy’s lonely words: "I

on at least one occasion heard him shouting: "Let

me spank you harder!" Can you imagine?" I

arrived to the court and walked back to my seat,

and all in attendance still seemed just as

imprisoned as me; no one really wanted to really

be there - I noticed the lady who wore the red

blazer the day before, whom had on a yellow

blazer that day, on her face I saw visible bags

underneath her eyes, plus she kept tapping the

jury rail and looking at the clock on the wall;

from this, I assumed she would have preferred to

be elsewhere.

The ladies yellow blazer offended me ever

so slightly, similarly to the jovial black officer that

escorted me the day’s previous; as like him it was

too cheery for such an affair. I looked at the man

beside and noticed that the turban was white that

day and I thought that I preferred the red; white

seemed to illicit a purity I felt was not appropriate

for an objective juror; as if to declare that he that

wore it had no vice’s and was sat a loft in pristine

white looking down at us. I heard a lot of

chattering before the trial began that day. I

looked at Connor and he seemed a little jaded; as

his white hair seemed messy and hair uncombed,

but I did see him laugh and joke with his

journalist friend in the press area, before

returning to his seat next to mine with a look as if


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AA

I were death incarnate - a frozen expressionless

face like he had been caught in the midst of an

orgasm. This expressionlessness was upsetting at

the time. I wanted passion, I wanted valour, I got

jaded, but I tried to maintain that the show had to

go on. The very air of the room felt like it was full

of helium; the verdict eagerly anticipated by all in

attendance . My time would soon come. There was

still quite a lot of chattering, whilst papers were

handed out between the judge and the clerk and

then between the clerk and Cesare.

When Cesare retrieved the papers from the

clerk he gave me a look while he was walking back

his seat; a momentary raising of his eyebrow’s;

which I interpreted as the type one would give to

an acquaintance seen on the high street; all gentle

and quaint. I said, “Hello.” then turned my head

and noticed a blonde man seated amongst those

in the public seating area - The man must have

dropped his purple wallet as it sat on the floor

next to his foot. I said: “Excuse me, you’ve

dropped your wallet.” and the blonde man picked

it up and then replied: “Thanks…It would have

been terrible if I had lost this!” I then said with a

smile: “No, you wouldn’t want that!” I sensed he

felt our interaction had moved into a

conversation, perhaps of the level of a polite chitchat,

I mused; because his head leant back after

he briefly laughed at my words, as if he wondered

whether he was correctly acting in a scene - our

scene of life within the courtroom's proceedings. I

was going to say something more to the blonde

man, but decided against doing so because it

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seemed a big to-do by that point.

The Judge got every one’s attention with

the use of her wooden hammer: knocking on the

wood four times as if a penis. After the trial restarted,

a feeling of déjà-vu seeped into my being

for a reason that was not apparent at the time. As

I sat and listened, the Judge said something,

which I didn’t hear, to the admin clerk, whom

was looking confused, as she then kept looking at

Cesare and then back at the Judge; this went on

for a few minutes. Between those two minutes,

perhaps half way through, the Judge’s gaze firmly

met my eyes, and at that moment I sensed that

she was a lesbian; mostly because she seemed to

stare at me with the same contempt as Carly;

casual indifference. Connor had also mentioned

before the trial that it was rumoured she was a

firm supporter of feminism. Feminism,

lesbianism all ism similar to me. The judges eyes

continued to stare into mine for about thirty

seconds and she did as her position entailed;

judge from the eyes of a feminist. On the basis

that the Judge was probably a lesbian I thought

that it was probably hard for her to stomach all

the ramifications about my sex life, mainly by the

fact that I had a penis! This conversation was in

my eyes but what remained was wordless, just the

way life usually is; with word’s masking the

thoughts one’s action’s fail to hide. After a few

more papers were handed to the judge, the Jury’s

verdict was given when eventually the Judge said:

“All rise…We have taken into consideration all

the different aspects of the facts," she said,


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A

exuding a desire to move; speaking in a sigh. "I

sentence the defendant to life imprisonment for

the Murder of Myra Rose with intent and malice to

kill. SHE was the real victim.”

Clenched fists, I didn't see the Devil

coming. The verdict hit me gently and not in that

instant; After hearing it I remember blanking out

for a while, as I stood, shocked, nausea induced. It

wasn't as if I wanted benediction, that was all

rumour, suspicion, but I wanted something that I

could sink my teeth into. A coliseum and a stoning

was one of the ways in which it was done in the

past, but I was a shuffle of a paper quickly ruffled

underneath the rest of the judges day at hand - the

prostitute. The fatal moment had no poetry. The

verdict felt totally anti-climatic, as I sat back in my

seat and just looked at the Jury; the turban, the

Sun reader, the yellow blazer. The injustice

loomed within the court room's excitement. The

press were scuttling about, the jurors picking up

their Sun newspapers and handbags. Police

officers begun escorting me out of the court room.

But, before I walked out Connor shook my hand,

and I remember that handshake feeling timid

whilst he said: “We’re going to really challenge

this with an appeal. There’s procedures I know but

it looks like the lobby’s are all of this… but we will

try.” I did not reply, as I was irritated by his

handshake and the verdict. As I was walking

through the court I looked at Anais’ face and I

remember thinking that it looked as stupid as it

did in the witness box; her wide open mouth

angered me - Her testimony seemed so weak: ‘No

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prep,’ I thought, 'not even a second of thought.'

But in the van driving back I realised Anais’

stupidity was that which underpinned so many

others in society; of the bliss of ignorance. For this

we are all guilty. Even you! On arrival back to the

prison cell the silence within it felt as if it was

eating away at the freedom in my mind, of which I

had gauged reduced by perhaps another 30%. The

melody of my mood tranquil from the routine I

was all too familiar with. Out the window the

empty yard spoke of this nothingness.


Chapter 7 — The Final Act: Voodoo, Avocado &

Rolling Stone

That night, after the trial’s verdict, I

remember a fly buzzing in my cell. The fly got my

attention whilst I laid down on the bed in the

dark. Out of boredom I spent quite a while that

night listening, trying to watch the fly. I soon felt

as insignificant as that fly, because I felt my

control on the world around me had reduced to a

level of severe powerlessness. Justice or injustice I

was left with a feeling of not knowing the

difference between my conscious and unconcious

sober. The pain felt declined by the sombreness of

it's slow release. How else is there to feel? I said to

myself: 'I am agnostic in my happiness!' Just as

Rambone had said.

After a while, when the fly flew innocently

around me it felt as if it was unaware of my ability

to Murder it, and then it actually landed right on

my nose. When perched on the edge of my nose I

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then clasped my hands to each side of the fly and

then clapped my hands together as if an applause,

this killed the fly as it hit the floor, before the

juice of it's body was then wiped off on my bed

sheet. What was the value of the fly's life? What


was the value of my life laid in the dark?

AA

Questions haunting my night; illusions of mirage

producing memories that distort want of subtle

realities and acted both in the deja vu and jamais

vu of my untimely existence — That rest of that

night I felt broken and numb, as I lay in the dark

into the morning. "I love you. I forgive your sins,"

said the Devil, as I closed my eyes to envision the

silhouette that fated me. Four walls, noise (the

Devil's).

A chance to stop and pause in silence could

engender a moment of beauty, but the ugliness of

silence, slowly, menacingly betrayed its beauty,

and revealed a nothingness I was first indifferent

to, but at what cost on my soul? In my mind I

wrote a letter to myself and it started, 'Dear

idiosyncratic heart.' and finished, 'I am indecisive,

but long for a punishment of real pain. Not this!

This serenity is violent.' This following day came

and went as happenings occurred as usual,

although I did get into a slight when Patrice, an

inmate seen as one of the biggest in our wing

(6"7), had bounced a basketball that hit me as I sat

alone in the yard. instantaneously angry, I said:

"You bitch! You will pay for this!" "The quiet

ones, are always the funniest," he said bouncing

his ball, seemingly taking my threat another way; I

would have been happy to have swung ten

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rounds! The pain in me yearns it! Wants it.

Instead the clock continued to tick and Patrice

jogged away laughing. But just this night after

the officer has yelled: "Lights out!” I start to

think about my appeal, of which I still maintain

hope for. Of this maybe I am wrong and the pit

of my stomach has failed me and has me rolling

the stone up this hill. All that really remains is

the detritus of the freedom in my mind, perhaps

reduced by 30% or to some degree as that.

Though it's difficult to keep track of my

freedom, in the gentle nausea. London weather

still prevails and on this night as the rain falls, I

close my eyes and I allow myself to dream;

‘Perhaps I’ll somehow be acquitted and I’ll get

some money somehow, a lot of money and I

would buy an expensive car, maybe a Ferrari and

I’d have funny conversations with strangers as I

ate a steak Burrito, the avocado would drip but

miss the new shoes that a beautiful lady from

Spain had bought for me (an authentic woman).

For her to then tell me to finish eating so I could

get back into that Ferrari and drive, perhaps

through Monaco, or maybe Marseille and as we

drove we would see the Fete Du Panier

festivities; the concert, dancing, people going to

homes with no hatred, but happiness, smiling

faces, milk, chicken, honey, no nightmares about

dropping soap, but dreams of warm weather,

and then we would see Martinq and Gerard and

the Spanish girl I was with would tell me that

they probably were jealous. Jazz would play out

of the stereo; Boris Vian’s ‘Le Deserteur’, and my

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wallet would not be in disrepute, the Sun would

feel sweet and of the liberation I believed; with no

confliction or memories of convictions,

temptations and orgasm's with deceivers... The

curtain would fall and I would not be sat in the

four walls, noise from above (not God?). Is it you...

THE END.

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Afterwords:

'Sordel, Sordello, which Sordello?' -

— Roberto Bolano, By Night in Chile

'All the world's a stage, And all the men and

women merely players; They have their exits and

their entrances; And one man in his time plays

many parts,'

—Shakespeare, As You Like It

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Vanity. Ares

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