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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.
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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
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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.
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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,
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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
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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'
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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
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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
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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,
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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
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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
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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.
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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.”
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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,
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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
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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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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
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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
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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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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
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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
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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
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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
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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-
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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,
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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.
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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
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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,
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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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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.
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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§§§
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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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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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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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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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.
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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
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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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