Telling The Truth
Telling the truth... that seems to bring to mind a melodious tolling
sound from long ago. One day, Jack & myself were sitting around waiting
for something to happen, when there was a ring on the bell - usually it
was the kids who couldn't resist pulling the rope as they went past,
especially in the mornings on their way to school; and it was a very
fine large brass bell which we had hanging just outside the upstairs
window of this strange condemned semi-derelict property on the
outskirts of Meanwood. It was a good location for getting logs for the
fire; the trees started about thirty yards away (though if we were
really lazy, then we'd get the odd plank from the timber yard next
door). A good place, though sadly it was closed down by the health
department shortly afterwards.
But it wasn't the kids; it was Derek. In he came. We put the
kettle on, having found some relatively unused tea-bags, and all
sat down. The place was pleasant enough despite being a little
bare; just a few sleeping-bags, a hand-made bench and the
glorious table that Jack had made from some of the rough cedar
posts we'd carried back from the side of a nearby field, the bulk
of which we had intended to use for firewood. When the vicar from the
nearby chuch came round and hesitantly asked us for it back, explaining
that it was fencing which had been taken down temporarily and was
now due to be put up again, I remember him admiring the table's
beautifully polished surface as he put his cup down on it.
Derek seemed in an amiable mood, showing us photos of his children
and chatting about families and things. Anyway, it seemed that he was
on his way to bust someone in one of the Black pubs in Chapeltown, and
had an hour or so to spare before the guy was due to turn up. As
sergeant, he was the senior member of the city drug squad, but Stevie,
his supposed sidekick, rarely accompanied him. They were thought to
spend much of their time calculating which of them had got the most
column inches in the local paper. (When Stevie eventually got demoted
to panda cars, one wondered whether it was because he was in danger of
getting too far ahead.) The other two members of the squad were young
women, who it was generally agreed, perhaps a little unfairly, would
have been better off modelling chewing-gum.
When Angie and her mate first began their under-cover work, it
didn't start too well. They casually walked into "The Conk" just
as Monty was about to wander outside for a piss. La
Conqueradore coffee bar was situated up an almost inaccessible
side-street too far away from the shopping centre to have any hope of
attracting passing trade, and by default catered almost exclusively to
the druggies. A succession of initially enthusiastic Italian proprietors
all inevitably came to the sad conclusion that though the current
clientele had little money and were almost impossible to keep out,
at least they didn't wreck the place, and it had to be better than
having no customers at all.
"Don't shut the door Monty - them two slags are just leaving",
shouted Simon from the far corner. Simon, despite having mellowed
a little over the years, still occasionally lived up to the name
of Satan by which he was commonly known. He had developed his
antipathy towards and ability to instantly recognize police officers
during eleven years as a tramp following six weeks in the paras as
part of his curtailed period of National Service.
It was while Simon was sleeping on Brighton beach that a newspaper
photographer gave Hilton, a tender 14 year old runaway at the time,
five quid if he'd identify the "beatniks" supposedly skulking around
beneath the pier. Hilton (known then, believe it or not, as "Biffo")
duly pointed out anybody who looked as if they would be too zonked to
notice their photograph being taken. As a result, when the pictures
were published in the national press, he became persona non grata
amongst the beach community (in fact he had to leave Brighton in
something of a hurry), and Satan took on a new identity and found
himself, despite his background as a gentleman of the road, firmly
typecast as a member of this strange new culture. But that had all
happened some time earlier, before he'd come up North with Pete (first
husband of Sher, Sol's mother) who was at this time doing a spell in
Dartmoor (having taken the rap for a rapacious shop-lifting holiday with
Sue & Aggie) - when younger, he had acquired a certain amount of
experience in (and done a bit of time for) safe-blowing. (On arrival in
Leeds, they'd caused quite a stir, both having very long hair and beards
- well, it was a couple of generations ago.)
"Do you take drugs, Jack?", asked Derek out the blue. We both looked
at him in amazement, wondering what he was talking about. The only
reason he knew us was because we took drugs - not to mention the fact
that another member of our household, Leather John, was his number one
informer. "What do you think?", said Jack giving him a
quizzical look. "Well do you?", said Derek. "What do
you think?", repeated Jack with a smile - he could be
extremely stubborn.
Then Derek asked me the same question. I thought for a couple of
moments... of him previously admitting to me that he had
taken most of the commonly available drugs except LSD (a notable omission,
I remember thinking at the time), though I hadn't been sure whether to
fully believe him - perhaps my definition of what was commonly available
was a little wider than his. And I thought back to the first time I'd
come across Stevie. "Yes", I said, and the conversation moved on to other matters, and I thought no more about it...
...until a few months later. While living in Headingly, I'd been set up
in a major police raid. Having failed to score the previous night,
there'd been little alternative but for a small piece of hash to be
found in the pocket of my jacket which I'd left in another room.
I remember the excitement as the uniformed police opened up the bottom
half of the dresser which was crammed full of old needles, syringes and
empty ampoules; dragging Derek across to proudly show him their discovery;
standing their preening themselves. Having visited several times a week
over the previous couple of months, Derek knew the place and its contents
as well as we did. (The place wasn't exactly low-profile - the record
was 17 raids in a week: 13 visits from the drug squad & 4 by the
uniformed branch.) His favourite joke was to bid us goodbye, then re-enter
a few seconds later, look under a cushion or behind an ornament, and
discover the drugs he'd previously left there. "Got you", he'd say, and
then go off with a big smile on his face as the jeers and cat-calls
erupted - it became a race to see if we could find out where he'd left
the dope before he came back into the room. He yawned and shrugged.
"It's all legal", he said, and then seeing their blank uncomprehending
faces, had to explain to them that at least three of the people living
in the flat were registered, and obtained their gear (or at least most
of it) on prescription. (One of the uninformed uniformed police later
admitted to me while locking the cell door, that if he had his way
"people like you would be flogged with barbed wire"... the dull
earnestness of the morally righteous with an s&m topping.)
To my pleasant surprise a couple of concerned and politically active
people I knew but slightly had gone to the trouble of procuring me a
solicitor, who suggested that not only should I plead not guilty, but
in addition ask for the case to be taken to Crown Court for trial by
jury. There seemed no obvious reason not to go along with this - though
the normal routine was to attend the magistrate's court, plead guilty
(having got the police to agree to put in a good word for you with the
magistrate), and get fined or at worst be put away for a few months.
Taking such a minor charge so seriously seemed almost to be making a
fuss over nothing. (Crown Courts were only for major sentencing, or for
those who were determined to prove their innocence and could afford to
employ good enough barristers to ensure their acquital.)
Derek had been quite reasonable - giving me the standard couple of
weeks warning that he was going to bust me. He was a bit pissed off
'cause I'd been doing some dealing, and wouldn't tell him where I was
getting it. As it was from out of town, all Hilton was able to find out
was what train I was planning to catch and the time I was likely to get
back, for which information he was getting paid with some rather nice
grass. They had a big bag of it, which used to be kept locked up in the
large cupboard at the back of the drug squad office until Dave, one of
life's opportunists, was able to rip off a sizeable amount after
cleverly managing to get himself left alone in the room for a few
moments - another of his reputed feats was to remove the slab of opium
from its display case in the local museum. (I didn't suss out for a
while, why, whenever I returned from scoring, Hilton would be stoned
out of his head, looking slightly embarrassed, and insisting that I had
half his dope - "Go on, man, take it. It's your share", he'd mumble.
People sometimes overlooked his honourable side.)
The solicitors were most conscientious. The barrister they obtained
was both well-known and well-respected. (At this time, drug cases were
quite uncommon and in fact were almost a fashionable cause celebre for
the radical/liberal establishment, especially where a hint of corruption
was involved. Not that I considered the police particularly corrupt;
even Stevie when he'd been pushing pills in York had never been known to
bust anyone for anything he'd actually sold them - there again, he
was rumoured to be ripping people off with dud stuff.) After a
few moments chat before we went into the court, he admitted that I hadn't
"a snowball's chance in hell" of getting off unless I took up my right to
remain silent, and left it to him to try and invalidate the
police statements (now no longer a viable option since the introduction
of the Criminal Justice Act a couple of years ago). This he did quite
brilliantly, to the point where Derek, having been asked for the third
time whether he was absolutely sure that the illegal substance found in
my pocket had not been placed there during the raid, turned a shade of
red I'd only seen him once before - which was when he'd been showing off
the large piece of dope he usually kept in his breast pocket, and
Janet, asking for a smell, had suddenly made a grab and run off with it.
During the cross-examination, Derek was asked why the flat had been
raided, and said that he was aware that I took drugs. "And exactly how
do you know that?", asked my counsel. "Because he told me he did", came
the for once completely truthful answer. Much to the surprise of
everyone except the jury, I got off. Derek was quite upset; in fact he
sulked for a while - didn't talk to me for several days, and refused to
buy me drinks down the "Prince Charles" (the only pub in the centre of
town where we could go without being hastled). He felt I'd cheated -
the first person busted by the Leeds drug squad not to be found guilty.
I felt a little sorry for him. My barrister had given him a pretty hard
time - much harder than he'd ever given me. Stevie, who'd not been
involved with the raid, was of course delighted by the result. Thereafter
he always treated me as if I'd done him a personal favour, and indeed
once or twice was most helpful.
Now I don't say that one must blurt out the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth on all occasions, regardless of whether anyone
actually wants to hear it; only that the telling of deliberate lies is
not something which I can endorse without qualms. I agree it would be
easy to hypothesise a situation whereby it would appear that a small lie
could prevent enormous pain and sorrow. But when considering this
question, which I do from time to time, I recollect Jack's answer -
most appropriate under the circumstances. I had always considered him
wise, even before this incident.
- Weed (June 1996)
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