Jon appeared at court at the appropriate time. He could not see his witness anywhere. He hoped his case would be heard in the main Court where the press were allowed, but his hopes were shattered when he was ushered to the top of the building and to a smaller Court room where there was no press and still no sign of the witness. A solicitor and counsel did not appear until ten minutes before the start of the case: there was no time for Jon to explain his side of the story. He felt sure events were being manipulated to his disadvantage. He again asked for trial by jury, but his request was not heard. This time his bail was withdrawn and he was to be put in gaol so that a medical report on his state of mind could be assessed before sentence was passed. Another Court appearance was to be held in fifteen days. Jon fumed at the Magistrates and at the course of events, but he was quickly marched out of Court and back to a prison cell.
He took stock of his situation. He was in a single cell, but there were already two occupants in it. One had been charged with violence against the police, and the other for petty theft. Jon thought about his own situation.
Doesnt seem too rosy for me. I seem to be a victim of bent policemen, then bent Magistrates. Suppose I get a bent psychiatrist. Id be like putty in their hands, and they could have me put out of the way for as long as they like. I've always said words and ideas are one of the most important weapons. Thats probably why theyve nicked me. My ideas are too dangerous. Better than the pack of lies that other people put out, and get away with. Now I must dip into my well of self-survival, and keep one ahead of them in my mind. Think I can withstand any physical violence. Difficult to know what to expect. Still, in a detached sort of way, it might be interesting.
After a short while a constable opened the cell door, and escorted Jon to a small room, obviously used for interviewing. Sitting at the desk was a young man, wearing a checked jacket and flambouyant tie.
"I'm the psychiatrist. They call me in when I'm needed. Now whats the problem."
"Well, you do surprise me," replied Jon. "I'm old enough to be your father, and here you are telling me I have a problem. Its your lot that have the problems."
"Seems odd, sir," said the young man and smiled a boyish smile. The boyish smile and the respect which the young man, though senior by reason of his medical status, offered to Jon made Jon breathe a sigh of relief. Jon felt he would put most of his cards on the table, and not play games with defensive talk. In fact the two hours they spent together became quite enjoyable.
Finally the psychiatrist stood up, "Well, sir, I've really enjoyed talking to you. I can assure you I will present a glowing report as to the state of your mental health. You have nothing to worry about on that score. In fact, I wish you well. But, in my official capacity, I must ask you to stay within the Law."
With twinkling eyes he held out his hand. "Thanks a lot," said Jon. "There's good and bad come in all disguises, and you seem to be one of the good. I'm glad to have had a talk to you. As for staying within the Law, I dont know. Its them that seem to invade my areas of privacy." They both laughed, and the psychiatrist left the room. Immediately the constable appeared and ushered Jon back into his cell.
He was again put in with two other men in a different cell meant for a single prisoner. They were monosyllabic, and heavy people. Jon tried to find a common ground, but there was none. They were no trouble, just came and went, like zombies, at meal times and to the latrines. They did not snore or cough and spit.
One day after Jon had been to the washroom he came back to his cell to find it empty. The two other inmates had been removed to another wing. As he was putting his towel on the hook he looked at his locker. Something had altered. He looked inside, and saw some drugs amongst his possessions.
There's danger here, those zombies were put here for a purpose. By causing no friction THEY hoped to get me off my guard. Someone is trying to set me up. I'm going to make a bloody great fuss.
He banged on the door, first with his fists, then with his shoes. "Warder, Warder," he called. An angry warder came rattling along, his keys jangling.
"What the hell do you want?" he asked, "whats all this noise about?"
"What the hell do you expect me to do with these drugs that I've just found in my locker," came Jon's quick reply. "They're not mine, never used them. Must belong to the fellows whove just left. If its your lot thats planted them I should like to know the reason why. I've met enough deviousness in my case without being made to look suspect for trafficking in that muck."
"I'll report the matter," was all the warder said, and turned to leave, locking up the cell again.
Another trivial incident helped to make a small landmark to pass the fifteen days incarceration. All the prisoners had to do small domestic duties. Jon was detailed to hand out the fruit for the day, one apple per prisoner.
"When that black bastard comes along," said a cross-eyed warder with thick lips and a cauliflour ear, "give him a shrivelled little one. Cant bear them blacks. Cause us more trouble than anyone. Send them all back to where they came from, thats what I say."
"Then would you be prepared to do the kind of work they do? Would you like your son to be an underground porter, a hospital cleaner or road sweeper? Thats why they're here. To help us do the jobs that no one else wants to do. can't see you turning your hand to do that kind of work. You want a cushy number, dont you? You make me sick. Just because some of them get into trouble it doesnt mean that the lot are bad. It makes good media headlines to report bad news, and minority groups are easy to show up."
"Shut your trap," said the warder. "When I want your opinion Ill ask for it. I was told you were a cheeky bastard. Quite right too." Jon began to give out the apples to the line of men. When he saw the coloured lad turn coming up, Jon chose the biggest and juiciest apple, and with a flourish handed it to the fellow.
"Hey, thats fine," said the lad with a grin from ear to ear. "Best I've had for ages. Thanks a lot. Its made my day."
Whatever you've done, you've got the face of an angel. Can't imagine it was too serious. Must try and get a talk with the lad. He might be here cos hed no one to defend him. Wonder what he does? Could be hes on his own with no family or friends. Could be hes caught up in the drug racket. Somehow dont think its that.
Jon was not on his own for long in his cell. Another prisoner was led through the door. This man did not stop talking. What a difference from the other two silent occupants.
"Seen you in the Park," said the newcomer. "I've even listened to you."
"Oh," said Jon. "Its a coincidence to find you in the same cell as me. Are you in for a rigged up charge or are you in the nick for true?"
"Rigged up charge? What do you mean, rigged up charge?" The newcomer sounded uneasy.
Ah. Ah, I've a sneaky feeling you're in here to find things out about me. Too eager to be an associate of mine. Came to mention the Park too quickly. Wonder what he wants to find out? Perhaps he thinks Im under orders from some party or other who are using me to upset our so-called democratic way of politics.
"Tell me what you're in for," asked Jon, keeping his suspicions to himself.
"Loitering with intent, and thats all I'm going to say about it." The newcomer seemed quite put out. Jon listened as the man collected his wits, and started to talk, and as he talked he shot the most impertinent questions towards Jon.
"You must think I am a nut-case," Jon said to the newcomer, weary of this camouflaged cross-examination. "Do you really think I dont see through what you are trying to do? The answers I have given you are all wrong, and you've wasted your breath. I know full well you are a plant trying to find something that your so-called masters think I should tell them. But you tell them from me, that my ideas are my own, that my ideas and thoughts are being passed around, and that ideas are the most powerful weapon anyone can have. THEY know ideas are dangerous. No matter what they do to me, apart from killing me, or imprisoning me for ever, they cannot stop my ideas from growing. Tell your masters that I work for no one. I have found no one yet whom I can trust. And I certainly dont trust the likes of you, inspite of all your grand talk and name dropping." Both men were glad when the warder came again, and under the pretext of an interview with a Senior Official the newcomer was led out of the cell. "Good riddance," Jon called out, "and now for some peace." Jon lay on the bed and tried to read one of the books from the library.
He ate the food with relish, most of the other inmates looked glumly at the helpings on their plates. "This is a feast when you've had an empty stomach for some time," he said.
"You look O.K," replied a young lad. "Dont look starving to me."
"Some days are not as easy as others," Jon replied and left it at that.
Soon it was time for the next Court appearance. Although Jon had been promised the services of a Defence Council, none appeared. It was not until he was in the cells at the Court waiting for his turn in the dock did two gentlemen appear.
"Good-day, gentleman," said Jon in a sarcastic voice. "And may I ask whom I have the pleasure to meet at this late hour? I'm told I'm the last case to be heard this morning, so fortunately there is a little time to spare."
"I'm your solicitor, and this gentleman is the Defence Counsel."
"Its like putting a quart into a pint bottle," retorted Jon edgily.
"There's so much background information for me to give you in order that I have a fair trial that it would take ten hours rather than two. I feel that you've been sent at this late hour just to put things on a legal footing, and for justice to appear to be done. I can only tell you the ribs of the case." He had just started to make his statements when the original thug appeared at the door, the thug who had molested him on the traffic island, and then beaten him up.
"And now look whose here. Sleeping Beauty just woken up."
"Yer next on the list. Not last as was written down. Now op it quick," the thug spoke in a thick voice.
Jon turned to his counsel. "This is just a bit of tactical undermining. Been like this from start to finish. Theyve got the power, the prestige, and can call any tune they like. I'm the underdog without the financial means to fight back. You watch what happens in Court. I'll scarcely get a word in edgeways. Theyll find me guilty. Willing to bet on it?"
The Counsel scowled. The solicitor said in a mincing voice, "You are making matters worse, talking like that."
Throughout his varied experiences, Jon had been under various secret police set-ups much more lethal than this present occasion, and he rode it like an operatic tea-party. He offered no opposition, the Counsel was as good a sick headache and the solicitor even worse. As Jon knew what the outcome would be he made no visible sign when the verdict was announced. He was to pay a stiff fine for assault on the policeman, and was bound over to be of good behaviour for the next two years.
There goes most of my paltry savings. Bet they knew Id got something stuck away for emergencies. But how did they find out? Whats in the account is the same amount as the fine. S'ppose all my private affairs are swopped around on various authorities computers. Dont like that idea very much. S'ppose Id got V.D. Wouldnt want people to know that, but how could I stop it, once Id had medical attention? Doesnt say much for the twentieth century if the individual has no privacy left.
Aloud he said to the warder who was escorting him out of the Court. "Guess I'll be rooked for the services of the two legal blokes, useless as they were. Thats what makes me angry. Money given for useless services, everybody being on the same side, and me alone on the other side. All things considered our legal system is probably the most liberal of all the countries in the world. Yet they do bad things, like todays farce, and manage to make it look as if justice was being done. However devious the acts of authorities they all hide behind a profile that talks of liberty of the individual. Liberty, my foot, unless the individual has deep pockets. But even so, were luckier here than in other places."
"Best you just keep these ideas to yourself, sir," said the warder. "Youll only get into more trouble. Do what you want to do, but keep out of trouble. I've been here long enough to know what its like always coming back here, time after time. Gets them down at the end. Wouldnt like to see you got down, sir. You just take care."
"Well, well, I really think you mean what you say. That sure is a treat." He turned and shook the warder by the hand, and walked abruptly out of the Court. He did not want to meet his legal advisers again. Back on the streets Jon was momentarily confused. He walked slowly away from the Court building, aiming for St Jamess Park.
Oh, for the fresh air and colours of the Park. Always does me good. Afraid thats a foretaste of what is coming to me, I'm sure it is. If Im going to stay on this course, driven by my daemon, to oppose injustice I must expect much heavier treatment. But I really must try to do what I must do without crossing swords with the police. Its eerie how theyve found out I've had that small amount in the bank. Its eerie the way they can find out all about a person nowadays, and from computer to computer pass around to lots of people everything they know. Another incident of invasion of privacy. Sometimes I feel Id rather like to go back to horse and carriage travel, then news wouldnt travel so fast. Im going to hang on to my money for a while, and not pay the fine. Wonder what will happen? Must find work fast. Got to eat to live.
After trying well over thirty places, mostly in the pubs, or small restaurants with no success Jon started to feel worried.
Must look more untidy and more tramplike than I am. Still feel the same inside. Coats a bit shabby, and boots are dirty. Havent any socks, but people can't see that I havent any underwear. Wonder whats putting them off? Must have a jolly good bath and clean up a bit. The cells werent really dirty, but the whole place make me feel I need to wash the experience away. Why am I fussing? I went three months in Poland without taking off what few clothes I was allowed. No wonder the bugs enjoyed me. They ate more out me at night that I had to eat all day.
The next morning after a cold night huddled in an alley way off Mortimer Street, his legs and feet in a black plastic bag, he spent one of his precious shillings on a full bath with all the extras. He shaved, cut his hair and nails, washed his shirt and trousers, wearing his second very old ones while they dried. He tried to clean his shoes with wet toilet paper. The attendant looked on and then protested. "Come off it," he called. "This isnt a bleeding private 'ouse. Yer aving more than a bobs worth."
"Cant get work looking as I did," replied Jon. "Ill clear up after myself. Jolly good bath that. I could hardly get messages to my legs they were so stiff, and the hot water was just what I needed. What do you know about the large block of flats in Knightsbridge, backing on to the Park? they're advertising for a janitor. Thought I might have a try."
"Try that," said the attendant, looking more friendly. "Full up with aristocrats, ambassadors and big wigs in trade.. Yer might get tips there." He gave Jon a look over. " Now thats beer. Good luck to yer, and come again. I'll shut me eyes to yer washin and cleanin.
"I'll keep you to that," replied Jon. "If I get the job, we'll have a beer. Id like to know about the grass roots of this area. Its not the kind of work Id choose, but I've got to keep old man Hunger away." Jon tidied his belongings into his bag and with a cheerful grin left the attendant to his work. Slowly he walked away from the Fulham Road and up Sloane Street.
Used to feel at home hereabouts. Just an intruder now. But its in these big houses, the restaurants and hotels that work is more available. Work I must have, so here goes. Its those poor suckers who have had the will to work squeezed out of them by their hopeless state that have to be pitied. Just because they havent a home address theyre condemned to a life of degradation. Living quarters offered by the Councils wouldnt be given to a lot of dogs, and the attentions given by the religious are swamped with holy teachings. No one feels like being preached to when hes starving and cold. can't the wretches leave the dosser with his self-respect? Damn the blasted Governments. Maybe one day the religious do-gooders might offer their help without the element of bribery, you have my cup of tea and you must believe in my God.
Jon brought himself back to his present predicament and steeled himself to meet the Manager of the flats. When he realised that much of his work was to be connected with the security of the property, he started a spiel about his period in Intelligence at the end of the war, giving the Manager the impression that he knew all about the devious ways of those who wanted to penetrate a concern such as the one he was being expected to look after. His newly scrubbed appearance must have impressed the Manager or there may have been no other applicants, but Jon was offered the job, his hours were to be from 2p.m till 10 p.m. There was no food offered in the contract, but there was an electric kettle in the cubby hole in the basement where he was expected to sit when not busy. Jon accepted the contract, given a beige overall, and told to start on the Monday shift.
He left the building in a sombre mood, not lightened by only having a few pennies in his pocket. He walked to Kensington Underground and with a wink and a nod he passed the ticket collector. He found the Circle line, and a seat in the corner of the front carriage and settled down to a sitting up sleep. He hunched himself low into his collar, and firmly grasped his bag with his work and few possessions under his arm by the window. Sleep came quickly as if for making up for lost time. He woke refreshed to find himself crushed by people standing all around and he realised it was the rush hour. He surfaced at the next stop which he saw was Euston, and decided to spend some of his pennies on a cup of tea. He put his pad on the table and started to write.
Am I moving fast enough towards the purpose of my journey? Are there moments when it is better to do nothing, than to do something for the wrong reasons? Time hangs heavily with nowhere as a base. Must keep up my morale. However many steps there are in front is not of the greatest consequence once I accept I cannot get back into the womb, I just have to accept pleasure or pain, or both. Then I must go forward all the time, conscious of my weaknesses, strengths and the destiny of humanity. This insecurity is bearable where truth and love are observed and further multiplied by entering into sacrifice. Like all life on this planet, Supreme Intelligence can and will not hurt the concept of lifes dimension.
No purpose or vigilantes can obstruct lifes absolute Intelligence. How thankful I am that I can still think thoughts on this plane, I feared that hardship would dampen the flow. I know that servitude is the mind benders backlash.
Bringing himself back to reality he made the effort to go back on the street and start walking again. He walk slowly along the back streets until he came to the City, and then delved underground again at the Bank and caught the train southwards. He immediately fell fast asleep, tucked well into a corner. But he was metaphorically caught with his pants down. He was woken up roughly by a shake on the shoulder. The train had drawn in at the terminal, Morden, and the cleaners were on the night shift.
"Wake up, wake up, man. You've sure overshot the mark. Where did you want to get to? No buses now, and no taxis either. Not that that would bother the likes of you." Jon let that remark pass by, he was still bemused from sleeping.
"Sorry, chum, I'll be off. Thanks for waking me." Jon answered no questions. He walked to the station exit. It was a very dark cloudless night, and the stars were bright. He breathed the clean crisp air and felt refreshed, the air made him hungry.
Will fiddle with these chocolate machines. Never know your luck. Someone may have left something in it by mistake. Nothing in that one, or that. Now this one. Damn it, must have got jammed. Try again. Wow, my good lucks in. A whole bar of fruit and nut. Worth more to me than a million pounds at the moment. Won't last me long. Its such a glorious night. Might just as well be walking as sleeping. Good to be alive. Got a long way to go though, should imagine its all of twenty miles. Ill try to get a hitch, but who'll want to pick up the likes of me?
He tried to hitch some of the sparce traffic going northwards, and turned away from a taxi who was stalking the curb looking for a fare. The taxi drew up alongside, and in the darkness of the night all Jon could see were two white slits of eyes, for the driver, a man from Barbados, was deep black himself.
Cheekily Jon called out, "Glad you've got your eyes open or I wouldnt have seen you. If its money you're after I've got none."
The drivers attitude was a reproval on the remark about his colour, and Jon wished he had not said it. The driver said, "Jump in, mate." Jump in meant to sit on a small box in the front free part next to the driver usually kept for luggage. The flag was left up as the driver pottered towards the city.
After moments of sparring chit-chat Jon said, "How nice to meet a refugee as a far away from home as myself. You've got colour linked with dignity. Sorry for my stupid remarks."
"You get used to handling things like that," replied the driver.
"Anyhow being black at night doesnt matter anyway. What does hurt though is when your daughter comes back from school and tells you that her teacher has told her that she has written down her nationality wrong. Even though she was born here in London, that bitch of a teacher told her she was not British. Thats the kind of thing that hurts."
"Did it upset your daughter?"
"Sure it did. But she won in the end. She refused to rub out the word British, and the teacher had to settle for it. Its still odd, but after six years at that school, some families Won't ask her back to their houses. There's nothing different about her except her colour, she speaks the same, she doesnt have any religious hang-ups, she dresses the same. Perhaps its because I'm a taxi driver. Better that than being unemployed like some of the parents. Poor devils."
"How long have you been here?" asked Jon.
"Twenty years. Arrived when lots of us came to do low paid jobs. Started off at the stations, saved my money, and then bought a taxi. Been careful with my wages, and now I've got all I want, a lovely wife and family and work. I've caused no trouble. There's lots like us, were no trouble. I was the first black man to have a taxi in London."
"That must have taken a bit of doing," said Jon.
"It did, believe me," replied the driver. " At the time it was considered a unique achievement, and THEY tried to do a documentary on me. Dont know who started the idea. Didnt want to involve my family, and thought they might use it for propaganda purposes, so I didnt accept. Would have helped from the money side, of course, they offered me a whack. Glad I refused though." They talked freely for the rest of the journey and soon they arrived at Shaftesbury Avenue.
"This is fine for me," said Jon. "I'm really grateful to you. You've probably guessed I'm a transplant like yourself, but unlike you I've left behind my own home and family. Its people like you who give me insurance that life is still worth pursuing. Its been really good to meet you, and for the lift. But thats a practical matter, not as important as the other intuitional one, but welcome all the same. Look, There's a gang of youngsters coming. Bit drunk, I think. But they might give you a fare. Bye now."
The friendly man tooted on his horn and drove straight towards the animated group. Jon was delighted to think that the driver would get another fare for he was sure that Shaftesbury Avenue was well out of his usual beat at this time of night. He aimed for the tea counter in Covent Garden and spent the rest of the night chatting amongst the marketeers. One stood him an outsize mug of tea. It was very welcome. The next two days were very long, and Jon became hungrier and hungrier. His stomach seemed tied in knots, each knot rubbing painfully against the stomach walls.
Ill not spend my savings, and I'll not go for Assistance even though I could give Trevors address. Perhaps this janitor job will give me a leg up. I must see if I can cope with life as it comes on my own. Got a good kip last night by that ventalitor at Oxford Circus, so its not all bad. God, I'm famished. I'll go and raid the rubbish bins in the Park. Praps the picknicers have left something edible and clean. expect the pigeons or squirrels will get there first. Maybe lifell deal me out good cards again, like with the chocolate.
With this thought in mind he wandered through both Hyde Park and St Jamess Park and found several ends still wrapped in plastic which the wild life had been unable to penetrate, ends of crisps, crusts, meat pies. He did not touch the pies fearing that the meat would be off. He also found a whole apple and some chewing gum. He settled down by the lake in St Jamess to eat and to watch the birds. The weak March sun tried to warm him, Jon turned towards it and was thankful for all that was beautiful, and that he was still able to acknowledge the beauty all around him.