PART THREE

CHAPTER ELEVEN - The Attack

The summer months passed quickly. Jon stayed at the I.T.V Headquarters cleaning, scrubbing, polishing, clearing up, and Matilda glowed like the embers of a camp fire at night. With Jon around no one played her up. Jon became well and stayed well, the one meal a day and a regular routine more than compensated for his roofless existence. He spent his small wage on food and the endless rounds of drinks in the pubs which were still his haven in his non-working hours. He met many people in the I.T.V Headquarters, people of all colours, class and prejudices, and there was opportunity for him to expound his ideas. He still had a running battle with the disciplinary forces that a large city like London conjures up, he spoke from his ladder in the Park with regularity, his crowds getting bigger and more expectant.

He kept himself as clean as he could, topping up his wardrobe with newer boots and a coat as winter approached. He was able to write in his pads poetry of his soul during the long summer evenings, and in the dawn before the city woke. His holdall which he carried everywhere was heavy with the weight of his written words, squeezed among his spare clothing. With the warmer weather his fellow dosser seemed more sprightly, as if they were able to put the thoughts of the rigors of another winter out of their minds. But the numbers of the under priviledged and the homeless were increasing, the power of the media was entwining itself around the minds of young children, whole families, and so to communities, the fleshpots of city life and unrealistic freedoms were persuasively depicted. Money was the present god to be worshipped, and to have money gave a new found status. Competition was rife with honesty a poor second. Drugs were filtering their ugly way into stratas of society that were innocent of their effects.

The political situation in Ireland was an ever open sore, with the terrorist attacks a constant reminder. Jon spurred himself to continue to alert his fellow man to the oncoming dangers that he foresaw unless the thinking of society, , from Governmental levels to those at the grass roots, could be revolutionised. While he was doing this he made friends and he made enemies, but undaunted he continued to press for the fundamental change he deemed so important first at the personal level, then at national level to save the authority of the country from being undermined, and then at international level. The task was enormous, but one day, someone whom he did not know upset the smooth running of his present mode of existence, and temporarily halted his self imposed mission.

The incident occurred one Sunday in late October in l971 when he spoke again in the Park. The nights were lengthening, and the warm air of the summer months had changed to a brisk coldness and autumn frosts crisped the dawn. The fight against the forces of nature had begun, the circumstances of battle were unnatural, human beings sleeping on concrete, freezing in the cold and wet with none of the aids of the wild to use against the weather, aids like leaves, wood, burrows, or packed snow. Jon walked slowly across the Park, by-passing the restaurant; some instinct drove him to speak on an empty stomach. The crowds were already assembling at Speakers Corner, they were hectoring a cleric who was labouring on about world poverty, extolling the listeners to send clothes or money to various charities. When parts of the crowd saw Jon they washed like a wave over to his plot. Slowly Jon collected his stepladder and erected it in its usual place near the Parks perimeter railings, he did not like to feel people were able to get behind him. He tucked his hold-all between the legs of the stepladder. Slowly he started to speak.

His theme was once again social change, he did not call it revolution for that conotated violence. "I challenge you all," he continued, "in sensibilities name, to take a hand in fate rather than having fate thrust upon us by big brother." There was heckling immediately from the fringes of the crowd, several of whom were in their usual state of inebriation. Then Jon turned his words towards the I.R.A.

"At each point of history where change might have come about, there are those of you who resist the change by means of force, not reason. Bombs are laid in places where and when it is known that women and children will pass by. Those of you in this organisation of destruction claim that you defend your country, but your unborn will come to realise that you were a lot of paranoids wishing nobody any good. They will not thank their fathers for causing death and destruction, for spreading anxiety and fear. The way you, the silent force of destruction, are discharging venom is without reason."

At this moment Jon noticed a young man press to the front of the crowd and walk across from one side to the other. The man purposely kicked the foot of the stepladder. Jon managed to regain his balance, but he mentally assessed that the young man had kicked the steps to see if Jon had his quota of "keepers", the silent men who are detailed to keep the peace and watch for insurrection. None of the stony faced men moved. Jon tried to assemble his thoughts but his thread was lost. He continued with practical matters.

"The bombs you place are supposed to demoralise our land. Our peoples will not change their minds or make decisions because of those savage attacks. And you try to play with fear, organising bomb hoaxes to disrupt the smooth running of our economy. It is here that the seedy side of politics play into your hands, the editorials and television coverage giving the hoaxes a distorted importance, one political party playing against the other. You are trying to create an enemy within, a bogey of suspicion." The noise of disapproval of the crowd was growing more noticeable, some of them were swaying. Jon saw anxious faces of the camera-laden visitors, but still he continued.

"You who are responsible for deaths by violence are terrorists. You are putting back progress and are dividing brother from brother. How will you be remembered in the course of history?" These were the last words he spoke that Sunday.

He saw the same man who had bumped the stepladder move towards him again with the speed of an athelete. The man grabbed the rear part of the steps and project Jon through the air as if he were throwing a two handed dart. With a squelch and a thud Jon landed on the long spiked railings that encircled the Park, and there he was impaled pierced through both buttocks to the inside of the thigh, the weight of his body tearing the holes deeper and deeper. The crowd, now hypnotically attracted to the unfolding tragedy moved closer and closer. Jon managed to grasp the shoulder of one of the spectators, and slowly levered himself off the spikes. He stood up shakely, blood pouring from his legs and thighs.

"Best you lie down," he heard a womans voice saying. "Best you lie down before you fall down. The ambulance will be here soon." Her calm voice gave Jon re-assurance so he lay face forward, on his stomach, pools of blood forming either side of him, he was glad he could no longer hear the drip of his blood on the ground. As he lay his head was scuffed by a policemans boot, as the policeman wrestled with the assailant, who was led away from the crowd yelling obscenities.

Its strange, I dont feel real pain, just numbness. I dont feel afraid, just terribly sad that this might be the end of everything. If I die all I ask is to be included in the graciousness of life itself. I dont want more. Why should he do that to me? Hope they keep that bastard. Damn it, why are things going fuzzy? can't seem to see much. It seems as if night is coming.

"Hi, there, whats happening?" he called out in a hoarse whisper. He felt someone fumbling with his legs.

"Its alright, buddy," a foreign voice replied. "Dont you worry. Just relax. I've taken my tie off and I'm putting on a tourniquet. Im a doctor, and this is the best I can do for the moment. Youre losing too much blood to be left alone. The medicos will take care of you when they come. Just lie still, and keep breathing. Try not to go to sleep."

Again Jon felt a moment of re-assurance, and with a flash to normality he re-called his work in his holdall. He croaked to the re-assuring voice "My holdall. Find my holdall. It was under the steps." Then after a short pause he whispered, "Its all foggy, cant see anything, its all..." and his voice trailed away. The crowd was slowly dispersing, some were in tears, many were white faced, they were all shaken. The ambulance siren sounded, and within seconds the vehicle arrived. With the efficiency of professionals they had Jon in the ambulance, still face down, motionless.

"Did you see all that blood?" asked one ambulance man. "He must be a goner. Where shall we take him? Paddington St Marys."

The jolting when he was moved on to the stretcher had restored Jon into consciousness. Though he was lying still he heard what the man had said.

"Bugger me," Jon said huskily. "You bloody well take me to St Georges. I Won't last the journey to St Marys, all of 3 miles. And Im not a talking corpse either."

"Blimey, sir," said a more senior attendant. "You havent half given us a fright. St Georges it will be, and top speed." The sirens started to wail. "Sorry sir, thought you'd copped it. Well move in double-quick time. Very sorry sir," the attendant seemed upset.

Again Jon disappeared into the in-between world, and it was only when he was shaken on the shoulder by a white coated young doctor did he take stock of his situation. The ambulance crew had gone, and he was in a clinically clean small ward, lying on his back, tourniquet still in place.

The student doctor, standing by his bed, pad and pen in his hand, said coldly, "Next of kin?"

"Thats out," retorted Jon. "I dont want formalities. You know my name. Surely thats enough? Get on with tying me up." He was convinced he was not going to pass bad news on to his family, specially as he had not given them good news for the past year.

"Your next of kin," repeated the student dully. He was now joined by another white coated man.

"We must have your next of kin," said the newcomer. Jon was becoming angry, and anger was as dangerous for him as fear was in the Park. The two students did not move. "What are you doing to me?" asked Jon with eyes dimming again. "Surely you know that tourniquets cannot be held for too long. Get on with working on me. God, is there no one with any compassion?" He tried to look around the room, and tried to lever himself off the trolley bed. The effort was great, but try as he could to move, he was too weak.

A slip of a girl appeared, a young uniformed V.A.D. nurse. "I'm your friend," she told Jon, and briefly held his hand. "I've been watching whats happened. We'll get on with it now. You must relax and trust me." This small act of kindness gave Jon the will to live, a young nurse challenging bureaucracy and replacing officialdom with understanding.

Even with his lifes thread so delicately balanced Jon knew he would not submit to the doctors questioning and make his family suffer more than they had suffered already from his departure. The nurse held the light like a slowly unfolding beacon of direction at the most crucial stage of a spaghetti-like junction. The two doctors were interested in the formalities, they did not identify with suffering. They would have let Jon die. The nurse knew it, Jon knew it, and the doctors knew it too.

But now events began to move fast. The doctors removed the tourniquets and applied clips. On their instructions the nurse administered the first injection, and Jon moving between enforced unconsciousness and normality was aware of her presence, and a sense of gratitude helped him to deal with his dilemma. The nurse then turned to the most delicate organs of his body and started to clean round them.

Still poised between life and death, the impishness of Jons nature surfaced. "Take care of those," he said to the nurse, "I shall need them later." The two doctors overheard his words, and one of them lapsed into bogus self-righteousness.

"How dare you say that to the nurse?" he admonished. The nurse was at the head of Jons bed and managed to give his hand a slight squeeze. Nothing was said. Jon remained silent but his mind raced.

O.K, you can hide behind respectability. But you've no idea the effort it took to create such coarse humour. All my dreams are on trial, and humour was part of my effort to fight this nightmare. Perhaps you were still able to smile inside? I hope so, for you have no escape from witnessing human tragedy, and the stress caused by this could crush the lighter side of life. But is it my fault that I am where I am? Have I been too naive? Is it the reality of my own nature, known and unknown, that has put me here? Whatever has led me to this point, I'm not giving up. I'm going to fight pain and dispair with the power of thought until I die, or am so drugged I'm not in control. I am going to deny all human limitations.

Jon heard the two medicos talking between themselves. An older grey-haired man joined them. He heard the words theatre and surgery. The older man spoke softly and exuded the air of confidence.

The first young medico came to the bed-head and said in a subdued voice, "will you please sign this, sir. It only gives us your permission to operate."

After Jon had signed the form giving his permission for surgery, the young man asked, "when did you last eat, sir? We always have to know this."

"You've nothing to worry on that score. I havent eaten since yesterday."

"Thank you, sir. Surgery is always best on an empty stomach."

Again Jon tried to relieve the tension with humour and with more spirit that belied his strength. "What are your political complexions, gentlemen?" he asked.

The young doctors ignored him, but the older man, a consultant, replied, "in this place were all colours of the rainbow, and our patients, whether black, white, yellow or brown, are all given the same treatment. Just you rest now, well be operating to clean you up as soon as we can."

Jon was wheeled out of casualty, and into a side ward. The helpful nurse travelled with him. On the journey down the long corridors Jon remembered his holdall, and his heart thumped. "Nurse, nurse," he called.

She was instantly at his head. "My holdall. Did my holdall come with me?. Hope to God it did. Part of my lifes work there. Tell me, nurse, did you see my holdall."

"Dont worry, dont worry. The ambulance men gave it to the porter, who left it behind the Admittances Desk till they know what is going to happen to you. I'll see to it myself that it ends up in your ward. You may have to leave it with Sister when you're fixed up, but youll know it is safe."

"God, you're wonderful. Better than all the medicines. Where did you learn the art of understanding? Must have had to put up with a lot in your young life."

"You can say that again," the young girl answered. "Seen a lot of unhappiness. But you think of the good things that can happen to-morrow and all the other to-morrows. I'll come and see you when you've settled in, and I'll make sure your holdall is kept safe. Here we are. You wont be long before you go to theatre. I must off now, this is someone elses territory." Again the girl gave his hand a squeeze, a feeling of silent rapport passing between the two of them.

The preliminaries to a surgical operation began to take place. Another nurse injected him, he was wheeled on a long hard trolley down long hard passages, every movement hurting his torn flesh. Then into a clinical room where the masked anaesthetist peered over him. As the last knock-out drops were administered Jon called out, hearing his voice coming from far away, "I'm depending on you to see you later." Then oblivion descended.

It took some time before Jon could drag himself from the in-between world. He slowly looked around him, there were tubes, bottles, white sheets, charts, and a clock, and a tap which was dripping. His breathing was dangerously shallow, and when he turned his head he saw blood on his pillow.

Must be in a state. Thank goodness I gave up smoking when I did. If I coughed now I think I'd die. God, I'm thirsty. I could drink a fountain. That bloody tap makes me thirstier than ever. I can't even call, my voice has dried away.

Eventually a starched sister appeared to check on the various tubes and drips. She was not surprised to see that Jon was conscious. "May I have a drink, please," he croaked.

"No," said the sister firmly.

"I'm terribly thirsty."

"But you can't have a drink," she said firmly.

"Then I'll have to get one for myself. I can hear a tap not far away." Jon tried to lift his head, but even that was too much effort.

"Dont be childish," snapped the sister, and walked away. She returned shortly with ice-cubes, and passed them across Jons lips. "No patient is allowed fluid after an operation. You've had a long time under surgery, so you'd best behave. Youre lucky to be here with us. The surgeon did a wonderful job. Now I suggest we co-operate. It would be easier for us both. O.K?" The firm stern face broke into a smile.

"O.K.," whispered Jon. "You win."

For two days Jon hovered between awakeness and half-sleep. He could do nothing for himself, and had to submit to the attentions of the nurses. He could feel the blood transfusions making him stronger. The first day he urinated and then, oh joy, on the second day his bowels opened. The pain was exquisite, but at least he knew his excretory areas were undamaged.. The only other anxiety were his sexual organs. He smiled to himself when he found himself wondering how long it would be before he knew if they were intact.

After four days he was put in the main ward, where he hobbled up and down, carrying his drips with him. He asked for a phone, and contacted Trevor, his friend who had his work, who said he would be round that evening. Jon asked him to find the newspaper printed the day after his attack and bring it for him to see.

Before Trevor arrived a nurse called to Jon telling him that a visitor was waiting to see him in the television room. Jon slowly staggered along the corridor, still swathed in tubes and bottles. Jon was puzzled for he did not know of anyone who knew he was in the hospital.

The visitor stood up, but did not offer his hand. "I'm from the Special Branch. Sit down will you? I was in the crowd when you were attacked. I saw it all happening."

"Why didnt you stop it then?" Jon asked curtly. "After all the assailant made a dummy run at me to see if I had my minders.

"Had no chance," replied the officer drily. "He moved too fast, but we've got him in jail, and we were only waiting for you to die to charge him with murder."

"Whether you like it or not," retorted Jon, "Ill take jolly good care to see you dont have to do that."

"Glad you're so sure," came the reply, "but either way, whether you die or not, you Won't be needed to give evidence, for the man has already pleaded guilty to assault. But," and here the officer paused, "but IF you recover, will you continue public speaking?"

"From the tone of your voice it would seem you'd prefer me to be dead. Typically callous of your lot. But what I am going to do is my own business, and none of yours. If thats all you want to find out from me, you've had a wasted journey. Good-day." With as much dignity as he could muster, Jon gathered his tubes together, and crept back up the ward.

He was exhausted with the effort and with the man's attitude.

Later that evening Trevor arrived. The young man and the older embraced silently, the effort of movement making Jon wince. "Well now, tell me all about it," Trevor asked. "But first Here's the paper you wanted."

"Thanks, Trev," and silently Jon scanned the paper. He found what he was looking for, a statement saying there were no incidents in the Park on Sunday.

"Look at that Trev, look at that. No bloody incidents. Here am I nearly murdered, expected to die, and the event witnessed by a whole crowd of people, and corroborated by the Special Police, and the press report no incidents. Who is covering up and why is what I should like to know."

"Calm down, calm down," soothed Trevor. "Look, lets get out of here into that side ward. Got a beer in my bag. Thought you might like it."

Again Jon shuffled down the corridor. He still looked blue, and his hands and legs were cold. "You look a right state," Trevor said with a smile. "Just as soon as you're fit and well come to my place. Here's a spare key. I dont want any nonsense. A puff of wind would blow you over."

"Youre worth a million, Trev, and I'll come as soon as I can get these tubes off me." Jon put the key in his pocket. The two talked long and hard, Trevor listening carefully. Between them they tried to analyse the attitude of the Special Police Officer, the mention of murder, and the lack of reportage of the incident by the daily paper. By the time the nurse came calling for the end of visiting hours Jon was tired out. He crept back to bed.

What a mess I'm in, weak as a kitten. Must get stronger. Its not quite a week since it all happened, but I must get stronger.

By the end of two weeks, all the tubes had been removed, all the stitches taken out. The surgeon came and sat on his bed and spoke to Jon in a fatherly way, though Jon was the older man. "Now, sir, you've had a narrow shave. You've lost all that blood, and your resistance to fatigue and sickness will be very low. I do advise you to take care of yourself. I understand you have somewhere to go, otherwise I would not let you out of the ward. Everything should heal nicely as long as you take care."

Overawed a little by the kindness of the man, Jon replied, "Thank you, doctor. If the world were made up of people like yourself we wouldnt be heading for disaster. But dont you worry, I have survived against enormous odds many times before this. You see, I am fortunate enough to have this trust in the absoluteness of life and this trust sees me through the swings and roundabouts of the daily struggle. Dont think I am not grateful for your expertise and the care and attention of those around me here. Your knowledge has battled with the forces of evil and won. Soon it will be time for me to fight with evil as I see it, and with my own weapons, ideas and words. Like you, who labour with the knife to battle with the enemy of life, we use words. Its harder, lonelier, but frighteningly powerful. One day, maybe, youll understand all that I havent been able to say."

The surgeon replied, "Youre a remarkable man. But even the body of a remarkable man has its limitations. My advice to you is to acknowledge your humanity, that your heart and lungs and circulation have taken a knocking, and you need to be careful. I Won't say more, as you probably wont listen." They both laughed. "But you must come to out-patients if anything untoward happens and ask for me personally. I will help you." With this the surgeon rose hurriedly, shook Jon by the hand, and left. Jone eyes were moist, and he saw the glimpse of pain in the eyes of the professional.

That evening Jon discharged himself. He still looked blue, and had breathing problems, but his wounds were healthy though not healed. He collected his holdall and left the hospital, steeling himself to keep the tears away as he said his farewells to the nurses and doctors who had tended him. He tried to walk to Trevors flat, but soon realised his limitations, and hailed a taxi. Trevor managed to keep him quiet for two days, but on the Sunday Jon was determined to re-visit the Park again. He took a bus, and found that even the high step up taxed his legs. Slowly he walked to Speakers Corner. He was recognised immediately, and greeted warmly by those who had seen the attack. He was moved by their concern. He thought he would thank them all, and stood on a small box. But the effort was too great, and although he tried to project an appearance of self-confidence he had to apologise for his feeble attempts, but he promised to speak again when he was stronger. He walked slowly to the Park entrance, where after a rest on a seat he planed to catch a bus back to Trevors flat.

Tired with his exertions Jon dropped into a light doze. When he woke he saw the silhouette of a man against the afternoon sun. It seemed familiar.

"Why, bless me," he muttered when his eyes had become attuned. "If it isnt Sleeping Beauty himself. I certainly dont want to see you, and I'm sure you've got no reason to be looking for me." It was the police officer whose charge of assault had resulted in the spell in jail.

"Its you I'm looking for, right enough," the man snarled. "And I've a warrant here for your arrest." Jons mind flashed back to his last court appearance.

Its that damned fine. I've forgotten all about the bloody thing.

Aloud he said, "And whats the charge this time?" He tried to appear nonchalant.

"You were found guilty of assault on a police officer, and the fine is outstanding. I must ask you to come with me to the Police Station." Sleeping Beauty was purring with victory.

"O.K, I'll come with you. But you've got to go at my pace. If you'd had any sensitivity you'd see I'm far from well. But I shouldnt expect anything as civilized as that from you." Jon felt angry and his heart was thumping hard.

Take it easy, old cock, hold yourself in check. Got to ride this one out. Too much tension could easily knock me out. I was the one who used to stay cool at the Gestapo interrogations. Old Chalky just fainted. Mustnt do that, not now.

Another small crowd was gathering as Jon slowly levered himself off the seat, and with the officer clutching his arm, he moved to the near-by car. "There's no way you could fix a cock and bull story of assault with me in this state. I suppose I should count that as a blessing." Jon longed to goad this man, there was something unclean about his presence.

In the police station he was led to a small cell and left to wait. The hard chair hurt his buttocks, and his head swam. Soon Sleeping Beauty returned , followed by the Police officer who had called in at the hospital, and they led him down a long corridor into a Court Room. By now Jon was passed caring of any outcome. The Magistrate tried to be understanding. He allowed Jon to sit down. "This will only be a formality," he explained when he had read a summary of the charges. "If you agree to pay the fine and make a statement to that end, then you are free to go. We know you have money enough, and I advise you to finish with the matter. You are in no fit state for more legal proceedings."

Gruffly Jon said, "Give me the necessary forms, and let me get out. Talk about hitting a man when he is down. Its disgusting."

With a shaking hand he signed the documents and the cheque for the fine. "Id like to know who gave you the authority to check my bank account. Id like to know what you dont know about me. Precious little, it seems to me." Tired and ill, he tried to keep his dignity. "And now, gentlemen, I presume I am free to leave."

Outside the police station Jon waited for a bus. Once aboard the bus he started to shake, first his teeth chattered, then his hands trembled, then the whole of his body vibrated with uncontrollable shudders. The route was familiar to him, but he had difficulty in picking out the landmarks.

Got to get back. Got to get to Trev's. Got to get out. Got to climb the steps. Got to find the door key. Got to open the door. Got to sit down.

Then the world went black, secondary shock had set in. When Trevor returned he found Jon bathed in sweat and urine, white faced, with shallow breathing.

"My, you're in a state. How long have you been like this?" Trevor shook Jon who opened his eyes. "I'm going to phone the doctor. Youre right bad."

"No, no docter," Jon murmured. "Blankets, and a hot bottle. Thats all. It'll pass. Just keep me warm. Sorry for being ..." Jon faded out again. All that evening Trevor sat by the sofa, watching the sleeping man. With the warmth of the blankets and bottle, the shivering stopped but the sweating continued in streams. Not daring to offer Jon anything alcoholic Trevor passed water for him to drink, but he could only manage small sips. The night took a long time to pass. With the dawn peeping through the windows Jon took a hold on his life, his breathing became more regular and deeper, the sweating stopped, and he slept quietly. Trevor, ceasing his watchfulness, made himself coffee and laced it with brandy. He knew that Jon had ridden the tiger and won.

In the following days, Jon nursed himself back to strength. He was grateful to Trevor for the use of his home, and made this clear, but Trevor wanted none of it.

"Just stop this living rough, is all that I ask," he said. "Find a place and settle down with your poetry and plays. You say yourself it doesnt take a wise man very long to prove himself a fool. This is just what you're doing. You speak into a void. The world that you speak about is the world that people dream about, but they realise it is only an illusion, the pounding mistakes of history have loaded the dice against that dream world. Why do you have to sleep rough? You tell me you seek to regain your integrity. Thats very noble, but how stupid. Step back from that grey zone. What you are doing to yourself isnt right. You know you're welcome here for as long as you like, but I know you know you Won't stay here because you think youll be beholden to me."

"Youre right there, Trev. When I'm a bit stronger, and sorted out my written stuff, then I'll be off again. You must understand that Id rather be in the underground world than have an allegiance harnessed to a use that worked against the principles of life. I must go on doing what Im doing until I feel that I can no longer serve this Supreme Intelligence that means so much to me. Be patient with me, Trev. One day, you never know, maybe my ideas and efforts will rub off on parts of humanity. Then my life will not have been worthless. But now, lets have a drink, and stop being serious for a moment."

"Point taken," replied Trev, "and I promise I'll never reprove you again. We dont and Won't need smoke signals or the telephone to understand each other. And whatever happens youll always have my friendship."

The empty bottles littered the floor the next morning. Jon once more started to feel more like his usual hopeful self. He knew it was time to resume his journey. He knew he must sort out his writings and keep only that which was unique and credible. He knew he must discard the rest, millions and millions of words, words all jumbled and cluttered and not recordable. What he didnt know was whether hed be strong enough to continue to battle with the winter elements.

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