The Man in the Street

by Martin Howe

  Noisily clearing his throat he took a notebook out of the back pocket of his trousers. He deliberately flicked through a number of pages before looking up at Tony.

  “Now pay special attention, won’t you. This is for your benefit.”

  “For our benefit?”

  Emily had stepped back into the room and was holding in her arms their youngest child Freddy, four years old and fast asleep. Standing behind her, tightly hugging her waist, was their eldest son Stephen, who was six. His tear-streaked face peered anxiously round his mother every few seconds, smiling briefly when he caught sight of his father.

  “Tony Cox, you’re District Leader of the Blackpool District of the British Union. You’re also prospective parliamentary candidate for that party for the Walton constituency in Liverpool. I am detaining you under, under…” he looked down at his notes, “…it’s here somewhere…ah yes…You are being detained under defence regulation 18B (1A). You will get dressed immediately and come with us.”

  “Hang on. Why am I being detained? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Well, that’s where you’re mistaken, my old china. In most decent people’s eyes you’ve done a hell of a lot that’s wrong. So you’re going to have to lump it until you see the error of your ways. I’ve told you all I have to. According to the regulations I don’t have to tell you anything, just take you in.”

  His voice dropped to a stage whisper as he leaned towards Tony.

  “But between you, me and that bed post over there. They’re detaining you because you’re a fascist, and, in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re fighting them in Germany and Italy. And we don’t want any home-grown traitors going around blowing up bridges, poisoning the water, setting up alternative governments, like old Quisling, while our British lads are laying down their lives for all we hold precious and dear. You get my drift?”

  Tony was shaking his head, he realized, but too late.

  “Save your special pleading for the Tribunal. There’ll be no tears shed round here about your fate, I can tell you that for free. Handcuff him once he’s dressed, we want to put on a bit of a show for the neighbours.”

  He walked out of the room. As he left he said without turning round, “Oh yes, and you’ve ten days to appeal. I almost forgot.”

  “Appeal, appeal?”

  Tony looked across at Emily. She shook her head and shrugged.

  “I don’t know, I just don’t know, but I’ll try and find out. They can’t have got everybody.”

  “You out. Come on now, get dressed.”

  Tony opened the wardrobe and took out a clean white shirt, a starched collar, studs and tie from the accessory drawer and his navy-blue work suit. Before he could close the door one of the constables barged him aside and began rummaging through the clothes hanging on the rail. Tony half-heartedly tried to stop him, but he knew what was coming.

  “Sir, look what’s in here.”

  The Inspector reappeared at the entrance to the room. The policeman was holding a black uniform triumphantly in his arms, the brass buttons gleaming, braid lustrous on the shoulders, a highly polished belt hanging down the front of the jacket like a black tongue, which seemed to Tony to be mocking him as he dejectedly dressed under the vigilant eyes of the policemen.

  “This hasn’t seen much use lately, what were you keeping it for?”

  Tony shrugged.

  “I know it must be for the day when old Adolf sets himself up at Westminster and you can be there on parade to welcome him. Saluting and cheering as he marches past with his new Prime Minister, Sir, God don’t it stick in you throat lads, Oswald Mosley.”

  The Inspector looked expectantly at Tony.

  “Well, I’m waiting. What’s the answer? What use is a uniform when…”

  “Sir.”

  “Well, well, his and hers, you would have made a fine couple.”

  There was a strong smell of mothballs. Tony could anticipate the onset of a migraine, the incipient nausea, the vice tightening at his temples, the interior of his skull throbbing to the pulse of a disturbed existence.

  “Pack it in will you,” he said wearily, “We were…we are both senior members of the Party, we don’t deny that. That’s the official Party uniform. It’s only in public that we aren’t allowed to wear it anymore. We were set on legitimately winning power in this country. We’re not traitors, we’re British patriots.”

  “Save it for later. You’ll have plenty of time to spit out your pathetic excuses to someone else. Just listening to you trying to justify yourself makes me sick. Constable, keep hold of those uniforms, we’ll take them with us.”

  Static noise – the police ransacking the house, carelessly rifling through his possessions – befuddled Tony’s thinking as he moved around getting ready. Downstairs, furniture scraped across the floor, doors slammed, crockery smashed on the stone hearth, there was the sound of water flowing and then raised voices. The logic to this legalized vandalism, the formality of the wanton intrusion, he understood as part of the game they were playing – there was nothing the forces of law and order would find that would make any material difference, as a family they had been careful – yet he still felt violated. The insistent banality of a chirping sparrow, perched on the ledge outside the bedroom window, irked him. He pulled aside the heavy black drapes, and the bird dropped from view in a flurry. It was growing light, the houses across the street were starkly etched against a yellowing sky. Down below his next-door neighbours, Stanley and Grace Grimshaw, were standing on the pavement wrapped in dressing gowns, the cool morning air misting their conversation with the policeman guarding the garden gate. Grace pointed excitedly when Tony appeared at the window and he pulled back, letting the curtain swing heavily into place. Anger was, he knew, a fool’s emotion, the heat of his disdain must be contained to get him through the onerous days and weeks ahead.

  The Inspector grabbed Tony by the arm, forcing it behind his back.

  “Violation of the blackout. Is there no end to the trouble you’re in? You’d better come quietly, wouldn’t want to add resisting arrest as well, would we? Constable, the cuffs.”

  “Do you have to do that? I’m not going anywhere.”

  “And why should we believe you, eh? The word of a fascist traitor isn’t worth buggery in my book. Give them to me, it will be my pleasure.”

  He painfully yanked Tony’s arms high up behind him before slipping on the handcuffs. Tony winced as the metal cut into his wrists.

  “Oh, too tight are they? Don’t have much call to use them these days. Out of practice. Constable, see what you can do for this soft bastard will you. I need some fresh air. Bring him out as soon as you can.”

  “Can I say goodbye to my wife and children?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Can I say goodbye to my wife and children?”

  “I heard you the first time.”

  “Please.”

  “No.”

  “Hold on, where am I being taken then?”

  “That’s restricted information. Can’t have everybody knowing where we’re holding major security risks like yourself, can we? What do you think we are?”

  “Bastards.”

  For the first time that morning the inspector came close to losing his temper, his contempt for Tony evident in his eyes as he sneered.

  “Wait till they get you behind bars. I don’t think you’ve got it in you. You’ll soon be singing to a different tune. Constable make sure that door is shut, I don’t want them talking to each other again.”

  Two policemen grabbed Tony, nodded at each other, doubled him over and frog marched him head first into the doorpost. His nose, broken, instantly sputtered blood over his face and shirt as he reeled from the impact, legs faltering.

  “Watch where you’re going,” mumbled one of the constables as they hauled him onto the landing, “nasty bruise you�
�ve got there.”

  Jarred, head splitting, Tony couldn’t think, his faculties were diminished, overwhelmed by jangling pain. Breathing was difficult through his fractured nose, warm rivulets of blood seeped into his mouth, choking, he retched as he was dragged down the stairs. He was unable to see clearly.

  Emily, anxious to know what was going on, called out as she struggled vainly to evade her captor, beating his chest with her hands as her children cried at her feet.

  The neighbours standing outside in the close were silent as Tony stumbled down the garden path; others watched from their bedroom windows. A dog was whining in a kennel on the opposite side of the road, its owner standing in striped pyjamas and a sleeveless sweater, arms crossed, watching the arrest over his garden hedge. Two policemen supported Tony’s limp, flexing body as they unlocked the rear doors of the Black Maria. A woman, her voice familiar, called out, “Traitor,” turned her back and shaking her head, walked into her house.

  Tony was bundled into the police van, where he slumped across a hard wooden bench and stared myopically out at the street though a small barred window. The familiar was unrecognizable in the hazy dawn light; an optical illusion that his befuddled brain could not make sense of. Three policemen followed him into the cramped interior, forcing him to sit up. The proximity of their bodies made him uncomfortable. Agonising minutes passed as the driver struggled to get the engine running, one of his colleagues cursing loudly as he trapped his fingers trying to crank start the motor.

  “What an idiot, eh, he’s always doing that.”

  “This bloody van should be sold for scrap.”

  The delay heightened the restiveness of the constables confined in the cage with Tony who, alive to his discomfort, were increasingly wary.

  “Come on, I’m dying for a cuppa. I want to put my feet up for a few hours before I’m out again. Supposed to be following up on those taxi-driver robberies, you know the ones that keep losing their takings. Inside job it strikes me, but whoever takes any notice of what I say.”

  In the sickly mist-shrouded dawn, the short drive to Richardson Street police station along near-deserted roads passed in a confused disquieting reverie. Tony, still concussed, reflected incoherently on the intangible quality of the commonplace as it glided past – the ethereal figures of the Home Guard unit, walking home after a night manning an anti-aircraft gun on the Promenade, two of them pushing bicycles, the angry Sergeant in the middle of a tirade against who knew what; the Church Street cafe already open serving hot tea and toast to fire wardens and early rising shop-keepers, its windows partially steamed up; further along the street the Winter Gardens showing “My Little Chickadee” with W.C. Fields and Mae West, a garish billboard towering over the shuttered ticket office. The Tivoli wasn’t far away. He had two tickets from there for “Bandwagon” next week, starring Arthur Askey. “Big-hearted” Arthur was his favourite comic. He’d seen him before and he’d been hilarious. The planned evening out was a surprise treat for Emily, but who would go with her now? Maybe if his arrest was a mistake it would be him. His eyes filled with tears. Mortified he understood that with his hands in cuffs he couldn’t wipe them away. He looked down and shook his head in despair. They had taken his shoes. A sharp pain jolted his body – the Black Maria jounced over the kerb turning into the cobbled yard of the police station – and he cried out. Bemused the policemen looked on.

  “I’m all out of clean handkerchiefs,” sniggered one of them, as his companions steadied themselves as the vehicle trundled across the uneven surface.

  “Come on Cox, face up to it there’s nothing for you to whinge about, you’ll be out when the war’s over and it’ll save you from doing any fighting. Look on the bright side.”

  The van came to a halt. The rear door swung open.

  “Stick him downstairs, nobody’s in a hurry to speak to him. Waiting to hear from higher up about what’s to be done with them.”

  Tony stumbled forward, tripping over the lip of the van and collapsing onto his knees in front of the custody sergeant. He was groaning.

  “God, what happened to him?”

  “Slipped on the stairs, Sarge.”

  “He’ll have to be more careful here then, lots of steps in this place. The berth at the end has just come free, put him in there and I’ll see if anyone can look at his head.”

  Barely aware of his surroundings, Tony was hustled into one of the larger cells, his mishandled body comprehensively bruised he ached for sleep. He crawled towards the narrow bed-board suspended from the wall by two rusting black chains. The mid-section of the thin brown straw-filled palliasse was soaking wet and one end was drenched in vomit. Thin gelatinous strings hung from the edge of the bed dripping occasional liquid beads into a spreading pool on the dusty floor. Sickened he scrambled to a bucket by the door. His stomach heaved as he recoiled in disgust, covering his mouth with a hand. The room stank, but he’d lost all sense of smell. Staggering to the furthest corner he sat down, the dark green brick wall damp on his back, the worn flagstones corpse cold. He drew his legs up to his chest and massaged his numbed feet. His head sank slowly onto his knees, then retracted, the pain of contact splitting. Blood was drying on his face, stiffening the skin on his lips and cheeks, pulling at the raw edges of his wounds. His swollen throbbing nose was sensitive to the touch.

  “God, what a mess I’m in.”

  The sun was streaming through a small window high up in the wall above him, casting a checkered shadow over the black steel door. The only sound was the incessant dripping of water, at first barely audible, then in ever-diminishing snatches of time, deafening. To escape the noise Tony clutched his ears, his head bobbing randomly.

  “Oh Chriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiist.”

  The police searched the house for more than five hours. They took away very little, but left everything in disarray. Clothes were spread over the floors, drawers emptied, books pulled from shelves and papers strewn throughout every room. Cushions and pillows had been torn open, covering the bedrooms in feathers. In the kitchen the cupboards had been ransacked, precious bags of rationed flour and sugar cut open and the contents poured onto the work tops, cans had been emptied clogging the sink, pot plants uprooted and the earth scattered. A vase that had been in Emily’s family for generations lay smashed in the hearth, carpets had been lifted and floorboards prized up. The children, who hadn’t slept while the police were in the house, finally collapsed exhausted. Emily had time to think. She knew they had arrested senior Party members – Mosley and the rest – several days ago. These latest detentions must be aimed at rounding up all the key officials in the regions. There would be very few people she could contact. It occurred to her that the obnoxious Inspector had been right about one thing, she was lucky not to have been detained. But what should she do now? Go to her parents? But her father, would they have detained him too? He was harmless but had a very high profile in the Party. If they had, her mother would have to stay here rather than the other way round. All that would have to come later. Her priority was to find out about Tony and where they had taken him.

  Time past was a yellow quadrilateral of dappled sunlight sliding slowly down the riveted length of the black steel door and out across the stone flags, constantly shimmering as it shifted shape and lustre. This mesmerizing pattern had faded almost to nothing as it approached his outstretched feet, it’s radiance gradually dissolving into the dull paving. He had believed losing his shoes was a catastrophe, but leaving his watch behind was, he realized, insanity. Time present was a string of sentences spoken out loud, marking the seconds, minutes and, he hoped, the hours, but losing faith, he soon abandoned himself to silence. Time future was unimaginable.

  As it grew dark, the hatch in the door opened and a man peered through.

  “Food?”

  Before Tony could respond the face disappeared. The retort of the door bolt as it was drawn back, though not unexpected, startled him
and he tried to get to his feet.

  “No need, me old cock-robin, no standing on ceremony here,” slurred the gaoler as he sent a metal tray skimming across the floor. A chipped heavily stained white enamel mug full of steaming tea, was placed just out of Tony’s reach, stewed liquid slopping messily.

  “There again, it might do you some good.”

  He coughed, his gruff voice, gritty and strained.

  “Bread and dripping, hope you like it.”

  He looked at Tony, clearing his throat with a series of exaggerated gulps.

  “You’re the first Blackshirt we’ve had in here. Look ordinary enough to me, but that’s what they say, innit? Let’s hope you’re the last. Got enough on our plate, without our own kind doing the dirty on us. Could understand it if you were a foreigner or something, but you’re English and they say you were born round here. One of your uncles was even mayor. I can’t understand it.”

  As he spoke he slowly backed away from Tony, his brow furrowed in consternation. Reaching the sanctuary of the doorway, his mood lightened and his eyes glistened. He waved his hand in front of his face.

  “There’s one hell of a stink in here. You should open some windows, let in some fresh air.”

  His thin laugh echoed in the narrow corridor. The clanging reverberations of the cell door, slammed shut, died away and Tony imagined he was screaming, panic shredding his senses. Time assumed another dimension and passed unmarked. He drifted. Finally, hunger imposed an order, natural appetite overcoming despair and he began to eat – the stale greasy bread mush in his dry mouth before forming into an unshapely mass when swallowing, the lumps catching in his throat, gulps of strong lukewarm tea finally washing it down, inducing an uneasy settling in his hollow stomach. Tony had barely forced his way through one unappetizing slice before the door opened and a familiar face appeared, Dr. Douglas Macfarlane.