The Words of the Mouth

by Ronald Smith

CHAPTER FOUR

  Without really intending to, I had lapsed hack into buying and selling dope; it was essentially the social currency of the circles I moved in, and dealing carried a certain amount of prestige and glamour, like being a gun runner or a resistance fighter; a kind of outlaw romance masked its basically commercial nature.

  I was seeing one of my art college girlfriends, Mairi, more and more.

  She had a wide-eyed innocence, a winning smile, and I was flattered by the warmth of her attention. She also had a yellow Triumph sports car and lots of money, coming from a wealthy family on the west coast of Scotland.

  Although she had a public school background, she was drawn to the bohemian life I was leading, and enthusiastically offered to drive me down to London so I could score some dope from a couple of contacts I had picked up.

  My first contact was called 'Chelsea Charles'; I phoned him when we reached London arid announced I was coming over. His house was near a bus stop, a ground floor flat on the Chelsea Road.

  I knocked; the door opened cautiously a couple of inches, and a nose poked out.

  "Yeah?"

  "It's Will; I phoned a few minutes ago."

  "Actually, I'm frightfully busy," replied a posh voice, "I'm in a business meeting, can't see you just now,"

  "Look, we've only come to London for a couple of hours, we have to go back to Scotland tonight," I persisted, although we were really staying for several days with my pal, Jim,

  "Oh, very well, come in," the voice conceded petulantly,

  I told him I wanted to buy some black dope, "Black is just for beginners," he informed me with a superior air.

  "Oh, give him some of that Paki black, Charles," said a very assured young lady with long, straight blond hair, evidently his manager, and reeking of money herself. Dealing with ignorant provincials from North Britain was apparently beneath their dignity.

  Charles rooted about in a drawer and produced a matchbox-sized, black lump, wrapped in clear plastic film, which I paid for; then I was immediately shown to the door.

  As Mairi drove me away, I started to roll a joint and unwrapped the packet. It contained black shoe polish.

  The next day I bought a small quantity of genuine stuff, however, and promptly got very stoned before we drove away.

  "You drive," I begged Mairi, "I'm too ripped to manage," We were approaching Hyde Park Corner, and as she moved to the inside lane, the car went bang into the side of a big, diplomatic limousine. We both stopped, blocking the traffic, which was at its rush hour peak. Angry horns began hooting at once.

  A little man jumped out of the car and rushed furiously over to my window, grabbing me by the collar and trying to drag me out through the window, shrieking hysterically in Italian.

  Three large ladies also emerged and tried to hold him back, arguing volubly, I climbed out and tried to calm him down.

  "It's our fault, we drove into you."

  "We getta tha police! They draw tha white-a line arounda tha car!"

  "Take it easy," I urged, "our insurance will pay. We can just exchange names," I was afraid the police would find the grass I had bought.

  "OK," he agreed, and we copied down each other's particulars, while a wall of sound from the horns of three lanes of traffic deafened us. He noticed my address in Edinburgh.

  "Hey, you come-a from Scotland? When-a you go back?"

  "In a couple of days."

  "No, we getta tha police!" He began ranting again, "We draw tha white-a lines."

  At last we persuaded him not to worry, and started the car. The Triumph was one of the last chassis-built cars and was made of very sturdy metal, but the front bumper had bent in under the impact, rubbing against the wheel. We turned right as we drove around Hyde Park Circle, but when we tried to turn left to get out of the circle, we couldn't ! We drove around the circle, Mairi pulling desperately at the wheel. Then both of us dragged forcibly at it until the car abruptly cut across the road in front of the traffic, brakes screeching around us.

  We parked on the edge of the road and got out to look sadly at the bent bumper and front wing. There was a thick fog, and out of it loomed a huge policeman, over six feet tall, and almost as broad, his size exaggerated by his tall helmet and his cape, like an apparition from a Jack the Ripper film.

  "Oh, ho, ho, what have we here, then?" he said, a parody come to life.

  "We've just banged into a crazy Italian diplomat, and we can't turn the wheel to the left."

  "If I was you, sir, I'd report this to the nearest police. We'll soon have this sorted out," He took off his helmet and placed it on the ski rack, took hold of the bumper with both hands, placed his foot on the wheel and slowly, with great strength, pulled the bumper straight.

  I was very impressed. "I can't thank you enough, constable," I said with real feeling.

  "Think nothing of it, sir," he replied with a nod, and a hand raised in salute. I jumped in the driver's seat and started to drive away.

  "Stop, Stop!" I heard him shout, and in the mirror I could see him running madly along the pavement after us, waving.

  His helmet was still on the ski rack, I realised.

  'I've always fancied one of those bobbies' helmets,' I thought jubilantly, and shoved my foot hard on the accelerator.

  Instantly, I was struck by remorse as I reflected that he had helped us, and I stamped on the brake.

  'But I could have the hat,' rejoined the voice inside me, and I accelerated again, triumphantly.

  'But he helped you' it echoed with self- reproach; this time I braked to a halt and gave him the helmet.

  Mairi and I drove around London sightseeing, with Jake, who was also from Scotland, an expatriate artist. It was a warm, sunny day, early in May, and we spotted a delightful strawberry cake which we bought for his kids back at the house. It looked so delectable that we cut a slice for ourselves, then another, and finally we consumed it all.

  Then the impulse came to us to go boating on the Serpentine. We had hired a rowboat and were on the water in idyllic sunlight, when suddenly all three of us were stricken at the same moment by the onslaught of dreadful food poisoning; retching violently over the gunnels and almost capsizing as we writhed on our seats.

  We tried helplessly to pull at the oars, but rocked and spun aimlessly beneath the cloudless sky, like poisoned insects.