Twenty Five Million Ghosts

by Steve Aitchsmith

  The local rumour was that the police executed him with his own gun. Maybe, maybe not. I remember that nobody much cared if they had. The world of my childhood was more accepting and understanding. Several years later a small parcel bomb exploded at the new police station. Strangely, it was only the locals, not the police, who recognised that it was the anniversary of the killings.

  The area was full of rumours of one sort and another. Like the belief that Jack ‘the hat’ McVitie, an undiscovered victim of the Kray gang, was planted in one of the pillars on Bow flyover. Lots of rumours based on no evidence except hearsay. The Krays loomed large in the lore of the people then in the area, a pair of thugs in danger of drifting into the noble villain category. A childhood friend of mine claimed to be a cousin of the twins, nobody challenged the claim because it’s very likely. The area had many large extended families and a lot of interrelatedness.

  I was still feeling the ghosts but considered I might just be sinking into nostalgic whimsy. Perhaps they were the same thing. The approach to the Broadway passes an office block that I remembered as the site of Bill Steven’s gym. Bill was well known locally for his muscles and his commitment to helping youngsters stay out of trouble. A young Arnold Schwarzenegger was a common sight in the area since he trained there, the massive and tall young man was referred to locally as Tarzan. He was known for his easy going friendly manner. It says much for the people of the area that an accent as strongly Germanic as his was so readily welcomed in the area the Luftwaffe pounded for months on end.

  Not always so accepting, though. As I moved into the Broadway I passed a pub, the Edward Vll. In the first war a Zeppelin floated over the Stratford railway junction, a prime target in both world wars, and hand dropped a few small bombs. I’ve seen a photograph of two soldiers on leave shooting at it, it seems that first war soldiers took their weapons home with them when on leave.

  A furious crowd attacked the pub, at that time called The King of Prussia, and as a result the name was changed. A mob has no intelligence and does some stupid stuff, this was an example. As a young man I used that pub many times. The rumour was that behind the portrait of King Edward was one of the Kaiser, still hidden after all these years. It’s probably wise not to trust rumours that circulate in pubs.

  Opposite the Edward, in the grounds of St John’s church there is a monument to the peasants who died in the famous revolt of 1381. It has been suggested they were executed and tipped into a mass grave just here. Probably they were trying to retreat back to Jack Straw’s Essex at the time and hence died locally.

  The 2012 Olympics changed the physical area almost beyond recognition. The Stratford station I recall had a small entrance accessed through a gap between the sooty drab houses and a steep set of steps leading down to a surprisingly large railway station. It hasn’t got much larger, it’s just now very open and declares its presence loudly. Beyond it is most of the Olympic site and posh new shopping zones.

  The 2012 Olympic summer games opened with a well choreographed though very slightly eccentric ceremony. Lots of drums, noise and celebrations of things British. Many people who saw it were very impressed. The locals were less than impressed. The building of the stadium and other venues displaced a lot of reluctant and resentful locals. Many considered it the final nail in the coffin of the old culture. That’s probably a bit if an exaggeration since many of the people are still quite local, having been pushed to Leytonstone and similar places, but the fact is that many people were angry about the Olympics.

  While the opening ceremony did its thing, outside the stadium six hundred or more protesters were detained in that corralling and legally questionable people trap the police call kettling. Over one hundred and eighty were formally arrested. That got very little press coverage and locals have, and do, compare it to the Chinese treatment of people and news control. I would not advise Lord Coe to try jogging in some parts of the East End. Memories are long, it’s difficult to earn real enmity among these people but once that’s achieved it doesn’t disappear easily.

  In need of a little rest, I jumped on a train and trundled down to North Woolwich. This is a curious area, the Royal docks effectively make it an island and the culture here is more traditional. Being trapped between the docks and the river creates a sense of camaraderie lacking in many parts of London. The population is mainly white with some middle class black and Asian families. As islanders they all rub along together well.

  This area was almost completely flattened in the second war although a small pocket of pre-war housing close to the docks somehow survived. The docks were a major target and even today ordnance is still pulled from the river or dug up during building. It used to be that the local gas containers, huge structures like giant buckets upturned in water and filled with gas fuel feeding to the houses, were painted either black or white. The black ones indicated that a bomb had pierced the container and was probably still there. It didn’t much worry anybody. I think the last one was removed in the eighties.

  In the first war there was a large shell manufacturing centre here. One day it exploded, killing scores of people and injuring hundreds.. One of the dead was the local policeman who, it is said, died trying to rescue some workers. The local police station uses a brass shell tip as a paperweight and it’s claimed the shell tip comes from the explosion. Nearly a thousand houses were destroyed or badly damaged. The blast crossed the river and caused more damage south of the Thames.

  Wounded soldiers in local hospitals made their way to the scene, if they could, and helped the rescue effort. The War Office, on hearing this, decided they must be fit for duty and returned them to the front. There’s a lesson in Government compassion for you.

  Another daft local rumour is that the Tate and Lyle sugar factory, fast by the river, was swastika shaped from the air and therefore attacking bombers ignored it. Certainly it survived the blitz that demolished almost everything else. As a boy my dad was a spotter for a search light on top of the factory. I think the planes were probably avoiding the light rather that the factory. Nobody likes to be lit up and then battered with hundreds of air burst shells, it’s just human nature.

  The same collector who years ago showed me the Stratford Broadway Zeppelin photograph also showed me another of two German airmen in the North Woolwich Road. Obviously shot down and safely bailed out, they walked towards the police station but held Lugers firmly pointed at some surly looking workmen watching them in the street. The police station also survived more or less intact, I wonder if it’s fanciful to suspect that the bombers left it alone in order to allow the crews somewhere safe to go for surrender if shot down.

  I wandered around for a while feeling but not seeing the ghosts. I spent some time just staring at the indestructible gas works. This stunningly sturdy structure survived a county load of direct hit bombs and still stood proud. Attempts to demolish it in the eighties failed miserably when the explosives just shifted the walls a bit. I have no idea what it was built with, it looked like concrete but was obviously particularly strong concrete.

  After the eighties’ attempt failed the site was rented out to make some scenes for the film Full Metal Jacket. I saw it when it was faked up to look like Saigon, it was a strange sight. This time I noticed that some of it was gone, I have no idea how, and some of it still stood. The long departed builder of this place should be proud, this was one impressive piece of work.

  I gave some thought to just how many ‘communities’ I’d walked through that day. Probably all sorts and then some more. London is really just a series of small villages all crushed up against each other. It’s always been that way but it’s more recently that we talk about ‘communities’. I have a slight problem with it. Dave, as often is the case, gave me the idea and that caused the difficulty.

  I’m OK with the somewhat definition-stretching idea that a community can have geographic location, religious affiliation, orientation positions,
physical attributes, whatever. It all sounds cosy but the problem with the declaration of ‘community’ is that it immediately excludes others. It creates the sense of ‘other’ and ‘us’ that can have more serious implications.

  Many years ago I entered a pub in central London. I was tired and hot, shopping for something I can’t now remember, and just needed a sit down and a drink. I’d walked down from Oxford Street into the narrow and older streets around Soho Square. In my youth this was considered a debauched and fun area filled with dodgy girly clubs and naughty film shows. The pub doorman asked me if I was gay.

  “No, does it matter?”

  “This is a gay bar, friend,” as if that explained everything.

  “Does that mean I can’t go in for a quick drink?”

  “No, of course not. I just thought you should be aware. You might not be comfortable and the regulars might find it awkward.”

  “I’m sure they won’t and I won’t. I just need a drink, I promise not to offend anybody with my blatant straightness.” He looked a bit annoyed by that.

  I did get the drink and moved on. Everything was fine, I could see no reason why it should be otherwise. I wasn’t exactly prevented from entering the place and I understand the doorman’s reasoning. Nonetheless, the idea of ‘community’ had labelled me ‘other’ and I didn’t care for it.

  I was pretty much worn out and decided to take a cab back to the hotel/motel and rent an extra night or two there. The place wasn’t busy and it was no problem to just rent night after night without making a firm reservation. After a meal and a few drinks I retired to the room and phoned Dave. I had a plan for Richford Road and wanted to run it past him.

  “OK,” is all he said.

  “Dave, I’ve just told you that I plan to commit a crime and you just say OK?”

  “Nah, that’s no crime. The courts might not agree so don’t get caught, it might be a bit embarrassing for you if you are. What’s the worst that could happen if you are?”

  “Well,” I said, “the worst would be that I get convicted of a crime and lose my police pension and become homeless and starving.”

  “Well, if that happens, come and see me, I know some half decent homeless shelters you could use. Seriously, Steve, do be careful but get the journal. I’ve got a feeling it’ll be fascinating. Call me if you need anything, anything other than a dishonest alibi, that is.”

  “Piss off. Thanks, Dave. I’ll call when it’s done and when I’ve read it.”

  “Call me anytime,” he said. “I can be down to Brighton in a couple of hours if I need to. This is an overall difficult time for you, you’re doing well. Never stop doing things, never stop pushing on, never give in. If this turns out to be something you need me for, call me, please.”

  He was a good man. “If I need a dodgy drinking, fighting, ex-fornicator of a priest, you mean.” He laughed. We exchanged a few pleasantries and the call ended. I’d still have the army and teaching pensions. Between them they’re nearly a third as large as the police pension.

  The following morning I phoned the estate agent and feigned interest in the house. I’d taken care to call from a hotel pay phone so that I didn’t send my mobile number. I arranged to meet an agent at the address at ten. I took another walk through the park and down to Richford Road. I waited outside the house for about twenty minutes when they arrived in a not very new tarnished silver BMW.

  There were two agents, the first, a woman of about forty who was power dressed in a snazzy greyish suit with pleated skirt and flowery blouse. Her peroxide bouffant was Dynasty Dallas big hair style and her jacket sported shoulder pads, really, and for a second I imagined I’d time warped back thirty years.

  The second agent was a man of about twenty with stupid stand up short bright red gelled hair. Tieless and in a rumpled brown suit, he looked like a spiv. Typical estate agents in my view; moderately educated and ambitiously avaricious. In my head I saw the lad as a mouthy, self centred quasi sociopathic prat. I had no qualms about playing my part for them.

  I explained that I was a lawyer who had just found work in the area. I had significant funds available and really liked the look of this grotty age worn terrace and would like to see the house. They led me around the house. Every inch was filled with memories for me but I could not let on about that. They explained how the house had been wonderfully maintained by a caring long term owner who now had to reluctantly sell.

  I noticed that the original stair bannister was still in place and couldn’t resist resting my hand on the bottom end of the hand rail on which there was a carved wooden rose. When I was fifteen I decided that bannisters were for leaping over, I misjudged the leap and broke the rose off at its base. Dad glued it back in place but ever after the slightest amount of pressure would dislodge it. I leaned my weight on it and off it duly popped.

  “Oh, that’s recent damage. The vendor told us about that and we’ll fix it. We’ll have a specialist joiner in to do the job and by the time you move in it’ll be done.”

  Bollocks, I thought. “Oh, that’s good, no problem,” I said. This really was a moment of universal disingenuous discourse. You lie, I lie, I win, fuck you. I acted my part of cash flow advantaged dumb potential buyer as they led me through my old bedroom, my parent’s bedroom, my sister’s and the spare. They were especially complimentary about the well decorated front room. I knew that if you peeled back the wallpaper by the chimney stack you’d find the graffiti ‘Steve Aitchsmith….1964…9 yrs old” in indelible ink on the plaster.

  During this dishonest charade I expressed interest in the tiny back garden. I was promptly led to it through the kitchen back door. I exclaimed wonder and desire for the tiny crummy poor soiled lot. I also took a previously tightly packed wad of paper from my pocket and surreptitiously pressed it into the dead lock receiver of the rear door. When we re-entered I was gratified to note that they did not set the inside door bolts. My paper would prevent the dead lock fully entering the receiver and I’d be able to open it with pressure. I’ve picked up a lot of dodgy skills in my time.

  At the end of the sales pitch I told them that I’d almost certainly get back to them with an offer. I loved the house, which was true, and would love to live in the area, which was not true. They tried to get my details so I gave them a false mobile number and e-mail address and promised I’d contact them in the morning. I returned to the hotel/motel for a good meal and a nap.

  My fraudulent playacting had achieved three things for me: I obtained a reconnaissance and preview of my target location, compromised the rear lock and created a valid reason for the presence of my DNA at the location should it become necessary to have one.

  This is now a much more twenty-four-hour society than the London I knew. In the seventies you’d rarely see anybody on the streets after midnight. The night economy started to expand in the mid-eighties and quickly developed into the all-day city we now see.

  Continuous nocturnal enterprise or not, in residential areas of London the night is still quiet most of the time. Normal, working, sensible people are in bed asleep at four in the morning. The police like this time of day, the nuisance public have mainly buggered of and it’s just the goodies and the baddies taking each other on. Of course, the occasional proper person returning from some legitimate activity gets caught up in it but most of the time it’s true.

  At this quiet and peaceful time, I stood in the courtyard of the disused garages in the road that backs onto Richford Road. I had with me a three cell Maglite, the heavy metal torch useful both for light and bashing. I didn’t anticipate trouble with anybody but it was four in the morning and I was in a deserted crappy zone that might house drunks, druggies, lovers or anything. It was empty of anybody.

  I knew that if I clambered up the rear wall, dropped down into the garden behind it and then scaled the small fence, I’d be in the garden of number thirteen. I’d done it many
times when I was a teenager, after the bombed out buildings of this street were replaced with the houses now there, and this useless garage area was supplied for the people who didn’t have cars. Sixties planning getting it wrong again, well done dippy middle class architect with your incorrect assumptions and prejudices.

  This little journey used to take me seconds. My first attempt failed because I forgot that I’m now sixty something and the grace of movement I had forty-five years ago has deserted me, not that I was ever exactly balletic. With some effort I made it to the rear garden of number thirteen in about fifteen painful struggling minutes. I’d made enough noise to wake an ancient corpse but nobody seemed to hear me. At this rate I might not have enough time to do this.

  I pressured the rear door. Pressure is cumulative. If you push against, say, a ship at a quayside, it won’t initially move but if you maintain that pressure then eventually the whole ship will move and all with just little old you pushing it. The same applies to pressuring a lock. Just put your flat hands by the lock and push. Don’t jerk, just keep the pressure on and eventually the lock will give way. Since I’d prevented the lock going fully home, it didn’t take long and the door just clicked open. This still would have worked without the preparation but it would have given with a loud crack as the lock or door jamb broke and would have taken longer. The objective with locks is to set them so that they don’t give in to pressure for a long time, the burglar then gets bored and goes away.

  I was in. I have good night vision and could manage without artificial light at the moment. I was imagining ghosts. Not real ghosts, even though the upstairs rear bedroom floor boards are disfigured with burn marks from where, sometime in the nineteen twenties, a small girl died after her clothing was ignited by the old copper boiler that was there at the time. As a child I worried that her spirit might haunt me. The ghosts I felt were of my family, my young self, the world now gone. They say that as we age we are condemned to live in a foreign land. It’s true, the world of one’s childhood, so apparently secure and enduring, gives way to a new social structure just as the one before it gave way. Nothing is constant but many of us find change unsettling.