Stuart: A Life Backwards. Alexander Masters

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       8

      Stuart says it is a ‘blinding’ idea.

      He is in my study again, standing by the piano, swiping the air with his arm in excitement. He and I and half a dozen street homeless smackheads and drinkers will sleep rough on the concrete pavement outside the Home Office, corner the Home Secretary when he arrives for work on Monday morning and force him to release Ruth and John. That’s Stuart’s inspiration.

      Always the first to discourage unnecessary illegality, Stuart points out that we will have to warn the police about what we are going to do, but not tell them until after 4 p.m. on the previous day, ‘because that way the courts will be shut and it’ll be too late to get an injunction what can stop us. Then there’s the security cameras.’

      I look quizzical.

      ‘All over. And that’s not counting the ones you can’t see,’ he adds darkly.

      ‘It’s better than that nutter Brandon’s idea, in’it?’ Stuart enthuses. Professor David Brandon is the ex-director of another charity for the homeless; it was his suggestion that he and half a dozen other homelessness workers present themselves to the police and demand to be arrested. If Ruth and John are guilty of ‘knowingly allowing’ drugs in their day centre, then they are all guilty of it, since other homeless charities are run according to the same rules. I disagree with Stuart. I think that is a gem of a stunt, too.

      ‘Fucking stupid. Asking to get arrested! Then who’s going to get him out? Expect his missus will be wanting a go next.’

      ‘But that’s the whole trick, isn’t it? They can’t put him in prison too. He’s known all around the country – there’d be an outcry. Cambridge Police Gone Mad!’

      Stuart shakes his head, his mood suddenly dampened. ‘Fella goes to the Old Bill and asks to be banged up, and they don’t do it? Don’t make sense.’

      I return to typing the campaign newsletter.

      ‘All of us in fucking nick and no one fucking left to get us out. Just a load more work all round, that’s what I think,’ Stuart rumbles on. ‘See, you got all your nine-to-fives saying what drugs is about and they don’t know the first fucking thing. Like piss-testing prisoners. Everybody thought that was a good idea cos drugs leave traces in your urine, so with piss-testing you couldn’t get away with it any more. More tests, less drugs. Right? Wrong. It’s because of them tests that there’s a heroin epidemic in prison. Why? Because the drug of choice used to be cannabis, but cannabis lasts up to three weeks in your system, so if the screws do the random tests at weekends, like they do, you’ve got three chances of getting caught. Where, heroin lasts only three days. Result: everyone starts switching to smack. Your nine-to-fives think they’ve done something useful, where in fact they’ve just made the fucking problem worse.’

      For a few moments longer Stuart falls back to brooding on the wickedness of ignorance and people who disorder the world by asking to be put in jail. To cheer him up I return to his Blinding Idea. I really do like it. Exciting, freakish, bound to get publicity. The more I think of it, the more it sounds a corker.

      ‘What else should we plan for?’ I enquire enthusiastically.

      ‘The brass.’

      ‘Top brass? Policemen, you mean?’

      ‘Alexander, what are you like? In London, the pavement isn’t all public: some of it belongs to them and some of it belongs to us. The brass bits is little bits put in outside of all government buildings in London what lets you know the difference – there’s brass bits all over London. If we sleep on the bit what belongs to them, they do us.’

      ‘So, we’re OK if we sleep on the other bit?’

      Stuart shakes his head. ‘Nah. If we sleep on the bit that belongs to us they still do us, only it’s not the same.’

      ‘The main place you get them is around your bollocks.’

      It is six in the morning, six weeks later. We are flicking beneath the motorway lights in convoy, in one friend’s beatupsmellymobile and another friend’s smooth new Volvo estate, down towards the doomed Home Secretary and the Home Office in London. The boots are filled with posters, badges, T-shirts, petitions and pale Tupperware boxes containing sandwich-shaped objects beneath the lids. In the back of the seedy conveyance, Stuart and I are squished up with Deaf Rob, whom we picked up off a Cambridge bridge, where he was sitting in the honey glow of the street light surrounded by luggage. He had sneaked out of a hostel an hour earlier without paying his rent. Tongue-twisted, pallid, his hair sawn at the night before with a grapefruit knife, he is clutching a pigskin suit-holder in businessman’s-overcoat beige with ‘Louis Pierre, Paris’ woven below the handle. In the other car, Linda the Outreach СКАЧАТЬ