#135b

No doubt you're all wondering what the hell I've done? What secrets I've kept stowed away? What criminal activity I could be wrapped up in that would justify having  armed police surround the flat. Murder? Armed robbery? Gun running? Drug trafficking? Top level bingo fraud? Well, actually none of those things. I had in fact done absolutely nothing. Well, nothing except kidnap a wheelchair bound, extremely minor local celebrity and hold him hostage at gunpoint!

Yes, you heard it correctly. John's latest act of vandalism upon my person was to phone the Emergency Services claiming that I had kidnapped him and was keeping him locked in against his will.

Of course, when I opened the front door and staggered outside with my hands raised and wearing nothing but a pair of grubby Y-fronts, the Police Chief immediately realised that something was very badly amiss. He squinted at me carefully from behind his loud speaker then stood up.

  “Are you Mr Tristram Spencer?” he asked.
  “Yes,” I replied.
Then he hit me with the biggest insult of the night. He turned to the Armed Response Unit and said, “Alright men, put the weapons down. I think I can handle this one.” God, I'm so pathetically harmless looking that not even the firing squad takes me seriously! Ok, I was innocent, but they didn't know that. Who's to say what I had hidden in my pants? To complete his demolition of my crumbling ego, the Chief then sent two female police officers forward to restrain me. They walked me out the yard without even bothering with handcuffs!

Already by that stage the street had started to dull down. Every other light was flicked out and the crowd of neighbours had split and dispersed. Small family units were trailing away like slugs to their various abodes. Up and down the street there was huffing and tutting and doors being slammed in disgust. Even the police cordon had been removed.

  “Alright,” said the Police Chief, “let's bring the hostage out and see what this is all about.” He actually said the word 'hostage' in italics. He was almost laughing.

  “So, Mr McManus, you claim that Mr Spencer abducted you, held you hostage at gun point and refused you permission to leave the house? Is that correct?”
  “Er, kind of. Yeah,” said John, “only he didn't abduct be, never held me hostage at gun point, and I was free to leave whenever I wanted, except when I REALLY wanted to, which is between 9.30 – 10am each morning. You see, he puts that top lock on the door – look, that one there – the one I can't fucking reach! He knows that, that's why he does it. Now, I've asked him....”
  “Hold on, hold on, hold on! Mr McManus, are you now saying that this is a domestic over a fucking bolted front door?”
  “Uhhh, well kind of, I suppose. It's...”
  “He wants to fuck the postboy!!!” I screeched over. “Runaway with his seventeen year old arse!” One of the WPC's pulled a face and rattled her handcuffs in front of me as a threat. I zipped up. John continued:

  “...It's as I said when I phoned: “Help! Help! I'm locked in against my will!” Then, when I started panicking and saying “He's coming... he's coming... Fuck Christ he's coming...” It was the operator who asked: “Is he armed? Does he have a gun?” I think she was probably just bored, hoping for some excitement like the rest of us. I replied, “Yes. Yes, he's coming...oh, Fuck Christ! I can see his shadow, he's in the bedroom!” Then the operator asked: “Does he have his gun on him? Is it a snub-nosed .32 like the one Solanas used to shoot Warhol with? And what state psychologically would you say Mr Spencer is in? One of panic? Agitation? Psychosis? Does he look like an indiscriminate killer?” I was scared, you understand, I just wanted to get out, to have five minutes of fresh air with my Flamingo plant. “Yes,” I said, “he's crazy, disturbed, psychotic... All those things! I'm handicapped... In a wheelchair. The door's bolted. I can't escape. Oh, he's coming... Fuck Christ he's coming...” And that was it. I dropped the phone.

The Police Chief looked at John, then at me. He massaged his jaw bone. He was thinking. I felt uncomfortable under his thoughts. The night was chilly and my penis had gone all small and hard. From previous experience I knew it would look something like an acorn. My Y-fronts were baggy and loose in the front. “Mr Spencer,” the Chief finally said, “go and put some fucking trousers on!”

When I returned John was making apologies to the Chief's wagging finger. He was saying things like, “I just didn't know what else to do,” and, “I was scared, desperate.. I'm handicapped!” As for me, I was told that under no circumstances am I allowed to bolt someone in my house against their wishes. That if I want to double lock the door then I must use the chain or a bolt that is commonly accessible. The Chief said that there was probably a serious charge for what I had done, but that he couldn't be bothered looking it up and so was willing to forget it – this time. He said that in future I must not use the top lock, that if I did, and if he got wind of it, he'd have me put away for five years!

Towards John, well, he gave him a lecture on the consequences of wasting police time, and said that although he never really lied, he did invent a certain situation and manipulated that in order to be purposely misunderstood. In short: he [John] had come up with a plan and it had worked perfectly!

Finally, the Police Chief asked John if he was willing to remain in the same apartment with me. Before John had even pronounced the 's' of 'yes', the doors of the police car were slamming shut, Bartholemew was walking Marlowe home, and the last upstairs light flicked off. It was another night over, another part of our miserable lives disgracefully pissed away.