The Wicked Mr Hall Read Online Free PDF Page B

criminal that could mean police. Still walking casually, my arm linked with my mother’s, I kept my eyes on the strangers. The young one crossed the road and walked swiftly in our direction. I saw, in the quick glance he threw us, that he had observed both our faces. His quick stride took him past us, I listened for some change in his footsteps. Apart from distancing, none came. For the briefest moment I felt that we were safe. Then, the older man slowly crossed the road. I felt my mother’s grip on my arm tighten. Gradually we approached each other. I knew in my heart that with my mother beside me I could not run. If I did she would be arrested, taken to the station, questioned and maybe held. The professionally dressed, middle-aged man was now almost upon us. Without staring I sensed his movements. The first thing I knew about the man behind me was his hand on my shoulder. In the same instant, the older man in front of us grasped my mother’s arm and identified himself and his colleague as police.
    British justice stinks! My mother was a forty-four-year-old woman with a young child to care for, she had never been in trouble with the police in her life and her only crime was maternal protectiveness. The presiding judge sentenced her to twenty-eight days in ‘Duke Street’, Glasgow’s Women’s Prison. I was sentenced to eighteen months. I won’t say that I didn’t mind being sentenced, because I did, but I could accept that this was the natural course of things. I was a criminal. My mother was not.
    Barlinie was one of Britain’s toughest prisons and theworst that Glasgow had to offer was behind its bars. The warders were brutal. Groups of them would dish out beatings for the smallest contravention of any one of the many rules. I was young and vulnerable. I kept my head down, kept myself to myself and I learned the lessons of prison life. I served that first sentence unobtrusively and quietly. I don’t make moves unless I’m sure of my ground. It is part of my nature and inherent in most survivors. After serving two-thirds of my sentence I was released, but not rehabilitated. The twelve months spent inside the walls of Barlinie had been my second schooling.
    Glasgow no longer suited my tastes, the pickings in London were that much richer. The day after my release I caught the night train south. I drank in Soho, a fascinating area. The bars and cafés were frequented by socialites, theatre people, artists, thieves and gangsters. It was uniquely Bohemian and that was to my taste!
    I tried calling Vic Oliver a few times, but he had moved on. Que sera! I visited some old haunts. At one in Belgravia, I bumped into Terence Rattigan. It must have been two years since I’d last seen him. He was still writing hit plays. It was nice to see him and, from the way he acted, it was obvious he was pleased to see me. We chatted and had a couple of shots of brandy. He lived close by, and had only popped out to replenish drinks. He told me that he was giving a dinner party. I jokingly suggested he should have hired me to ‘wait’ on his table. I told him of my time at the Glenburn Hotel, that I was very good at such things and had natural talent.
    The tone of the conversation changed. He becameserious, whispering his comments. Would I accompany him home? He wanted me to do something special. Would I serve his guests? He would make it worth my while. The thing was, he wanted me to serve after-dinner port with a difference. He wanted me to do it in the nude. I was to approach the dining table with everything hanging out. He wanted me to titillate his friends.
    I have few inhibitions. I would make money and useful contacts. Later I might rob them, who knew what might happen? Before the end of the evening, I was sure my ball bag would be empty. I agreed.
    After swallowing our brandies, we walked the short distance back to his flat. It was spacious and luxurious. God knows how much he was