What do you mean I've got to go to Scotland?" "There's a warrant," the desk sergeant said, "and it's our responsibility to hand you over to the Scottish authorities." "When?" I asked. "Soon as they've dealt with you in court tomorrow-assuming they don't send you to prison." He laughed. "We've contacted the officers in charge of your case up there. They'll be flying down to pick you up as soon as we give them the nod."
Great. I had been trying to avoid this journey north for two and a half years. Through a combination of computer malfunction, lack of cross-border communication and good fortune, I had succeeded so far. Now the sergeant explained my plight. "It was a Scotland-only warrant-until last Tuesday. It's just been extended to cover the whole of the UK."
I nodded meekly, bowing to the inevitable. But however lenient the magistrate might be tomorrow, I wasn't going to be at liberty to replenish my heroin supply within the next 24 hours. The two bags I had under my foreskin might see me through the night, but only if I could acquire a box of matches or a lighter-unlikely in this security-conscious place.
"I need a doctor," I said, knowing that the pains of withdrawal would shortly override any concerns I had about the arraignment.
"There'll be one along," the sergeant replied. "In the meantime, you'll have to go back to your cell and sweat it out in there. Your solicitor's been informed. We'll give you a shout when he gets here."
I'd rather spend a week in prison than a night in police custody. The uncertainty gets to you. Will your case be adjourned? Will you be remanded in custody for the dreaded "social enquiry and background report"? What other surprises might they spring on you? For a full-time criminal, the possibility of further charges looms like a gang of assailants.
West End Central police station has few windows. It stands fortress-like at the unfashionable end of Savile Row. As I lay on a concrete sarcophagus inside this Portland stone citadel, I took in the surroundings. An electric blue urine-proof PVC mattress and two blankets had been thrown into a corner. There was a stench from the toilet bowl. Apart from a spy glass in the door and the alarm button, there was little else save a notice stuck to the ceiling. "Crimestoppers," it declared in bold red letters, "did you know that the Metropolitan Police pay good money for information leading to the arrest and conviction of criminals? Call us now, confidentially, on..."
There was a freephone number quoted so that a snitch could take advantage of this offer. Reflecting on the many occasions I had been arrested on "information received," I wondered how many "solid geezers" had tired of in-cell masturbation and, for the want of anything better to do, struck a deal.
My problem of how to ignite the heroin was solved by the arrival of Oliver Zwank, senior partner of solicitors Zwank, Partridge and Pilsdown. "First things first," he began. "If you could just sign the green legal aid form before we go any further..."
I explained that my lighter had been confiscated and that I was tearing my hair out for nicotine. "But you know it's a 'No Smoking' station. I'm afraid it would be more than my reputation is worth to give you the means to light a cigarette." "Oh come on, Oliver," I remonstrated, "nobody would ever know I got the lighter from you." The solicitor raised an eyebrow. "There's a lighter in the right-hand pocket," he said softly, removing his well-cut chalk-stripe jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair. "I need to have a word with the desk sergeant about your charges. If you'll excuse me for a couple of minutes."
The second his back was turned, I made a dive for his pocket. On his return I settled down to listen to Oliver's long-winded legally aided platitudes.
His strategy was simple. I would plead guilty to stealing the volume of Mozart's letters found in my possession; admit to being a heroin addict on a methadone programme; inform His Worship that the chemist where I collected my "script" was closed on the day I stole the book; then throw myself at his infinite mercy while Oliver invited him to impose a non-custodial sentence. My brief was confident he could steer the bench in the right direction, although he reminded me of "the length of your record Peter and... well it's never over till the fat lady sings."
Back in the cell, I burst open the first bag and poured the powder onto the foil. By the time the gaoler came shuffling down the corridor to attend an hysterical fellow prisoner, I was back in nirvana, past caring whether they burst into my cell and smelt the fumes or whether the medical officer came or not.
You want any breakfast? Mr Wayne! Time to get up now." Slowly, I realised where I was. "Court at ten o'clock. If you want a quick wash and shave before the carrier arrives."
I didn't want a wash, or breakfast. I undid the second bag of heroin and "roared" it in three minutes. It would numb me to the day: handcuffs, meat-wagons, the dock, magistrates, and Oliver's mitigation.
As things turned out, the duty beak was as benign as a neutered tomcat. A ?100 fine with three months to pay. A damned sight more expensive than the volume had I chosen to pay for it, but "a result." Oliver was pleased with himself. And it paved the runway for the flight to Scotland.
From Bow Street I was transported to the police compound at Heathrow airport. Throughout the afternoon I watched deportees being dispatched one by one to Tirana, Lagos, Dacca and the Cayman Islands. It wasn't until 8pm that the policeman stared in through the hatch and pointed at me.
The "walk of shame" through the terminal was embarrassing. Two pairs of handcuffs. Prurient stares. I felt like Oscar Wilde on his way to Reading Gaol.
Five hundred miles north, the police minibus which had ferried me from Edinburgh airport shuddered to a halt outside Perth city police station. Within five minutes of my arrival, a jovial night-watch sergeant appeared at my door with a steaming bowl of Scotch broth which despite the first signs of withdrawal (a loosening of my bowel), I wolfed down.
The doctor was next to call-summoned in the early hours with his Gladstone bag full of potions and pills. After giving me an examination, he began to unload the little brown bottles on to the table.
"Aye now. Whit shall we send ye tae bed with?"
I wish I could have chosen. He had diconal, tuinal, physeptone, rohypnol, temazepam, valium, mogadon, even pethidine. Disappointingly, he plumped for the less mind-blowing painkiller, dihydrocodeine. As an afterthought, he slid two valium across the table.
"Jes' tae keep ye on a level keel till the sheriff sees ye in the morning."
John Knox, founder of the Scottish kirk, visited Perth on an evangelical mission in the 16th century. His influence is still pervasive-notably in the fa?ade of Perth sheriff court, a granite essay in neo-classicism which glowers over the banks of the Tay. Inside, a gaunt procurator fiscal addressed the sheriff.
"The facts are straightforward, your honour. The defendant, Mr Wayne, arrived at the Balcarres Castle Hotel on 14th February 1998. He told hotel staff he was a writer on retreat. Your honour will doubtless be aware that the Balcarres Castle is one of the most luxurious hotels in Perthshire."
"Yes I'm quite aware of that. If we could just get on with the evidence?"
Findlay, the procurator fiscal, looked flustered. "Mr Wayne gave the impression he was a man of substantial means. No deposit was asked for. During his stay the defendant ran up a bill of ?877." He cleared his throat for dramatic effect. "On the morning he was due to book out of the hotel, staff went to his room only to discover that the bird had flown the coop. The account has still not been settled." Findlay sat down, satisfied.
The sheriff spoke. "And why has it taken so long to bring this case to court?"
The procurator fiscal shuffled through his notes.
"The defendant was serving a prison sentence in England, your honour. Until very recently the warrant for his arrest was applicable only within Scottish jurisdiction. The computer only picked up on it when Mr Wayne was re-arrested at the weekend."
"And the defendant was flown up here at public expense?" The sheriff harrumphed. "Have you any idea, Mr Findlay, how much the journey from London to Perth cost the taxpayer?"
Findlay's assistant whispered into his ear.
"I believe that including the air tickets for the escorting officers, the total cost would amount to something in the region of, er, ?1,500."
"And remind me of the bill at Balcarres Castle?"
"It was ?877, your honour."
My lawyer finally caught the drift of this exchange and stood up. "Your honour. I'd like to move that my client has an entitlement in law to be dealt with as soon as possible after the alleged offence took place. In my view a period of three years is outside that time scale. This offence was committed before the sentence my client served was even imposed... Mr Wayne could have been transferred north whilst still in prison. There really is no excuse for this delay."
The sheriff peered over his half-moons.
"I'm inclined to agree. Was there any reason why this course of action was not taken, Mr Findlay?"
"Well your honour, without consultation I can't..."
The sheriff let out a sigh of exasperation. Then he turned his gaze on me.
"I have no doubt that you stayed at Balcarres Castle without any intention of paying the bill. Indeed you have pleaded guilty to that effect through your lawyer here this morning. However..."
"However" was always a good sign.
"Through no fault of your own a considerable period has elapsed and," he cast a withering look in Findlay's direction, "a great deal of money expended. Reluctantly, I have decided that it would not be in the public interest to proceed with this matter any further."
Findlay looked crestfallen.
"I am dismissing the charge out of time," he said. "Consider yourself very fortunate, Mr Wayne. That's it. You may go."
Twenty minutes later I found myself standing on the steps of Perth sheriff court with 53p in my pocket. The clerk of the court had made it clear that no public funds would be expended to get me to London. When I telephoned Oliver's office (reversed charges) to ask if he could send me some money, he showed a surprising lack of concern.
"I do sympathise with you," he lied, "but we are a firm of solicitors, not a bank. Have you thought of going to the social security office? Or stealing a car?"
The last visit I made to a social security office had been horrifying. Thankfully, the office in Perth was more user-friendly. The lady behind the counter actually smiled and she was most sympathetic when I explained what had happened. She arranged for a "crisis loan" and I walked out with ?80.
I had to find some heroin. But how was I going to afford it and the ticket to London? Pondering this on my way to the station, I chanced upon MacLaverty's Turf Accountants. I knew what I had to do at once. I placed ?20 on a horse called Beggar's Belief. Having mentally spent the winnings, it came as an anti-climax when my nag came home seventh out of eight.
This settled the question of the allocation of scarce resources. After jumping the train to Glasgow, I prowled the streets around George Square in search of a contact. The hot and cold sweats had begun. My legs ached as if I'd walked the 60 miles from Perth. In the end I collapsed next to a beggar called Mac on Sauchiehall Street and poured my heart out to him.
"Ef it's gear ye're after, it shouldnae be a proablem. White's a wee bet scarce but broon no."
"Yes, yes. That's exactly what I'm after."
"Ah know a man who deals behind the station. Ah could score for ye, but ye'd have tae sort me oot."
"That would be splendid. Can we go now?"
"Aye unglishman. We can."
We shook hands on the deal and I gave my new friend some money. As the shadows lengthened beside the lugubrious Glasgow tenements, Mac and I hurried off down Buchanan Street to meet our man.
I spent ?40 of the ?60 I had left on three bags for me and one for Mac. Thus insulated from the worries of existence, I boarded the London express without a ticket and sat in drug-saturated semi-consciousness trying to fit the words of Auden's Night Mail to the noise of the track beneath me.
This is the night mail crossing the border. Rackety rack, and the postal order. Letters for the rich, letters for the poor. Rackety rack. The door at the end of the carriage slid open. As the guard began to make his way down the aisle, I was suddenly wide awake.
"Ticket please, sir."
This was the moment of judgement. I took a deep breath and began my tale.
"I find myself in rather an embarrassing situation. Three days ago I was arrested in London..."
Careful to miss out the bits about my crisis loan, the bookie's office in Perth and the scag dealer in Glasgow, I explained my predicament.
"Can I leave you my name and address and then pay at some later date?"
The ticket inspector looked at me long and hard. I felt the opiate knot of coalescence in my innards, smelled whisky on his breath. "My my," he mused in a soft Geordie accent. "Fifteen years I've worked up and down this line and I've heard some stories. Lost wallets, stolen handbags. One day, the wind blew one passenger's ticket clean out the window. That was a good one. But you? Nobody could have made up such a far-fetched tale." I swallowed. "Listen," he continued, "I spent more than a night in police cells myself in me younger days. So go on. We'll pretend I never saw you. It's a long way back to London if you haven't got a train to travel in."
At 6.30am the train pulled into Euston. By the time I had come to, the other passengers had left. I could feel the dried sweat clinging to my armpits; there were stains around the crotch of my beige chinos. As I walked down the road to King's Cross, I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror. For a second I didn't recognise the ragged looking man who stared back at me. So this was the price of sin.
