Paul Watson lost another car last week. It was his seventh, and the tragedy of it was, for the first time he was legal. He'd passed his test the day before. The car was even MOT'd, and bought fair and square for £150 over in Kilburn.
It was his, it was roadworthy, but it wasn't insured. And he'd only got it back to Newham when the police pulled him over, ran a check on him and detained him all day. In the end there was nothing on him, but the car was impounded and the release fee is more than the thing is worth.
Paul has a simple, race-based explanation for why he was detained; but the police have a point. He has spent ten of his 29 years in prison. East London is dotted with the sites of his runnings and dodgings. Then, in jail last time, Paul realised: he was never going to be a flosser—the one in a 100 criminals who gets rich and survives.
So since he came out he's gone to work: hard shifts clearing asbestos out of old electricity substations; 5am starts, £300 a week and rough-cut hands. Paul is an artist. We have one of his works at home, painted in jail: a monochrome of two men pulling on a rope, perhaps dragging a boat up a beach. It is done with such a sensitive confidence, such a feel for line and form and depth, you almost don't regret those ten years inside; something rare and beautiful was given expression.
Something else: Paul is at the heart of our little community, faithfully turning up each week for our members' dinner, often bringing friends who are standing at the fork in the road that all ex-prisoners face. He met a girl from New Zealand in the street, chatted her up; now she comes on a Wednesday too, bringing international glamour.
A few weeks ago Paul was laid off. He's on benefits now, which means he can get his broken teeth fixed on the NHS. Then he wants to learn a trade; we've suggested picture framing. Maybe, in these stricken times, art is the answer.
