A Street Cat Named Bob

‘We’ll explain at the station. Let’s get your shit together and get in the van before we make things even worse for you,’ he said.

‘What about my cat?’ I said gesturing at Bob.

‘We’ve got some dog kennels at the station, we’ll stick him in there,’ another of the officers said. ‘Unless you’ve got someone to take him.’

My head was spinning. I had no idea what was happening. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dylan. He was looking sheepish and didn’t want to get involved.

‘Dylan, will you look after Bob?’ I said. ‘Take him back to the flat. The keys are in my rucksack.’

He nodded and started moving towards Bob. I watched him scoop him up and reassure him. I could see the look on Bob’s face; he was terrified by what was happening to me. Through the mesh windows at the back of the van, I watched as the figures of Dylan and Bob standing on the pavement disappeared from view.

We drove to the British Transport Police station. I still had no idea what was going on.

Within a few minutes I was standing in front of a desk clerk being asked to empty all my pockets and to answer all sorts of questions. I was then led into a cell where I was told to wait until I was seen by an officer. As I sat there in the barren cell, the walls gouged with graffiti and the floors smelling of stale urine, it brought awful memories flooding back.

I’d had run-ins with the police before, mostly for petty theft.

When you are homeless or have a drug habit you try to find easy options to make money. And, to be honest, few things are easier than shoplifting. My main thing was stealing meat. I’d lift legs of lamb and expensive steaks. Jamie Oliver steaks. Lamb shanks. Gammon joints. Never chicken, chicken is too low value. What I stole was the stuff with the highest price value. What you get is half the price on the label. If you go to a pub and sell the stuff that’s what you could expect to get. Pubs are very solid ground for selling stolen goods. Everybody knows that.

The first time I did it to pay for my habit was in 2001 or 2002, something like that. Before that I’d been begging to feed my habit. Before that I’d been on a methadone course. I’d got clean but then I’d started using again because things were bad. I’d been moved into some dodgy accommodation where everyone was using and had spiralled back into bad habits.

I can still remember the first time I got busted. It was at the Marks and Spencer’s at the Angel, Islington. I used to dress up smartly and tie my hair back, dress like a postman at the end of his daily rounds popping in for a snack or a pint of milk on the way home. It was all about appearance. You had to be clever about it. If I’d walked in with a rucksack or a shopping bag I’d never have stood a chance. I carried a postman’s Royal Mail bag around with me. It’s different today but back then nobody looked twice at you if you had one of those bags slung over your shoulders.

Anyhow, I got stopped one day. I had about one hundred and twenty pounds’ worth of meat on me.

I was taken into police custody. At that time they gave me an on-the-spot fine of eight pounds for theft. I was lucky to get that because it was my first time.

Of course, it didn’t stop me. I had a habit. I had to do what I had to do. I was on heroin and an occasional bit of crack. You take the risk. You have to.

When you get nicked it sucks. But you have got to bite the bullet. Obviously, you sit there feeling sorry for yourself, but you aren’t going to fight the powers that be.

You try to get out of it, you make up lies but they don’t believe you. They never really do. It’s a vicious circle when you are down.

That was why busking had been so good for me. It was legal. It kept me straight. But now here I was back in the nick. It felt like a real kick in the stomach.

I’d been in the cell for about half an hour when the door opened suddenly and a white-shirted officer ushered me out.

‘Come on,’ he said.

‘Where are you taking me now?’ I asked.

‘You’ll see,’ he said.

I was taken into a bare room with a few plastic chairs and a single table.

There were a couple of officers sitting opposite me. They looked disinterested, to be honest. But then one of them started questioning me.

‘Where were you yesterday evening at around 6.30p.m.?’ one of them asked.

‘Um, I was busking in Covent Garden,’ I said.

‘Where?’

‘On the corner of James Street, opposite the entrance to the tube,’ I said, which was true.

‘Did you go into the tube station at any time that evening?’ the copper asked.

‘No, I never go in there,’ I said. ‘I travel by bus.’

‘Well, how come we’ve got at least two witnesses saying that you were in the station and that you verbally abused and spat at a female ticket attendant?’

‘I’ve got absolutely no idea,’ I said, bemused.

‘They saw you come up the escalator from the tube and try to go through the automatic barrier without a ticket.’

‘Well, as I say, that can’t have been me,’ I said.

‘When you were challenged you verbally abused a female member of staff.’