Free at last

The young, army bomb disposal captain (he reminded me of my own son, Sydney) was a decent enough fellow. When I apologised profusely for all the inconvenience he and his men had been put to, he said: Not to worry laddie – all in a day’s work. And when I asked if there would be some sort of ‘call out charge’ (our plumber used to demand £40 – even if he did nothing) he said no; and, politely declining my offer of a little something towards the detonators, assured me that he would bill the 'appropriate authority' - which probably accounts for the nastiness shown to be by the blond ‘Mormon’ in the fawn raincoat.

I was subjected to intense interrogation by this personage. Well, I suppose it was only natural under the circumstances, but I don’t think he needed to have been so unpleasant. I gave him my brother’s address, upon which he ordered one of his minions to: Bring him here – now! And they did.

Hector was not amused: he was just sitting down to a fish-supper – having decided not to wait for the rest of us (he needs to eat regularly or he gets terrible wind.) He vouched for me, of course, but I don’t think he needed to have gone into such detail about my ‘mental condition’. This inevitably led to a phone call to St Botolph’s, and Freddie confirming that I was – until recently – a patient there. But here’s the strange thing: he said nothing about the sectioning. Upon reflection, I think he was glad to get shot of me, and he told the spook that as long as my brother was prepared to accept responsibility for me, and I undertook to continue with the medication, he was prepared to downgrade my status to that of ‘outpatient’. This would mean my travelling to Swindon, once a fortnight, to attend his clinic. I readily agreed.

But my interrogator was not going to let me go, just like that. Having failed to establish a link between myself and al-Qaeda - or any other terrorist organization - he was going to tell me what he thought of me.
He read me the riot act: Was I not aware of the threat of terrorist attack on this country? And did I not think that leaving my rucksack underneath a bench in the booking hall was, in the current climate, carelessness bordering on criminal behaviour? Furthermore, did I not think he had better fucking things to do than being dragged from a comfortable armchair in front of the telly (“Celebrity Strictly Come Dancing”, his favourite programme), to spend half the fucking night checking up on some fucking nutter? Oh, and by the way, did I know that in Japan, the relatives of anyone killing themselves by jumping in front of trains - evidently an increasing problem in that country - were made to pay heavy fines, for the disruption of services etc. And as far as he was concerned, London Underground should adopt the same policy.

I said I was very sorry for all the trouble I had caused – as indeed I was. My abject apology went some way to calming the man down, but before letting me go, he took great pains to assure me that my profile would now be on database; any future misdemeanour, no matter how slight, and they would throw the book at me.

Well, after that tongue lashing, I considered it might be inappropriate to ask him about the form: I thought there must be some sort of form I could fill in, to claim reimbursement for my rucksack – and its contents: change of underwear; medications (various); digital camera; packet of cheese and tomato sandwiches (one, half eaten); diary (irreplaceable); packet of extra-strong mints; clasp knife; favourite pen; woolly hat; miniature teddy bear (mascot).

It was almost midnight before I was free to go. And it was only then that both Hector and I wondered what might have happened to Myra. If she wasn’t still waiting, we should have to get a taxi – another expense.

However when we walked the 300 yards or so back to the Tube station, we saw a motorbike and sidecar parked at the kerb, but no sign of its driver.
‘What are we going to do now’, I queried.
‘Don’t worry, I can hot-wire the bike – it wouldn’t be the first time’
‘But what about Myra, your wife? I expostulated.
‘Oh she’ll be in the pub, I expect’. He seemed totally unconcerned.
‘You mean she’ll be drinking, when she’s going to be driving a motorbike’ I cried, in alarm.’
‘Well that, and handing out religious tracts’
‘I was now totally confused. ‘You mean she’s in the Salvation Army?’
‘Don’t be silly’ scoffed my brother, ‘She’s founded her own religion. I think she was inspired by that book she read about Ron L Hubbard – you know, the Scientology bloke. Apparently he said: if you want to make money, start your own religion’.
‘And what’ I said, aghast, ‘is the name of this religion?’
The Church of the Latter-day Sinners replied my brother, with more than a touch of pride in his voice.

Whilst I was digesting this latest piece of information, a door across the street burst open – and I saw her - framed in a haze of strobe lighting and beer fumes - my sister-in-law: Myra.