GOD WORE SHOES

Violence! Don’t talk to me about bloody violence. Brady’s roar shook the customer who had innocently commented on urban crime. Brady was nigh 6’5” in height and close on 200 pounds. Built to be a publican. At 50 years of age he radiated menace. Almost bald, this added to his aura of force. He had mean eyes and they meant exactly that. The nose was misshapen through nature and brawling. A generous mouth covered teeth dominated by a gold filling. The gold flashed frequently but merriment almost never.

Brady was obsessed by crime. He gave directions accordingly. “Want the nearest tube?… two muggings from here … the bus stop … a rape away.” A farmed portrait of Ruth Ellis was enshrined at the centre of the bar. “See here,” Brady would say, “now there’s British justice for you.” Nobody was sure if he meant this as approval or not. Alice, his wife, may have known but she’d fled some years ago. “The missis … oh I’ve her buried in the back,” he’d say. Undoubtedly, such a fate awaited her if he were to catch up with her. But she’d run fast … and far.

Brady’s pub was situated at the wrong exit of The Mile End road. “Bandit country,” according to the locals. The clientele consisted almost exclusively of policemen. A stray drinker would be advised by Brady as to this and then cautioned …

“Watch your wallet.”

As a youth, Brady had been a merchant seaman and at some point had been tattooed. The right arm predictably proclaimed “Mother.” The left read “Watch Out.” One was well advised to heed this. During his travels, Brady had acquired a long, wooden club. A narrow handle led to a thick, ugly baseball type body. It had been fashioned with oak for weight and bamboo for flexibility. When swung, it made a vicious “swish” which put the fear of eternity about. The customers were very familiar with it. At closing time, without fail, the club would appear with the same cry “Drink up or join the club … permanently.” To policemen, of course, this was the height of comfort. The nightly “swish” was indeed Mother’s milk to their blue heats. Beat your own, so to speak.

On a wet November morning, a young Irishman attempted to steal from Brady. He managed to get into the yard at the back of the pub and was in the act of forcing a shed door. Brady caught him there and went to work with the club. The “swish” almost drowned out the litany of “Oh Sweet God … oh for the love of God and His Saints.” The he stopped. The words of entreaty hung on the air. Brady dropped the club, the wood rattled on the concrete yard. “God is it … ya thieving Mick … see those shoes … I worked for them … like everything else.” So saying, Brady three times swung his shoe at the unconscious head. And three times you denied me! Brady made a few telephone calls and the youth was discreetly removed from the premises. Cleaning the club took longer and afterwards it was placed under the Ruth Ellis shrine. The staff kept clear of their boss as he began to drink with ferocity. All through the evening session, he continued to drink and felt “watched.” From the corner of his eye, he’d sense a man’s eyes on him. He’d snap round and no one was staring. Last orders rang early and Brady’s surliness cleared the pub quickly. Along, he double-checked the door locks and windows. Moving to the centre of the bar, Brady felt he could watch the whole area. A fresh bottle of Scotch was open and the club rested on his knees. As the bottle diminished Brady’s attention lulled.

A man stood inside the bar, his back to Brady, covering Ruth Ellis. The sudden sight of him snapped something in Brady’s chest and a jolt of pain drew him upright. “Hey … who the bloody hell are you … want some of this … what … want to join the club fella?” As he lifted the club, a double jolt slammed his heart and he fell heavily on his back. The whiskey crashed to the floor. Brady tried to clasp the club but paralysis spread through him. He heard the man’s footsteps as he began to approach. The shoes made an odd sound … like the lilt that pervades an Irish wake. As the man’s shadow fell across Brady he roared “for the love of …” But blackness took away completion.

The pub didn’t open the following morning. By evening a group of thirsty, rather than concerned, coppers forced the door. Inside they found the bar had been cleaned and polished. No Brady! Eventually, a chief inspector from Hackney ventured the three flights to Brady’s bedroom. He found him in bed with the sheets up to his chin. The face was spit-clean and he looked as dead as he indeed was. More coppers came up and they drew the blankets back. Brady was clad in pyjamas with the sleeves rolled back to display the tattoos.

“Bugger’s dead,” they agreed. It was further agreed that Brady would wish them to have a few drinks. Shortly, a festive atmosphere prevailed and the drink flowed. A police cadet, fresh from Stepney Green, was assigned as barman. Cutting a lemon for the Chief Inspector’s gins, his eye fell on the Ruth Ellis photo. “Hello … it’s Marilyn Monroe … I’ll be having that,” and he quickly stuffed it beneath his tunic.

Upstairs, the door had been closed on Brady. For a while the sounds of merriment reached there but gradually the silence spread and settled. The club wasn’t found behind the bar and nobody seemed interested in its whereabouts.

In the months to come, Brady was remembered but was seldom missed.