London Pulp

By Julius Johnston

London Pulp is experimental in that it merges a narrator and a third person style between chapters.
Sabrina Smith (Miss Riddler) is more content within her alter ego and with a subtle plot and sophisticated timing her Shocking riddles bring a murderer to the fore who has that Dostoyevskian guilt about his murder.Dai is reminiscent of the hero of Crime and Punishment.
The sophisticated plot develops and the anonymous narrator comes into his own and unmasks the murderer of a homeless man but will he ever meet Miss Riddler?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julius Johnston
• Release date: Sep 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466155800

Julius Johnston

Thankyou for reading my profile. 'London Pulp' has many twists and turns and is completely unpredictable, being one of the first novels concerning the Internet Blog.

Book preview

Copyright R.D. Innes 2010. Writing as Julius Johnston. Smashwords Edition.

The characters bear no relation to any real person.

LONDON PULP By Julius Johnston

CHAPTER 1

They say that a man has got to do one thing in his life that he will remember.

When I see people everywhere and everywhere going about this and that and tatta tat tat I think life may be so trivial. Or maybe that’s going too far for a librarian in the reference department . Librarians ain’t supposed to think along those lines. Lines and rows of books more like. New books to be coded and catagorised. I am the flippin expert at that. Catagorising books. As soon as the new books come in I am ready. Enough of this dusting off books .That’s not in a real librarians portfolio. Well it is inmine. Librarian-Cleaner. . Ach well when the new ones come in all wrapped in brown paper there is one geezer whos got the job of placing them for the first time . Its like a book losing its Virginity when I put it’s plastic number on it and stamp it with the Libraries name.I gently put it in place. Its funny that I happen to be more gentle with it when its brand spanking new than when when this book ages and punters sweaty hands have been over it.

If there is one thing that getting me pissed off is when books come back with the corner turned over to indicate the readers position . If I had my way there would be a fine for every time this happens. Or at least a sign saying for lenders to respect the books for fucks sake.It does not seem to bother anybody in this place but me. The manager, the assistant manager , the computer womenor the two drones who check out the books. Maybe I should not give a shit cus nobody else does in this goddam place. I even bring my little steam iron in to gently iron the page turn out. Mr. Innovative that’s me. Does it get noticed. Does it heck.

Problem is the amount of new books coming in is getting less and less. Dosh, I mean dosh or lack of it. That’s the verbal press release that was issued to me by the Head of Libraries. Lack of dosh, what a load of tosh.

Its modernisation that is the name of the game. Its not lack of dosh. To fuck with character and a bit of class with the building. To heck with the bespoke stair rail, the carved newel posts. To heck with the mahogany desks and the hardwood parquee flooring. Even to heck with with the arte nouveau pen holder that sat on my desk. Lets modernise instead. Lets have all the libraries in London the same. The same fucken carpet, same paint job, same doors, same bookcases. Lets homogenise everything. Lets walk over Individuality. Lets forget about new books either cus there ain’t no dosh. They mean dosh for new books cus its all gone on modernising the joint.

At least the punters who visit are not all the same. Thank the Good Lord for that.At least some of them a man like me would like to arrange a little bedroom add on to all this modernisation carry on. Especially when Sarah-Jane comes in.Or some of the other young skirts.

Some just come in to get out of the rain. Theres an old fella who lives under a tree in Highbury Fields. Takes a strip wash in the public lavatory and comes in here. The rest of the staffdo not like him one bit. Mrs. Hurst makes sniffing noses and coughs when he comes in to try the old beggar so he will not come in . Well that’s the rationale behind this almost comedic gesture.

I watch him face, his name is down as ‘Sam Brookes’

Or ‘Brakes’ or ‘Bricks’. I cannot read his writing but pretend I can. I’ll stick with Brookes. The managerMr. Lofthouse once told me to be ‘Off’ with him.

Old Sam never takes a book out. Or has never attempted to. I do not know what Mrs. Hurst would say if he tried. Maybe it is an unspoken thing in Sams mind that he does not try. Who knows. Anyway Sam is into Military history and chess. I know what he reads because his dirty bleedin hands are over it when he puts the books back.Books on the English Civil Warand Oliver Cromwell, on Chess openings with Black and everything on the Sicilian opening. I have been itching to ask him if he is a Royalist or a Roundhead. Or who the heck he would have supported. Probably fighting men in those days it would be the first to show the gold coins would have him.

Last week he sat down and pulled out of his camouflage rucksack some sandwiches in foil.It’s a chair he usually sits at the back of the library with a window and desk. He tried to conceal it from me and I pretended not to see him. Double con if ever there was one. I could smell the meat paste from my desk which is a good twenty metres away. Then he pulled out an old plastic bottle with some tap water in it. Outside it was pissing down in Islington . I was thinking this is the best time of the day for old Sam. Even though he was flouting the ‘No Eating’ rule in the library I left the fella alone. Which is not what I supposed to. Fuck it.

One thing he likes to do is to go into the mens bog and light up one of his roll ups. I think he has been warned about this already from the manager Lofthouse.I’m not sure whether Lofthouse knows I am turning a blind eye to Sam Brookes’ antics. I just keep my mouth shut. Hoping Lofthouse is thinkingthat I am incapable of noticing a Monkey riding an elephant through the Library. Ducking and weaving. On the ropes and bouncing off them. I should get back in the ring some day.

Another character that frequents this Library is Mrs. Bollotoni. Shes English and the widower of an Italian chap. She lives alone and its her big thing of the day to come in. Everybody drop everything there doing cus it’s Mrs. Bollotoni. Just drop the letter writing, the book replenishing, your lunch, just get off the phone. Let me be Mrs. Bollotoni’s private flippin slave. Have you got this book in now? Has this one come in yet? Could you find this one for me?Could you check on the computer because I don’t know how to use it? Is there a pencil I could use? Could you reach this book for me? Could you bend down for this one? Could you open one of the windows because its rather hot? Could you….Could you….what…yes I will obey Mrs. Bollotoni.

Shes mainly into large print romance and has complained to me a few times that there does not seem to be any new titles. That’s shes having to read the same title again.You know, I was going to say not to blame me you want to blame the stupid cunts who control what money is spent on fucken what in London libraries. Or give a signal to blame Lofthouse.But I end up saying that I apologise about all of this and there may be other titles at other libraries. I make a mistake of checking on the computer what other libraries have got and that really was a big mistake. Technology eh! Shes got me pinned to the flippin thing tapping in what other boroughs have in. I reserve this and I reserve that book. I order this book over from Brent andanother from Woolwich.

Another thing Mrs. Bollotoni has a special fear of is Rats. She has asked me a few times whether there is anyvermin in the Library. I categorically say there is not. But in fact we did have one last month in the littlestaff kitchen area. She tells she keeps a ’Healthy lookout’ for them. She informs me that she keeps a broom by the side of her bed just in case a rat appears. I was going to say that you want to hit it with a baseball bat but I thought this was rather importune for me to say such a thing as a public librarian. Brought me back to that fucken psychological fucken development book I half read recently about speaking what you feel gently and confidently. Fucken hell if I did this ….

Another character who comes in about once or twice a week is this fruit and veg seller. I do not know his name but I see him with his stall at the Chapel Market on the Liverpool road.Hes got jeans on witha classic hole in one of the knees. I don’t think it’s a designer hole .It’s a real one. He has a grey pullover and a soggy woolen hat.

He has not registered with the library and Lofthouse has mentioned him. Maybe to keep an eye on him. Fuck Lofthouse.He likes the art section and the chess books.

Once he even had a chat with Sam Brookes over Chess or something or other. He avoids me and any eye contact. But I do not think he is a wise guy or there is anything suspicious about him.I’m one of these guys who sees the good in everybody…

CHAPTER 2

One of the hot topics on the street is the idea of the new I.D. cards to be brought in. What the fuck are we coming to in this country. State control or what. This I.D. card has a fingerprint on and average citizens have got to pay for the privilege as well.Theres one Lib Dem Councillor who comes into the library is always on about it to me. He reckons its an invasion of our civil liberties in the guise of government wanting to stop identity theft and fraud. Its one thing having a passport when you travel toa foreign nation to show to who the fuck you are. But in your own country?

Fingerprints, Iris patterns, age, date and place of birth. Even current address. I’ve changed my address three times in the past twelve months. People in London do hop from one bedsit and flat to another. A little earner for the government for people to keep updating there I.D. cards . Whether they will get it through the House of Lords to make it compulsory is another matter. Theres a geezer in Wales I read whos got a blog reckons it ain’t got no chance.

He says ‘ reports that the cost of introducing ID cards has crept up again, this time by another £50 million. This is no great surprise. I expect it to rise quite significantly between now and when it is finally introduced, assuming that the Government are able to get that far with it.

What is perhaps more interesting is the hidden cost to the ordinary person in the street of acquiring one of these cards. The government believe that they can sell the cards at £30 each however that does not take account of the cost to each individual of having their fingerprints and other biometric data taken which would be around £29. This charge will also apply to anyone wanting a new passport.

So this whole new regime effectively amounts to a laminated poll tax of £59 a head, payable by everybody once the inevitable decision is taken to make these cards compulsory. Even if we are not forced to have a card the cost of getting a passport will go up. And yet there is still no evidence that any of this will actually improve our security or policing one iota.’

So the police state is among us. But ever in such a so fucken subtle way. We Brits are just not a complaining breed of people . We take it on the chin. Or do not even realise we have been clonked at all.The UK and especially London is becoming more and more varied in its genetic makeup. More ingredients in the pot . The future may hold a more reactionary attitude. Who knows.

Well politics and more fucken politics. To escape this I went to the Chapel Marketin Islington. Stall sellers of all nationalities selling a whole range of things

From shoes to Turnips to bestselling hardbacks to broken violins to boxing gloves.I had a wander around. Bought a second paperback on Philosophy. A certain John Stuart Mills ’On Liberty’ with a new introduction. A book I have read before and will read again. But do not know when. Probably whenI feel my own liberty is being challenged. A type of Liberal Therapy for the twenty first century.

I thought about buying this old looking flute. But I just conjured up someone like Sam Brookes pawning it in for a bottle of gin. How the human mind can pair things together with no real evidence. This flute could never have been blown for all I know yet all I could see in my minds eye is Sam Brookes playing it.Strange really cus I do not dislike Sam. His oral bacteria is no different from everyone elses.

Talking or thinking about Sam there he was straight in front of me. He was with the young man with holes in his jeans at his fruit stall.I did not know what he was doing initially but became aware when I got a bit closer.

Sam and the young man were playing Chess.In between when the young man served his customers Bananas and spuds he would take a move. The fruit and veg were arranged on three full length plasterers tables. The same sort of table common at Car boot sales. The little chess board was set up at the end of one of the tables. Attemptingto be out of view of punters but failing.The board they played on was about 20cm square. It had magnetic pieces so the tiny pawns would not get blown off and end up down a drain. It was one of these small box sets that was about the size of a paperback novel. Open it up and the plastic chess pieces fall out and the board size is double the carrying size.A good idea is to have a plastic bag ready to empty the pieces into when placing the board on some hard surface. Whether it be a table, a chair seat,a wall , a pillar or a park bench.

I saw them bring chessboards out into the open when I lived in the Big Apple. In fact I even played myself in Washington Square . I can remember giving a fella a dollar for a game on his mobile chessboard. I was black and played a Sicilian dragon variation . Ended up winning a rather tense endgame. I did not make this guys day. I thought he was going to take a swing at me. I saw him hopping off like those squirrels that inhabit this small park near NYU.

Anyway I went up to the young mans stall and asked for some satsumas, a punnet of raspberries and some baking potatoes.

’That we will be three quid exactly Sir.’

I gave him three pound coins and New York came back to me. Geezers over there do not work so much in increments of money. Its either two dollars sir or five dollars or one dollar. Not one dollar thirty-nine cents or three dollars ninety-nine.Maybe its something unique to the big cities. The metropolis way. The little pennies or cents do not matter fuck.

‘Whos winning’ I say looking towards the little Chessboard.

‘He is. I am going to lose this one’ said Sam Brookes.

The young man remained silent. Yet I had addressed him moreso than Sam. Sam enjoyed my interest in his game but the young man was a little swayed. He had seen me in the library and thought I was someone of authority. Us and them. The geezers who got power and the geezer who ain’t got none. I could almost sense his mind projecting this to me. I had another try as there was something unusual about this young man.

‘I’m a keen pawn pusher myself. I see you in the library now and again. I don’t think anyone will mind if you play in the library’

The young man looked at me like he could rip my head off.His left hand clenched . I thought immediately that he was a southpaw.

‘You think I lookstupid playing Chess on my fruit stall. You want me to play inside the library instead’.

‘I do not mean that at all’. I said gently laughing. ‘No what I mean is that is simply OK to have a game of Chess in the library. Nothing more than this. Just a suggestion. I do not mean any bad feeling’.

The young man looked away and did not answer. Old Sam took a move and nodded with a smile on his face.

The young man had a derisory look on his face. Like I was a piece ofshit. I was seething inside. To heck with him.

‘You know mate. I’ve given you some business and I’ve tried to be helpful to you.Do you know something buddy. Your attitude stinks . You think I’m going to give you anymore business. I’ll get my spuds from the flippin bigsupermarket who walk over farmers and all the small guys. You wanna get your act together if you be rude to every bugger who wants to buy a bit of fruit from you . You will be fuckt.’

I’ve made a bit of a scene. I’m even leaning on his wobbly plasterers table which makes me feel rather wobbly. I was thinking if he is going to throw that left cross of his now would be the right time cus all that wobblyness from the table has left my feet unsteady.He thinks about it but doesn’t throw it. I walk off. Shoulders high and feeling rather catharticised. Fucken hell . You try and be nice to people and this is what they give ya. A slap in the face. Two young woman think I’m a complete nutter and an old man in a checkered cap stares at me unabashedly. As if he’s watching a man land from planet fucken Zod.

I march back to the flat I share. I’m going somewhere tonight that should bring some excitement..

CHAPTER 3

Its one of those things in life. You gotta give and take. You gotta bend this way and that. Soak it up. Soak everything fucken up. Don’t let stuff get to you. Blank fucken wall. I’ve forgotten the fruit guy already but more to contend with the flatmates. Theres five of us in this North London flat. One bedroom each. No ones got an ensuite Theres one bathroom and one kitchen . There ain’t even a communal living room.At least I have got a sink I can wash my teeth.Its an old Belfast sink. Square and masculine with a couple of old taps that do the trick.

Good job I have this sink. If I hadn’t I would be long gone. Having to wait your turn to have a shave and all that carry on. No fucken way .

The carpet in my room has many cigarette burns. The landlord yarns that it was a female air hostess who previously inhabited the room and could not be bothered to stub her fag out in an ashtray.The curtains as well have seen better days and are a bit coffee stained. The yellow colour patterned with a bit of coffee brown. At least the electric heaters are new. I hardly use them . Even in the depths of winter. Maybe only to dry after a shower. But of course we all pay one fifth of the electric bill. Irrespective of how much bleedin electricity we use or do not use in my case.

I suggested to my landlord that I felt like building a little wind turbine. Get a ladder and mount it on the side of my window . On the wall adjacent. My landlord thought I was taking the piss but I’ve still got the plan.

I have even found an old hydraulic car jack which spins around and I was planning to do some welding and carpentry and make the damn thing. Mount the wooden turbine on a pinion on top of the hydraulic car jack.

My flatmate Dai thought it was a cracking idea. In Wales he reckons they have got these giant Wind turbines everywhere. Mounted on top of upland sites. Big thing hes always rambling on about when we talk ’Eco’ is the Severn Estuary.Harness tidal power in a barrage. He showed me different designs for turbines that will compete to utilise this most predictable form of energy. Courtesy of Sir Patrick Moores old pal, the Moon.

Dai is one of those guys who likes his beer. Sometimes a brawl afterwards. Sometimes he wins. Sometimes the copper comes around to tell me my mate is in casualty. Fucken twat. If your gonna fight you might as well get paid a few quid for it. That’s what I tell him. ’Yeah, yeah, I think your right. Your spot on’ That’s what he tells me. He gos out and then its either a flippin glory story about this punch he threw or this punch he got out of the way of. Alternatively it’s the boys in blue to flippin inform me about him. With the attitude that since I’m his mate I must be like him. Or along the same lines. I felt like saying to this constable to buck up his attitude. One minute the constable is all fake emotional about my pap being beaten up. The next second hes accusatory or seeing stuff piggy school wants him to see.

It just so happens hes coming with me to this new Sport that’s kicked off in this country. I tell him we are going to Chessboxing on Saturday night. He says ’What?’it’s a hybrid sport I impress upon him. Of Professional boxing and competitive chess.’Fucken hell’ he says in his Swansea accent. His face is full of trepidation.

We flag downa taxi which does not really want to stop. Or pretends he does not want to stop. The black cab has a crunched up orange juice carton on the floor and a chocolate bar wrapper rolled intoa ball. Dai has got on a pair of jeans with a bomber jacket. One of these inside out jobs. A jacket that can be worn either side.On either side is the letter WOW! . If I wore the fucken thing I would be trying to get rid of these letters. Dai is five years younger than myself . Hes got on a pair of white sneakers. Not