Click above to go to Rushlight Main Page

(Belfast Born, Bred And Buttered by Joe Graham)

Chapter 10

A Tired Old Game, Good Cop Bad Cop

Two weeks later, at 6 o’clock in the morning, I was arrested under the ’Special Powers Act’ taken from my home at Excise Street and brought to Hasting Street barracks. I was brought upstairs to a back room, sat behind a table where a Special Branch man sat facing me, another ginger haired one stood menacingly leaning on the table growling like an old dog, and making threats every time I did not give the other guy a satisfactory answer. Every now and then the seated Branch man would intercede and ask him to cool down, they were playing ‘good cop-bad cop’ with me. The ‘good’ cop told the ‘bad’ cop to go and have a cup of tea that he would speak to me alone, the ‘bad’ cop stormed out saying, “and he had better come up with some answers before I get back” , it was laughable, like something out of a ‘B’ movie, two bum actors with a tired old script. So I thought I would inject a new line to the script by calling after the ‘bad’ cop, “No sugar in my tea, please”, no, I said I only thought about it. The good cop immediately went into telling me how bad tempered and aggressive his partner was, I asked him was he taking anything for it, which went down like a lead balloon. The ‘good’ cop nearly turned ‘bad’ cop’ before my eyes, talk about Jekyll and Hyde. Basically their old heads were demented with an I.R.A scare, this was the course of their questioning, “are you in the I.R.A, why were Liam Mulholland and Frank McGlade, (two veteran republicans), in your van on the 4^th of January, in Derry “. I gave him a typical smart arse answer that any young man would give, “Because they were tired after walking all the way from Belfast to Derry , I am sure they did not want to walk all the way back, would you ”?. It soon became clear he seen no further use in talking to me, nicely or otherwise. Big Ginger came back into the room and from the corner of my eye I seen the ‘good ’ cop give him ‘the eyes’ , which must have meant no point in going on with this. Later I was turned out in Divis Street, released, and there I was standing bare footed, I had not got a chance to put my shoes on when they arrested me. So I had to walk bare footed all the way over to the Grosvenor Road, people looking quizzically at my feet, I mused, ‘thank God I got a chance to put my jeans on’. They probably would have gave me a lift home but I would have walked home on my hands and knees rather than be obliged to them ..I don’t mean if I hadn’t had my jeans on.

It appears cops all over the world use that old tactic of ‘Good Cop’‘, Bad Cop’. Years later, in 1976, I was arrested in Liverpool driving back to catch the ferry home having been over to pick up a second hand printing machine for my wee publication “Rushlight The Belfast Magazine“. Special Branch men surrounded me at the street leading to the Ferry and informed me I was arrested under the “Prevention of Terrorism Act“ first I was brought to the local Bridewell cells. The first lot of hours were pretty non eventful, then about half way through the next day the cell door opened and a policeman stood there holding a tray with what appeared to be a dinner on it, which he reached toward me. It all just seemed too ridiculous, being locked up without charge or trial and sit there grateful for their hospitality. so I asked him, “Do you think I am some sort of moron.. do you honestly think I am going to take that dinner, sit down unquestioningly and eat it.” The peeler feigned a look of puzzlement and smirked, “The beef burger is Birds Eye ”, In normal circumstances I would have burst out laughing, so quick and witty was his response, but all I could find was angry and crude words, “Well stick the beef burger , Birds Eye or not, up your f..... Arse, you English toe rag”. He feigned disappointment, set the tray inside the cell on the floor and left locking the door behind him. About an hour later he returned, looked at the untouched dinner, picked up then tray and left again.

About two hours later I heard the clump of many feet coming along the outside corridor, “oh, ho,” I thought, “He is back with his mates to sort me out over that ‘English Toe Rag’ remark”. The door opened and in he stepped to stand at my left, another cop stepped in and stood at my right, an older cop with those marking on his shoulders and uniform that says. ‘I am in charge...or I am an ass hole’, stood directly in front of me and began reading from some papers he held before him. In a nut shell what he read was, “I understand today at approximately 12.30 pm, you Joseph Graham entered into a Hunger Strike, I must advise you that if you persist this could result in your death as her Majesty’s Government have abandoned the use of force feeding.. your meals however, will be left in your cell at each meal time, the decision to eat them or not rests with you...do you fully understand what has been said to you ”?.

The mind is a funny thing, whoever likened it to a computer wasn’t far wrong , in a split second I reckoned that , hell, they can only hold me seven days under the ‘Prevention Of Terrorism Act’ , it takes about fifty days to die on hunger strike, what is he on about.? But it was too late for rationale, I blurted, “You can save yourselves the bother, I am not going to give credence to the immorality of your actions.. I will eat no food until I am either charged or released.” They said nothing and left the cell and at every meal time for the next week they brought breakfast dinner and evening meal in and left it on a tray on the floor, only to return and remove it untouched. Surprisingly, I found it very easy to take this stand and once I had committed myself to it found it impossible to retract it. To so I would have felt very weak, shamed and humiliated, as though I would have been letting down more than just myself. The arrival of the High Ranking Officer somehow steeled my resolve, the arrogance of him to say suggest I would be left to die and yet here I was taken off the street, without charge or trial and he could not see the ridiculousness of what he was saying.

At the Bridewell, two “Branch-men” used to come in every day to my cell to ask questions, they played the old game, ’good cop’, ‘bad cop’, but in this case the ‘good’ cop, a very effeminate type, had the dirtiest looking eyes I ever seen, his eyes lashes were matted with this gooey, waxy stuff. Tiring of their insulting behaviour, one day I leaned over to the good cop and said in the lowest tone of voice I could muster, “can I ask you something”, his expression said it all, he was convinced I was about to tell him some dark secret, “Yes sure” he answered. Staring into his gooey eyes I said in a loud voice, “Why don’t you get those shitty f….ing eyes seen to.” Talk about a transformation, talk about that song, “Your Good Girl’s Gonna Turn Bad”, he turned into a wee gooey eyed monster and started lashing out at me with his puny little fists, I was waiting for him hitting me with his handbag. And you will not believe it, he called me “A murdering Irish bastard”, well, I suppose you would, and that he the good cop. I don’t know if it is true or not, but they say a peeler has to be prepared to arrest their own mother, it does not say anything about arresting their own fathers, I wonder would that be because they would be so hard to find?.

After seven days I was escorted down to the front desk of the Bridewell and on entering the room I spotted three burly looking guys in plains clothes standing to one side, I immediately sensed I was not going to be released. At the desk the Sergeant handed over to me my personal belongings which they had taken from me at my arrival, and informed me I was released from their custody. Instantly the three stooges stepped forward and one put his hand on my shoulder and began reading from a sheet of paper, “Joseph Graham we are arresting you under a Home Secretary’s Detention Order and taking you to a place of custody”. for a second I thought, “ooh jess,.. I am glad he stopped there I thought he was going to say take you to a place of custody where you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead ”, at the same time I was thinking ‘why do they always have to read from a paper’?. as I said isn’t the mind a funny old thing.?

A Humane Turnkey ?

I was handcuffed and taken away , believe it or not in a red mini car, with the two heavy weights on either side of me, I felt I was being taken for a ride in Noddy’s little red car, I don’t know if the tyres were yellow or not. By about 10 pm we arrived at what I later learned to be Walton Prison Liverpool and after going through the procedures at reception lodged in a cell on the second landing. I remember thinking, before I nodded over, ‘ wasn’t Brendan Behan held here and in the Bridewell back in the 1940’s’?... isn’t the mind a funny oul thing?.

The following morning I awoke to the smell of bacon and eggs although I hadn’t heard the door opening. I thought well they won’t know here I had refused to eat anything this past week so I won’t loose face if I say nothing and eat this food, I peeped over at the floor to where I expected the tray of food to be.. there was none there. I went to the two inch peep hole in the door and soon realised that the food I smelled was being dished out to prisoners who were collecting their breakfast to return and eat it in their cells. All of a sudden my cell door was being booted by prisoners passing , spotting my eye at the peep hole they grimaced and mouthed “Irish Bastard”. I soon realised the source of their hatred and anger was something that was displayed at the left side of my door for each of them kept looking at it before their outburst. I wondered what it was, I hoped it wasn’t a sign saying “This guy hates English Breakfasts ”. After all the prisoners had been returned to their cell a warder came and opened my cell, saying ,“Ok. Come and get your breakfast and return with it to your cell ”, I thought, “ well I don’t mind If I do” and stepped out of the cell but curiosity made me look up at an orange card, ( it had to be orange) in a metal holder affixed to the side of my doorway, there wasn’t a lot of writing on it, Just three simple letters, in bold black marker writing.. I.R.A ... I thought jess, there goes the bacon and eggs. I stepped back into the cell and said, “stick your breakfast up your arse”. Saying nothing and not even looking the least concerned, it was as if I hadn’t spoken, the warder pulled closed the cell door and locked it. The prisoners returning their eating utensils kicked and mouthed in again, this remember was around the time of the Mulberry Bush Bar bombing in Birmingham. This was a dangerous time for any Irish in England let alone a Paddy with a card hanging round his neck saying “I.R.A”, the least he could expect was a lynching, I wondered was that what the prison authorities had hoped or planned for me. About two hours later the cell door opened and in stepped a young warder softly whistling “All round my hat I wore a Tricolour Ribbon”, two other warders stood outside the door. I looked at the whistler and thought ‘smart ass’, but a gentle smile on his face told me something else and I noticed he had the orange card in his hand. “Come with us, the Governor wants to see you.”. After a few minutes walk I arrived in what looked to be a cell done out as office and behind a large wooden desk sat a man of about fifty with a full grown beard. He stood up as I came in and reached out for my hand, shook it and said “Mr. Graham. I am Mr...., Governor of Walton prison.. take a seat please”. I sat down and out of the corner of my eye I noticed the three warders were standing close behind me. So much was going on in my head, why are they standing there, do they really see me as dangerous inside a prison...why is this governor guy so friendly and polite.? The warder handed the Governor the orange card, expressionlessly he read it and tore it up in about eight pieces and dropped it into a waste bin beside his desk.

The Governor placed his elbows on the desk and spoke directly at me in a voice I knew to be sincere, I can’t remember his exact words but they went some thing like, “Mr. Graham, I am a Christian, and I have never had any conflict of conscience with my job, every man incarcerated in this prison, for which I am responsible, have been charged or sentenced for a crime. But Mr. Graham, since you have been neither charged or sentenced yet placed in my custody, my conscience is troubled with that but I can not release you, but I will promise one thing Mr. Graham I will make your stay here as comfortable as I can and I apologise for that card having been placed at your cell and I can assure you no ill intention was meant to you by it ”. The very fact that he didn’t read what he was saying from a sheet of paper impressed me immediately, I only wished he had said all this before I had refused those lovely eggs and bacon. All joking aside, I would be a hypocrite if I said I received any bad treatment in Walton prison, the man was as true as his word. Of course the yo-yo’s continued to kick my cell door and mouth off, but what they didn’t know was, under a new arrangement, I had already been and collected my breakfast, dinner, etc, before them at each meal time. As for the whistler, in a short conversation I had with him later, he told me his mother and father were Irish.

Just after tea on the fourth day in Walton, the cell door was opened by Whistler accompanied by two other warders , “ Come on , you are being released” said Whistler and off we went in procession to the reception, I nearly started whistling “All round my hat I wore a Tricolour Ribbon”, but I thought I had better not, anyway I didn’t want to steal his party piece, for he was a decent sort of man, forgetting, for a moment, just for a moment, what Oscar Wilde said of warders, “ the lowest form of humanity is a turnkey”.! But for all that I was very suspicious, released at 5 pm, and why the extra two warders as an escort.. I was hardly going to attempt an escape if I was being released?

At the reception my personal property was once again returned to me and I was told I was released. I was escorted to the front gate and who were standing there, yep, the Three Stooges and their little red mini car. One stepped forward and said, “Get into the car we will give you a lift to the boat”. I thought I would test them, “No thanks I will get a bus or a taxi”, But he wasn’t wearing that, “No, get into the car, ”, It suddenly dawned on me that they weren’t handcuffing me this time and that looked promising. I got into the car and we soon arrived at the Liverpool docks and he drove straight into the boat yard where the cars boarded. The hull of the ship was opened and I could se all the vehicles in it and the last one on was my car, they had put my car onboard.? I turned with out speaking and walked toward the boat and my car and the Three Stooges walked step for step alongside me... right onto the boat?. Arriving at my car one reached into his pocket and handed me two or three sheets of paper, “These are your Deportation Papers, you are not to return to this country, if you do you could face a prison sentence”.

I opened the boot of the car and there was the printing machine I had gone over for, still intact, I patted it and smiled, looked at the Three Stooges and said, “You will be hearing from that”.

Back home I immediately began churning out “Rushlight The Belfast Magazine” again on my new second hand print machine and hopefully my little publication was a thorn in the sides of those who misruled this part of our country and a source of support to those who struggled for equality and justice. I have gauged the success of “Rushlight” through the years by, and took as my mandate, the thousands of letters of support and encouragement I have received from its readers from all over the world.

That “Deportation Orders” I mentioned were later found to be illegal, but they modified, or legalised, such ‘Orders’ by naming them “Exclusion Orders”.