I suppose I should be scared but I’m not. And suddenly it dawns on me: I never could figure out why Eddie had agreed to do the documentary with me. He must have had a million offers to tell his story but he’s never said yes. He has no need to, and no inclination, from what I can work out. But now, sitting across from him, unguarded, the camera beside me still not turned on, I realize I missed something important. There must be something in this meeting for him. Eddie needs something. And I suppose I need something too, don’t I? My heart skips a beat. There it is. Fear.
I turn on the camera. He smiles.
“Lights, camera, action, aye?” He extends a hand across the table, slow. He’s being careful not to spook me. He must know the effect he has on people. His singular brand of magic.
“Nice to finally meet you, Erin, sweetheart.”Sweetheart. I’m a millennial woman, I’ve read my Adichie, my Greer, my Wollstonecraft, but him calling me “sweetheart” is, somehow, fine. It seems strangely innocent coming from him, of another time.
“Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Bishop,” I answer. I take his hand across the Formica tabletop; he rotates my hand to the top, his thumb over the back of my hand—it’s a squeeze, not a shake, a delicate squeeze. I’m a lady and he’s a man and he’s letting me know.
“Call me Eddie.” The whole display is so old school it’s laughable, but it works.
I smile in spite of myself. I blush.
“Nice to meet you, Eddie,” I say, almost giggling. Excellent, I’m an idiot. I take back my hand.
Focus, Erin. Down to business now.I sort out my tone. Reset my professional face.
“I suppose we should get this out of the way first, shouldn’t we? Thank you for the champagne. Much appreciated.” I meet his gaze; I want him to know I’m not intimidated.
He gives me a sly smile. He nods.You’re welcome. After a pause he replies, for the camera, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart. If they don’t sell it in the prison tuckshop, it ain’t from me. It sounds like a nice little present, though. What’s the occasion?” He raises his eyebrows innocently.
I understand. The camera is rolling, so we’re playing it like this. We won’t be mentioning the answerphone messages either then? Very good. I give him a nod. I understand.
I get back on script. “Is there anything you want to ask before we get going?” I’m eager to move on now; we don’t have as much time as I’d like.
He straightens up in his seat, readies himself, rolls up his sleeves.
“No questions. Ready when you are, sweetheart.”
“Okay, then. If you could give us your name, conviction, and sentence please, Eddie.”
“Eddie Bishop. Convicted for money laundering. Seven years. Release is coming up before Christmas. Which’ll be nice. My favorite time of year.” And we’re off. He looks relaxed, at ease.
He raises his brows,What next?
“What do you think about your trial, Eddie? The sentencing?” He’s not going to incriminate himself onfilm, I know that, but he’ll give as much as he can; he likes playing chicken with authority—I’ve read his court transcripts.
“What do I think of the sentence? Well, Erin, interesting that you should ask that.” The smile is sardonic now. He’s amused, playful. “I’ll be honest with you: not much. Don’t think much of the sentence. They’d been trying to get me on something for thirty years, tried all sorts and I’ve been acquitted of all sorts over the years, as I’m sure you know. It seems to me they’ve got a problem with a Lambeth lad making good, making an honest living. It’s not supposed to go that way, is it? They couldn’t make any of it stick till now; any other man might have got slightly offended, if you know what I mean. Only a matter of time before something stuck. If you want to find something enough, it always turns up in the end. One way or another, if you catch my meaning.” He leaves that floating in the air. I think we all know enough about the sixties and seventies to guess that the police force might have been a little shadier then. He’s suggesting they planted evidence to frame him. I don’t disagree.
“But what can I say? My bookkeeping isn’t what it should be, at the end of the day. Yeah, never was very good with numbers. Dyscalculic. Didn’t pay much attention in school,” he continues, tongue, quite obviously, in cheek.
“Course it wasn’t diagnosed back then, was it? Dyscalculia? They just thought you were messing about, or retarded. And I was a quick kid, you know, in other ways, so they just thought I was pissing about. Winding ’em up. Different story in schools now, though, ain’t it? Got two grandkids. I didn’t stay inschool too long, wasn’t suited to it. So in a way I suppose it was only a matter of time before I slipped up on my sums, wasn’t it?” He smiles warm and wide.
I’m pretty sure he’s got an accountant. I’m pretty sure that accountant was at the trial.
It’s astonishing that he can stick his finger right up in everyone’s faces the way he has for the past few decades—bait the system and get away with it. But not only does he get away with it, Iwanthim to get away with it. I’m rooting for him. Everyone is. For his brand of jaunty cockney psychopathy. It’sfun.It doesn’t seem like real modern, raw, bone-and-gristle crime; it seems like the Pearly Kings, and pie and mash, andI’ll-be-mother. Good old-fashioned British crime. Homegrown, Brexit crime. Bob Hoskins, Danny Dyer, Barbara Windsor,The Italian Job,hatchet-in-the-trunk-of-the-car crime.
“Okay.” I lean forward. I want him to know I’ll play his game. “You’re not going to tell me about the Richardsons or any of it, are you, Eddie?” I just need to know what game we’re playing.
“Erin, sweetheart, I will tell you anything you ask, my darling. I’m an open book. I might not know the answers to some of your questions, but I’ll certainly give it a go. So, how ’bout a smile?” He gives me a roguish tilt of the head.
I really can’t help myself; it’s ludicrous, but I’m enjoying this. I smile, with all my teeth.
“Thanks very much, Eddie. In that case, can you tell us about Charlie Richardson, head of the Richardson Gang, what was he like?” I think I understand the rules now. Ask around things, ask opinions, no facts.
“He was an awful fucking human being…but inthe nicest possible way. Awful fucking human beings sometimes are.” He sighs. “It’s all been said about the Richardsons already. Everyone involved in all that old East End stuff is dead now anyway. You can’t rat on the dead and I certainly wouldn’t speak ill of the dead…but Charlie was a nasty fella. I never physically saw him do any torture. But he’d talk about it. He used the power generator from a dismantled WWII bomber to electrocute them. He’d torture ’em, slice ’em, scare ’em until they told him whatever he wanted. I asked him once, ‘How do you know they’re not lying to you if you torture ’em?’ He said, ‘They lie until they get to the point where they turn into little children and all they can do is tell the truth.’ But you see, that’s not what I was asking him. What I meant was: what if they’d told you the truth to begin with and you kept on torturing ’em until they made up some old shit? That never occurred to Charlie. I didn’t ask again. Different generation, Charlie was. Thought he knew what was what. But torture’s never worked. You’ve got to respect people, right, Erin? If you want respect, then you need to make sure you’re respectful. Let people die with a little dignity. It’s up to them if they lived with it. No one can say you did wrong in this life if you treated people with respect.”
I’m not sure that’s entirely true, but I push on.
