Echo

*5*

A little research during a quiet afternoon produced the names and addresses of James Streeter's parents and brother, plus some imaginative-and deliberately libelous?- press releases from the Friends of James Streeter Campaign, which was based at the brother's address in Edinburgh. The last one was dated August, 1991.

Despite twelve months of determined lobbying, not a single newspaper has followed up the claims of the Friends of James Streeter Campaign that James was murdered on the night of Friday, April 27, 1990, in order to protect a member of Lowenstein's Board and save the bank from the catastrophic collapse that would inevitably result from loss of confidence in its management.

In the interests of justice, the following facts must be investigated:

• James Streeter did not have the knowledge to work the fraud of which he's accused. It is alleged that he gained his computer skills while abroad in France and Belgium. The FoJSC has collected witness evidence from his previous employers and his first wife that he did not. (See enclosures)

James Streeter had no access either to the progress of Lowenstein's in-house investigation or to Board decisions, therefore he could not have known the "ideal" date to leave the country. The FoJSC has witness statements to this effect from his secretary and members of his department. (See enclosures)

James Streeter made reference to friends and colleagues in the six months before his disappearance about the incompetence of Nigel de Vriess, his line manager, who was a member of the Lowenstein Board in 1990 and who has since left the bank. The FoJSC has three sworn statements which testify that James said in January, 1990, that Mr. de Vriess was "at best incompetent and at worst criminally motivated." (See enclosures)

Much reliance has been placed on the damaging allegations made by Amanda Streeter against her husband in a written statement to police. They were: 1) That James was having an affair with a woman who worked for a computer software company-name, Marianne Filbert, whereabouts unknown. 2) That he once remarked "any fool could work the system if someone told him which buttons to press." 3) That he was obsessed with wealth.

The FoJSC refutes all three allegations. (1) and (3) depend entirely on the word of Amanda Streeter. (2) refers to a statement made by one of James's colleagues who has since admitted that he wasn't sure even in 1990 if it was James who made the remark.

Further:

•The FoJSC has obtained proof that it was Amanda herself who was having the affair and that her lover was Nigel de Vriess. We have photocopies of bills and eye witness statements which refer to two secret meetings the couple had in 1986 and 1989 at the George Hotel. Bath. The first occurred only weeks before her marriage to James, the second three years after it. (See enclosures)

We accuse Amanda Streeter and Nigel de Vriess.

James Streeter's murder has gone unpunished. Unless the Press shakes off its apathy and acts now, the guilty will continue to profit from an innocent man's death. The FoJSC urges, indeed demands, a proper inquiry into the activities of Nigel de Vriess and his lover, Amanda Streeter. Please fax or phone on the above numbers for assistance and/or further information. John and Kenneth Streeter are available for interview at any time.

Two evenings later, and because he had nothing better to do, Deacon dialed John Streeter's number in Edinburgh. A woman answered.

"Hello," she said in a soft Scottish accent.

Deacon introduced himself as a London-based journalist who was interested in talking to a spokesman from the Friends of James Streeter Campaign.

"Oh Lord!"

He waited a moment. "Is this a problem for you?"

"No, it's just-well, to be honest, it's over a year since-look, just hang on a moment, will you?" A hand went over the receiver. "JOHN! JO-OHN!" The hand was removed. "It's my husband you need to talk to."

"Fine."

"I'm sorry I didn't catch your name."

"Michael Deacon."

"He'll be here in a minute." The hand again, and this time her voice was muffled. "For God's sake hurry. It's a journalist and he wants to talk about James. His name's Michael Deacon. No, you must. You promised your father you wouldn't give up." She came back, louder. "Here's my husband."

"Hello," said a man's much deeper voice. "I'm John Streeter. How can I help you?"

Deacon flicked the trigger on his ballpoint and pulled forward his notepad. "Does the fact that it's three and a half years since you sent out your last press release mean you've now accepted your brother's guilt?" he said bluntly.

"Are you with a national newspaper, Mr. Deacon?"

"No."

"Then you're freelance?"

"As far as these questions are concerned, yes."

"Have you any idea how many freelancers I've spoken to over the years?" He paused, but Deacon didn't rise to the bait. "Approximately thirty," he went on, "and the number of column inches I've had out of them is nil because no editor would take the story. I'm afraid I'd be wasting both our time if I answered your questions."

Deacon tucked the telephone more firmly under his chin and drew a spiral on his pad. "Thirty is nothing, Mr. Streeter. I've known campaigns like yours approach hundreds of journalists before they get anywhere. That apart, most of what you allege in your press releases is actionable. Frankly, you're lucky to have avoided a libel suit thus far."

"Which proves something in itself, don't you think? If what we're claiming is defamatory, why does no one challenge us?"

"Because your targets aren't that stupid. Why give your campaign the adrenaline of publicity when it's dying a death of its own accord? It would be a different matter if you managed to persuade an editor to go against his better judgment. Are you saying nothing has ever been published in defense of your brother?"

"Only a grudging piece in a compilation of unsolved mysteries that came out last year. I spent two days talking to Roger Hyde, the author, only to have him write a bland summary which ended with his own half-baked conclusion that James was guilty." He sounded angry and frustrated. "I'm growing rather tired of beating my head against a brick wall."

"Then perhaps you're less persuaded of your brother's innocence than you were five years ago?"

There was a smothered obscenity. "That's all you lot ever want, isn't it? Confirmation of James's guilt."

"Except I'm giving you an opportunity to defend him which you don't seem very keen to take."

John Streeter ignored this. "My brother came from an honest, hardworking background, just as I did. Have you any idea what it's done to my parents to have their son labeled a thief? They're decent, respectable people and they can't understand why journalists like you won't listen to them." He drew another angry breath. "You're not interested in facts, only in trying to further destroy a man's reputation."

"Aren't you playing the same game?" Deacon murmured unemphatically. "Unless I've misread your releases, your defense of James rests entirely on blackening Nigel de Vriess and Amanda Streeter."

"With reason. There's no proof of her assertion that James was having an affair, but we've found evidence of hers with de Vriess. He stripped the bank of ten million and she aided and abetted him in pushing the blame onto her husband."

"That's some accusation. Can you prove it?"

"Not without access to their bank and investment accounts, but you only need to look at their respective addresses to realize there was an injection of cash from somewhere. Amanda bought herself a six-hundred-thousand-pound house on the Thames within months of James's disappearance and de Vriess bought himself a mansion in Hampshire shortly afterwards."

"Do they still see each other?"

"We don't think so. De Vriess has had at least five lovers in the last three years while Amanda's kept herself to herself and remained celibate."

"Why do you think that is?"

Streeter's voice hardened. "Probably for the same reason she's never sought a divorce. She wants to give the impression that James is alive somewhere."

Deacon consulted some photocopies of the press releases. "Okay, let's talk about James's alleged affair with-" he isolated a paragraph-"Marianne Filbert. If there's no proof of its existence, why did the police accept Amanda's word on it? Who is Marianne Filbert? Where is she? What does she say about it?"

"I'll answer those questions in order. The police accepted Amanda's word because it suited them. They needed a computer expert in the frame, and Marianne fitted the bill. She was part of a research and development team working for Softworks Limited in the mid-eighties. Softworks was commissioned to prepare a report for Lowenstein's Bank in 'eighty-six, although no one knows if Marianne Filbert was involved with that. She went to America in 'eighty-nine." He paused briefly. "She was employed for six months by a computer software company in Virginia before moving on to Australia."

"And?" prompted Deacon when he didn't continue.

"There's no trace of her after that. If she went to Australia, which now seems doubtful, she was using another name."

"When did she leave the Virginia company?"

"April 1990," said the other reluctantly.

Deacon felt sorry for him. John Streeter wasn't a fool, and blind faith clearly made him uncomfortable. "So the police see a connection between your brother's disappearance and hers? He told her when to run in other words."

"Except they haven't established that James and Marianne even knew each other." Streeter's furious indrawn breath was audible down the wire. "We believe it was de Vriess and Amanda who gave her the green light to disappear."

"A three-way conspiracy then?"

"Why not? It's just as plausible as the police theory. Look, it was Amanda who gave them Marianne Filbert's name and Amanda who told them she'd gone to America. Without that evidence, there'd have been no computer link and no way that James could have worked the fraud. The entire police case rests on James having access to expert knowledge, but Amanda's testimony about his alleged affair with Marianne has never been independently substantiated."

"I find that hard to believe, Mr. Streeter. According to the newspapers, Amanda spent two days answering police questions, which means she was high on their list of suspects. It also means she must have had something more convincing than just a name to give them. What was it?"

"It wasn't proof of anything," said John Streeter stubbornly.

Deacon lit a cigarette while he waited.

"Are you still there?" demanded Streeter.

"Yes."

"She couldn't prove a relationship between them. She couldn't even prove they knew each other."

"I'm listening."

"She gave the police a series of photographs, most of which were pictures of James's car parked outside the block of flats in Kensington where Marianne Filbert lived before she went to the States. There were three blurred shots of a couple kissing whom she claimed were Marianne and James, but frankly could have been anybody, and there was a back view of a man, wearing a similar coat to James's, entering the front door of the building. As I say it proves nothing."

"Who took the photographs?"

"A private detective hired by Amanda."

The same one she consulted about Billy Blake? "Were they dated?"

"Yes."

"From when to when?"

"January to August 'eighty-nine."

"You say most of the pictures were of James's car. Was he in it when they were taken?"

"Someone was, but the quality of the photographs isn't good enough to say whether or not it was James."

"Perhaps it was Nigel de Vriess," murmured Deacon with an irony that was lost on the other man. He was beginning to think that John Streeter's obsession to prove his brother innocent was even greater than Amanda's to establish Billy Blake's true identity. Did the seeds of paranoia find fertile ground in the aftermath of betrayal?

"We certainly believe the man to have been de Vriess," said Streeter.

"So they were deliberately setting your brother up as a fall guy?"

"Yes."

"That's one hell of a conspiracy theory, my friend." This time Deacon ladled the sarcasm into his voice. "You're saying these people worked out a year in advance of the event how they were going to murder a completely innocent man, irrespective of anything that might happen in the intervening period. And you feel happy with that scenario?" Ash dropped from the cigarette in his mouth, powdering the lapel of his jacket. "Is your sister-in-law a monster, Mr. Streeter? She would need to be, I think, to share a house indefinitely with a man whose murder she'd already planned. So? Who are we talking about here? Medusa?"

Silence.

"And what sort of idiot would rely on a status quo existing indefinitely? James was a free agent. He could have walked out on his wife or his job at any time, and where would the conspiracy have been then?" He paused, inviting the other to speak, but went on when he didn't: "The obvious explanation is the one the police have accepted. James was having an affair with Marianne Filbert, and Amanda put a stop to it by having him followed and photographs taken. She then brought pressure to bear which resulted in Marianne banishing herself, or being banished, to the States."

"How could she tell the police where to find Marianne?"

"Because she's not stupid. Part of the deal for rescuing the marriage would be proof that Marianne was out of harm's way. And the only proof worth having would be something verifiable, like an address or a legal contract with a company's name on it."

"Have you spoken to her?"

"Who?"

"Amanda."

"No," lied Deacon. "You're my first contact on this, Mr. Streeter. I came across your press releases, and they interested me enough to make this call. Tell me," he went on with the easy fluency of practiced deceit, "what set you looking for a connection between Amanda and de Vriess in the first place?"

"She met James through de Vriess at some official function. De Vriess was married then but it was an open secret that he was planning to leave his wife for Amanda. He used to parade her around whenever his wife was away. It seemed logical, once we realized de Vriess was behind the fraud, that Amanda was involved, too, so we set out to find evidence that the affair was an ongoing one."

"Except your evidence seems to be as flawed as your logic." He pulled the relevant photocopies towards him. "You have a hotel bill, signed by de Vriess and dated nineteen eighty-six, plus a description of a woman who might have been Amanda Streeter. Your nineteen eighty-nine witness account is even vaguer." He moved the top copy aside and ran his pen down the one underneath. "A waiter claims to have taken champagne to a couple in Room 306 whom he says were the same two people, but there's no signed bill to back it up. You can't even prove the man was de Vriess let alone that the woman was Amanda."

"He paid cash the second time."

"What name was on the bill?"

"Mr. Smith."

Deacon stubbed out his cigarette. "And you're surprised that no one's prepared to publish? None of your allegations is sustainable."

"We've limited funds and limited influence. We need a reporter on a national newspaper to wield a bit of clout. We've been told there's more in the hotel files if we're prepared to pay for it."

"It'll be an expensive ride with nothing at the end of it."

"I'd back my brother's honesty any day against his wife's."

"Then you're deluding yourself," said Deacon bluntly. "His wife's honesty isn't in doubt. He was cheating on his wife and she was able to prove it, and you've allowed your anger over that to cloud your judgment. Your starting point should have been a recognition that James played a part in his own destruction."

"I knew this would be a waste of time," said the other angrily.

"You keep firing at the wrong targets, Mr. Streeter. That's where you've been wasting your time."

The line went dead.

Deacon's inquiries of the Isle of Dogs police about Billy Blake had produced little of value, despite his suggestion that Billy might have been a murderer. This elicited the surprising response that the police had investigated just that possibility at the time of Billy's first arrest.

"I went through his file for the Coroner," said the uniformed Constable who'd overseen the removal of Billy's corpse. "He was first arrested in nineteen ninety-one for a series of food thefts from supermarkets. He was starving even then, and there was a bit of a debate over whether to charge him or get him into supervised care. In the end, a decision was made to have him remanded for psychiatric reports because he'd burnt off his fingerprints. Some bright spark decided he'd done it on purpose to beat a murder charge, and people started getting twitched about whether he constituted a danger to society."

"And?"

The PC shrugged. "He was interviewed in Brixton, and was given the all-clear. The psychiatrist's view was that he was more of a danger to himself than to anyone else."

"What was his explanation for the burnt fingerprints?"

"As far as I remember, he called it a morbid interest in mortification. He described Billy as a penitent."

"What does that mean?"

Another shrug. "Maybe you should ask the psychiatrist."

Deacon took out his notebook. "Do you know his name?"

"I can find out." He came back in ten minutes and handed Deacon a piece of paper with a name and address on it. "Is there anything else?" he asked, keen to get on with something more pressing than a dead and buried wino.

Reluctantly, Deacon stood up. "The information I had was fairly specific." He tucked the notebook back into his pocket. "I was told that Billy Blake said he'd strangled someone."

The PC showed mild interest until Deacon admitted that his informant had no details beyond what Billy had screamed one drunken night when the snakes of alcohol were writhing and squeezing in his brain. "Would that someone be a man or a woman, sir?"

"I don't know."

"Can you give me a name?"

"No."

"Where did this murder happen?"

"I don't know."

"When?"

"I don't know."

"Then I'm sorry, sir, but I don't think we can be of any assistance."

Deacon had visited Westminster pier where the cruisers docked, but had looked in vain for someone to question about a pavement artist who had once earned charity there. He was impressed by how hostile the river seemed in winter, how stealthily its water lapped the hibernating pleasure cruisers, how black and secretive its depths. He remembered what Amanda Powell had said-"He preferred to bed down as near to the Thames as possible." But why? What was the bond that tied Billy to this great sinew at the heart of London? He leaned forward and stared into the water.

An elderly woman paused in her progress along the walkway. "Premature death is never a solution, young man. It raises far more questions than it answers. Have you taken into account that there may be something waiting for you on the other side, and that you may not be prepared yet to face it?"

He turned, unsure whether to be offended or touched. "It's all right, ma'am. I'm not planning to kill myself."

"Not today perhaps," she said, "but you've thought about it." She had a tiny white poodle on a lead, which wagged its stumpy tail at Deacon. "I can always tell the ones who've thought about it. They're looking for answers that don't exist because God has not chosen to reveal them yet."

He squatted down to scratch the little creature's ears. "I was thinking about a friend of mine who killed himself six months ago. I was wondering why he didn't drown himself in the river. It would have been a less painful way to die than the one he chose."

"But would you be thinking about him if he hadn't died painfully?"

Deacon straightened. "Probably not."

"Then perhaps that's why he chose the method he did."

He took out his wallet and removed the first photograph of Billy. "You might have seen him. He was a pavement artist here in the summers. He used to draw pictures of the nativity with 'blessed are the poor' written underneath. Do you recognize him?"

She studied the thin face for several seconds. "Yes, I think I do," she said slowly. "I certainly remember a pavement artist who drew pictures of the Holy Family, and I think this was the man."

"Did you speak to him?"

"No." She returned the photograph. "There was nothing I could say to him."

"You spoke to me," Deacon reminded her.

"Because I thought you'd listen."

"And you didn't think he would?"

"I knew he wouldn't. Your friend wanted to suffer."

On the off chance that Billy had been a teacher, and in the absence of a national register which he had established did not exist, Deacon wined and dined a contact at the National Union of Teachers' headquarters, told him what he knew, and asked him to search the union backlist for any English teachers whose subscriptions had lapsed in the last ten years without good reason.

"You're pulling my leg, I hope," said his acquaintance with some amusement. "Have you any idea how many teachers there are in this country and what the turnover is? At the last count there were upwards of four hundred thousand full-time equivalents in the maintained sector alone, and that's excluding the universities." He pushed his plate to one side. "And what does 'without good reason' mean anyway? Depression? That's very common. Physical disability inflicted by fifteen-year-old thugs? More common than anyone wants to admit. At the moment, I'd guess there are more inactive teachers than active ones. Who wants the hell of the classroom if there's something more civilized on offer? You're asking me to search for the needle in the proverbial haystack. You have also, and rather conveniently, forgotten the Data Protection Act which means I couldn't give you the information even if I could find it."

"The man's been dead six months," said Deacon, "so you won't be betraying any confidences, and his subscription was probably stopped at least four years before that. You'll be looking at lapsed membership between say, nineteen eighty-four and nineteen ninety." He smiled suddenly. "All right, it was a long shot, but it was worth a try."

"I can give you several more apt descriptions than long shot. Try damp squib, nonstarter, or absolute no-no. You don't know his name, where he came from, or even if he was a member of the NUT. He might have belonged to one of the other teacher unions. Or to no union at all."

"I realize that."

"Matter of fact you don't even know if he was a teacher. You're guessing he might have been because he could recite poems by William Blake." The man smiled amiably. "Do me a favor, Deacon, go boil your head in cooking oil. I'm an overworked, underpaid union official, not a ruddy clairvoyant."

Deacon laughed. "Okay. Point taken. It was a bad idea."

"What's so important about him, anyway? You didn't really explain that."

"Maybe nothing."

"Then why the pressure to find out who he was?"

"I'm curious about what drives an educated man to self-destruct."

"Oh, I see," said the other sympathetically. "It's a personal thing then."

THE STREET, FLEET STREET, LONDON EC4

Dr. Henry Irvine,

St. Peter's Hospital

London SW10

10th December, 1995

Dear Dr. Irvine,

Your name has been given to me in connection with a prisoner you interviewed at Brixton prison in 1991. His name was Billy Blake, and you may have read about his death by starvation in a garage in London's docklands in June of this year. I have become interested in his story, which seems a tragic one, and I wonder if you have any information that might help me establish who he was and where he came from.

I believe he chose the alias William Blake because there were echoes of the poet's life in his own. Like William, Billy was obsessed with God (and/or gods), and while he preached their importance to anyone who would listen, his message was too arcane to be understood; both men were artists and visionaries, and both died in poverty and destitution. It might interest you to know that I wrote my MA thesis on William Blake, so I find these echoes particularly interesting.

From the little information I have been able to gather so far, Billy was clearly a tortured individual who may or may not have been schizophrenic. In addition, one of my informants (not very reliable) says that Billy confessed to strangling a man or woman in the past. Is there anything you can tell me that would confirm or refute that statement?

Whilst I fully accept that your interview(s) with Billy were of a confidential nature, I do believe his death demands investigation, and anything you can tell me will be greatly appreciated. I have no desire to compromise your professional reputation and will only use what you send me to further my research into Billy's story.

You may already know my work but, in case you do not, I enclose some examples. I hope they will give you the confidence to trust me.

Yours sincerely,

Michael Deacon

Michael Deacon

DR. HENRY IRVINE MB, FRCP,

ST. PETER'S HOSPITAL,

LONDON

17th December, 1995

Dear Michael Deacon,

Thank you for your letter of 10th December. My report on Billy Blake has been in the public domain since 1991 so I cannot see that it's a breach of confidence to give you the information you want. Also, I agree that his death demands investigation. I was upset when my further access to him was denied after I advised that Billy's self-mutilation was more likely the result of private trauma than criminal offense, because I firmly believe that further sessions would have allowed me to help him. While I offered him free treatment when he left prison, I could not force him to accept it and, inevitably, I lost touch with him. Your letter is the only follow-up on his case that I have ever had.

To put my role into perspective, the police were not satisfied that Billy Blake's first crime was the theft of bread and ham from a supermarket. They recognized that he was using an alias, and they were suspicious of his mutilated hands which defied fingerprint analysis. However, despite lengthy questioning, they failed to "break" him and fell back on the charge of shoplifting to which he had already admitted. I was asked to write a psychological report prior to sentencing because of the bizarre nature of the man. In simple terms my brief was to discover if Billy was a danger to the community, the argument being that he would not have scarred his fingers so badly unless he was afraid of a previous, violent crime being brought home to him.

Despite having only three meetings with him, Billy made an extraordinary impact on me. He was desperately thin with a shock of white hair and, though clearly suffering acute alcohol withdrawal symptoms, he was always in command of himself. He had a powerful presence and considerable charm, and the best description I can give of him is "fanatic" or "saint." These may seem strange epithets in London of the nineties, but his commitment to the salvation of others while suffering torment himself makes any other description invalid once the more obvious mental disorders were ruled out. He was rather a fine man.

I enclose the concluding paragraphs of the psychiatric report and a transcript of part of a conversation I had with him, which may interest you. I confess to having missed the William Blake association, but Billy's conversation was certainly of a visionary nature. If I can be of any further assistance please don't hesitate to contact me.

With best wishes,

Henry Irvine

Henry Irvine

P.S. Re: the transcript-It was., of course, the answers Billy declined to give that tell us most about him.

Psychiatric Report

Subject: Billy Blake **/5387

Interviewer: Dr. Henry Irvine

In conclusion:

Billy has a fully developed understanding of moral and ethical codes, but refers to them as: "ritual devices for the subjugation of individual to tribal will," from which I infer that his own morality is in conflict with social and legal definitions of right and wrong. He exhibits extraordinary self-control and gives no insight into his background or history. Billy Blake is almost certainly an alias, although questions about specific crimes elicit no reaction from him. He has a high IQ and it's difficult to assess his reasons for refusing to talk about his past. He has a morbid interest in hell and mortification, but poses more of a threat to himself than to the community. I can find no evidence of a dangerous mental disorder. He seems to have a clear rationale for his choice of lifestyle-I would describe it as a penitent's life-and I consider it far more likely that some private trauma, unrelated to any crime, motivates him.

He presents himself as a passive individual although I have noticed signs of agitation whenever he is pressed about where he was and what he was doing before he first came to police attention. I agree that there may be a crime in his past-he is quite singleminded enough to mutilate himself to achieve a purpose-but I think it unlikely. He quickly developed a strong resistance to my questions on the matter, and it is doubtful that further sessions will persuade him to be more forthcoming. It is my considered opinion, however, that he would benefit from therapy as I believe his "exile" from society, involving as it does an almost fanatical desire to suffer through starvation and deprivation, will result in his unnecessary and premature death.

Henry Irvine

Transcript of taped interview with Billy Blake-12. 7. 91 (part only)

Irvine:

Are you saying that your personal code of ethics is of a higher order than the religious codes?

Blake: I'm saying it's different.

Irvine: In what way?

Blake: Absolute values have no place in my morality.

Irvine: Can you explain that?

Blake: Different circumstances demand different codes of ethics. For example, it isn't always sinful to steal. Were I a mother with hungry children, I would think it a greater sin to let them starve.

Irvine: That's too easy an example, Billy. Most people would agree with you. What about murder?

Blake: The same. I believe there are times and occasions when murder, premeditated or not, is appropriate. (Pause) But I don't think it's possible to live with the consequences of such a crime. The taboo against killing a member of our own species is very strong, and taboos are difficult to rationalize.

Irvine: Are you speaking from personal experience?

Blake: (Gave no answer)

Irvine: You seem to have inflicted severe punishment on yourself, particularly by burning your hands. As I'm sure you already know, the police suspect a deliberate attempt to obscure your fingerprints.

Blake: Only because they can conceive of no other reason why a man should want to express himself upon the only thing that truly belongs to him-namely his body.

Irvine: Self-mutilation is normally an indication of a disordered mind.

Blake: Would you say the same if I had disfigured myself with tattoos? The skin is a canvas for individual creativity. I see the same beauty in my hands as a woman sees when she paints her face in a mirror. (Pause) We assume we control our minds, when we don't. They're so easily manipulated. Make a man destitute and you make him envious. Make him wealthy and you make him proud. Saints and sinners are the only free-thinkers in a governed society.

Irvine: Which are you?

Blake: Neither. I'm incapable of free thought. My mind is bound.

Irvine: By what?

Blake: By the same thing as yours, Doctor. By intellect. You're too sensible to act against your own interests therefore your life lacks spontaneity. You will die in the chains you've made for yourself.

Irvine: You were arrested for stealing. Wasn't that acting against your own interests?

Blake: I was hungry.

Irvine: You think it's sensible to be in prison?

Blake: It's cold outside.

Irvine: Tell me about these chains I've made for myself.

Blake: They're in your mind. You conform to the patterns of behavior that others have prescribed for you. You will never do what you want because the tribe's will is stronger than yours.

Irvine: Yet you said your mind is as constrained as mine, and you're no conformist, Billy. If you were you wouldn't be in prison.

Blake: Prisoners are the most diligent of conformists, otherwise places like this would be in perpetual riot and rebellion.

Irvine: That's not what I meant. You appear to be an educated man, yet you live as a derelict. Is the loneliness of the streets preferable to the more conventional existence of home and family?

Blake: (Long pause) I need to understand the concept before I can answer the question. How do you define home and family, Doctor?

Irvine: Home is the bricks and mortar that keeps your family-wife and children-safe. It's a place most of us love because it contains the people we love.

Blake: Then I left no such place when I took to the streets.

Irvine: What did you leave?

Blake: Nothing. I carry everything with me.

Irvine: Meaning memories?

Blake: I'm only interested in the present. It's how we live our present that predicts our past and our future.

Irvine: In other words, joy in the present gives rise to joyful memories and an optimistic view of the future?

Blake: Yes. If that is what you want.

Irvine: Isn't it what you want?

Blake: Joy is another concept that is incomprehensible to me. A destitute man takes pleasure in a butt-end in the gutter, while a wealthy man is disgusted by the self-same object. I am content to be at peace.

Irvine: Does drinking help you achieve peace.

Blake: It's a quick road to oblivion, and I would describe oblivion as being at peace.

Irvine: Don't you like your memories?

Blake: (Gave no answer)

Irvine: Can you recall a bad memory for me?

Blake: I've found men dead of cold in the gutter, and I've watched men die violently because anger drives others to the point of insanity. The human mind is so fragile that any powerful emotion can overturn its precepts.

Irvine: I'm more interested in memories from before you took to the streets.

Blake: (Gave no answer)

Irvine: Do you think it's possible to recover from the kind of insanity you've just described?

Blake: Are you talking about rehabilitation or salvation?

Irvine: Either. Do you believe in salvation?

Blake: I believe in hell. Not the burning hell and torment of the Inquisition, but the frozen hell of eternal despair where love is absent. It's difficult to conceive how salvation can enter such a place unless God exists. Only divine intervention can save a soul condemned forever to exist in the loneliness of the bottomless pit.

Irvine: Do you believe in God?

Blake: I believe that each of us has the potential for divinity. If salvation is possible then it can only happen in the here and now. You and I will be judged by the efforts we make to keep another's soul from eternal despair.

Irvine: Is saving that other soul a passport to heaven?

Blake: (Gave no answer)

Irvine: Can we earn salvation for ourselves?

Blake: Not if we fail others.

Irvine: Who will judge us?

Blake: We judge ourselves. Our future, be it now or in the hereafter, is defined by our present.

Irvine: Have you failed someone, Billy?

Blake: (Gave no answer)

Irvine: I may be wrong but you seem to have judged and condemned yourself already. Why is that when you believe in salvation for others?

Blake: I'm still searching for truth.

Irvine: It's a very bleak philosophy, Billy. Is there no room for happiness in your life?

Blake: I get drunk whenever I can.

Irvine: Does that make you happy?

Blake: Of course, but then I define happiness as intellectual absence. Your definition is probably different.

Irvine: Do you want to talk about what you did that makes stupefied oblivion your only way of coping with your memories?

Blake: I suffer in the present, Doctor, not the past.

Irvine: Do you enjoy suffering?

Blake: Yes, if it inspires compassion. There's no way out of hell except through God's mercy.

Irvine: Why enter hell at all? Can you not redeem yourself now?

Blake: My own redemption doesn't interest me.

(Billy refused to say anything further on the subject and we talked for several minutes on general subjects until the session ended.)