Disability Arts Online

King had a mane of long black hair in dreadlock style. He took to roaring out loud on Waterloo Bridge at 3 o'clock one morning and was picked up by two policemen in a patrol car. He spent the night in a cell and was fed nothing the next morning. It's not a hotel the duty officer said, next time we'll section you. Yes officer, thank you officer, have a good day officer. King had learned the hard way to be courteous. He found the process of arrest time consuming and boring, its only advantage being that it kept him off the weed for a while.

He'd adopted the dreadlocks in an attempt to move closer to a more spiritual way of life, but knew nothing about the Rasta faith. When he first decided that locks might suit him, he read a couple of books on the subject (Rastafarianism) but soon got bored, keeping them redundantly on his shelf thereafter. If anyone visited him, they might think his Rasta decision more informed than it actually was, but in fact nobody gave a toss, because the only people who went to his home were strangers he met in the pub, who could see no further than the take-out can in front of them, or the number of tokes left on the joint coming their way.

Unfortunately for the more respectable and orthodox Rastas in the world, King's head stank and his hair was matted. He had half adopted a philosophy of challenging appearance; it shouldn't matter what your hair looks like; and you shouldn't make assumptions about what people are like inside based on their appearance outside. He also liked that fact that he looked like a 'proper activist', backed up in practice by the fact that he'd been on three anti-globalisation marches in the last two years. He was a martyr to the fact that his head all itched like crazy, yet he avoided scratching in public for fear that people might think him dirty.

So he made his way along Museum Street, having forgotten where he lived. His memory was bad at the moment. He remembered having a kitchen with a Baby Belling, and knew it was near the Dog and Britches, but further than that he drew a blank. North. Somewhere North. North! he barked at a guy with a loud tie and briefcase. At Euston it seemed to make sense to head for the Northern Line. As he crossed the concourse, people emerged from the escalator in an alarming mass that rushed by him on either side. He felt like Moses parting the waves.

When he entered the bowels of the station he saw an enclosure of unfriendly hunters glazed at the eyes and frowning, performing automated actions of entry and exit, he thought. The ticket machine wouldn't give change and he banged it in frustration; a pent up frustration, triggered by the incompetence of others, which seemed to be everywhere; blinkered vision married to an ignorance of anything other than self. He hadn't slept well and couldn't remember where he lived and it was fucking rush hour and there was a massive queue of people buying season tickets.

He let out a roar, attracting several glances. A woman applied lipstick using a small compact mirror just a few feet to his side. He roared again and a space cleared around him. Then a guard approached with his chest all puffed up and said in an authoritative manner, Move on please. In defiance King bent his knees and arms and roared again shouting I am the King of the Jungle! The guard stepped closer and this time lowered his voice and repeated Move on, move on. King roared and shouted louder I am the King! I am the King! The guard took a step back and extended his arms, palms down, fingers spread, and breathed deeply in, and then out.

King vaguely remembers the guard on his walkie-talkie calling for security.

So now King is in a hospital ward full of drowsy cubs. In the dining room he is offered a lukewarm breakfast of fried eggs and pink bacon. It looks like plastic. He feels impotent, useless and unworthy of the mane that gives him his name. This place is vaguely familiar, but what is he to do here? Why does no-one speak? Is he locked in? He sits and roars half-heartedly, attracting some interest from the other patients. One woman moves and sits by him hooking her arm in his, she leans into him because she feels safe with crazy people. Another woman stands behind him in the doorway with her arms folded lazily, hoping for more, of anything. One guy calls All right brother and another mutters Honky under his breath. Subsequently King is guided to a bed where he sleeps for twelve hours solid. He is under observation.

When he wakes the lights are dim. He needs a piss and a smoke and wanders off in search of relief. He also needs some fresh air, distinctly lacking here. Lions are outdoor creatures that need fresh air and freedom. Here he is penned in to a stuffy environment, his skin has already turned grey like a corpse. A smoke would perk him up, but the cops took his gear. He considers trying to score, easy enough to do on the ward, but instead busies himself off down the corridor towards a door marked escape and gives it a firm push when he gets there. Locked. He goes into the empty dining room, the scene of the plastic breakfast, where a TV plays full volume to no-one. He pushes an already ajar window, but is only able to move it a centimetre more. He looks up at the ceiling, and down to the floor, both solid. With no way out, he takes a deep breath and prepares for a roar, but then thinks the better of it. Before the roar there is something he needs to do. He has an impulse to follow.

He keeps the razor blade in his underpants wrapped in leather. That way if he is routinely stopped and searched, it is unlikely the blade will be found. He needs that blade, it gives him security and helps him to feel. It gives him release and escape and removes him from his head. Stronger than any drug, it gives him get out like no other. The cuts on his arms run vertically from shoulder to wrist, where he has to be careful not to go too deep.

King started cutting when he was 12, discreetly on his legs, right at the top, so that shorts in the summer were still safe. It started as an experiment that gave him such a high he was addicted by the second shot. It was also something to do with boredom, and privacy (large family), he'd never really analysed it that much. The graduation to visible marks at 16 was a liberation that turned his shameful secret into something he was proud of. He began cutting his ankles and rolling his trouser legs up. Everyone thought he was mad. It was like a coming out and he paled his face and moved into a Goth house, where he was given a birthing ceremony. The cuts on his arms came at about 20, way after the Goth thing ended, and he had evolved into a self taught artist, working with open wounds and the body.

Just under a year ago, he got his artist friend to put in tiny cross stitches at set intervals of 3 inches all the way down the vertical cuts, and they laughed together and called it Scar(y) Art. Unfortunately the friend went and killed himself, which was a shame for King because he liked him a lot and they had fun. As a novice cutter, King had often forgotten to tend his wounds and they often ended up septic, but since the friend had died he had tended them well, keeping the cuts open when they started to heal, and keeping them clean using salt water.

But right now the Art is looking good and he doesn't want to spoil it.

In the clinical surround of the unfamiliar washroom the blade feels good in his hand; a faithful old friend offering security. King looks at himself in the mirror, absent, and lifts the blade above his shoulder. With the other hand, he takes firm hold of a dread and slices it clean away. Unsure where to drop it, he opts for the toilet bowl. Off comes another. And another. He is working up quite a pace when the blade slips and slices the delicate, pale skin between his thumb and first finger. The sight of the blood makes him nauseous and the cut stings like crazy. Taking a new grip on the blade he hacks more fervently to get it over with, throwing each dread into the nearby toilet bowl, until they are all gone. He doesn't know why he is crying. The skies have opened; blood and tears.

Without the reassuring weight of the hair that was his mane, he shrinks to the waif-like victim of his confinement. In the mirror his reflection, the head of a long-term prisoner, gaunt and sallow, stares back at him. He goes to flush the toilet and adopts the roaring stance. Saliva running from the sides of his open mouth, eyes bloodshot with the effort, he lets out the roar. It feels like the end. The toilet flows over and out.

A bunch of eight civilian-dressed white coats flushed with adrenalin appear in seconds and begin slopping gingerly across the bathroom floor through the liquid mix of blood and water, like learners on a skating rink. A guy slips to the rear, causing two more to topple. Two young women step forward and expertly move King to the ground, placing his face downwards and to the side, and they hold him there. With an array of hands scattered over the surface of his body holding him firmly but gently in place, for the first time in a long time, King feels secure, and calm washes over him. From where he lies, he can see the dreads floating around like creatures of the lagoon, surface feeding. He decides he'd like to go abroad some day. Lucky he didn't shit in that toilet first.

He spends a month on the ward getting stoned, waiting for the medication to kick in. As soon as the food starts to look appetising he knows it's time to leave, and he allows himself to start looking forward once again to re-establishing contact with the Dog and Britches. He thinks maybe he can stay out of trouble by shaving his head; less conspicuous being fashionable, although he wouldn't want people to think he was National Front or anything, you know how people make assumptions.

So here he is on Waterloo Bridge, head shaved, taking a wide berth around a policewoman giving directions to a tourist. He stops half way and looks down to the water below. Drawn by its swell and hypnotised by its flow, he jumps up on to the balustrade and swings his legs over as if ready to leap. He can feel the railing cold on his arse. He enjoys swinging his legs and feeling the railing cold on his arse. For the moment, he enjoys feeling, feeling anything.

He needs to get home. Tonight it's £1 a pint and he's got the world to put right.