Джеймс Боуэн - A Street Cat Named Bob

I’d been grateful for a nice lunch and a few drinks and, most of all, a bit of company. But it hadn’t really been a great success and we hadn’t done it again.

This year was different though. I invited Belle round on Christmas Eve for a drink. Then for Christmas Day I splashed out on a ready-made turkey breast with all the trimmings. I wasn’t really into cooking and didn’t have the equipment even if I had been. I got Bob some really nice treats including his favourite chicken meal.

When Christmas Day arrived we got up reasonably early and went out for a short walk so that Bob could do his business. There were other families from the block heading off to see relatives and friends. We all exchanged ‘Happy Christmases’ and smiles. Even that was more than I’d experienced in a long while.

Back up at the flat, I gave Bob his stocking. He had spotted it days earlier and had obviously guessed it was meant for him. I emptied the contents one by one. There were treats, toys, balls, and little soft things containing catnip. He absolutely loved it and was soon playing with his new toys like an excitable child on Christmas morning. It was pretty adorable.

I cooked our lunch early in the afternoon, then put a hat on each of us, had a can of beer and watched television for the rest of the afternoon and evening. It was the best Christmas I’d had in years.

By the spring and summer of 2008, being a busker on the streets of London was becoming more and more difficult, almost impossible at times.

There were a couple of reasons. I know people assume the economy doesn’t affect people on the streets, but that’s not the case at all. The recession – which at that point was only just gearing up – had hit me and people in my position quite hard. The kind-hearted folk who used to think nothing of dropping me and Bob a pound or two, were now holding on to their money. One or two regulars even told me as much. They said they were worried about losing their jobs. I couldn’t really argue with them. So, as a result, I was having to work much longer hours often to make less money to feed me and Bob and keep us warm.

I could live with that, the bigger problem was the fact that the authorities had started coming down hard on street performers who didn’t work in the designated spots. I wasn’t sure why they’d decided to do this, especially now, but I did know that it had begun to make my life a real headache.

Most of the Covent Guardians had always been reasonable. I’d had trouble from the most aggressive of them, but in general they’d never been really heavy with me. But even they had started confiscating stuff if they felt you weren’t taking what they said seriously. I don’t think they had any new powers, they had just been told to get a bit more serious about what they were doing.

There were also a few, new faces among them. One of the more aggressive of the newcomers had threatened to take away my guitar a couple of times. I’d managed to dissuade him by promising to play in a designated area - or move out of the neighbourhood. I’d then sneaked around the corner for half an hour before returning to James Street.

It had become a constant game of hide and seek, but I was running out of places to hide. The new Guardians seemed to know where I was going to be. Most days now I’d be moved along or spoken to at some point. It was wearing me down. Deep down I knew that my time as a busker was drawing to an end. The straw that broke the camel’s back came one afternoon in May that year.

Another of the reasons busking had become particularly hard for me was the staff at Covent Garden tube station. The bad vibe I’d been getting from there had become more and more unpleasant. I don’t know why but they didn’t want me busking there. There were now a number of ticket inspectors who would regularly wander across the road from the entrance to the tube station and give me a real mouthful of abuse.

I could handle that. I was well used to it. But they’d definitely been talking about me together and had come up with some kind of plan to campaign against me. Every now and again they would call up the British Transport Police, who would turn up and give me hassle. As if I needed any more of that. I’d learned to deal with them in the same way as the other authorities: I’d slope off, promising never to darken their doorstep again, then slink back into position when the coast was clear. I saw no harm in what I was doing. No one was getting hurt were they?

All that changed one afternoon.

I’d headed into Covent Garden as usual with Bob. I had a friend staying with me at the time, a guy called Dylan, who I’d met way back when I was with the band. He’d been kicked out of his previous accommodation when he’d refused to pay an extortionate new rent by some unscrupulous landlord. He needed a floor to sleep on for a couple of weeks. I’d been there myself, so I couldn’t refuse him. He had begun sleeping on my sofa.

Bob hadn’t taken too kindly to Dylan’s arrival at first. I think he felt he was going to lose out in my affections. But as soon as he realised that Dylan was, in fact, another animal lover, and discovered that he was going to get more attention, then he was fine. Bob thrived on attention.

This particular afternoon Dylan decided he was going to come into London with us and hang around Covent Garden. It was a lovely, sunny day and he felt like enjoying it. He was playing with Bob as I set myself up on the corner of James Street. Looking back on it, I can’t believe how fortunate it was that he was there.

I’d barely put the guitar strap over my shoulder when a British Transport Police van arrived at speed and pulled up alongside the pavement. Three officers jumped out and immediately started walking towards me.

‘What’s all this about?’ Dylan said.

‘Don’t know. More of the usual stuff,’ I said, fully expecting to have to go through the usual tap dance of promising to move away.

I was wrong.

‘Right you, you’re coming with us,’ one of the officers said, pointing at me.

‘What for?’ I said.

‘We’re arresting you on suspicion of using threatening behaviour.’

‘What? Threatening who? I don’t know what the hell—’

Before I could finish my sentence they had grabbed me. While one of them read me my rights, another one stuck me in handcuffs.

‘We’ll explain at the station. Let’s get your shit together and get in the van before we make things even worse for you,’ he said.

‘What about my cat?’ I said gesturing at Bob.

‘We’ve got some dog kennels at the station, we’ll stick him in there,’ another of the officers said. ‘Unless you’ve got someone to take him.’

My head was spinning. I had no idea what was happening. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dylan. He was looking sheepish and didn’t want to get involved.

‘Dylan, will you look after Bob?’ I said. ‘Take him back to the flat. The keys are in my rucksack.’

He nodded and started moving towards Bob. I watched him scoop him up and reassure him. I could see the look on Bob’s face; he was terrified by what was happening to me. Through the mesh windows at the back of the van, I watched as the figures of Dylan and Bob standing on the pavement disappeared from view.

We drove to the British Transport Police station. I still had no idea what was going on.

Within a few minutes I was standing in front of a desk clerk being asked to empty all my pockets and to answer all sorts of questions. I was then led into a cell where I was told to wait until I was seen by an officer. As I sat there in the barren cell, the walls gouged with graffiti and the floors smelling of stale urine, it brought awful memories flooding back.