Джеймс Боуэн - A Street Cat Named Bob

I sat up for a couple of hours with Dylan, trying to make sense of what had happened to me. I knew the ticket collectors at Covent Garden tube didn’t like me - but I didn’t think they’d go so far as to try and frame me for a crime I didn’t commit.

‘There’s no way they can fix the DNA to match yours, mate,’ Dylan reassured me.

I wish I could have been so certain.

I slept fitfully that night. I’d been really shaken by the experience. No matter how much I tried to tell myself it would work out fine, I couldn’t erase the thought that my life could be about to take a terrible turn. I felt powerless, angry - and really scared.

I decided to give Covent Garden a wide berth the following day. Bob and I played around Neal Street and one or two other places towards Tottenham Court Road. But my heart wasn’t in it. I was too worried about what was going to happen when I turned up at the police station the following day. Again that night I struggled to get much sleep.

I was due to report at the Transport Police station at midday but set off early to make sure I was on time. I didn’t want to give them any excuses. I left Bob back at home - just in case I was going to be kept there for hours again. He had picked up on my anxiety as I’d paced around the flat eating my toast at breakfast.

‘Don’t worry, mate, I’ll be back before you know it,’ I reassured him as I left. If only I’d been as confident of that as I sounded.

It took me a while to find the station, which was hidden away on a backstreet off Tottenham Court Road. I’d arrived there in the back of a van and left after dark, so it wasn’t surprising that I had trouble finding it.

When I did locate it, I had to sit and hang around for twenty minutes, during which time I found it hard to concentrate on anything. I was eventually called into a room where a couple of officers were waiting for me, one man and a younger woman.

They had files in front of them, which looked ominous. I wondered what they’d dug up about my past. God only knows what skeletons were hiding in that particular cupboard.

The male officer was the first to speak. He told me that I wasn’t going to be charged with the offence of using threatening behaviour. I guessed why that was.

‘The DNA didn’t match the saliva on the ticket collector’s booth did it?’ I said, feeling suddenly empowered by what he’d told me.

He just looked at me with a tight-lipped smile. He couldn’t say anything; I knew that. But he didn’t need to. It seemed obvious to me that someone at the tube station had tried to fit me up, but had failed.

If that was the good news, the bad news wasn’t long in following.

The lady told me that I was being charged with illegally busking, or ‘touting for reward’, to give it its formal title.

They shoved a piece of paper towards me and told me I was to report to court in a week’s time.

I left the station relieved. ‘Touting for reward’ was a relatively minor offence, certainly compared to threatening behaviour. If I was lucky I’d get away with a small fine and a rap across the knuckles, nothing more.

Threatening behaviour would have been a completely different matter, of course. That would have left me open to a heavy punishment, maybe even imprisonment. I’d got off lightly.

Part of me wanted to fight back at the injustice of what had happened to me. The description of the person who spat on the window bore no relation to my appearance. I held on to the paperwork and thought I could do them for wrongful arrest.

But, to be honest, the main thought in my mind as I headed home that afternoon was relief and a sense that I’d turned some sort of corner. I wasn’t sure yet what it was.

I still had to get past the court hearing. I went to the local Citizens Advice centre and got a bit of legal advice. I should probably have done that earlier, but I’d been too messed up to think of it.

It turned out that because I was on a drug rehab programme and living in sheltered accommodation, I was eligible for legal aid. But the truth was I didn’t think I needed a solicitor representing me in court, so I simply got some advice about what to say.

It was pretty straightforward. I needed to front up and admit that I was guilty of busking: plain and simple. I simply had to go along, plead accordingly and hope the magistrate wasn’t some kind of sadist with a hatred for street musicians.

When the day came I put on a clean shirt (over the top of a T-shirt bearing the slogan ‘Extremely Unhappy’) and had a shave before heading to court. The waiting area was full of all sorts of people, from some really scary-looking guys with shaven heads and Eastern European accents to a couple of middle-aged guys in grey suits who were up on driving offences.

‘James Bowen. The court calls Mr James Bowen,’ a plummy-sounding voice eventually announced. I took a deep breath and headed in.

The magistrates looked at me like I was a piece of dirt that had been blown in off the street. But under the law there wasn’t too much they could do to me, especially as it was my first offence for busking.

I got a three-month conditional discharge. I wasn’t fined.

But they made it clear that if I did reoffend I could face a fine - and even worse.

Belle and Bob were waiting for me outside the courthouse after the hearing was over. Bob immediately jumped off her lap and walked over to me. He didn’t want to be too melodramatic about it all, but it was clear he was pleased to see me.

‘How did it go?’ Belle asked.

‘Three-month conditional discharge, but if I get caught again I’m for the high jump,’ I said.

‘So what are you going to do?’ she said.

I looked at her, then looked down at Bob. The answer must have been written all over my face.

I had reached the end of the road. I’d been busking on and off now for almost a decade. Times had changed - and my life had changed, certainly since Bob had come into it. So it was becoming more and more clear to me that I couldn’t carry on busking, it didn’t make any sense on any level. There were times when it didn’t earn me enough money to make ends meet. There were times when it put me - and more importantly, Bob - in dangerous situations. And now there was a real danger that if I was caught busking in the wrong place again, I could get banged up in prison. It just wasn’t worth it.

‘I don’t know what I’m going to do, Belle,’ I said. ‘But the one thing I know I’m not going to do is carry on busking.’

My head was spinning for the next few days. I felt a real mixture of emotions.

Part of me was still angry at the unfairness of what had happened. I felt like I’d lost my livelihood simply because a few people had taken against me. At the same time, however, another part of me had begun to see it might have been a blessing in disguise.

Deep down I knew I couldn’t carry on busking all my life. I wasn’t going to turn my life around singing Johnny Cash and Oasis songs on street corners. I wasn’t going to build up the strength to get myself totally clean by relying on my guitar. It began to dawn on me that I was at a big crossroads, that I had an opportunity to put the past behind me. I’d been there before, but for the first time in years, I felt like I was ready to take it.

That was all very well in theory, of course. I also knew the brutal truth: my options were pretty limited. How was I now going to earn money? No one was going to give me a job.

It wasn’t because I was stupid; I knew that. Thanks to the IT work I’d done when I was a teenager back in Australia I was fairly knowledgeable when it came to computers. I spent as much time as I could on friends’ laptops or on the free computers at the local library and had taught myself a fair bit about the subject. But I didn’t have any references or relevant experience in the UK to rely on and when a prospective employer asked me where I’d spent the past ten years I couldn’t exactly say I’d been working for Google or Microsoft. So I had to forget that.