Tom watched with glee. “Oy Veh!” The fire had a fierce anger and all-consuming purpose. Like some ancient Holy Warrior; it wiped ‘The Evil’ from Millwall. It was a noisy blaze. Fanned continuously by a stiff breeze that changed direction often.
Tom had started ‘His Great Fire of Millwall’ in house number 1 of six houses that sat proudly alongside Millwall Dock. The houses were new and ‘for sale’ at astronomical prices.
In the beginning, the locals had all been sold the idea of a ‘dock regeneration project’ that promised new homes and jobs for local people. That little dream had not lasted long. The first employers had only located there to gain ‘business rates free for three years’ and nil rents (provided they employed a percentage of local people). Fleet Street moved in a little while later bringing established staff, agency workers, and freelancers. All these imported people wanted trendy river view houses and were able to pay well for the privilege. The locals seethed and raged, some took the law into their hands and intimidated anyone who obviously did not “belong round here”.
The new houses were prettily designed to look old All the same orientation, and placed in a single neat row with a 40-foot gap between each one, had a delightful river view and so they were all priced the same. Extortionate, plus a further £50,000.
Tom was proud of his new work. He had seen the demise of a lorry with two huge rolls of that newsprint paper which looked to break the Low Loader’s back. That had gone up a treat. His Holy Zeal knew no bounds, and so Number 1 was set well ablaze. No sign of the Brigade, which had to come from the Fire Station on the Commercial Road up near ‘Chrisp Street Market’. With the usual traffic and enough Bolshie commuters, would deny progress to an emergency vehicle to maintain their place in the traffic queue. The brigade would take twenty minutes to get on the Isle of Dogs. Then a bit of ‘new property confusion’ perhaps another ten minutes. Deep joy – one down at least, front page news, another chance to highlight the plight of the poor old displaced Dockers who had not relocated to Tibury Port and ‘container planting!’
Momzer! ‘We will fight them on the beaches.’ Tom laughed at the ever increasing mayhem in front of him. The fire roared in response.
Tom grinned. Thirty minutes and still no Blues and Twos. An explosion. Breaking glass “This just gets better and better”. A 40-foot whoosh of hot gases and flame “jus’ like a flame thrower in the war” came out horizontally and hit the house known as number 3. The windows and patio doors caught light. Tom smelled burning paint, and could not contain his glee. “Fire, Fire, still no water…” he kept singing to himself. The fire Demon within him shouted “Two down and four more to go!”. Tom danced on the spot such was his joy at the destruction that he ‘Tom – The Great’ had set in motion. What a pity there was no one else here to witness my triumph! And then a cold realisation. ‘If he were the only one there…’ then people might just guess that he started all this. Tom retreated to what he imagined was enough dark and shadow for him to observe his masterpiece without getting caught. Deep Joy!
Number five caught fire in the same fashion as number three; Tom could not believe his luck! There is a God! His ‘inner self’ shouted to the world in absolute celebration. “What a fire! It’s 1666 all over a bleeding gain! Give me some gunpowder and I will blow all them other dicks up as well! Yea, I am verily king of the dissenters!”
Euphoria kept Tom on an all-time-high while with a domino-like reaction all the houses were nicely ablaze.
The brigade finally arrived a full 43 minutes after the 999 call. The blaze was so fierce it was decided that the properties were beyond salvage and that there was no point risking life or limb to put the fire out. The Brigade stood down and just like Tom watched the show.
Of course, once the brigade turned up with all that blues and two nonsenses, a sizable crowd also gathered to watch the bloody fun. Tom saw his chance to escape the personal consequences. He crept very quietly out of the shadows and towards the main body of the public onlookers. ‘Another 50 feet and I am in the clear’ Tom thought. The heat coming off the blaze was immense, so understandably he started to sweat. Only twenty feet to go now, and no one had noticed him coming out of the shadows. With just ten feet to go there was a blaze of light and a Police Helicopter was right overhead. ‘Might as well ’jog now’ he thought. Tom ran those last few yards and mingled deeply into the 300 strong group of onlookers.
Police started arriving and soon there seemed as many uniforms standing by as civvies. Tom began to worry that he might get caught.
‘Aint you lot got any bleeding homes to go to’ shouted an important looking uniformed copper.
A sergeant yelled, “Come on Gentlemen lets be having you!”
And that was a signal for the uniform coppers to start shepherding ‘The Public’ off the island.
Tom was part of a group of about 30 people that two big six-footers escorted along the Crane Esplanade through some gates and onto Marsh Wall Road. Tom wanted to shout some abuse at ‘the plod’ but was so thankful that they had escorted him away from the scene of his crime that he could not be bothered. He smiled at them sweetly and thanked them for their concern instead. One of the coppers eyed him suspiciously and took a step in Tom’s direction
“Shut it Gobby or we will cart you off to a nice cosy cell.”
Tom sensing a watertight alibi retorted
“Oh really, you got nothing else better to do like.”
Tom got arrested. “Perfect,” he thought. “My ship has come in.” Placed in cell number 3 he went to sleep very easily despite the drunk shouting and singing in the cell next door.
The night passed. The boys in blue had been busy checking out the people in that crowd they had escorted off the fire scene.
“Blow me down! Tate and Lyle had a bleeding bad night with three hundred and five of their night shift sneaking off like that to watch the fireworks.” PC Hale made a brief note in his pocket-book to ring Tates HR group.
Most of the old firms had called it a day and relocated elsewhere, but Tates was hanging on for the completion of its new plant five miles south of Tilbury.
Tom heard his door open about eight o’clock. A bright and breezy Sergeant said over cheerily “We can manage tea and toast if you’re hungry mate before you go.” He paused, “course if you could have kept it buttoned and not upset PC Hale you would have spent the night back at Tate and Lyle’s earning a few bob instead of stuck in ‘ere.”
Tom thought “he’s gone off his…” Tom worked as a doorman at The entrance to Canary Wharf Tower. “Yeah I suppose I could’ve, silly me he said “I will not abuse the friendly policemen ever again two hundred times eh?” and he laughed.
The sergeant smiled, “Your mates on the shift, they never heard of Tom Jameson, that’s a bit weird isn’t it?”
“Well I have not been there very long,” said Tom
“Well enjoy your breakfast, we have another fifty minutes or so before the office staff get in for work at Tates and then we can get them to verify who you are… can’t we?”
“What! I’ve got to stay in here for another hour.”
“Well, no, you can go home if you like, but we both know you are going to be back here soon… assisting us with our enquiries don’t we?”
“Alright I don’t work at Tate & Lyle, so what of it?”
“Well, all the rest of the people in that crowd do. Only little old you don’t. In my book, there is room for suspicion there. So what were you doing down there? On the dockside, all on your lonesome, on one of the coldest nights of the year so far?”
“Eh, Mr. Jameson? There’s something queer about being so isolated by your circumstances, don’t you think?” The sergeant stared at one of the station clocks for a short while.
“Course if your family knew where you were and why you were there, well then that might help my suspicious nature ease off you a bit.”
Tom noted the sergeant checked that clock again. “Keep Shtoom,” he thought.
“Well, our PC Hale is probably interviewing your wife and little John and Tammy now I would think.”
The Police communicator on his belt went off.
“Now that is interesting Tom… Your wife says that you left home to go to work at the Tower and that you are home about 6 pm. Last night, however, you didn’t come back at all. John & Tammy were especially upset because their Dad was supposed to take them to Prince Regents Lane to see the Hammers beat Hackney 31- 15. It’s all right; the children ‘made a fuss’, and your lovely Heather took them in any case. She says you owe her £15 quid for tickets and programmes and hot dogs”.
“Well, now then Major Tom, you leave work at five thirty. That fire starts we reckon at about six pm. Speedway starts at seven thirty. Tate and Lyle’s shift stops at about eight for a fifteen-minute break. That lot goes back to work and little old you ends up banged up in our nice little cell.” The clock needed putting forward by one minute. “Anything you would like to say at this particular Junction Mr. Jameson?” Quarter to nine. “You see the fire starts 30 minutes or so after you leave work having walked in the opposite direction to home. And the fire starts three-quarters of an hour before the Tates shift break. You skip Speedway cos you wants to make sure the arson is a success. You can see how this is beginning to look for you now can’t you?” Ten to nine. “Course we are very lucky here. Had ALL the crowd members not worked at the same company, you would not have stood out like a traffic cone in a pedestrian precinct but as it happened Lady Luck smiles in my direction for once and there you is… all exposed as it were.”
“I can explain.”
“Well, we will give you that opportunity Mr. Jameson, you can make one telephone call, and I can arrange for a brief if you have no means to provides one for yourself. Now, how about a nice cup of Rosy Lee and a couple of doorsteps before we make a start. Eh?”
