Manchester Vice

2 I met him in my role as a volunteer prison visitor. Prison visitors are people who befriend prisoners in the hope that this will help to steer them back onto the straight and narrow. The hope is almost always forlorn, as most criminals re-offend, often within days of getting out. When I sat down opposite Jim in the Visitors’ Centre at Strangeways, he barely acknowledged me. He was dark and sullen looking. Between us was a small grey table, and all around us criminals and family members mingled together. I introduced myself with a practised cheeriness. “Hello Jim,” I said, “I’m Bradley Sharpe. You can call me Brad.” He looked at me with sadness in his dull eyes. He had good reason to be sad. He was dying of cancer and had been given only months to live. He’d been hoping to be released on compassionate grounds before the year was up, and to spend the last days of his life on the outside, but this had been refused. I’d agreed to provide him with the support he needed to remain positive, or at least something short of suicidal, during the short period he had left. “Hello,” he replied. “Pleased to meet you, Brad.” He didn’t look particularly pleased, but at least he was trying. I wondered how to begin our conversation. I’d thought of a number of opening gambits to get him talking, but I didn't end up needing any of them. We’d both been briefed about each other before the meeting, and this had evidently put an idea into Jim’s mind. “I suppose you know I’m dying,” he told me. “Yes, I’ve been informed.” “I’ve been giving it a lot of thought.” He leaned closer to me. “I have secrets, Brad, profound secrets that will change the course of history. There’s no point in keeping them to myself any more. I’ve been told I’m not getting out of here. My time is nearly up and I want the world to know all about me. I’d like you to handle my story. You’re a newspaperman. You’ve got the skills to get it published.” I took out the pen and notepad I always carried and poised the pen theatrically over the pad. It seemed unlikely that Jim would have a story worth telling, far less one that would change the course of history, but I decided I ought to humour him to make him feel better about himself. “What are these secrets of yours, Jim?” I asked. “The sooner you tell me, the sooner I can get to work on your story.” He looked right and left. When he’d satisfied himself that no-one was close enough to overhear, he said: “You don’t have to waste your time writing anything. I’ve done it all for you. It’s in my journal.” “Where’s your journal?” “It’s in my house.” I tried not to appear sceptical; I’m not sure I succeeded. “Won’t the police have taken it?” A sly smile formed at the corners of his mouth. “They don’t know about my house,” he replied. Far-fetched as this statement was, I nevertheless found myself wondering if it could be true. “You better give me the address.” He hesitated. “There’s something else,” he said. “I want you to promise me that you won’t publish anything about me until I’m dead.” This was a condition to which I could readily agree. Jim probably had nothing useful to give me in journalistic terms, and if he did, well, I wouldn’t have long to wait until he was gone. “Agreed.” His response was brief and to the point. “Give me your pen and a piece of paper.” I handed him my black ballpoint pen and a page torn from my notebook. This was strictly against the rules, but no-one seemed to notice, or if they did, they didn’t give a monkey’s. Jim wrote what looked like a number of Chinese characters on the notepaper and returned it to me with the pen. “Go to Chinatown, to a Medicine Store called Chu’s Herbs,” he said, “and ask to speak to the owner. Tell him that Jim sent you and show him what I’ve written. Chu will give you a set of keys to the house. The address is the Old Chapel, Palatine Road.” At my age, pushing sixty, I no longer had the confidence to rely on my memory, so I noted that down. “This may be the last time you see me,” said Jim. “My mission is nearly over. I don’t think I’m going to last much longer.” When I left Jim, I headed straight for Chinatown.