Lockdown Day 43: Monday 4th May 2020
Denmark St was deserted as I turned the corner. There was no queue yet outside the club that didn’t exist, illegal yet ever-present, a dive, a shebeen full of the promise of the illicit night. It was not yet midnight, so way too early. The place would be quiet for an hour or so.
“Ya man. Mash up. Haald aan.” a familiar voice called softly in rum-smoked Caribbean tones.
I glanced around to see who it was. Squatting in the rear of the entrance to Argent’s keyboard rockshop I could just about make out a shadowy figure. I squinted closer. Deep in the darkness I barely made out Don, a man well-practised in blending into his surroundings despite a six-foot frame and waist-length dreadlocks. His well-travelled accent veered from Trinidad to Tottenham, slipping from patois to polite received pronunciation as he chose. He delighted in confusing Euro-tourists and white boys from the ‘burbs, Babylon all. “Wah gwaan?”
“Mi deh yah, yuh know.” I joked, “You?”
“Chillin’ man.
Ya accent baad. N’ ya attitude worse. Ya naa rudie.
Tinkin’ a’ gwaan’ da club?”
“Yeah, you heading in?
“Waas. But I’n’I got a baad feelin’. Look like ting gwaan daan. Dere, see dere. An da roof.”
I stepped slowly backwards into the street, pretending to check out the keyboards. Using the window as a mirror I scanned the street behind me. Even in midnight’s citygloom, high on the roof across the road two dark figures were clearly visible, sheathed in black, helmeted and surprisingly sinister. Glancing sideways, I noted the reflection of two white saloon cars stopped at the corner on Charing Cross Road with two dark blue trucks parked beside them. As I reflected on this intriguing street scene I saw a white van slowly drawing up to stop by the bus-stop leaving its engine idling. I stepped back into the shadows.
“See what you mean. Let’s shift. Don’t want to get caught in crossfire. It’s a raid.”
Before we could move, half a dozen ropes tumbled from the roof of the club. Instantly, on each, a heavily armed black figure rappelled down the wall just like some big budget action movie, all body armour and big guns. I half expected Bruce Willis or Arnie to leap through a plate glass storefront. It would have been no less unbelievable for a wan west end Tuesday. On reaching the top storey the first rank shattered the windows and burst into the building. Abseiling further the second squad breached the floor below. As the first windows cascaded to the ground, the parked cars and trucks raced round the corner and unleashed their teams. Dog handlers and armed police swarmed along the street brandishing dark steel machine pistols and revolvers, an action riot as they streamed through the night. As the door crew legged it into the arms of waiting patrols, the club door surrendered swiftly to a crowbar and eager officers peeled through the breach to gatecrash the illegal party. This operation had obviously been meticulously planned. I’d been inside a couple of times when previous attempts had floundered at the inner steel gates and in battles on the narrow stairway, delaying the posse long enough to allow for disposal of any and all illicit and illegal party favours. Tonight was different. It would have made great TV.
Armed police paced up and down outside the club as the white van screamed past and disgorged a watch of regular police. They secured the scene with tact and tape – more tape than tact – and began to clear the area. We were hustled politely away along the street to Charing Cross road with no interrogation of intent.
“What the fuck was that all about? Not what you expect in central London.”
“Dey Babylon stormtrooper. We just about in da right place at da right time here.”
“Lucky as fuck. Five more minutes and I’d have been in there. Thanks Don.”
As we watched the midnight melee, a Major Incident control van pulled into Denmark street.
“They’re serious. I’ve never seen anything like this in London before. Better go tell the boss.”
“Ya tell im’. Daan wanna be near when he find out. His mood be baaad.”
“True. No wonder. The Met must have been planning that for yonks. They got nothing better to do? I mean, I know the club doesn’t legally exist, but it’s a shebeen with a bit of blow on the side. We’re not talking Al Capone here. Keeps the dross off the streets. Everything legit in this town closes early o’clock. Where do they expect folk to go?”
Don stared along the street at the files of police escorting punters and players alike out the club to the vans. He sucked loudly through his teeth with disdain.
I shook my head, “Those guys were cocked, locked and ready to rock, the boys wouldn’t know what hit them. Well, if we’re not going in there tonight and you don’t want to see the boss, that means either packing it in or heading for the Basement, Five or 69. I’m not for packing it in, the night is young and I still feel like a beer.
“Ya look like one too. Aall pop an’ fizz wid a flaat white top.”
“Ha fucking ha. Everyone’s a joker.
I can’t see them raiding anywhere else tonight. Nowhere to put them. Not unless they’re stacking up punters on palettes till the courts deal with them. What do you think? Tuesday night back of midnight. Couple of hundred in the joint?”
Don nodded.