Foreigners (26 page)

At 3 a.m. on the morning of 18 April, former Inspector
Ellerker and Sergeant Kitching found David in the doorway
to John Peters' furniture shop on Lands Lane in the centre
of Leeds. They 'moved him on'.
('I heard the sound of blows
being struck. I saw Oluwale run out of the entrance [of the shop]
covering his head with his arms . . . I have not seen Oluwale since
that time.' PC Seager)
A little over an hour later the two
policemen discovered David elsewhere in the city and they
chased him.
('We dragged him to his feet and I booted his backside.
I did not kick him too hard, just enough to wake him up. He screamed
but then he always screamed when I dealt with him.' Sergeant Kitching)
David ran down Call Lane and in the direction of
Warehouse Hill. David Oluwale was never again seen alive.
He entered the River Aire at the foot of Warehouse Hill,
just by Leeds Bridge. On 4 May, 1969, Leeds police frogman
Police Constable Ian Haste recovered David Oluwale's body
from the River Aire some three miles east of the city centre
at a point near Knostrop Sewage Works.

I received a telephone call from the Information
Room, to the effect that there was a body in the River
Aire at Knostrop and that I was required to go there
and recover the body . . . the body appeared to be
lodged on some obstruction. I put my frogman equipment
on and swam to the body. I saw that it was the
body of a man, who appeared to be coloured . . . I
pulled the body from the obstruction by its feet and
pushed it downstream . . . I returned along the bank
. . . PC Sedman turned the body over and I recognised
it as a coloured man called David Oluwale who
I knew from my police service in the city centre . . .
a vagrant who used to doss down in John Peters'
doorway in the city centre. I used to move him on
when I worked from Millgarth Street but I have never
arrested him for anything. He was just another of
the city characters. I can never remember him causing
me any sort of trouble.

PC Ian Haste

Police Constable Francis Sedman helped to recover the
body from the river. He noticed a large lump on David's
forehead, bleeding from an eye, a bruise on the right upper
arm, and the fact that David's lips were cut. Inspector
Leonard Bradley was also at the scene, where he searched
Oluwale's pockets, providing the following list of items:

National Health Medical Card

2 Photos

Income Tax Form (P
₄₅
)

2 After Care forms

2 Leeds City Magistrate Receipts

6 Forms 103

Irish Information Centres in England card

A Blue bead necklace with a crucifix on

A felt pen

2 ballpoint pens

A toothbrush

Comb

Post Office savings book

I accepted the body into the mortuary and cut the
clothing from it because it was rotten . . . I put the
number '451' on the legs and the name 'Oluwale' on
the body, and put it in the refrigeration unit . . .
Later, some uniformed officers came to the mortuary
and identified the body to me as Oluwale. There was
no conversation other than someone saying, 'It's
Oluwale.'

Reginald Fricker, mortuary attendant at St James'
Hospital

Dr David John Gee, Senior Lecturer in Forensic Medicine
at Leeds University, examined David Oluwale's body on 5
May, 1969. He concluded death by drowning, and observed
that David Oluwale had received a blow to the forehead
before entering the water.

In the case of the deceased, Oluwale, diatoms were
found in the lungs but not beyond them and therefore
the tests do not provide conclusive proof that he met
his death by drowning, but in the absence of any gross
injuries or natural disease I formed the opinion the
death was due to drowning . . . The bruise on the forehead
of Oluwale was purple and swollen. The purple
colour indicates that the bruise was sustained within
about one or two days before death or a similar period
after death. The fact that the bruise was swollen indicates
in my view that it is most likely that it occurred
during life though it is possible but less likely for such
a bruise to be caused after death in a body immersed
in water . . . I did not see a large bruise on Oluwale's
upper right arm . . . Oluwale's lips were swollen and
the skin in parts of the face were separating due to
putrefactive change. These putrefactive changes could
give the inexperienced eye the appearance of injuries
such as cuts and bruises especially when in the body
of a coloured person such as Oluwale . . .

Dr David John Gee

David Oluwale was buried in a pauper's grave at Killingbeck
Cemetery – plot B5850A – courtesy of Leeds Corporation's
Welfare Department. He was buried with nine strangers.

*

Before the last day of the trial, Justice Hinchcliffe ordered
the manslaughter charge to be dismissed. He concluded
that there were no witnesses to the charge and therefore
no evidence. On 24 November, 1971 the jury returned a
verdict of guilty of three charges of assault against
Sergeant Kitching, who received a twenty-seven-month
sentence, and a verdict of guilty of assault relating to
four charges against former Inspector Ellerker, who
received a three-year sentence. Justice Hinchcliffe's
summing-up contained the following plea: 'Policemen are
members of a fine and splendid profession, and without
them there could be anarchy and chaos. But you must
not allow the fact that the two accused were police officers
to influence you one iota. You do get black sheep
in every flock.'

The way I see it, the legacy of Oluwale in this city is that
a man had to lose his life to get people to sit up and
notice what was happening. It's a high price to pay, especially
when things are worse now than they were then for
my West Indian community. Today there is still a high
percentage of black people in prisons and mental homes.
The one with the briefcase is a smokescreen. And people
still care if they have to sit next to you on the bus, and
we can't walk some streets without feeling like a novelty,
and the concept of us is still low. Mr Oluwale paid a high
price, but sometimes when I drive down Chapeltown Road
and see the lack of discipline, and children having children,
and what we've allowed ourselves to become, then I
feel bitter. Parents have lost control of their kids and
England has taken them. David Oluwale paid a high price
to get people's attention, but for what?

27 Church Lane, Horsforth, Leeds 18. By a church. A small
estate of respectable semi-detached and detached brick
homes. Built in the sixties for the upwardly mobile middle
classes. Safe. Neat. Shrubbery. Trees. The estate oozes civic
pride. I watch an old man edge slowly out of a door on
his Zimmer frame. Another old man, a neighbour (with
his shirt off), puts the hose over his plants and trees.
They've all worked and lived together. Now they are retired
together. Closed community. Protecting each other. There
is a blue saloon car parked outside number 27. Neat white
net curtains in the windows. The house overlooks the
church. Quiet peaceful house. Net-curtained respectability.
A TV aerial on the roof. Two teenage schoolboys in white
shirts and long black trousers, ties flying in the breeze,
backpacks hanging off one shoulder, lollop by with cans
of Coke in their fists. There is a burglar alarm to the side
of the house number. It is yellow. From the back of the
house there is a spectacular view of the Aire Valley. A
panoramic view over the city of Leeds. Enjoy your retirement,
former Inspector Ellerker. Black sheep.

Middleton Woods. South Leeds. Beyond Hunslet and
Beeston. Close to Belle Isle. David was dropped in wilderness
and found himself surrounded by dark, inhospitable
nature. The nearest one might approach to a jungle of
untamed land on the southern edge of Leeds. Go back to
nature, black boy from Lagos. Go back to the jungle. Come,
let me take you there. And today, thirty-five years later,
one can see houses decorated with Union Jacks on the
fringes of these same dark woods. And a church which
flies the cross of St George. Smashed cars litter the streets.
Unmarried teenage mothers push babies in second-hand
prams around the perimeter of the dark woods. Houses
sprout satellite dishes of various sizes. When I walk down
the street, parka- and trainer-clad youths stare hard at me.
They bare teeth that are a gated yellowish entryway into
their spotted faces. Ten o'clock in the morning and already
these youngsters are waiting for the pub to open. They
have nothing else to do with their time except loiter around
the boarded-up off-licence. In the daytime this is a zone
of deprivation and depression. Every other house displays
a 'For Sale' sign. At night, to be dumped and abandoned
in the heart of the woods. Imagine it. No 'For Sale' signs.
No humans. No light. In the heart of the woods. A terrifying
hell, to be lost in a wood whose expanse is the size
of a small town. Nothing in Middleton Woods is really
tamed or sculpted. There is no human hand. Sergeant
Kitching and former Inspector Ellerker taking the nigger
back to nature, depositing him in fascist South Leeds.
Sometimes they would take him deep into the heart of
Middleton Woods and abandon him. Sometimes.

The Fox and Hounds is a stone building; the type of
building that is imitated by those who insist on 'stonecladding'
their otherwise ordinary homes. The inscription
'1728' by the door suggests the pub's vintage. The village
of Bramhope is a well-to-do suburb of Leeds, some ten
miles beyond the city centre. Stone detached houses with
neatly trimmed lawns. Closed minds. The pub itself is in
the village square at the top of a short steep hill. The
monitor for the car park CCTV is in the bar so that the
barman can stand behind the bar and, as he pulls his pints,
he can watch what is happening outside. Clearly there has
been a recent problem with hooligans. In the bar itself
there are neatly framed pictures of hounds and horses
which suggest history and tradition. This is England. Hand
pumps. Slate floor. Old clocks. Policemen might drink in
a pub like this on their day off. Older policemen might
be lucky enough to retire to a village like Bramhope and
occasionally come to this pub for Sunday lunch. I sit and
look around. I am sure that Sergeant Kitching and former
Inspector Ellerker had a quiet contempt for this village
and its people. Its 'well-to-do' people. By the back door
there is a low stone wall. On the wall there is a sign which
reads 'For Patrons Only'. It refers to the car park, but it
could be the village motto. Smug village, with its small
village square, and its proud little Village Bakery. Four
o'clock in the morning. Go on, Sambo. Knock on the door
and ask for a cup of tea. They've never seen anything like
you. They'll be furious. They'll abuse you. And then you'll
have the problem of trying to get back to Leeds city centre
where we don't want you, understand? David had to walk
back through the village. Then out into the open countryside.
Miles to walk before the houses began to once
more congregate by the side of the road. They laughed at
David. 'Go on, nigger. Knock.' In the Fox and Hounds
everybody is asleep. Four o'clock in the morning. Where
are the hounds? The dogs on two legs. The animals in
blue trousers. A lonely fox harming nobody.

Underneath the arches. Huge Dickensian arches beneath
Leeds City Station. The river rushes right through the
arches with a loud cascading roar. On stepping out again
into the bright light one can hear the announcements of
the train station. Once upon a time this was a vast filthy
cavern full of homeless people. It's different now, underneath
the arches. They have been 'redeveloped' (and
renamed – Granary Wharf ) into a pleasant new shopping
complex, featuring Afrodisia – an Afro-Caribbean and
French cuisine restaurant – and the Casablanca bazaar,
which sells pots, bowls and baskets, and a stripped-pine
furniture shop. All huddled underneath the arches, but the
truth is this place cannot be reclaimed. It remains dark
and forbidding. It resists redevelopment, and whispered
stories linger in this dank air. Today, pedestrians use the
arches of Granary Wharf as a short cut through to the
city centre. They hardly ever break step for the place still
reeks of abandoned lives and quiet desperation. They hurry
through these arches, which once rejected David. 'He's not
here and we don't want that type around here.'

By the Knostrop Sewage Works. Here the River Aire and
the Aire-Calder Navigation Canal move side by side. The
river rushes with a strong current, and flows away from
the city centre. The canal lazily swirls and eddies. I watch
swans floating on the canal. They have no desire to pursue
a journey and travel through to Hull. Around nine o'clock
in the morning the sun suddenly breaks through the clouds
and casts a blinding light into my face. Still rising in the
east. Don't look too closely. Don't look. I walk the narrow
path between the river, with its fast-flowing water, and the
languorous canal. The river bore you out of the heart of
the city that you made your own. It carried you past the
tall brick mills that stared in your direction; it carried you
away from Leeds Parish Church and out towards the sewage
works. The canal continues to lap quietly. A peaceful place
where one can hear both the odd cry of a bird and the
low hum of traffic somewhere in the distance. And then
church bells begin to peal. On the hour. And then the
stripe of sunlight on the water widens as the clouds part
further. The glare is too much to bear, but the swans don't
mind. They simply upend themselves and fish. And then
one swan tries to rise in a gawky pantomime of flight that
betrays the gracefulness of their residence on the water.
These canals attract weeds. The shoreline is choked with
effluence; empty pop bottles and abandoned packets of
crisps. The washed-up scum of bad eating and living.
Rubbish. Effluvium of an ignorant city. Back then, all
those years ago, the hot machinery of Leeds stamped out
brand-spanking-new goods for colonial use and dumped
the waste into this water. Small-gauge trains to transport
sugar cane in the Caribbean. Larger engines to India. Waste
into the water. Back then, during the final spasm of empire.
Back then, when it was still considered acceptable to furiously
burn both industrial fuel and human dreams. White
dreams and black dreams. Flat caps and woolly hair. Pull
of a cig. Knock back a pint. Tuck the paper under your
arm. Tramp your way to the bookies. Go home to the
missus. Have your tea. What's the divvy? Go down the
pub. Go on, go down the pub, dreamer. No colour bar in
here, mate. I have come to your country to work. Go down
the pub, mister. Go on, go down the pub. The river flows
quickly. Down the river towards the sewage works. Rush
away from your city, David. Over the tumbling weir and
down into the tranquil part of the River Aire where you
will eventually become snarled up in the undergrowth. Rest
with the water. Spent. Knostrop Sewage Works on the
bank of the river. The end of your journey. Betrayed by
the water. Carry him further beyond the sewage works.
Don't stop now. Carry him beyond this place. More respect,
please. More respect.