The Battle of Goldhawk Road Brian Harrison Brian is from Liverpool. He writes: "My father worked in the city so never loved it, but he could outwit it and showed me how to use it. He proved that short routes were not the fastest and obvious routes were not the most interesting. In the city could be found winding lanes, short cuts through buildings, ships to be boarded, and people that worked in strange places. He showed me how there is so much more to know about a city than what you can see from its buses."
Bill Everson was killed outside his pub on the high street. He lived for that place, but he didn’t expect to die for it. It was nearly 30 years ago, but those who remember him can still sense his presence as they pass by. There were at least a dozen pubs on the high street back then, every 50 yards or so and each with their own regulars and reputations, but today there are only a few left. Bill had been a police sergeant before he took on the pub tenancy. If you have any idea of what an old-school post-war copper was like, then you’d know Bill. He took a robust stand on public order and was more inclined to administer a clip around the ear than complete the necessary paperwork. His beat was his fiefdom, and there were people who respected what he stood for and would tell stories about situations he’d sorted out. He wasn’t bent, but he knew his time was up. Old-style policing was on the way out; patrol cars and riot squads were becoming the new face of the Met. Plenty of retired coppers took on pub tenancies, but not many did so in the areas they used to patrol. The prosecution argued this explained the severity of the attack, but the charges were brought in the context of the Prevention of Terrorism Acts. Mickey Corrigan was sent down, but a lot of us thought there were still unanswered questions concerning Bill’s death. The defence had claimed that it was just supposed to be a warning, a punishment beating, but it didn’t seem like that. Whatever it was, it probably would have remained just an unsavoury memory if I hadn’t called round at Jack and Daisy’s place on my way back from work one night. ‘I was down the Goldhawk Road today,’ said Jack. ‘Before you ask, yes, I called in at The Keys.’ ‘I can’t remember the last time I was in there; it must have changed a bit,’ I said. ‘Not as much as you might think. Most of the other places have gone to the wall, but The Keys is pretty much the same. Dave van Eker’s still drinking in there, though he looked a bit lost without a dartboard to look at.’ ‘Van Eker…Was he sober?’ 58
