An Unforgettable ‘Trip’ to Forget

Jack shouldered open the half-glass, leaded front door of the Old Coffee House pub on the corner of Beak Street and Marshall Street, Soho. As the door opened wider a riot of noise hit his ears.

As Jack glanced around the red, sticky-carpeted bar, inhaling its heavy fug of lager and real ale, he was dismayed to find that there was not a single empty table to be had anywhere. Not only that, but all the spaces between the tables were also filled by yapping punters, many the worse for drink. Jack guessed that there must be some event going on in the West End that he didn’t know about. He really should have done his research before deciding on a meeting place.

‘Shit. I hate London sometimes’ he sulked under his breath. He stepped outside the pub and went around the corner on to the pavement. He punched Pete’s number into his iPhone. ‘Mate, it’s Jack. Look, I don’t think there’s any point coming to the Coffee House. It’s rammed. I’ll have a look for an emptier pub and ring you back. Oh, and can you let Johnny know as well? Cheers.’

‘Oh bollocks’, Pete replied. ‘OK. Let us know when you find somewhere’. ‘Will do’ replied Jack. ‘Good lad,’ said Pete.

Frustrated, Jack trudged off. He had an idea that the John Snow pub, opposite the bottom of Poland Street could be a promising meeting spot. So Jack turned left up Marshall Street, passing the garish yellow Third Man record shop. Pretentious place, he thought, full of overpriced vinyl. He turned right into Broadwick Street, trying to avoid falling down the trench that British Gas contractors had dug.

The road seemed to turn into some kind of mini ‘restaurant quarter’ as he passed Japanese grill restaurants, delicatessens, and Italian chocolate shops either side of him.

At the end of the street on the right, he found himself outside the impressive, carved mahogany double door of the John Snow. In front of the pub stood a replica of the water pump where the cholera epidemic of 1854 had started.

The pub was named after the famous doctor who discovered that this was where the outbreak had started.

‘It might be a Sam Smiths pub’, thought Jack, ‘but it’s not too bad’.

He opened the heavy door with an effort and quickly scooted his eyes around the pub. To Jack’s chagrin, the John Snow was even more crowded than the Old Coffee House had been. Again, all the tables were claimed too. And people were jammed up four deep against the short bar.

‘Shit!’ cursed Jack, ‘the John Snow is usually a safe bet. What the hell is going on?’.

‘OK. Let’s try the Lyric then’, he decided.

So Jack left the pub and took an abrupt right turn down Lexington Street. The smell of Vietnamese cooking from the Bao Restaurant on his right reminded him that he hadn’t eaten for ages.

He peered in the window of a smart-looking tobacconist’s shop. He trotted on past Mildred’s coffee shop and Oliver Peoples gentleman’s outfitters. Whoosh! Bazaar and Exhibition Space looked very interesting, he thought.

 Jack reached the end of Lexington Street and dodged the gridlocked traffic on Brewer Street. He ducked down Great Windmill Street, home to the infamous Windmill Theatre. He strode irritably past the Argyll pub and a gelato shop. Then past the Wing Shack.

As he passed it, Jack made a mental note to drop into The Thin White Duke, a cocktail bar dedicated to the late, great David Bowie. Then he reached the Lyric.

Jack stuck his head through the pub’s back door and clocked the fourteen taps, all dispensing the most interesting real ales and ciders. Plus another twenty taps on the other side of the bar.

But there was nowhere to sit in this pub either, as it was also packed. Bollocks!

Dejectedly, Jack turned on his heel and sloped off. He trudged back up Great Windmill Street and decided to take a left down Brewer Street. He shuffled past the junction with Great Pulteney Street, feeling decidedly fed up.

The next street on the right was Bridle Lane. Jack had been drinking in Soho for years, but Bridle Lane was a new one on him. Something, he didn’t know what, drew him up that alleyway.

Jack walked up the narrow street, with its mixture of mews houses and offices. On the left, swinging in the breeze, a midnight blue sign caught his eye. The Cat and Monocle. It had to be a pub, surely. How could he have consistently missed this one all these years?

As he approached, Jack appreciated the stained-glass door and the arched, lead-lined windows. He decided to stick his head in, just in case. A quick glance inside showed him it was a small pub. A couple of solemn, preoccupied drinkers sat at separate tables.

Jack stepped back outside on to the pavement and again punched Pete’s number into his phone. Pete’s phone rang four times then went to voicemail. Must be on the tube, thought Jack.

 He left a message, ‘Hi Pete. I’ve found a decent boozer. It’s the Cat and Monocle on Bridle Lane. Nope, I’ve never heard of it either. See you in a bit’.

He stepped back in the ornate front door and took a better look around the pub. Apart from the occupied ones, there were eight other tables. Jack sat down at a cosy-looking booth table in the corner by the front window.

He put his messenger bag down while he went to the bar to get a pint from the cheerful, avuncular landlord. The bar was extremely low, only up to about the height of Jack’s waist. After his exertions he needed something strong. He ordered a pint of Broadside, the strongest beer they had.

Back at his table he placed his beer down, opened his messenger bag and examined the purchases from his afternoon’s shopping. A CD of the vintage ‘Banana Album’ by the Velvet Underground and a dog-eared second-hand copy of The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe.

He started brooding about the lack of progress on his PhD thesis. What was he going to do his dissertation on? He took a large gulp of his Broadside and instantly felt much better. And another. And again until the pint was finished. The PhD anxiety seemed to be fading into the background.

He glanced around the pub. It was absolutely fascinating. There was an eclectic variety of hats hung up behind the bar. Naval Admiral’s hats, ladies 1920’s flapper hats, Scottish Tam O’ Shanter hats. He also noticed a large Australian cork hat hanging there.

Several scale models of World War 2 aircraft hung from the ceiling. The walls were covered with a variety of dusty, ancient-looking paintings.  Jack notice that many of the picture frames contained preserved exotic butterflies.

Dotted around the room were several old end-of pier type amusement arcade games. Including a Victorian bagatelle machine.

On the mantlepiece, above the empty fireplace, sat an impressive collection of ale tankards and German beer steins. And on the far wall, the gargantuan, moth-eaten mounted head of a bison fixed him with a belligerent stare.

What a find this place is, thought Jack, it’s like a cross between a pub and an antique shop.

The beer had gone right through him, so he asked where the gents was. The landlord told him it was downstairs.

Jack made his way gingerly down the musty-smelling, threadbare carpeted stairs. The doors to the toilets were straight in front of him, gents to the left, ladies to the right.

Once finished, back up the stairs he went. He ordered another pint of Broadside. He was getting a taste for this stuff.

An hour went by. Jack downed another couple of pints and wondered if his mates had received his message. He was feeling a bit wobbly. This Broadside was strong stuff. He needed the toilet again.

This time on his way out of the gents, he noticed an eggshell blue door on the left-hand wall that seemed to be ajar. There was an eerie glow emanating from behind it.

Emboldened by all the strong beer and feeling inquisitive, Jack pushed the door open gently.

 A polished wooden staircase wound down to where the light was coming from. He quietly stepped inside the doorway.

Suddenly, his right leg went from under him. He toppled and went headlong down the stairs. He last remembered receiving a crack on his head.

Jack came to in a battered leather wingback chair. He had a splitting headache. He looked around him.

The low lighting seemed to come from the floor and a red glow predominated. Small crystal chandeliers hung from a couple of ornate cupolas on the ceiling.  The ceiling featured a mural of a snowy owl.

The walls were covered in shelves which were stacked floor to ceiling with exquisitely bound volumes. As far as Jack could see in his semi-concussed state, there seemed to be a lot of books on worldly esoteric beliefs such as Wicca, Voodoo and many others.

A couple of desks sat next to the shelves. Featuring poker table style reading lights. A large, carved wooden globe about four feet in diameter squatted in the far-right corner.

Jack guessed he was in some kind of library. But under a pub? Why?

Just then, a tall gentleman appeared. His hair was pure white. And styled in backwards spikes, which seemed at odds with his old-fashioned demeanour.

He wore a teal smoking jacket topped off with a purple silk cravat. And burgundy, dress-suit trousers. Slender, almost bony, he was incredibly sprightly. Pince-nez spectacles rested on a beak-like nose.

‘What are you doing in our library?’ he asked sternly but not unkindly.

‘I don’t know, I just remember falling down some stairs’, explained Jack.

‘You really shouldn’t be in here’. The man sat down in a similar seat opposite Jack.

‘Anyway, please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dr Osprey. I’m the chief librarian and curator of this establishment. And you are?’

‘Jack Westham. Pleased to meet you. I think’.

‘Well you’ve had quite the bump on the head, Jack. Let me get you something to help ease the discomfort’.

With that, Dr Osprey opened up the globe and took out a bottle of expensive-looking Cognac from a selection of other expensive-looking bottles. He poured a large measure into a lead crystal glass and handed it to Jack.

‘Drink this. It’ll help’.

‘Thanks’. Jack took a sip and enjoyed the golden warmth of the alcohol as it slid into his stomach.

‘What is a library doing here? Underneath a pub?’ enquired Jack.

‘Certainly, dear boy. Allow me to explain. This is a library of the occult. The reason it’s hidden is because many celebrated and well-known people have used it throughout the centuries and still do. Senior politicians, even Prime Ministers. Secret service directors. Royal family members. Even television and film actors. Harold Wilson was one such member of our establishment.’

‘I wish I’d known about this place!’, exclaimed Jack, ‘What a find. How can I find out more about it? I’d love to research it for my PhD thesis’.

‘I’m afraid that cannot be possible, old chap’ Dr Osprey explained, shaking his head. ‘Word simply cannot get out about this library. If the hoi -polloi got wind of this establishment, not to mention the, shall we say, somewhat left-field beliefs of some of their elected representatives and rulers, I imagine there’s no way they would be able to wrap their heads around it. Our society would have a meltdown.’

‘Well, what’s to stop me from trying to find out?’ replied Jack

‘You see that Cognac you’re drinking. It’s mixed with a substance that will induce amnesia. Not unlike Rohypnol in its effects. Once it starts its work, you’ll have no memory of this library, or even this evening. It’s quite fast acting so it should take effect soon.’

‘Are you serious? But how am I going to get home?’ Jack worried.

‘You don’t need to fret. That will be taken care of.’

‘But you don’t know where I live. . .’ Jack’s chin collapsed on to his chest.

***

Jack woke up on the funky orange sofa in the cluttered lounge of his small Greenwich flat. He was fully clothed. An insidious headache wormed its way round his brain.

‘What happened last night? I could swear I went uptown to meet Pete and Johnny. I remember being in Soho, but nothing else. How the hell did I get home?’

The phone rang. Jack picked up.

‘Hello’, he said in a croaky voice.

‘What the hell happened to you last night?’ demanded Pete. ‘We looked for you everywhere. We almost called the police.’

‘And another thing. Where’s the ‘Cat and Monocle’? We walked up and down Bridle Lane three times and couldn’t find it!’