Tearing the city at the seams #7 - The North London mass murderer route

'The suburbs dream of violence' was the famous maxim of J.G. Ballard, who in his later career expounded the theory that out of the dull monotony of suburbia inevitably would bloom a primeval instinct for brutality.

Call me macabre, but I've long held an odd fascination with serial killers. I went through an adolescent horror film phase which naturally grew intertwined; murderers being a real-life encapsulation of everything Hollywood might try and frighten us with. I understand the psychological theory that this interest is borne out of a rational yet deep-seated fear of ourselves being murdered and through this rumination do we attempt to neuter its potency.

Similarly, I believe that our collective obsession (whether acknowledged or not by people) stems from our subconscious understanding that the act of murder is within our own personal reach at any given time. Murder is an abhorrent crime precisely because it represents a complete rejection of society's ingrained codes and ethics. It is the perpetrator rejecting all civilised conventions in favour of attaining the highest possible oasis of personal freedom for which of course the penalty must be the total prohibition thereafter; i.e. the famous Aleister Crowley quote, 'Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law'.

Whenever I hear someone say that they themselves would not be capable of committing a murderous act, I cannot help but condemn them as delusional; clinging to some notion of absolute control of their own impulses and psychological faculties. This is not to say that I think everyone to be a simmering psychopath capable of grave depravity at any given time; just that I think evil is as innate a feature of ourselves as good, that evil is sublimated deep within the recesses of most sane and rational people's minds by virtue of societal conventions, self-awareness and experience, and could, if the correct algorithm of causation be achieved, spill over into realised action. I believe everyone has this deep-rooted schizophrenic capacity for good and evil engrained within them through millennia's-worth of human awareness. I baulk at sensationalist tabloid buzz-words like 'inhuman' or 'monster' that are catapulted around at such perpetrators; it is not that they are inhuman but precisely because they are human that enables such murderous acts to be carried out.

These views were lent further credence by my recent reading of Brian Masters' book 'Killing for Company: The Case of Dennis Nilsen'. For those who don't know, Nilsen was a deeply complex and disturbed man who, whilst outwardly exuding an unremarkable, taciturn demeanour, behind the closed doors of his North London residences murdered 15 men, dismembering and disposing of their bodies over a period of 5 years from 1978 to 1983. He was finally caught when neighbours complained of blocked drains which, when investigated, was found to be due to Nilsen having resorted to flushing human remains down his toilet.

Having completed the book I decided to set out and walk to his first residence, 195 Melrose Avenue in Kilburn, and then thread my way horizontally across North London's suburban districts and through Hampstead Heath, to link up with the house in which he was discovered, 23 Cranley Gardens. There was no grand plan in so far as what I hoped to achieve other than satisfying my own curiosity, and being able to visualise the drab city edges that, despite their surface orthodoxy could, when peeled back and glimpsed within, reveal such a disturbing heart of darkness.

I admit that I was also enthused by my strong conviction that since this was a walking route perhaps only previously undertaken by a curious minority, I was in some way carving out a unique tourist trail between two disparate sites of intrigue. Indeed, together with my sympathetic girlfriend, I was fairly certain to be the only pursuer of this path on a bright but chilly Saturday in March. They may be macabre sites, I pondered as we slogged up the steady incline of Maida Vale and the Kilburn High Road, but was it any more so than the groups of tourists mooching round Whitechapel trying to sense the ‘evil vibes’ of Jack the Ripper? It cannot be said to be Des Nilsen's fault that his crimes have failed to consolidate the same lucrative appeal for London's tourists!



Turning off the Kilburn High Road and onto Walm Lane, I followed the road along until at an intersection it morphed into Melrose Avenue. By this point I had the geographical sensation that I had left the familiarities of inner-city London behind to become immersed in the suburbs. The featureless semi-detached houses, some prim and tidy, others having lapsed into shabby disrepair, many apparently up for sale, lined the road entrenching my view whilst reading the book that Nilsen's crimes were made all the more shocking by how strikingly they contrasted with the quiet, routine-led environs in which they gestated. The very idea that anything so uniquely heinous could occur amidst such mundane uniformity!

I felt a definite sense of, perhaps willed, foreboding as the road gently bent round before arriving at 195, the ground floor flat in which Nilsen killed 12 men and stored their bodies in wardrobes and under floorboards before burning them on bonfires in the garden, all without attracting the attention of any of his neighbours.



The street was mostly quiet, although a few residents were going to and fro getting on with their day. This set me thinking about whether or not they were aware of the house's grisly history. If they were, what influence did it have on their feelings towards life on the street generally, and what would be the impact on their impressions if they weren't? I wonder whether such proximity might dwell on their minds at all, might heighten their sense of neighbourly distrust or suspicion, or even act as a subconscious buffer or pinion point for their own latent psychopathologies.

I ruminated on this point whilst pausing at the top of Gladstone Park's gentle hill-rise. There were a few children playing in a small play area, a handful of others playing football, various dog-walkers; the standard non-descript park in perfect keeping with the residential area. Sitting at the top offered a pleasant view of the immediate North London area, with the Shard and the scythe-like arch of Wembley Stadium bookending the extreme left and right angles. Two landmarks incidentally that would have been absent from Nilsen's view on his daily walks round the park with his beloved dog Bleep.



Walking back down Melrose Avenue and following Cricklewood Lane on through West Heath Road I thought about the difficulties such properties must pose for estate agents and landlords trying to maintain its economic viability. I had read online that in some cases tenants had bought the flat only to later discover its past infamy and subsequently struggle to sell it on. Whether or not this is due to a commonly-held belief in any evil metaphysical residues having been etched into the very structure of the house like some kind of terminal moraine; the social stigma perhaps entailed with residing in a 'house of horrors'; or simply a belief in those tangible 'bad vibes' that, thanks to films such as 'The Shining' or 'Paranormal Activity', could manifest themselves in the inhabitants' psyche, whether genuine or (as is more likely) not.

The dilemma is an intriguing one, in a society that is still not in any way reconciled, or any less obsessed by, the notion of death. A short distance south from Nilsen's former homes, is the site of 10 Rillington Place, where John Christie raped and murdered 8 women between 1943 and 1953. Such was the notoriety of his crimes that the decision was taken to first rename the street and then to demolish it completely, thereby in some way exorcising his evil doings and avoiding the tarnishing of the area for the years to come. Similarly, the decision was taken in 1996 to demolish the Gloucester home of Fred & Rosemary West, and more recently that of the Soham murderer Ian Huntley. I'm not so sure I concur with these destructive remedies for wiping clean the past, but I can recognise the logic for so doing.

It is not simply due to something malicious having taken place in the house (if this were the case, there would likely have to be mass housing cull up and down the country), or even that it was the former home of a murderer. Instead in cases like these, the house has been made complicit in the crimes, it is imbued with a vicarious attachment of guilt. In the case of Nilsen, by storing the bodies within its fabric, as well as the attempts at disposal, the murderer has forced the house to assume the role of a sort of structural accomplice in both providing the setting for and concealing his crimes, for which in the eyes of the world it will forever be tainted.

Meanwhile on our walk the houses grew fatter, the driveways longer and the gardens greener as we crossed the threshold into Hampstead. The bucolic lung of the Heath was as revitalising as ever; the narrow and enclosed residential streets yielding generously around this wide open space. Exiting on the east side via Merton Lane, it was a relatively short walk from there up Muswell Hill Road to Nilsen's second and last London home, 23 Cranley Gardens. A long, sloping road of houses that, with the cityscape view fanning out below, appeared to thread right the way into the heart of the city itself.



It was in the top floor flat of this unassuming abode that Nilsen killed his final three victims and, without the convenience of a garden in which to build a bonfire, struggled with a means of disposal, living with the bodies for months on end before the desperate measures that eventually led to his capture.

The truly chilling aspect of the Nilsen case is the fact that until his arrest and subsequent confession, the police were completely oblivious to the fact that 15 men had gone missing in the last 4 years, such was the transient nature of the wanderers he befriended. The fact that Nilsen, though a loner, was a prominent and respected employee at the DHSS branch in Kentish Town, had aroused no prior suspicion as to his murderous Hyde-like alter-ego also added to the paranoid unease many felt towards the case. This, in the end, is why killers arouse such fear and loathing; the fact that such depravity and wanton disregard for human life could linger just below the surface of a man who in many ways was the ordinary and incongruous reflection of the suburban neighbourhoods in which he lived.

Tearing the city at the seams # 6 - Paris

The city of Paris, being London’s twin as the spiritual home of psychogeography and stomping ground of the urban flaneur, was a natural place to focus another piece of writing following a recent visit. With our time frame being only three days, and neither of us knowing the city well, we were more of a mind to roll along the well-worn grooves of the tourist track rather than try and subvert it, although still attempting to see as much of the city by foot as possible.

After a disorientatingly early start, catching the 7.01am Eurostar from St. Pancras, we arrived at the Gare du Nord mid-morning, and after re-fuelling with coffee and crepes, decided to walk the 7 km stretch southwards across the River Seine to our hotel in the heart of the Montparnasse district. Slumping down the thick arterial Blvd de Sebastopol gave us the first taste of the long and wide stretches of road that are as emblematic of Paris as the cobbled picturesque streets of the Latin Quarter or Montmartre.

That afternoon, as we walked westwards through the Jardin des Tuileries, across the chaotic plughole of Place de la Concorde and up the slope of the Champs-Elysees, I was taken back to my time walking and cycing the colossal highways of Los Angeles and how similar it felt (albeit on a much smaller scale), the sensation of futility in your eutechnical mode of transit along such an indeterminately linear road. In fact, I think this comparison slightly more than a little ill-founded; Paris’ boulevards being far more amenable, aesthetically and pedestrian-wise, than LA’s neverending highways that seem to stretch on like pylon lines cutting their way across a vast expanse of open terrain.

It is at the eye of the Arc de Triumphe, with the grand spokes thrusting outwards like the rays of a cartoon sun, that one gets the fullest appreciation of the vision wrought into concrete life by the 19th-century civic planner Baron Haussmann. Tasked by Napoleon III to reconstruct the geography of central Paris, from its ostensibly medieval cluster that had become increasingly unfeasible for a modern urban environment, he set about commissioning the strident roadways and monuments that today epitomise the city and have served as the blueprints for so many others around the world.

It is interesting to note just how divisive his reforms were at the time; not least because of the staggering financial burden it would place on government budgets, but because of the subsequent interpretation of such designs as being favoured and enacted specifically as a means of enhancing authoritarian control. The long, broad macadamised corridors; the large, open public recreational spaces; and the sharp, angular intersections, were all deemed to have been idealised with the improved military suppression of insurrectionary rebels, as well as the easy movement of armed forces, as being primary motivations. Fascinating that lurking just behind the very valid, surface policies of improving sanitation, transit and accommodation, were the ulterior motives of civic suppression.

Marshall Berman’s comprehensive book ‘All That Is Solid Melts Into Air’ states that, ‘the Napoleon-Haussmann boulevards created new bases – economic, social, aesthetic – for bringing enormous numbers of people together. At the street level they were lined with small businesses and shops of all kinds, with every corner zoned for restaurants and terraced sidewalk cafes.’ How intriguing that a singular vision encompassing these wide urban expanses, sidewalk cafes, benches, cultural monuments, circumscribed vegetation, et cetera, would transplant the Old City environs in such a short space of time as being the world-renowned symbiology of Paris.

For the first time perhaps, this urban modern city could also subjugate the primacy of the pedestrian in favour of the new invasion of motor cars. Ironic then that Paris is still considered pleasantly strollable, whereas the pattern it represented became exploited the world over, resulting in cities such as Los Angeles where any form of walking is seen as a very odd pasttime.

This got me thinking about links, however spurious, to 21st century urban developments that can be noticed in London, if not all over Britain. Something that lit the fuse was realising, after 3 days of lengthy walking around Paris, how refreshingly franchise-free it appeared to be. Of course, this is due partly to local and cultural ignorance on my part, but I don’t think that tells the whole story. The number of independent businesses, shops and cafes was a far cry from the sad recession-weary state of Britain’s capital city. Just as you’re supposedly never more than a few feet from urban rodents, it increasingly seems that you cannot walk for a few minutes in London without passing by a TescoExpress, a Sainsburys, a Starbucks, a Pret a Manger, or a Costa Coffee.

So cancerous is their growth that, as an example, walking north away from Brixton and through Kennington, you will pass 4 or 5 TescoExpress stores, each that appears to have metamorphosed out of some previously healthy commercial body. One has fixed its grip within the bowels of a dubious-looking hotel; another has fed from the host of a mock-Tudor pub; another has subsumed a petrol station. This serves as a microcosm of what can now be seen as ‘clone high streets’ that drape themselves through each British town centre without fail (in the last year alone I’ve seen such replications in Penzance, Bristol and Leeds, to name just three). Maybe soon mini branches of Tesco will start being set up in small corners of your flat, thereby maximising market penetration and heightening consumer convenience.

Perhaps this Tesco-isation of shopping streets, along with other phenomena such as the Wetherspoon-ist invasion of the British pub scene, can be seen as a gradual but no-less-subtle modern derivation of Haussmann’s Paris reconstruction. Underneath the attractive surface claims of uniformity, ease and convenience, lies a sinister motive of slash & burn commercialism, consuming everything of any local distinction, and spitting out the same pre-fab fungus of monotonous conformity. Stand in a Bristol, Penzance or Leeds branch and it matters not a jot; since all are geographically neutral and all thrive on the public’s apathetic, credulousness and desire for stress-free activity. Could parallels be drawn between the decrepit and out-moded layout of medieval Paris, desperate to be blasted open into expansive accessibility, and the dire state of contemporary Britain’s high street diversity, wilting under the persistant onslaught of a franchise cartel? Or perhaps its just the French red wine weaving irrelevant nonsense.

In any case, walking around Paris was a very welcome break from London. A very fulfilling walk I might recommend is setting out from the hectic Place de la Bastille, across the Il de la Cite and walking the length of the Blvd St Germain which curves and dips round like a scarf hanging from the broad shoulders of the Seine. It is as quintessential a view of Haussmann’s Paris as any, with its teeming traffic lanes, monumental buildings and elegant cafes sprouting out from every corner. Once you join the river again you could cross over and stroll along the river bank marvelling at the ceaselessly photogenic landmark, the Eiffel Tower, perhaps a structure too iconic to be viewed with any real subjectivity.

Actually rather a controversial structure upon its unveiling in 1899; there is of course the well-known anecdote from Guy de Maupassant, that the tower’s restaurant was his new favourite as it gave him the only view of the city from where you couldn’t see the Eiffel Tower. Strange perhaps that such a structure should be so derided at the time and yet come to be regarded as an icon of architectural design years later. You could be forgiven for making the (albeit quite flippant) comparison between that contemporary loci of people’s equal-parts ire and adoration that has sprung up on the London skyline – the Shard. Although, considering the price for public admittance, I don’t think it’ll become my subversive view of choice any time soon, no matter how good the restaurant might be.

Culture - March

Books read:

Will Self - 'Sore Sites' (non-fiction)
Leo Tolstoy - 'Anna Karenina'
John Stuart Mill - 'On Liberty' (non-fiction)
Brian Masters - 'Killing for Company: The Case of Dennis Nilsen' (non-fiction)
Michael Leber & Judith Sandling - 'L.S. Lowry' (non-fiction)

The first half of this month was dominated by the mammoth Russian classic 'Anna Karenina' which had sat with an air of weighty intimidation on my shelf for far too long; its time had come to be tackled. Incredible just how quickly you become immersed in the language and the intricate details of the time though, with every naunce of every character explored in such fine style by Tolstoy; indeed I found it easy to understand its peerless esteem and found myself thoroughly enjoying it.

The rest of the month I indulged with non-fiction; in particular, I found Brian Masters' study of the serial killer Dennis Nilsen to be a masterful piece of work. Masters expertly juggles the conundrum of Nilsen's ghastly crimes along with his eloquent, complex and troubled personality; and I would recommend it to anyone with an interest in the psychology of murder.

Films Watched:

'Christiane F. - We the children of Bahnhof Zoo' (Ulrich Edel)
'Arbitrage' (Nicholas Jarecki) (at Ritzy Picturehouse, Brixton)
'Amelie' (Jean-Pierre Jeunet)
'The Devils' (Ken Russell)
'Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer' (John MacNaughton)

This month I discovered 3 films that I could add to my list of personal favourites. Firstly, 'Christiane F' - a gritty German film about the blight of heroin addiction on a sub-culture of teenagers. The film is unflinching and raw, and easily the most convincing depiction of the ravages of drug abuse. Despite my fondness for the film version of 'Trainspotting', by comparison it seems overtly glossy and almost flippant.

'Amelie' was watched just prior to a short Paris trip; I fell for its quirky French charm and beguiling romantic melodrama. 'The Devils' was a riotous carnival of ostentatious debauchery that thoroughly met and exceeded all the subversive expectations I held for it. Really demands to be seen, no adequate explanation by me can do justice to the madness of Ken Russell's blasphemous vision!

Albums Played:

David Bowie - 'The Next Day'
Stereophonics - 'Graffiti on the Train'
The Brian Jonestown Massacre - 'Methadrone'
The Knife - 'Silent Sound'
Joni Mitchell - 'Blue'
The Fall - 'Live at the Witch Trials'
Black Rebel Motorcycle Club - 'Spector at the Feast'
Ry Cooder - 'Paris, Texas' (OST)

March was dominated by the release of David Bowie's new album 'The Next Day' which captivated me from the very first listen. It is an eclectic and engaging collection of songs, which never seem to dip in quality, and taken as a whole make up what must be his strongest piece of work since the 80s.

A sharp contrast to two bands I formerly held in fond esteem who released new albums this month. Stereophonics are a band who were part of my formative years' soundtrack and to hear them churn out this by-the-numbers turgid nothing of an album is too predictable to be really worth lamenting. The BRMC album wasn't quite as vacuous but is still evidence of a band never straying from their formula of chunky, dirty rock & roll, as well-worn as their leather jackets.

Exhibitions:

'Murillo: Paintings of the Spanish Golden Age' - Wallace Collection, London

Louvre Gallery, Paris

Theatre:

'The Turn of the Screw' at Almeida Theatre, Islington

Events:

John Gray in conversation with Adam Phillips - Daunt Books, London