He was the first Englishman I met who was also called Drew. I had met several men called Drew when I visited America, but he was the first other English Drew I met.
Growing up, I hated my first name, and the very common abbreviation of it, which people frequently called me by. I felt trapped by my first name and dreamed of when I could be old enough to change it, though I had no idea what to, my choice of name would change almost month from month. Then, in my middle teens, I read an American novel were one of the characters was called Drew. At the end of the novel I found out that Drew was a different abbreviation of my own first name. Drew was different, unusual and I really liked the sound of it. I wanted to be a Drew.
When I came out and later moved to London, I decided to change my name to Drew. I was entering a new life, a life were I would finally live as my real self, so I needed a name that was my name, a name I liked and was comfortable with, a name that suited me. Drew was that name. In Britain, Drew is a rare name, I’d not met anyone else with that name, it made me different and more memorable. Drew would help me be different and to embrace my difference.
I’d been known by my new name for eight years when I met another Drew, during that time I’d not met any other British men with the same name as me, so meeting Drew was a surprise and a delight, finally someone else shared my name.
We weren’t close, I didn’t know him well. He was a friend-of-a-friend. He was a friend of my friend Tim and Tim introduced us one Sunday night. I often went with Tim for a drink, at the South London gay pub The Two Brewers, and Drew was part of Tim’s circle of friends. He just seemed to appear one Sunday evening. He was tall, thin framed, with short, neat dark hair and an equally short, neat moustache. His plain featured face always seemed to wear a serious expression, his lips held together in neither a smile or a frown, and his dark eyes seemed to watch everything before him. But when he smiled, which wasn’t often but worth it for those moments he did, his whole face lit up with that smile. He was the tall, quiet man who stood at the edge of the group.
I liked him but I wasn’t attracted to him, but if I had been I would have kept my feelings quiet because Tim was very attracted to him. I could see that in the way Tim behaved towards him, how Tim showered him with happy attention, but Drew didn’t return Tim’s feelings. He wasn’t nasty or standoffish with Tim, as I had seen happen before, he was friendly and warm towards Tim, but he just didn’t return Tim’s affection. I’d seen this happen before, Tim always seemed to fall for men who weren’t interested in him, and it was all so sad. Tim was a good friend and I hated seeing him chasing after affection that was never returned. Tim deserved a boyfriend of his own.
Then one Sunday evening, Drew wasn’t at The Two Brewers pub, but he hadn’t been there other Sundays because of his work, the way I missed some Sundays because of my work. The following Thursday I met Tim and he looked terrible. I asked him what was wrong. Three days before he’d spent half a day in a police station, making a police statement. I was shocked and asked what about. He said Drew had been murdered and he had been the last person to see him alive.
That weekend, London’s two gay weekly newspapers contained stories of Drew’s death, calling him Andrew Collier. Over the following weeks, the mainstream newspapers also reported Drew’s murder because it was the fourth one by the serial killer Colin Ireland. Ireland’s three previous murders, all of gay men, had been unconnected by the police, so he killed Drew to make the police take notice of him. He wasn’t caught until he’d killed for a fifth time. Drew’s murder was caught up in all the press coverage of Ireland’s killings, Drew himself being left behind.
Drew’s murder shocked me, so sudden and so cruel, but the aftermath of it shocked me more. Tim was so hurt and brought low by it. I watched his grief and it was so unpleasant to see. Tim didn’t wear his heart-on-his-sleeve, no public displays of high emotions from him, but I saw how much it affected him and it was hard to watch.
Up to then I had read a lot of detective fiction and fancied I wanted to write detective stories. But the plots I created saw murder as little more than a puzzle, the character’s murder having little to no emotional effect on the other characters, no one really mourning or shocked with grief. Drew’s murder showed me how messy and horrible murder is, how it effects and hurts the innocent and, in Drew’s murder, the guilty showed so little remorse. Tim showed me how a murder disrupts and hurts the lives around it. I felt guilty and shamed for wanting to create silly puzzles from something so painful and disruptive. I abandoned that stupid idea.
I didn’t go to Drew’s funeral, it seemed prurient and voyeuristic to do so, I hardly knew him, he was a friend of a friend. I don’t know if Tim went, I don’t know if he was even told when and where it was, I didn’t ask him, I didn’t know how to. Back then, I didn’t know what to do about Tim’s grief, I just didn’t have the skills.
I lost touch with Tim twenty years ago, when I moved from South to West London. It was only a short move in distance but was such a big change in my life, and Tim was lost in that change. A stupid loss.
Drew was murdered in 1993, he was 33, six years older than me. His death left such a deep effect on me, such a pointless and horrible death. He was a gentle man, a warden in a sheltered accommodation scheme, he had a cat, he was tall and dark haired, he had a smile that lit up his whole face, which he used sparingly. In the years since his death the person he was has been forgotten. Now, if he is remembered, it is as passing reference in a true crime podcast or TV series, that dwells on the gruesome nature of his death, but makes no reference to his life. It is so unfair.
Drew
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