The Future of London: (L-2011, Mr Apocalypse, Ghosts of London)

by Mark Gillespie

  * * *

  KIT MCADAM: (Shaking her head) Of course not. It’s wrong to simply demonise technology and social media because of their ability to spread the riots. That’s not the problem. Social media is not the root cause of these riots. Technology is always neutral and unfortunately, that makes it all about people.

  * * *

  DAN CUNNINGHAM: Kit, as always, thank you very much. It’s nice to see you.

  * * *

  KIT MCADAM: Nice to see you too Dan.

  Chapter 6

  9th August 2011

  * * *

  Must have been a skinny fucking King.

  That was Mack’s first impression as he set foot onto the grand-sounding Kings Road. With a name like that, he’d been expecting to find something a bit special; at the very least a main road with some posh houses and flash cars parked on either side of the street. In other words, the kind of place you wouldn’t expect to see in Tottenham.

  It sure wasn’t up to much.

  Kings Road - the actual road itself - looked as if it had been squeezed in between both sides of the pavement. Such a narrow road and at best, it was a mere afterthought or balls-up in the construction process. One side of Kings Road was covered in parked cars for as far as the eye could see, taking up more space, and only contributing to the inherent claustrophobia of the place.

  Kings Road. Good joke.

  Mack walked further down the narrow street. He passed a quaint row of brown brick houses, walked under a bridge, and saw something up ahead that might have been the building he was looking for. He passed some more parked cars, his route shadowed all the way by a short stretch of wood panel fencing to the left. A couple of minutes later, he found himself standing outside the austere red brick of Lancasterian Primary School.

  It was a grim looking building – an uncertain combination of flat and gable roofs, paned windows and the ubiquitous red bricks. It was like something out of a Charles Dickens novel; somewhere he could envision orphaned children being sent into a life of toil and premature misery.

  School was closed for summer and there were no signs of life behind the tall black fence that guarded the building. Mack took a look around, his eyes wandering the immediate surroundings. He could see the backs of houses from neighbouring streets. If anyone was standing at their windows, they could see him too. What would prying eyes think if they saw a teenager climbing over the fence and jumping down into the school grounds? How long until the police sirens came his way?

  Mack turned back to face the school and put his foot on the horizontal strip of metal that ran along the base of the fence. He looked to the sky and pushed his body upwards. On the first attempt, his outstretched hand missed the tip of the fence and he fell backwards onto the pavement.

  God, I hope nobody was watching that.

  Mack tried again. All he had to do was reach the tip of the fence and pull his legs over, but gaining enough distance from the ground to grab onto the top was proving difficult. He tried again. Each time he fell back onto the concrete.

  “Fuck sake!”

  With each new failure, he was convinced that the surrounding neighbours were gathering at their windows, on the brink of calling the police to report the ‘rioter’ who was trying to set fire to the primary school next door.

  Mack felt beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. He stared at the black fence.

  The fucker. It wasn’t going to beat him.

  He was about to try again, but stopped.

  There were sirens coming. Somebody had called the police after all.

  That was all the motivation he needed. This time, he gave it everything and hurled his lean frame up and hooked a hand over the tip of the metal fence. With his feet dangling about a foot off the ground, he thrust a leg over the side. He got the second leg over and with his backside resting atop the fence, jumped down into the school grounds, close to where the staff car parking spaces were.

  His heart was pounding. How long did he have?

  The sirens were already fading into the distance.

  Mack looked towards the windows of nearby houses. There was no one there - no neighbourhood watchman of the year rubbing his hands together. No smug grin on his face, waiting for the police to come and catch the little thug.

  Wherever the police were going in a hurry, it wasn’t to Lancasterian Primary School.

  “Idiot,” Mack said in a low voice. Still, he’d beat the fence. Turns out all he’d needed was a little kick-start.

  He walked past the parking bay, taking a left turn at the rear of the school. At last he was out of sight of Kings Road.

  At the narrow edge of the building, he saw the place where Sumo Dave, Tegz, and Hatchet were sitting. Sumo and Tegz had their backs propped up against the red brick wall. Hatchet sat across from them. Mack saw the three teenagers before they saw him. As he approached, they were pulling various items out of their rucksacks, passing them back and forth, and examining them. At the sound of Mack’s footsteps, the three teenagers looked up at the same time, their eyes wide, almost fearful.

  “It’s cool,” Mack said. “Only me.”

  Sumo Dave grinned as the other two made themselves comfortable again. “Found it then?” he said.

  Mack nodded. “Piece of piss.”

  He noticed that Sumo Dave was wearing a fresh-looking dark hoodie with a Nike Jordan baseball cap on the top, its visor pulled up over his forehead.

  “Been shopping?” Mack said.

  Sumo Dave smiled. “Nice bit of new gear, eh?”

  Tegz was grinning beside Sumo. His new hoodie had horizontal black and white stripes. On his head, he wore a plaid beige and black Burberry cap – turned to the side. In terms of fashion, it was a car crash, but it seemed to make the little man happy.

  “It’s like you say mate,” Tegz said, his voice cracking with excitement. “Shopping. Retail therapy. Does wonders for the poor black man’s soul.”

  Hatchet laughed. It was the first time Mack had heard Little Tyson laugh. It sounded like a little kid chuckling with delight while stomping bugs on the street. Hatchet wore a brand new navy blue puffa jacket over his black hoodie. His buzz cut, which was shaved to the bone at the sides, was the only head - apart from Mack’s - not buried underneath a baseball cap. Mack had already heard Hatchet say a couple of times that he didn’t like wearing caps because he liked people to look him in the eyes when he was talking to them.

  Tough guy.

  Mack slid his back down the wall, sitting next to Sumo Dave. The others continued pulling items out of the bin bags, which had been stashed in their rucksacks.

  Mack thrust his hands into his pockets. “What you lads had been up to then?” It was a stupid question, but he said it anyway. “Haven’t heard much lately.”

  Sumo Dave gave him a friendly nudge. “Oh yeah sorry about that mate,” he said. “It’s just that, well, we’d only just met you, eh? Didn’t know if you’d be cool with all this.”

  Mack nodded. “It’s cool. I get it.”

  Sumo gestured at the assembled goodie bags. “Yeah? You’re cool?”

  “Aye,” Mack said. “Totally. So you boys were in on the fun then? Lucky bastards.”

  Sumo Dave gave him the thumbs up. “Oh we’re knee-deep in crazy shit mate.” He went back to rummaging through the bin bags. “Been inside every bloody shop on the High Road, eh? Bargain hunters, that’s us mate.”

  Tegz pulled out a bag of Rizla from his back pocket, followed by a small plastic bag, which Mack saw was nearly half-full with weed.

  “What a buzz,” he said to Mack, pulling the skins of out the Rizla packet. “It’s like the coppers don’t exist anymore mate. Take what you want and run.”

  At that moment, Hatchet pulled out a pair of pink and white Reeboks from one of the bin-bags. Going by the look on his face, he might as well have pulled out a bloated rat corpse.

  “What the fuck is this?” he said. “Fucking women’s shoes. Who lifted these?”

  Sumo Dave
burst out laughing. “That’s your bag, innit precious!”

  Hatchet threw the box to the side. “Shut it, fat fuck,” he said. Mack had heard Tegz and Hatchet insult Sumo Dave - who was anything but fat – by calling him a fat fuck a few times now.

  Must be a London thing.

  Hatchet pulled a flick knife from the back pocket of his jeans and cut into the pink fabric, slicing through like it was a slab of soft butter. An unpleasant tearing sound ripped the air as the shoes were slowly massacred.

  Hatchet grinned. “Fucking useless things anyway,” he said. He threw the shoe corpse away and went looking inside another bag.

  Mack wanted to tell Hatchet that he could have sold the shoes. That he could have made some money instead of slicing them up and throwing them away. But it was too late now and he decided against saying anything.

  Sumo Dave and Tegz ignored Hatchet’s tantrum. Tegz had abandoned the half-built joint he’d been working on and was now rummaging through another bin bag. He pulled out several small packages and spread them out in front of Sumo Dave. Mack leaned in for a closer look.

  “You got phones?” he said.

  Tegz didn’t look up. “Yeah,” he said. “Didn’t you hear? There was a sale on at Currys.”

  Sumo Dave looked at the assembled haul. “We got four iPhones and three Blackberry Bolds.”

  “Not bad,” Mack said.

  “Better than a pair of pink trainers,” Tegz said. “Innit Hatch?”

  Hatchet scowled. “Fuck off dickhead.”

  “There’s a spare iPhone if you want it Mack?” Sumo Dave said. He pushed one of the boxes towards Mack.

  “What?” Hatchet said. He jumped to his feet and grabbed the box before Mack could touch it.

  “Fuck that,” Hatchet said, stepping back. “He’s already got one. We took all the risks and you’re giving our loot away to a fucking rich kid?”

  Sumo Dave didn’t blink. “Got a problem with that Hatch?” he said. “I lifted these, remember?”

  Sumo Dave reached over and grabbed the phone out of Hatchet’s hand. Once again, he offered it to Mack.

  “Want it?” he said.

  Hatchet sat back down, shaking his head in disgust. “Fuck me,” he mumbled.

  Mack stared at the package in Sumo’s hand. It was a brand new iPhone 4. But even as he looked at the box, feeling the desire stirring within to own something new, he was well aware that he was carrying the same phone in his pocket.

  He shook his head. “I’ve already got one mate,” he said. “Thanks though.”

  “So what?” Sumo Dave said, still offering him the slim package. “Take this one and sell it. You’ll get yourself a few quid for that.”

  Mack hesitated.

  “He don’t want it,” Hatchet said. “Does he?”

  Tegz looked at Mack. “Take it,” he said.

  Mack stared at the rest of the loot. “Tell you what though Sumo,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind a Blackberry. Got one of those spare?”

  Sumo Dave shook his head. “No can do mate,” he said. “There’s only three of those and we need ‘em to keep in the loop with what’s happening. You know? This is how we found out where the action is.”

  Mack nodded. “Aye sure. No bother mate.”

  Sumo Dave looked at Mack. He scratched at his top lip, where a hint of dark fluff was trying to grow.

  “Hey. Why don’t you come with us tonight?”

  Mack felt a surge of excitement. His muscles twitched nervously and he sat bolt upright. “Me?” he said. “But I thought you said - ”

  Sumo Dave grinned. “I trust ya mate. You’re a good sort.”

  “Cheers Sumo,” Mack said.

  Sumo Dave shrugged. “Yeah well, so we’re thinking about going south of the river later. According to Blackberry, it’s kicking off big time in Croydon again tonight.”

  Mack smiled. “Aye?”

  “Oh yeah,” Sumo Dave said, rubbing his hands together. “You up for a little excitement? Grab yourself a nice Blackberry while everything’s going free.”

  Tegz leaned in closer. “Police ain’t doing nothing mate,” he said. “If that’s what you’re worried about it. On the streets, we outnumber them ten to one. At least, eh Hatch?”

  “Easy,” Hatchet said.

  Sumo Dave nudged Mack in the ribs. “So what do you say mate?”

  Mack smiled. It was a challenge.

  Are you one of us?

  “Aye,” he said. “I’m in alright.”

  Sumo Dave leaned over and put an arm on Mack’s shoulder. “Didn’t doubt you for a minute mate,” he said.

  “Cool,” Mack said. And it was cool. Archie and Isabella need never know.

  “Oh yeah, I nearly forgot,” Sumo Dave said. He was scrolling on his other iPhone now, the one he already had up and running. “Did you see this bloke who’s turned up on the Internet?”

  “What bloke?” Mack said.

  Above the school, a flicker of sunlight crept through the clouds.

  “Chester George,” Sumo Dave said.

  “Chester George?”

  Sumo Dave was nodding as he swiped the phone screen. “You should see this mate,” he said. “This guy is off the fucking wall. He’s like a poet or something - a spokesman for us and the rioters.”

  “He posted a video on YouTube last night,” Tegz said. “He’s already got over half a million hits.”

  “Chester George?” Mack said again.

  Tegz pointed at the iPhone in Sumo Dave’s hand. “Not his real name, is it?” he said. “Go on, watch it.”

  Sumo Dave handed the phone to Mack. A video clip was ready to play.

  Chapter 7

  Transcript of a video uploaded to YouTube.com (posted on 8th August 2011)

  The video begins with a message displayed in bold black letters on a white screen. Music is playing in the background – ‘Anarchy in the UK’ by The Sex Pistols.

  “all is creation, all is change, all is flux, all is metamorphosis.”

  The message fades and the film cuts to a dark figure standing in an empty room - empty except for the sprawling walls, which are smothered in music posters celebrating the classic punk rock era - The Sex Pistols, The Clash, The Slits, The Damned, and more. The dark figure steps into the light and the broad shoulders suggest a male with a stocky build. He’s wearing a short black zipper skull hoodie. It’s a hoodie that zips all the way to the tip of his forehead, so that his face is covered by a luminous yellow skull design. Dark eyes look out through a gap in the fabric - two small circles of black netting, which reveal only a hint of the man underneath the mask.

  He stares into the camera for almost a full minute before speaking. And when he does, his voice is low and raspy, and the words are staggered. He talks like a man struggling for breath.

  “Ladies and Gentleman of London town.

  My name is Chester George.

  What’s been happening in this city over the last couple of days - this is the rain that’s long overdue. And not just a gentle downpour either - no what’s coming to London town is a flood of Biblical proportions. It’s the same downpour that Travis Bickle once fantasised about - the ‘real rain’ that would come and wash the scum off the New York sidewalk.

  It’s here, right now, today. Human rain.

  You’ve watched the news. You’ve heard the lies and how they’re calling it a ‘riot.’

  You and I call this an opportunity.

  It’s an opportunity to get rid of the parasites that for so long, we have let run and ruin our country. You all know who these parasites are - you see them everyday wearing a suit and tie and a mask of a different kind. They call themselves ‘good and honest citizens’. And they talk about making our country a better place to live, but all they really want is to hurt the poor and to frighten people into thinking that we need them.

  But listen to this.

  The British government are a gang of lying bastards. You know this, don’t you?”

  Chester George
takes a step closer. In the background, Anarchy in the UK starts over again, as if playing on a loop.

  “But knowing isn’t enough anymore.

  You’ve tried political campaigning, haven’t you? You’ve tried online petitioning and marching down the street in hundreds and thousands on protest marches. You’ve done everything to avoid bloodshed, haven’t you? Because there has to be a realistic alternative to violence.

  Not for the likes of us.

  You know it isn’t working. You’re sick of this constant stream of everyday disappointments because the system doesn’t work for the likes of you and I.

  Slowly - very slowly, a profound truth has come to you.

  Change. You have to take it.

  These are your ‘riots’. This is something that deep down in your heart, you’ve always dreamed of, but never thought you’d live to see. This is the great antidote to the sick times you live in - this, your age of anxiety and productivity-obsessiveness. Think about it. What do they teach you when you’re young? To Work. Produce. Work. Produce. They want you to integrate into their society and work the machines.

  They crush your dreams.

  You are taught to worry about the future. About careers, about money – you must have them. You must have a car – two cars and children, because that’s what everyone else is doing.

  God help you brothers and sisters.

  All across this city, people are waking up. Take to the streets and join them. Oh yes, some people will call you names – thug, vandal, criminal, looter, and all kinds of petty narrow-minded insults. Because that’s what happens when you refuse to be a cog in their twisted machine. YOU become the problem.

  I want to read you a quote by the philosopher, Alan Watts.

  ‘The working inhabitants of a modern city are people who live inside a machine to be batted around by its wheels. They spend their days in activities which largely boil down to counting and measuring, living in a world of rationalised abstraction which has little or no relation to or harmony with the great biological rhythms and processes.’