* * *
KRIS SAYERS: So this was a nightclub? I don’t mean to be rude Joni my love, but are you going off on a tangent here? Does this little story of yours have something to do with what’s going on in 2011, eh? The riots remember?
* * *
Kris laughs at his own joke – no one else does.
* * *
JONI BANKS: It used to be a real upmarket club. But after 1941 the prices lowered and it was a bit more accessible to the rest of us. The commoners. I remember it well. You had to walk down a long steep staircase, which seemed to go on and on forever. But once you were inside, it was actually quite a small place. The dance floor wasn’t that big and it didn’t take many couples to fill it up. But you were safe because you were underground, away from the bombs. Or so we thought.
* * *
Joni smiles, her eyes looking back into the past.
* * *
JONI BANKS: It was one of the best ways to forget about the war - to go out dancing. And if we were going to be blown to smithereens then wasn’t it better to be out having a good time rather than cowering in a bomb shelter somewhere. That’s what I always thought anyway.
* * *
Kris puts an arm around Joni.
* * *
KRIS SAYERS: Joni Banks, you’re my kind of gal!
* * *
Kris removes his arm immediately.
* * *
JONI BANKS: It wasn’t that late when the bomb hit. It was before ten o’clock. Lucky in a way I suppose, had it been an hour later there would have been more people in the club.
* * *
KRIS SAYERS: And do you remember my love? The moment when the bomb landed?
* * *
Joni nods.
* * *
JONI BANKS: They said it came through an airshaft. Through the skylight and that it landed on the dance floor, right in front of the band that was playing. I’d been up there dancing just minutes earlier, but Reg - he’d dragged me away because he wanted to go get a drink. He liked a drink, did my Reg.
* * *
KRIS SAYERS: Sounds terrifying Joni.
* * *
JONI BANKS: The band had only just started. Ken Johnson - that was the bandleader’s name - I think he’d only just turned up at the club. ‘Snakehips’, they called him. I heard somebody say that the bomb took his head clean off. Then again, somebody else said that he was unmarked. But who knows? Either way he was dead.
* * *
KRIS SAYERS: What about you and Reg?
* * *
Joni grimaces at the recollection.
* * *
JONI BANKS: A tremendous force blew me back. It was as if all the glass in the club had been thrown at my face. There was a flash of blue light. I thought I was dead.
* * *
KRIS SAYERS: Good Lord!
* * *
JONI BANKS: But at some point I said to myself – quite calmly I recall, that no, this was a bomb. We’ve been hit.
* * *
KRIS SAYERS: And then what happened?
* * *
JONI BANKS: I heard Reg screaming my name. ‘JONI, JONI’. I lifted my head off the floor and saw him clambering over a heap of bodies. We were lucky to be alive. Some people had their limbs ripped off and they were lying in different corners of the room from the rest of their body parts. And yet some of the other bodies hadn’t moved an inch. I mean you’d expect to see people all over the place after a blast like that, wouldn’t you? But I remember seeing this couple sitting at a table near the edge of the dance floor. The man had his hand outstretched like he’d been offering her something - a cigarette maybe? They looked completely undisturbed even though they were stone dead.
* * *
KRIS SAYERS: So you were unhurt?
* * *
JONI BANKS: (Smiling) Nothing more than cuts and bruises to worry about, both of us, although my right eye was badly sliced open by bits of glass and metal. Anyway, that should have been enough horror for one night.
* * *
Joni turns towards Kris.
* * *
JONI BANKS: But then the looters came.
* * *
KRIS SAYERS: Looters? That’s hard to believe Joni.
* * *
JONI BANKS: (Nods) Oh yes. There were as many looters as there were people helping. In fact, it was impossible to tell who was who. There were civilians, wardens, police, and God knows what else. It was chaos but the looters were everywhere. Nasty people. Little devils they were, pouring in through the smoke, reaching and grabbing at the bodies. At one point, I watched a man pull a dead girl from the wreckage. I thought he was trying to help her or drag the body outside, but then he pulled a knife from inside his coat pocket and cut off her ring finger.
* * *
KRIS SAYERS: Good lord.
* * *
JONI BANKS: And I saw another wild-eyed character – in his thirties or forties probably, kneeling over a woman and cutting the necklace away from her neck. Taking everything he was. Jewellery, clothes, handbags, they went after it all.
* * *
Joni looks over towards the studio window, which offers a stunning view of Central London lit up at night. For a moment or two, her eyes are lost in the past.
* * *
KRIS SAYERS: Well, that’s quite a revelation Joni my love. Who’d have thought it? Looting at such a time.
* * *
JONI BANKS: We kept Hitler out and that’s all our children need to know in school.
* * *
KRIS SAYERS: Are you saying it was a cover up Joni?
* * *
JONI BANKS: It was the preservation of our morale. Looting threatened the whole idea that we were in the war together. Some of the newspapers called for the looters to be hanged, but most of them just ignored it. But the looting was so bad during the war – it really was. It was every bit as nasty as what we’re seeing now – if not worse considering the fact that we were at war. I remember reading about a gang of teenage girls who were caught stripping the clothes from dead bodies. Oh yes, children looted back then too. I heard reports of them stealing coins from the gas meters of burned out houses. There were thousands of cases of juvenile looting back then, just like today.
* * *
KRIS SAYERS: And here we are - during these riots - lamenting the loss of the Blitz Spirit in Britain. Was the Blitz Spirit just a lie then?
* * *
JONI: (Shakes her head) The Blitz Spirit was real Kris. Nothing can ever take that away from us. But certain truths are conveniently forgotten, especially by the media who use the Blitz as a moral yardstick.
* * *
KRIS SAYERS: And what truths are those my love?
* * *
Joni looks into the camera.
* * *
JONI: That the world’s full of bastards. It always has been.
Chapter 22
13th August 2011
* * *
Mack kept to the other side of the street as he walked past Tottenham Police Station. He didn’t look over, but he could feel the thirty or so armed officers watching him as he walked past. He imagined their eyes, following his every move, their rifles primed and trigger fingers alert.
The station was now under guard twenty-four hours a day. It had been the target of constant attacks since the trouble first began and now the police and rioters had attached a certain symbolic importance upon the building.
Both its survival and destruction were crucial.
He continued walking south along the High Road, half expecting, half-hoping to see a tank, an armoured vehicle, or a squadron of soldiers marching to battle. But there was nothing, at least not today. Whatever armed forces had been deployed onto the streets of London, they were somewhere else that day, somewhere with more urgent needs than Tottenham.
A small gathering of people stood in the middle of the High Road, standing on the bricks and other fallen debris. It took Mack only a moment to realise that thes
e weren’t rioters - they were mothers and fathers. And with them were young children, clutching at their parents’ hands or being cradled in their arms. Some of the children were crying and in their collective sobs, Mack heard an aching pain – a gnawing hunger that was unfamiliar to most children in a First World city.
The older kids didn’t cry. They just stared blankly into space, their eyes unusually large within their sunken faces.
Some of them looked at Mack as he walked past. He quickly hurried along.
He was almost at Charlie’s Cafe now. Just as he was about to turn right onto Philip Lane, Mack saw a small procession walking towards him in the middle of the street. A woman at the head of the procession was talking through a loudspeaker as the group came forward. Mack was tempted to ignore it, to hurry towards Charlie’s, but something held him back. He stopped for a moment to watch. There were about ten or twelve of them, mostly black middle-aged women. They were moving slowly - like a funeral cortege - up the High Road, through the fallen bricks and debris. As the procession drew nearer, Mack listened to the elderly woman who was talking through the loudspeaker.
“Fresh food and water supplies are coming today. Listen carefully. FRESH. SUPPLIES. From one o’clock this afternoon, stock up on food, water, medicine and whatever else you need. Come to Tottenham Police Station! Queue outside for supplies. People of Tottenham – One o’clock. FRESH SUPPLIES! FRESH SUPPLIES!”
Mack thought about the people standing outside the police station. And he remembered the children with the hungry eyes.
One of the women in the procession noticed him and walked towards him. She was a small and portly black woman, forty or fifty-something years of age, and dressed in a faded denim jacket and dark jeans.
She looked at Mack with a kindly smile.
“Do you need food and supplies son?” she asked. Her accent had a hint of the Caribbean. She held out a small sheet of paper and offered it to him. “Here’s some information about the supply drops outside the police station. There’s one today at one o’clock.” She thrust the slip of paper closer. “Go on. Take it.”
Mack reached out, but quickly withdrew his hand again.
“I’m okay thanks,” he said. “My dad’s got a car and he’s making a food run into Central London this morning. You should give this to somebody else.”
The woman put the sheet back on top of the pile.
“I wish we were all so lucky,” she said, smiling. “To have a car.”
Mack nodded “No shops still open around here?” he said.
The woman shook her head. “No shops,” she said. “Everything’s been destroyed and if it hasn’t, it’s closed anyway. The buses aren’t running around here either – the roads aren’t up to much as you’ve probably noticed.”
Mack couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a bus in Tottenham. Cars were becoming something of a rarity too.
“Charlie’s is still open,” the woman said, pointing down Philip Lane towards the cafe. “But not for much longer. It’s overrun with people and there’s no way Charlie will be able to keep up.”
“People can still use the Tube can’t they?” Mack asked.
She nodded. “Yes, but you can only imagine how crowded it is. All those people trying to get in and out of Central London. It’s like rush hour every hour. And I’ll tell you this – they’re raising the prices in the city centre too. They don’t care how many children are starving out here on the outskirts. Not when there’s a chance to make money.”
The woman looked over at the procession, slowly making its way north.
“Better catch up,” she said. She smiled at Mack and her eyes lit up. “Goodbye son,” she said. “And good luck.”
“Thanks,” Mack said, calling after her. And then in a whisper, he added:
“I’m sorry.”
There was a massive queue outside Charlie’s. The line began at the door and stretched further down Philip Lane. There was probably over a hundred people at that moment, tucked into the side of the pavement, all searching for a hot meal. To Mack, it looked like a group of bargain hunters standing outside a department store waiting for the Boxing Day sales to begin.
A small blackboard had been placed outside the door. Scribbled in white chalk were the words: WAITING TIME – 1HR APPROX
Shite.
Sumo Dave and the others were inside waiting for him.
Mack walked towards the door and glanced through the window but the place was jam-packed and it was impossible to see beyond the mass of bodies gathered by the window.
As he took a step back, he noticed dirty looks coming his way.
“Don’t think about skipping the line sunshine,” somebody called out. “I’ve got my eye on you.”
Mack took a step away from the building. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and found a text waiting from Sumo Dave.
‘Fckn rammed in here m8. Waited 45min to get in! Txt wen u get here.’
Mack sent a brief reply – ‘Here. Stuck outside.’
A few minutes passed. Nothing happened. Mack was thinking about leaving when the cafe door opened and Sumo Dave popped his head outside. He pointed at Mack.
“Hey,” he said. “Are you the lad who hasn’t eaten for two days?”
Mack looked behind him.
“What?” he said.
Sumo Dave beckoned him over. And this time he spoke louder so that the others in the queue could hear him too.
“Charlie sent me out,” Sumo Dave said. “He told me there’s a little white boy outside who hasn’t eaten in two days. Is that you mate?”
Mack didn’t answer.
Sumo Dave nodded. “Yeah that’s you, innit? Remember?”
“Yeah,” Mack said. “I suppose…”
He looked at the queue. Everyone was staring at him.
“But I didn’t want to jump the queue,” he said. “That’s not fair on these people. We’re all hungry.”
“Of course,” Sumo Dave said. “That’s very noble of you, especially with your cancer n’ all. You didn’t want to jump the queue.”
At the front of the queue, a tall black man, dressed in a slim leather jacket, turned to Mack. “Is that true?” he said. “You got cancer?”
Mack took a step forward. “I’m okay,” he said. “I want to join the queue like everyone else. We’ve got to try and keep civilised, haven’t we?”
“He was definitely acting a bit funny when he got here,” somebody else said. “It was like he didn’t know where he was.”
Mack coughed.
“So pale and pasty,” Sumo Dave said. “Poor lad.”
“Get inside son,” the man at the head of the queue said. He turned to Sumo Dave. “Get some hot food into the lad. He looks like he’s about to pass out.”
“C’mon mate,” Sumo Dave said. He stepped onto the pavement and took Mack by the arm, guiding him towards the door. “Thanks everyone,” he said.
Mack managed a feeble wave.
Once inside, Sumo Dave dropped Mack’s arm. “You overdid it a bit there mate,” he said. “You’ll get us lynched if they find out.”
Mack shrugged. “You started it.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Sumo Dave said. “C’mon, we don’t have long in here. Charlie’s rule is you eat, get out and make room for the next lot.”
Mack looked around the cafe. All the tables were full, but that didn’t mean they were turning back customers. There were people sitting in a huddle on the floor. Others were tucked up on the window-ledge. Some people were content simply to stand with a plate of food in their hand. For most people, it was enough just to be in there.
The room was full of chatter, and the scent of freshly cooked bacon hung in the air.
Sumo Dave led Mack past the counter where the staff were working at a ferocious pace – cooking fry-ups and making toasted sandwiches as if their lives depended on it.
Hatchet and Tegz were waiting in the far corner of the room. As Mack arrived, they were devouring a plate of toasted
sandwiches between them.
Tegz acknowledged Mack’s arrival with a curt nod.
Hatchet kept eating.
Behind them, fixed to the wall, a large TV was on. It was showing a chat show with a bunch of women sitting around a table drinking tea and talking. Of course, they were talking about the riots.
“Alright?” Mack said to the others.
“Fucking starving mate,” Tegz said, through a mouthful of food.
Mack nodded. “You guys been out since Croydon?” he said.
“Yeah,” Sumo Dave replied.
“Where?” Mack asked. “Back to Croydon?”
Sumo Dave shook his head. “No way mate,” he said. “You saw it. It’s a bloody war zone innit? Nah, we stayed here on the High Road.”
“Any action?” Mack asked.
Sumo Dave shrugged. “It’s alright.”
The Future of London: (L-2011, Mr Apocalypse, Ghosts of London) Page 12
