L-2011

by Mark Gillespie

  * * *

  In the background somebody can be heard screaming:

  * * *

  “GET OUT OF YOUR FUCKING HOMES. GET OUT!”

  * * *

  “GET ’EM OUT.”

  * * *

  A woman screams: “FIRE!”

  * * *

  LUKE: There are people trapped upstairs in their houses. What can they do? I don’t get it. I just can’t connect the dots. This is – oh God! People have had to leave their houses. Their houses are getting burned down. Oh my God! I’ve never seen anything like this in my life. Never.

  Chapter 14

  10th August 2011

  * * *

  The four teenagers - Sumo Dave, Mack, Tegz, and Hatchet - left Charlie’s Cafe and walked back towards Tottenham High Road. It was by then, early afternoon and dark rainclouds were gathering in the sky. Tegz and Hatchet led the way, with their hoods pulled up over their baseball caps, walking with their heads down and hands thrust into jeans pockets.

  Sumo Dave and Mack kept up the rear. As they walked, Sumo Dave took off his cap and rubbed down his shaven skull with the palm of his hand. Both teenagers said little, busy as they were surveying the aftermath of the riots.

  Most of the shops they saw had their shutters pulled down. By now the vast majority of small businesses along the High Road were closed. Handwritten signs had been put over either doorways or shutters to inform customers that business would re-open again once things had quietened down.

  What struck Mack most of all were the amount of bricks that lay scattered across the road and pavement. It was like looking at a pile of debris from a fallen skyscraper – a pile that stretched beyond reach of the naked eye, trailing further down the High Road, which was almost entirely shut off to traffic. Many bricks and stones lay at the doors of ruined shop fronts. In some ways, it was like looking upon a fresh murder scene, in which gun and dead body lay together side by side. Mack was well aware in this instance, that when the light began to fade later that day, the murderer would return to his weapon, pick it up and strike again.

  Further along, several fire engines were parked on the street outside a row of shops. The firefighters were busy at work; the long hoses attached to the vehicles spraying jets of water into the building that still, many hours after being set alight, still threw out furious columns of smoke. It was impossible to tell what sort of businesses had once existed there.

  Mack wanted to look away, but found he couldn’t. How many more people had woken up that morning and realised that their livelihoods had been reduced to smoke and rubble?

  “Jesus,” he said quietly.

  They stopped next to the ruin of a small newsagent. It had been nothing fancy, just the sort of place that someone might nip in for a pack of cigarettes or a newspaper or a lottery ticket. Not anymore. The front window had been smashed in and the shelves stripped of merchandise. That was before they’d set fire to it, but only half the interior had been badly burned beyond recognition, while the other half remained untouched – a reminder of what the shop had once looked like.

  Sumo Dave stared into the ruined shop. Mack noticed the other boy’s eyes twitching, as if wrestling with his own thoughts, struggling to come to terms with the terrible sight before them.

  “Poor bastards,” Sumo Dave said. “I used to come in here, you know? The bloke who worked here, he was alright.”

  And there was something else nearby. A small crowd had gathered around something big – the wreckage of which had expired in the middle of the High Road at some point over the last few days. The people swarming around the dead object were thrusting their phones in the direction of the metal corpse, filming, taking pictures, while some of them huddled together in the foreground of the ruin, striving to achieve the perfect group selfie.

  One teenage girl stood pointing at the wreckage, her body convulsing in a fit of high-pitched laughter.

  “It’s a bus,” Hatchet said, moving closer. Tegz and Mack followed his lead. Sumo Dave stayed behind, still looking at the ruined newsagent.

  Mack did a lap of what appeared to have once been a double-decker bus. He guessed that maybe the bus had been abandoned and then set on fire. Now its mangled and charred remains were glued to the street, almost like a grotesque work of modern art.

  “It was a bus,” Tegz said. He pulled out his iPhone, pointing it at the wreckage.

  Hatchet shook his head, calling over to Tegz. “Don’t waste your time. This thing’s probably been on YouTube for days.”

  Tegz kept on filming.

  Mack took a couple of photos himself. Then he walked away. As he did so, he could still hear the teenage girl laughing behind him – that terrible shrill laughter, so out of place at that moment. Some of the people standing around the bus were now filming her instead. Mack hurried his step, wondering if there was something wrong with her.

  Sumo Dave was waiting for them outside the newsagent. He was scratching at his neck and bouncing on his toes, as if unable to keep still.

  “Let’s get out of here mate,” he said to Mack. “This place is giving me the creeps.”

  “Aye,” Mack said. “Me too.”

  They started walking away and Tegz and Hatchet soon followed behind them.

  A few minutes later they passed the McDonalds on the High Road. Despite everything else, it was still open for business.

  “Right,” Tegz said. “I’m starving. Who’s with me?”

  Sumo Dave gave him a playful tap in the ribs. “You’ve just been sitting in Charlie’s, surrounded by food for the last hour and a half.”

  Tegz wasn’t listening. He was already crossing the street. “Yeah,” he called back. “But Charlie don’t have Quarter Pounders with Cheese, does he?”

  Hatchet turned to Sumo Dave. “I’m in,” he said. “You coming?”

  Sumo Dave looked up at the McDonalds sign - the golden arches still intact and shook his head. “How come this place doesn’t have a mark on it? And that newsagent back there…?”

  Mack smiled. “They’re not going to fuck with McDonalds are they?” he said. “Rioting works up an appetite and besides, look around you, they’re running out of other places to eat.”

  Through the window of McDonalds, Mack spotted a young girl sitting next to an older woman – her mother probably. As the little girl chewed happily on a burger and picked at a carton of fries, her mother kept her eyes on the streets, watching, waiting for the first signs of something kicking off.

  When the woman caught sight of Mack and the others standing across the street, she looked away quickly, avoiding their eyes.

  Hatchet stood at the edge of the kerb. He was glaring at Sumo Dave. “You coming or what?”

  “I’m not hungry,” Sumo Dave said flatly. “Go on. We’ll meet you later at the school and talk about tonight. What’s happening and that.”

  Hatchet nodded. “We’ve gotta get back to Croydon mate,” he said. “We need to check that the TV’s still there and… ” Hatchet looked at Mack. “Move it to a cemetery.”

  Sumo Dave grinned. “Yeah. We’ll talk about it later.”

  Hatchet crossed the street and followed Tegz into McDonalds.

  “You know something,” Mack said, watching the little Mike Tyson go. “Hatchet doesn’t like me, does he? He didn’t invite me in for a burger, did he?”

  Sumo Dave and Mack both burst out laughing.

  “Hatchet don’t like anyone,” Sumo Dave said. “Don’t worry about that. He’s a miserable git, but be nice – you wouldn’t want to cross him, would ya?”

  Mack nodded. “Aye. He’s built like a fucking tank. What’s that all about?”

  Sumo Dave shook his head. “It’s not the muscles you want to be afraid of mate.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He keeps a gun in the flat,” Sumo Dave said.

  Mack lowered his voice. “A gun?”

  Sumo Dave nodded. “Used to be his old man’s, eh? Must have left it there when he took off and left Hat
chet’s mum holding the baby.”

  “Fucking hell,” Mack said. “I don’t want to think about Hatchet with a gun. Does he ever carry it outside?”

  “Sometimes,” Sumo Dave said, the hint of a smile forming on his lips. “Just don’t piss him off too much mate. Hatchet’s a bit of a psycho and yeah he don’t like you, but I don’t think he’s quite ready to shoot you - yet.”

  Mack sighed. “Lucky me.”

  Sumo Dave gave him a playful tap on the arm.

  “It’s not your fault mate,” he said. “You’re white, your family’s got a bit of cash. You’ve got a mum and dad who actually give a shit about you.”

  Sumo laughed softly. “Yeah, you’re the good boy in our gang, ain’t ya?”

  Mack shook his head. “You don’t know jack-shit about me mate. If you did, you wouldn’t be calling me the good boy.”

  Mack pointed across the street. “And neither would he.”

  Sumo Dave and Mack walked north along Tottenham High Road. The ongoing sideshow of burned out cars and buildings became a blur. Eventually they arrived at Lancasterian Primary School and after checking that the coast was clear, jumped the black fence and continued around to the back.

  As they arrived, a steady rain began to fall. Seconds later, it had turned into a downpour of near-biblical proportions. The boys ran for cover, laughing to themselves as huge drops of water, like fists, came crashing down on their heads.

  They eventually found an artificial shelter, which had been built on as an attachment to the building, facing the small playground.

  They sat down, leaning their backs up against the brick wall. Sumo Dave let himself slide until he was almost lying flat out on the concrete.

  “You alright?” Mack asked.

  “I am now,” Sumo Dave said. He had his eyes closed.

  Mack knew what he meant. “It was pretty freaky back there, eh?”

  Sumo Dave shook his head. “It was hard to see it like that mate. And you know what’s even worse, I’m one of many who’s out there doing it, aren’t I? I’m rioting and looting with the rest of ‘em.”

  “Aye,” Mack said. “I suppose.”

  Sumo Dave took off his cap. He ran a hand over the tight buzz cut, sanding it down furiously.

  “What about you?” he said to Mack. “Your folks still giving you grief about going out?”

  Mack nodded.

  “So what you been saying?”

  “That I’m hanging around with you and your mates,” Mack said. “I leave the details out though.”

  Sumo Dave put his cap back on, pulling it down over his eyes. “Smart lad.”

  Mack looked out at the rain, like falling seeds sprouting dozens of puddles in the playground; thousands of tiny drops of water, so insignificant on their own and yet together, capable of creating a flood.

  “Oh yeah,” Sumo said. “I’ve got some news.”

  “Oh aye?” Mack said.

  Sumo Dave sat up straight, pulling the cap away from his face.

  “There’s a geezer from my estate who’s going to be on TV tonight,” he said. “He’s going to be talking about the riots. It’s that Michael King bloke we mentioned earlier.”

  Mack nodded. “I remember the name.”

  “Yeah,” Sumo Dave said. “Michael’s a good bloke. He’s a real smart cookie, yeah? He reads a lot I think. Does a lot of protesting too – racial things, equality, anti-police brutality. He’s into all of that marching stuff. He’s like the Malcolm X of Tottenham, know what I mean?”

  “What’s he going to be on?” Mack asked. “The news?”

  “The Paxton Show. You know it?”

  Mack nodded. “Paxton? That’s a big deal.”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Sumo Dave said. “The political one with the mouthy twat presenter.”

  Mack grinned. “He’s a clever mouthy twat though.”

  Sumo Dave shrugged. “Yeah. He’s still a tosser. Loves the sound of his own voice, especially when it comes to winding up his guests.”

  Mack grinned. “So your mate’s going to be on his show?”

  Sumo Dave nodded. “He’s more of an acquaintance than a mate. But yeah, he’s on it.”

  “Just talking about the riots?”

  “Talking about the police I think.”

  “He’s actually going to be in the studio?”

  “I dunno, do I?”

  Mack laughed. “You don’t know much, do you?”

  Sumo Dave smiled. “Good thing I’m handsome, innit?”

  “What’s this Michael guy like?” Mack asked.

  “He’s alright,” Sumo said. “About twenty or twenty-one. He’s a bit intense but he’s got some serious brains man.”

  “He’ll have his hands full with Paxton,” Mack said.

  “Trust me,” Sumo Dave said. “Paxton’s going to have his hands full. Michael’s going to have a right go at the coppers. And the government. Be a right giggle.”

  “You watching it?”

  The lanky teenager shook his head. “Nah sod that. We’re going back to Croydon tonight to get that TV by the looks of it. I’ll watch it online tomorrow or something.”

  Mack nodded. “Cool.”

  “I’m ready to get back in the saddle,” Sumo Dave said. There was a huge grin on his face as he spoke, and he was rubbing his hands together enthusiastically in anticipation of the night ahead.

  Mack smiled. But his thoughts drifted back to the fate of the little newsagent on the High Road. To the man who used to work behind the shell of a counter and what he was thinking about tonight. What about his family?

  Mack thought about how Sumo Dave had seemed so troubled back there, standing outside the building, at least for a moment or two.

  And how quickly it was forgotten.

  Chapter 15

  10th August 2011

  * * *

  ‘The Paxton Show’

  * * *

  The studio lights go up.

  * * *

  A well-dressed man in a slick navy suit is sitting in a leather chair. He gently spins the chair in a clockwise direction, turning to face the camera as it zooms in. When James Paxton smiles, the CBC’s finest political commentator looks younger than his fifty-something years.

  * * *

  But Paxton never smiles.

  * * *

  PAXTON: Good evening. Now unless you’ve been in a coma for these past few days you’ll be aware that the streets of London are currently in a state of chaos. And no doubt you – like the rest of us - are wondering what the government is going to do about it. Well, today we tried to ask them but we were told that neither the Prime Minister, the Mayor of London, nor the Home Office Minister were available to speak to us. So tonight we’re going to do something different and instead of speaking to the politicians, we’re going to talk to one of the rioters instead.

  * * *

  My guest tonight identifies himself as Michael King.

  * * *

  The camera cuts to a shot of a young black man sitting perfectly still next to Paxton. Michael King is wearing a faded leather jacket, over a white T-shirt, and khaki combat trousers. He has a handsome face, but the features are undeniably gaunt and the cheeks hollow. The young man stares back at the camera, blinking slowly and deliberately, like a lizard.

  * * *

  PAXTON: Michael, thank you for coming in. Now, you know why these riots are happening, don’t you?

  * * *

  MICHAEL KING: (Nodding slowly) Because of the police.

  * * *

  PAXTON: What do you mean by that exactly?

  * * *

  MICHAEL KING: First of all, they shot a man in controversial circumstances. And then last Saturday, along with a few hundred other peaceful protestors, I went to the police station in Tottenham looking for answers. But the police failed to produce a credible spokesman to meet us. It’s just another example of police disrespecting their communities.

  * * *

  PAXTON: But Michael, that’s
no reason to burn down half of London, is it?

  * * *

  MICHAEL KING: None of this would have happened, not if there’d been better policing last Saturday.

  * * *

  PAXTON: But don’t you think the police have a difficult job? That maybe they’re doing their best under difficult circumstances?

  * * *

  MICHAEL KING: No I don’t. And the government aren’t helping either. Our local youth services budget was cut by seventy-five percent in January. Eight out of our thirteen youth centres closed in February and all the others are under threat. So yes, there’s a lot of young people on the streets because they’re bored. And the government - who breeds this kind of society - doesn’t care.

  * * *