“Alright?” Sumo Dave said. “Sneak outta jail, did ya?”
“Aye,” Mack said. “Fuck it. What else can they do to me?”
Sumo Dave shrugged. “Yeah.”
They started walking towards the junction where Philip Lane came onto the High Road.
Up ahead, Mack saw crowds of people gathered together under the dim streetlights. When they reached the High Road, the scene was unlike anything he’d seen during the riots. This was Phase Two. Thousands of people standing or sitting on the streets, almost in perfect silence. It was like looking upon a vigil for a fallen idol.
There were no masks anymore. No faces hidden underneath hoods.
In fact, it would have been quite civilised if not for the burned out and windowless buildings that hovered in the background. A reminder of Phase One.
Sumo Dave led Mack through the crowds. There were people everywhere, standing in groups talking quietly to one another. Black faces, white faces, brown faces – Mack saw children, he saw dogs running up and down the street.
There were tents everywhere.
Others were sitting down in small groups, gathered together to share a meal.
Mack looked up and saw people sitting on the roofs of whatever buildings were still strong enough to hold them. They were sitting over the edge, their legs dangling in the air, looking down and waving to the crowds below.
It was like walking through a street festival, but without the music. And although there was muted chatter amongst the crowds, it was still eerily silent compared to what had been going on for the last few weeks.
Sumo Dave brought Mack to the front of the Christ Apostolic Church, which had remained untouched by the violence. Up ahead, the familiar shape of Tottenham Police Station could be seen, as well as a massive huddle of people.
“Something going on over there?” Mack asked.
“You need to see it from up there,” Sumo Dave said, pointing to the upper floor windows of the church.
They walked towards the door of the three-storey, brown brick building. Inside, Mack wasn’t surprised to find it also full of people sitting around, talking, drinking, and smoking. It was like a giant party spread across different rooms – be it an office or storage room.
Sumo Dave led Mack upstairs to a large, spacious room on the second tier. It had a wooden floor and on the far end of the room, a large, protruding window looked down onto the High Road.
There were about twelve people inside the room. Most in their twenties or late teens at best. Sleeping bags were strewn across the floor, as were plastic bags, tins, water bottles, sandwiches and packets of junk food.
Tegz and Hatchet were standing at the large window with some of the others – typical student types with long hair, greasy skin, dressed in jeans and T-shirts.
Sumo Dave gave Mack a nudge. “Go on,” he said. “Take a look.”
“This is the shit,” Tegz said, standing aside to let Mack in.
Mack pressed his face up against the glass. To his left, a little further up the road, he saw Tottenham Police Station. Riot police surrounded the building, some on horses, but most on foot. Dozens of police vans were parked along the edge of the street in close proximity to the station. The army were there too, with the same two armoured vehicles that Mack had seen before. Small pockets of soldiers patrolled the area on foot, carrying small machine guns in their hands.
The Good and Honest Citizens had the police and army surrounded on both sides. There were literally thousands of people down there, positioned on both sides of the police and military presence.
“Holy shit,” Mack said.
“You’re not kidding,” Tegz said. “We’re dwarfing them ain’t we?”
Hatchet took a step back from the window. “We’ve got ‘em surrounded,” he said. “We’ve got the numbers. We could take Tottenham tonight – we could take it down. What the fuck is everybody standing around waiting for?”
“Piccadilly,” Mack said.
“This is big time,” Sumo Dave said. “It’s gone way beyond smashing in shop windows mate.”
“It’s a waste,” Hatchet said, glaring out of the window.
Then something happened that made Mack’s blood run cold. Hatchet took a step back from the window, lifted up his hoodie and pulled out something tucked in between his waist and his jeans.
It was a black pistol.
“It’s a waste,” he said again. “I ain’t afraid of those soldiers and their fucking guns, am I?”
He tapped the muzzle of the pistol off the glass.
Everyone else at the window backed off quietly. All except Sumo Dave, who stepped forward and grabbed Hatchet by the forearm. He tried to bundle his friend away from the window but Hatchet, who was stronger, wasn’t going anywhere.
Everyone in the room was watching them.
“Are you fucking nuts Hatch?” Sumo Dave said.
Hatchet smiled. Sumo Dave let go of his arm.
“I’m gonna tell you something mate,” Sumo Dave said. “And this is just a bit of friendly advice, yeah?”
He stood in Hatchet’s personal space, seemingly unconcerned with the gun.
“Hotheads like you need to stay well away from the coppers and soldiers,” Sumo Dave said. “You’ve had your fun, eh? Half the city ain’t there anymore mate. But now it’s time for something else - we wait for Piccadilly. We wait for Chester George. You give us that much before you start shooting the place up, yeah?”
Hatchet tucked the pistol back into the waist of his jeans. He shrugged his shoulders, and then walked over to his sleeping bag.
Mack needed a moment to regain his composure. To see a loose cannon like Hatchet wielding a gun, and knowing how much he hated Mack’s guts - that was something else. His heart gradually began to slow down.
Sumo Dave came over to him, a look of relief etched on his face.
“Close one,” he said quietly.
Mack nodded. He looked at the sleeping bags on the floor. “You guys staying here too?”
“Yeah,” Sumo Dave said. “There’s no going home anymore. Not until this is done.”
“Piccadilly?”
Sumo Dave nodded.
“What’d your mum say about it?” Mack said.
Sumo Dave smiled. “She didn’t try and stop me if that’s what you mean.”
Tegz, who was listening in at the window, walked over to them. He gave Mack a playful tap on the arm. “You’ll be there?” he said. “Eh?”
Mack nodded. “Aye mate. I hope so.”
He dropped his rucksack on the floor at Tegz’s feet “I brought you guys some food,” he said, looking at all the tins and packets scattered across the floor. “I didn’t realise you were already stocked up though.”
Tegz grinned. “No food shortages anymore,” he said. “Everyone’s working together now. Sharing.”
“We’ll still take it though,” Sumo Dave said, grinning. He put a foot on the rucksack and kicked it towards one of the sleeping bags.
Mack took one last look out the window, at the crowds outside the police station.
“I’d better go,” he said.
Sumo Dave walked him to the stairs. They said their goodbyes and Mack walked downstairs, squeezing past a group of people sitting on the steps talking about Piccadilly and the first of September.
When he was outside, Mack took a look back at the church, wishing that he could stay there with the others. Then he remembered Hatchet and the gun, and he wasn’t so sure it was a good idea.
But he didn’t want to go home either.
Mack walked towards the thousands of people who had filled up the streets in anticipation of Piccadilly. This carnival of smiling faces was pulling him in. Somebody was playing the guitar nearby, fingerpicking a pretty melody. Elsewhere, a child laughed. And up above, the stars were out, a gang of celestial bodies looking down in envy.
Mack walked away with a heavy heart, back to Stanmore Road.
The front door was locked.
S
hit.
And the living-room light was on.
Mack took a deep breath before pulling the keys from his pocket. He unlocked the door, stepped inside and closed it gently again.
The house was silent.
Trying his luck, he made for the stairs. He almost had one foot up the ‘wooden hill’ - as his parents used to call the stairs when he was a child - when a voice, coming from the living room, interrupted him.
“Get in here.”
Isabella Walker didn’t sound angry. In fact, there was no trace of emotion in her voice whatsoever, which made it worse.
Mack sighed, turning back towards the living room. Slowly he pushed the door open and saw his parents sitting on the leather couch. Mack saw that familiar look of disappointment in their eyes.
And on the floor, a suitcase.
“No more arguments Mack,” Isabella said. “It’s done. You’re booked on a train to Waverley Station first thing tomorrow morning.”
Archie pointed at the suitcase. “You’re going home son.”
Chapter 32
23rd August 2011
* * *
At precisely 9.33am on Tuesday morning, the train on Platform Four pulled out of King’s Cross Station - three minutes late - en route to Waverley Station in Edinburgh. The station was especially busy that day, and almost all of the trains pouring out of London were full. In particular, as Mack had sat in the carriage waiting for his own train to leave, he’d noticed a lot of families - mothers, fathers and little kids – hurrying on the platform towards the train as if being chased by something terrible.
Mack was probably the only person in the station who wanted to stay in London.
But his parents were having none of that.
He’d fought them very little on the topic of his going home. It was a battle he couldn’t win and so he hadn’t wasted the energy trying. Upon seeing the suitcase on the living room floor, he’d accepted the situation quietly and gone to bed. The following morning, after a cooked breakfast courtesy of his mum, there had been a rushed and awkward goodbye with her at the door.
Mack’s dad then drove him from Tottenham to King’s Cross.
“Your gran will be waiting for you at Waverley,” Archie said. “She’ll meet you, so don’t go running off without her, okay?”
Mack shrugged. “Okay.”
Archie laughed. “And don’t get off the train at the first station and try sneaking back to London,” he said, turning to Mack. “Because you know what’ll happen, don’t you?”
Mack shrugged. “What?”
“I’ll put you on the first train back to Edinburgh,” Archie said. “And next time – your mum’s going back up there with you.”
The first stop was in Stevenage, about thirty miles north of London. Mack sat up in his seat and stared through the window at the unspectacular little station.
I could do it. I could get off here. I could switch platforms and get the first train back to London. Walk straight up to the door in Stanmore Road and that would show them - show them that I won’t be bossed around by anyone. God, I’d love to see the look on their faces. And then I’d be there, standing in the middle of Piccadilly Circus with thousands of other people. Chester George will step onto the podium. And I’ll be there to see it.
But when the train pulled out of Stevenage, Mack was still in his seat.
He laid his head upon the glass, watching the scenery roll by. Green fields stretched out on both sides of the train, lying underneath low-hanging clouds. The various names of all the stations went past in a rapid blur: Peterborough, Newark North Gate, Doncaster, and all the others.
The thought of going back to Edinburgh preyed upon his nerves. What would all the old faces think when they saw him in school? Mack Walker, the nice middle-class boy who’d stabbed Jon Rossi and got away with it. What would they say? Not just the kids but the parents who were sometimes twice as bad.
Mack the Knife. What would the Rossi family do now that old Macky’s back in town?
The sound of Jon Rossi screaming. It came to him late at night, just as he was drifting off to sleep. Jon Rossi, the tough guy who always acted the hardman in front of the girls. To hear him screaming that day like a little girl, his face contorting with pain as Mack crawled off his bloody chest – that was hard to forget.
Mack could still feel the warm blood running down his fingers. He could still see it falling off at the tips in thick drops, landing on the concrete with a faint, chilling splat.
Dark red raindrops.
Mack curled both hands into tight balls.
And then there was Piccadilly. He wanted to be there so badly when the Good and Honest Citizens came together in September. He didn’t even know why it was so important to him anymore, but something was calling him there. It felt like everything was at stake.
He turned in his seat, looking back towards the city that everybody was running away from. The one place he wanted to get back to. The one place in the world that was starting to make sense.
An announcement came through the speakers.
“Ladies and Gentleman, the next stop will be York…”
Yorkshire already? It felt as if he’d only been on the train for ten minutes. But now they’d come all the way from London to northern England. And it wouldn’t be long until they crossed the border into Scotland.
And after that…
The city of York loomed in the distance. Instinctively, as if his life depended on it, Mack got to his feet. He walked quickly over to the luggage rack and pulling the other baggage out of the way, dug out his small suitcase from the back.
Quick!
He replaced the other bags and dragged his suitcase towards the train door.
“C’mon,” he said, waiting for the train to slow down. At the same time, his mother’s voice jumped into his head:
You’re not stopping here Mack. You’re going all the way back to Edinburgh. At Waverley Station, you’ll take your granny’s shrivelled up hand, and she’s going to deliver you into the hands of an entire city that reeks of fear and hates your guts. And Jon Rossi will be waiting. Maybe he’ll smile when he sees you coming. Maybe he’ll show you his scars before he gets his revenge.
Finally the train arrived at York. Mack pushed button and the doors slid open.
He was the first person off the train. On the platform, he pulled his suitcase behind him and walked further into the station, walking like someone who was seriously late for an urgent appointment.
When he finally walked outside into the afternoon sunlight, it felt like he was waking up and out of a bad dream.
Mack looked around at his immediate surroundings. A section of York’s famous city wall, dating back to medieval times, was directly outside the station. This sight alone reinforced the fact that he was no longer in London.
With his suitcase in tow, he made his way down a short winding road that led past a row of small brick houses. All the while, he kept his eyes open for somewhere to sit down, somewhere he could think for a while.
Somewhere that didn’t bring him any closer to Edinburgh.
He followed the road further down. Taking a left, he walked through the distinctive Micklegate Bar, a medieval entrance for historic visitors arriving into York from the South. And further down that route, he found a small traditional cafe that didn’t look too busy and so he went inside.
At the counter, he ordered a Coke and a toasted sandwich from a friendly middle-aged lady. With her distinctive Yorkshire accent, she told Mack to sit down and she’d bring the food to him. He did so a corner table, tucking his suitcase under his seat.
Suddenly it hit him.
Shit. What have I done?
As Mack got to grips with what he’d just done, his eyes roamed the room, stopping at the TV fixed to the wall near the counter. The SKAM News Channel was broadcasting footage about the remarkable and ‘chilling’ standoffs going on in London. All across the capital, people - no longer hiding behind masks and hoods - had taken
over large chunks of the city, standing in tens of thousands and shutting down large sections of London. Roads were closed, schools were shut, and hundreds of businesses were no longer open.
Phase Two.
The woman behind the counter was watching the footage as she prepared Mack’s food. She shook her head in disbelief, as if she was unable to believe her eyes.
Mack sipped at his Coke, the sugar reviving his spirits a little. He followed the news, watching as the newsreader, Hugh Stanton, spoke about the ‘rioters’ and how they were ‘holding the city hostage.’ He was also saying that ‘London was a time bomb ticking down until September.’ They were showing images of burning buildings taken from earlier in the riots, broadcasting them as if they were something new, something happening today.
Mack extended his middle finger towards the TV.
He brought it down quickly as the woman brought his food over. She put it on the table with a warm smile and a ‘there you go love’ in her broad Yorkshire accent. With his hunger pangs stimulated by the smell of melted cheese, Mack bit into the soft filling and just as he did so, a familiar face appeared on the TV screen.
It was Michael King.
The SKAM crew were interviewing the intense-looking young man in Peckham. Standing behind Michael King as he addressed the camera, was a large crowd of Good and Honest Citizens – of all ages and races. The crowd filled up the street in the background and Mack recognised a similar carnival-like scene to what he’d witnessed on Tottenham High Road.
The SKAM News caption labelled the speaker as: Michael King – Rioter.
Mack listened intently to the interview, looking at the conviction in the young man’s eyes and those gathered around him. By the time the interview was over, Mack knew what had to be done.
To hell with the consequences.
Leaving half the sandwich on his plate, he took his phone out of his pocket, found the number he was looking for, and hit the green button. As the number rang in his ear, Mack noticed that Hugh Stanton was now interviewing Sadie Hobbs in the SKAM studios.
Bitch.
He put a finger over his spare ear, drowning out the sound of the TV.
L-2011 Page 17
