HUGH STANTON: Well we wouldn’t put it past the little scallywag, would we? Anyway, Prince Harry topped the poll with eighteen percent of the overall vote. Coming in a close second with fifteen percent is - James Paxton.
PAXTON: (Taking a bow) Thank you very much.
HUGH STANTON: I only got two percent of the vote.
PAXTON: That doesn’t mean you’re innocent, does it? I’ve heard you like dressing up at the weekend Hugh.
(Both men laugh)
HUGH STANTON: And coming in at third place with eleven percent of the vote is…
Outside there’s a sudden roar from the crowd. A resounding chorus of applause and boos - coming from all sides of Piccadilly Circus - builds quickly towards a furious crescendo.
Hugh Stanton touches his earpiece.
HUGH STANTON: Okay. I’m sorry we’re going to have to leave the Twitter results there. Ladies and gentleman, I’m very pleased to tell you that the time has come. Chester George is ready.
PAXTON: My God. Listen to that racket Hugh. You’d think Churchill had just come back from the dead, wouldn’t you?
Chapter 53
Hatchet was the winner.
Mack shook his head in disgust. Why did it have to be Hatchet? And what happened to Tegz? Where the hell was the wee man? If any of the four teenagers from Tottenham had stood a chance of slipping through the crowd and security unnoticed it was Tegz. Mack would have put his money on it being Tegz.
Shite.
It hadn’t taken long for Hatchet to notice Mack standing in the front row. But to Mack’s surprise, Hatchet didn’t gloat – in fact, he paid Mack no attention whatsoever. It was as if he didn’t exist, as if they’d never met at all.
Mack looked at the row of heavies standing in between the crowd and the fountain. How had Hatchet managed to get past them?
Little Mike Tyson would be sitting at Chester George’s feet.
How the fuck did he manage that?
A scattered round of applause broke out within the crowd. It spread quickly, rising in volume and intensity. Soon it had grown into an onslaught of boisterous cheers, which were accompanied by high-pitched whistles.
There were boos too, coming from across the other side of Piccadilly Circus.
All in all, it was an ungodly racket, a furious cocktail of sound that swelled dramatically, until the ground beneath Mack felt like it was literally shaking.
He looked over at the fountain.
Michael King was walking up the steps. He stopped and turned to face the crowd, saluting them before making his way towards the middle platform, a little further up from where Hatchet was sitting. Somebody else followed Michael, a short older black man, carrying a soapbox in his hand.
A thunderous roar of yelling and clapping accompanied them.
The moment had come.
Chester George stepped onto the stairs of the Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain, as if he’d materialised out of thin air.
He was dressed in his trademark skull hoodie, and carrying a megaphone in one hand. When he reached the soapbox that had been placed on the top step, he climbed upon it and stood there for a while, basking in the onslaught of adulation.
Mack couldn’t tell whether the great man was smiling or not. But even from the front row, he could clearly see that Chester George’s eyes were beaming with joy as he surveyed the crowd around him.
At the same time, a flood of boos, jeers, and hissing continued to pour in from the west side of Piccadilly Circus. But next to the rapturous welcome of the Good and Honest Citizens, this was no more than a faint disturbance.
It was a long time before silence came. But eventually it did, and when it came, it was a complete and perfect silence.
Mack looked over at Hatchet, sitting so close to the man himself. No wonder Little Mike Tyson was grinning.
The bastard.
Up on the fountain, Chester George took a deep breath.
He was ready.
Chapter 54
1st September 2011
* * *
Chester George – The Speech
* * *
“Good afternoon. And welcome.
* * *
The politicians have been trying to convince us that the voice of the streets must be respected. So here we are.
* * *
And yet at the same time look all around you - they’re sending in the soldiers and the riot police to subdue us.
* * *
Why?
* * *
Because they’re terrified. They’re terrified of each and every one of YOU.
Chapter 55
Hatchet looked like the happiest man in the world. Sitting on the bottom step of the fountain, he was grinning from ear to ear, as if at last he’d found contentment. Even as Chester George spoke, Mack couldn’t stop looking over at Hatchet.
It was his posture; the way he flopped and reclined and relaxed. Mack had never seen the grumpy little shit so enthused or so playful.
He looked like the cat that got the cream.
Chapter 56
“Up until today, all you have ever been to the politicians and the businessmen is a situation that had to be controlled. And yes indeed ladies and gentleman, they had the situation under control.
Until that day in August. Until at last - Phase One.
The people who own us – the businessmen – the ones who make all the important decisions have been pressurising the politicians to get this situation under control. These are the people who own you. They own YOU. They own the land. They own corporations, judges, politicians, and all the big media that feed you bullshit for breakfast every day.
They don’t care about us. And yet they own us.
Now these people are terrified. They don’t want this. They didn’t want you to come here today, to gather here, to educate yourself.
Why?
Because it works against their interests.
If each and every one of you were capable of critical thought, you’d start realising how much they fuck you every day of your life. Yes they do. And have been doing it every day of your life up until now.
They’re terrified that you might find out. Because what would happen then?
Well there’d be a fucking riot, wouldn’t there?
Chapter 57
Mack watched Hatchet reach into his rucksack and pull out his baseball cap. He was still grinning like a loon as he placed it over his head.
Maybe, Mack thought, he was being too hard on the guy. Maybe, just maybe the little son of a prick could change.
All he needed was a little hope. That’s all anyone standing in Piccadilly Circus was hoping for. A little hope.
And here it was, being given to them all.
Chapter 58
“They want your obedience. They want you to be capable of doing just enough. Run their machines, do the paperwork, and don’t ask any questions.
Brothers and sisters,
Have you heard about what’s going on in Brazil right now? The authorities are pumping all their money into a football tournament. At the same time, sixteen million Brazilian people are living in extreme poverty. And all for the World Cup – something that most Brazilians don’t want. They’d rather see an end to government corruption and the installation of better public services. Now the people have taken to the streets in over a hundred towns and cities to protest. And how do the authorities respond to that? With tear gas and rubber bullets.
But the people - they won’t back down and you’ll be very pleased to hear that they’re carrying banners – banners that read ‘L-2011’.
You see? The Brazilian people are with us. The Brazilian people are waking up, just like you have done.
You didn’t hear that on the news, did you? Where were SKAM and the CBC when all that was going on in Brazil?
No, no, no.
The big brass knobs who own the media don’t want you to hear about Phase One starting up in other countries. They want people – and especially those peop
le over there who’ve marched here from Hyde Park to stop us – to think that what’s happening in London is an isolated incident.
But we are not alone.
In Turkey, the people are trying to protest the demolition of a public park to make way for a shopping centre. This was a project backed by the politicians but NOT by the people. The people want a nice park for their families with grass and trees and clean air to breathe.
But trees don’t generate profit.
In Turkey, like so many other places, anything green is just another corporate investment-in-waiting. So the people there started to protest peacefully, holding sit-ins and waving banners in the park. And what did the government do?
They sent in the troops to silence them. Of course.
The government forcefully evicted the environmental protestors and sparked off a revolt against their own authoritarian regime. The Turks, also hoisting their ‘L-2011’ banners aloft, didn’t back down.
Now they’re losing their eyes over there to plastic bullets, but they won’t give up the fight. Half the riot police over there have switched sides so far. And joined the environmentalists.
Did you hear that officers?
Your Turkish counterparts are waking up. And I say this - you are most welcome to join us brothers and sisters. You are most welcome to join the Good and Honest Citizens.
But now the most important part lies ahead.
Chapter 59
The Good and Honest Citizens – those in Piccadilly Circus and thousands more stretching back along Shaftesbury Avenue – stood in complete silence. Their mouths hung open; they leaned forward and devoured every word coming out of his mouth.
Even Hatchet had clambered to his feet and turned towards Chester George.
Everyone was looking up at their leader, including Mack. They were all waiting for the same thing.
Phase Three.
Chapter 60
You’ve come here today because you have a question to ask. Where do we go from here? How do we make sure that real change is going to come?
Do you want to keep letting these rich motherfuckers elect imbeciles who don’t give a shit about you?
If we back down now, they’ll crush us. They’ll make us pay for the rest of our lives. Look at the power we’ve taken back already. Look how easy it is, when you’re prepared to die for it.
Shall we talk about what happens next?
Are you ready for Phase Three?
Chapter 61
The crowd exploded into a flurry of deafening cheers. Chester George stood tall on the soapbox and saluted the crowd from up high.
Mack was cheering with the rest of them, completely caught up in the moment and ready to commit to whatever brave new world awaited them.
Instinctively, his eyes wandered over to the base of the fountain.
Hatchet was no longer smiling.
Instead, he was reaching for something tucked in between the waist of his jeans.
Chapter 62
1st September 2011
* * *
Mack saw what was happening. He wanted to yell – to scream – to do something, anything, but his legs were rooted to the spot, not to mention the fact that he was jammed in alongside thousands of other people.
Nobody was paying any attention to Hatchet as he pulled the cap lower down over his face. Then, with his gun outstretched, and with the speed of a panther, he sprinted up the steps of the fountain.
The black pistol was pointing at the head of Chester George.
There was no time to scream. No time for warnings. There was only a high-pitched crack, a whistle, something hard and fast. Out of nowhere.
Chester George probably never saw the boy who shot half his face off. He probably never heard the sound of the bullet speeding towards him. Or the first scream either.
The leader of the Good and Honest Citizens fell backwards, collapsing onto the steps of the bronze fountain. Michael King and those surrounding him, rushed towards the fallen man, their arms outstretched even though it was far too late to catch him.
Mack watched from the front row as a small army of security guys stormed the fountain, like a gang of enraged bulls, searching for the gunman who’d got the better of them and killed their leader. He saw nothing of Hatchet, Chester George, or Michael King in the chaos. There were too many people on the fountain now, rushing back and forth, crying and screaming, and not knowing what to do.
The screams came thick and fast. The high-pitched screams of frightened children, of mothers and fathers now separated from those children.
In the crowd, people were desperately attempting to flee the scene, unsure of whether they were at risk of receiving a bullet to the face themselves. What followed was a terrifying human stampede, and the sound of bodies colliding and heads cracking into one another at a sickening rate.
Men, women, and children – everyone was screaming now. Drowning in fear.
Mack felt the earth tremble underneath his feet. Trying desperately to control his own panic, he kept still, rather than running straight into the carnage unfolding behind him.
Behind him, a child was screaming. He turned around to see a young girl, standing about ten feet away from him, her face painted orange, white and black in a striking tiger design. She was staring at him, tears pouring down her painted face. Mack reached out to her, but at this, she turned around and ran into the madness of the crowd.
Mack was looking straight into the carnage now. And what he saw chilled his blood.
Thousands of people were charging towards the mass of confused Good and Honest Citizens who were still scrambling for their lives in the middle of Piccadilly Circus.
This fresh onslaught of bodies was coming from the west. The London Liberation Army had broken their chains and burst through the police and army barriers. Now they were launching themselves into the madness in their hundreds of thousands.
Thunderous roars, full of bloodlust and murderous intent spread out across Piccadilly Circus.
Mack looked for a way out – a way out that wouldn’t take him through the centre of Piccadilly Circus.
He turned around, and that’s when he saw Hatchet.
Like a ghost, Hatchet had slipped through the throng of angry bodies on the fountain steps. The baseball cap was gone.
Instinctively, Mack rushed towards him. In that moment, he forgot all about leaving Piccadilly Circus. There was a savage desire in his heart, telling him to cause unspeakable hurt to Hatchet.
He ran towards the fountain, dodging all those around him, most of who were now running to join the counter-charge against the London Liberation Army.
Mack heard an ungodly roar behind him, but he didn’t stop to look back.
Hatchet stood perfectly still at the base of the steps. He took a look around, surveying his handiwork, and a satisfied smile broke out on his face.
Hatchet saw Mack coming towards him. As Mack approached, Hatchet pointed at the carnage in Piccadilly Circus, like an artist presenting his masterpiece.
“What did I tell you?” Hatchet yelled, his voice perfectly at ease amongst the racket. “CHAOS,” he said. “I did that.”
Mack took a step towards him, and now they were almost face to face. The monstrous din continued all around them – gunshots, helicopters, and screaming – always the screaming.
“Why?” Mack said.
Hatchet shook his head. “That’s the future right there,” he said. “My kind of future. There’s no coming back from this, eh?”
“You evil twisted fuck!” Mack yelled. “Children are dying out there. Screaming! Sumo Dave and Tegz are out there too, dead for all we know. You don’t give a fuck, do you?”
Hatchet smiled and reached into the fold at his waist. Slowly, he pulled out the black pistol and pointed it at Mack.
“Just one more thing to do now,” he said.
Mack realised what was about to happen. His eyes darted back and forth, looking for a way out. But his legs were paralysed with fear and
couldn’t or wouldn’t move.
Hatchet took a step towards him. He was still grinning.
Why is he grinning?
“I’m going to enjoy this,” Hatchet said.
In that moment, Mack’s thoughts drifted away from Piccadilly Circus – dreamlike, like particles of smoke rising above a burning building. This was it. He was about to die and yet somehow, he was calm. How could that be? He was only sixteen and yet he felt ready to let go, to surrender to his fate. Maybe it was time to turn down the noise, to go somewhere quiet. Into nothingness. To go to a place where he’d never have to think about Jon Rossi or Edinburgh again. Where he wouldn’t have to feel the hot and sticky sensation of warm blood on his hands every night. Where innocent people weren’t beaten and dragged down alleys by rioters in a murderous rage.
The last conversation he’d had with his mother popped into his head.
“God Mack, you really know how to pick them don’t you?”
Yes Mum.
Hatchet took a final step forward. Now they were face to face, and Hatchet was standing at point blank range, with the gun still on Mack.
It was then that, out of the corner of his eye, Mack saw the blur of someone familiar running towards them. It was Michael King. His clothes were covered in dark blood, and he was hurling himself down the fountain steps, charging like a champion sprinter. He was yelling something. But Mack couldn’t hear what he was saying over the noise.
But it was too late to be rescued. He’d never make it over there in time.
L-2011 Page 22
