He was dead.
I thought, stupidly, that I’d never seen a dead body before, and wondered if I should be interested. But it wasn’t anything special, it was like looking at an empty suitcase. It made me feel queasy, but that was all. I had blood on my hand from his shirt, and I scraped it on the wall, trying to get it clean. But even when the stain had come off, my hand didn’t feel right. I kept on wiping it over and over again until the skin was red and raw. It hurt, but that didn’t matter; I just wanted to get the man’s blood off me.
There were shots, a long way away, and I came back to myself with a jolt. What was I doing, standing here, wiping my hand on the wall, while Skizi . . . ? I spun round and started to hurry down the street. I had to find her. What if she was slumped in a doorway somewhere, like . . . ?
I got to the end of the street, and stood staring down the narrow side street. Suddenly I realised how big Irunja was, and how hard it would be to find someone. I had no idea where to start looking. All I could do was go back to the arena. If she wasn’t there, at least I’d know she hadn’t been hurt straight away, when the fighting started . . .
Now that the sun had dipped behind the buildings it was chilly, and I remembered suddenly that it was October, not summer any more. I wrapped my arms round myself and started to walk. I wasn’t sure of the direction, but I thought I recognised the streets, and the smell of drains. Once I saw a policeman, but I ducked into an alleyway, my heart pounding, and when I peered out again he’d gone.
It took me longer than I thought it would, although I was hurrying, and even when I caught sight of the arena I couldn’t find the entrance. I turned down narrow, dim street after narrow, dim street, and it was only when I saw the same house with ox-blood shutters that I realised I was going in circles. I heard myself laugh, although it wasn’t funny. How stupid . . . The arena’s red and green banners flapped and sagged above me, so close I could see the hems on the cloth; but there was just a blank wall in front of me. Where was the entrance?
I went up to the wall, looking to left and right, but there were houses built up against it, so I couldn’t follow it round. But there were cracks in the bricks, and crumbling mortar, and if I jumped I might just be able to get to the top. I couldn’t go on wasting time like this; I had to get over that wall.
It didn’t work. I jumped at it, scrabbling for handholds, but my shoes wouldn’t get any purchase on the bricks and I dropped back to the ground. My hand stung where I’d rubbed the blood off. I wanted to curl up on the ground and cry.
But I didn’t. I took my shoes and stockings off, and tried again. This time my toes managed to grip the gap between the bricks, and I flung myself upwards, grabbing for the top of the wall, gasping for breath. I felt myself slipping – it wasn’t going to work – and I thought of Skizi on the other side, and suddenly my fingers were closing on the top of the wall, and I was hanging there, digging my feet into the crumbling mortar, and I knew I was going to do it.
I found myself kneeling on the top of the wall, the edge digging into my knees. There was sweat running down my face, and my heart was beating harder than it had when I saw the policeman. It was hard to keep my balance, but I shuffled my legs out from underneath me and slid awkwardly down the other side. The stands were in front of me, the space underneath dark and littered with bits of food and greaseproof paper. When I landed something scuttled away from me into the shadows.
I walked round the back of the stands, trying not to make any noise. It was so quiet – dead quiet, as if the walls of the enclosure kept out every little sound.
There was no one here. It was strange, after the pello game, when it had been so full, so noisy. Now it felt like the end of the world.
I stepped into the middle of the court, looking round. There were dark stains on the wooden seats, and the barrier of the east stand had been bashed into pieces. There were no bodies; they must have taken them away already. From this angle I couldn’t see inside the royal box, and I wondered if they’d remembered that he was there, the boy they’d shot . . . But it didn’t make any difference: he was an empty suitcase, I thought, just an empty suitcase . . . There was still a thin line of sunshine at the side of the court, but my teeth were chattering with the cold.
Skizi wasn’t here.
I walked across the clay to the ticket gates. They were hanging open, with a chain and a broken padlock trailing on the ground. There were tickets on the ground, smeared with red.
It was so silent. It felt like a practical joke, as if someone was waiting to jump out on me, yelling, ‘Made you look! Thought it was real, didn’t you?’
But no one did. It was as if it was real.
And a long way away I could hear gunfire again. It went on and on, machine guns and single shots, and after a while sirens joined in, and the wailing spread and echoed off the walls around me. I thought it was coming from the north-west, the direction of the Queen’s Park and the Palace. That was what Karl had said, anyway.
I realised with a shock that I hadn’t even thought about Leon. Where was he? Was he with Karl and the other Communists, trying to start a revolution?
Martin would have woken up by now. I ought to go back. If I didn’t, he might come looking for me, and if he got hurt, or –
No. Martin was safe, and Leon would be safer without me.
I had to find Skizi. That was all that mattered.
I didn’t know where to go next. But if she was hurt, if she was in danger . . .
I gritted my teeth and hugged myself, trying to stop shivering. Then I walked out through the ticket gates and turned right, towards the north-west, and the gunfire.
Eight
The streets were still deserted, so deathly silent that the gunfire was almost comforting. I hurried towards it, walking as quietly as I could, desperate to see someone – anyone. I felt like the last person left in the world.
There was a faint, bitter smell in the air, and it caught the back of my throat and made me cough. It smelt like our All Souls’ bonfire the time Martin dropped a rubber ball in the heap of leaves and forgot about it. It was a threatening, urgent kind of smell; it made me speed up, although I wasn’t sure why. I ran past the closed shops and shuttered windows. The red flags and banners – there were a few green ones too, but not many – flapped uneasily in the breeze. There should have been King’s Cup parties on the streets, people celebrating, going over every detail of the game; but there was nothing but the growing shadows and the whiff of smoke.
The firing was closer now, and I could hear shouting, glass smashing, police whistles. I felt light-headed, and my knees had gone watery again. If Skizi was in the middle of that . . . And for the first time I thought I might not be able to find her, or that even if I did, she might get hurt anyway. Hurt, or –
No. I was going to find her.
It was hard to make my legs move, but I crossed the road and stood at the corner of a side street, looking down it. At the far end, through the narrow gap between the buildings, I could see movement, and the flash of red and brown. The air was hazy, as if I was seeing everything through dirty glass.
I carried on walking, stumbling on broken bits of pavement, as if the nerves in my legs weren’t working properly. When I got close to the end of the street I stood in the shadows, looking one way and then the other. The smoke rasped in my throat again and made me want to cough, but I swallowed hard, not wanting to make a noise.
There was a barricade, piled with chairs and tables and mattresses; and on the near side of it there were little groups of men in shirtsleeves, holding rifles. I saw one pouring liquid out of a petrol can into milk bottles, pausing to wipe his hands on his trousers. Next to him there was a woman holding two rifles, trying to brush her hair off her forehead with her arm. The man said something to her and she laughed. For a second I felt a kind of blinding envy: I wanted to be there, holding a rifle in each hand, part of what was going on . . . Then I heard another burst of firing, and everyone ducked. There was a thump, and the barricade juddere
d as if someone was trying to knock it down from the other side.
At the other end of the street, to my right, there was a larger group of people. They were young, all about Leon’s age, and they were sharing food and drinking from vodka bottles. A few young men were sitting in the doorway. If you didn’t look too closely, it could almost have been a King’s Cup party; but they were all tense and unsmiling, as if they were waiting for something. In the centre of the group there was one man with rolled-up sleeves and a red cap, leaning forward and talking in a low voice. I stood still, staring at his back. There was something familiar . . .
Suddenly two people ran out of one of the side streets parallel to the one I’d just come down, shouting and waving long swathes of green, like banners. Everyone looked round, and I saw the face of the man who’d been talking. It was Karl. He stood up and called out, and I saw two more men spilling into the street, one of them wrapped in another green flag; he was dragging the other, who had a green sash over his shoulder. I saw something in his hand glint silver in the last of the sunlight, the familiar shape of a two-handled bowl, the King’s Cup . . .
Then he looked round, and I caught sight of his face.
It was Angel.
And the man who was with him was Leon.
He was laughing, with a high, hoarse note in his voice that didn’t sound like amusement. He pushed Angel forward and doubled over, putting his hands on his knees. He said, ‘Sweet heart of Jesus, we nearly got shot . . .’ and went on laughing.
Karl shrugged, and folded himself down again on to the pavement. He said, over his shoulder, ‘Sit down, Comrade, and pull yourself together.’
Leon stood up straight and said, still with an edge of hilarity in his voice, ‘Hey, don’t you realise who this is? This is Angel Corazon, Comrade. This is the great man himself.’
Angel glanced round, and crossed his arms over the King’s Cup, to protect it.
A few people swapped looks. Then someone said, ‘Leon . . . he’s a pello player. He’s not even a Communist.’ He turned to Angel. ‘Are you?’
Angel shrugged, and his hands tightened on the handles of his trophy.
There was a kind of silence, filled only with the firing from the other side of the barricade. Then the woman with the two rifles walked over, shaking her hair over her shoulders. She said, ‘Angel Corazon? Are you really?’
Angel nodded. But she didn’t seem to see; her eyes were on the King’s Cup, and she stretched out one of her arms as if she wanted to touch it, as if she’d forgotten about the rifles she was holding. Then she grinned at Leon, and turned to Karl. She said, ‘He’s right, Comrade. What a man to have with us! The people love him – or they will now . . . Our hero. A true man of the proletariat . . .’
Leon grinned back at her. Angel looked from him to her and back again, his mouth a little open.
Karl said, ‘Let’s make sure the revolution actually happens, before we worry about matinee idols for our propaganda, shall we?’
The revolution? I leant back against the wall, my legs shaking, a kind of sob rising in my throat. They all seemed so serious . . . But this was just a bread riot – a disturbance – not a revolution . . .
I closed my eyes. What was I doing here? I ought to go back to Martin. I’d never find Skizi, and if the police caught me with Leon and his friends . . .
Distantly, I heard Angel say, ‘I just . . . I’m good at pello, that’s all . . .’ but no one answered him.
A clear, light voice said, ‘Let’s get on with it then.’ I opened my eyes again. It was the woman, talking over her shoulder as she walked back to the barricade.
‘Yes . . . where is everyone?’ Leon said, polishing his glasses on the cuff of his shirt. He was covered in dust and dark stains; it didn’t look as if he’d get them very clean. ‘What’s the plan?’
The glint went out of Karl’s eyes, and he looked into the middle distance, biting his lip. ‘Most people seem to be concentrated in the main streets. They’re hemmed in by the police, but they’ll break out. The army was mobilised, but they seem not to want to fire on their own people, which is good. The police are armed, but they’re outnumbered fifty to one. God, Leon, so many people . . .’ he added, and then shook his head. ‘Amazing. But the important thing is, the police don’t have enough men to worry too much about us, here. Except for –’ There was another burst of gunfire, and he grimaced. ‘Well. A few of them. But we’ve got relative freedom. We can take advantage of the situation.’
‘And do what?’
‘The obvious targets,’ Karl said. He walked away from the other men, and Leon followed. In a lower voice, he said, ‘The prison. And the Palace.’
‘Jolly good.’
‘That pello player of yours . . . you really think he’ll be useful?’
Leon hunched one shoulder, considering. ‘Well . . . maybe not now . . . but if we need a rallying point, a personality . . .’
‘Yes,’ Karl said, nodding. ‘And if we can say he was here, with us, behind the barricade . . .’
‘Exactly.’ They grinned at each other. I clenched my jaw and looked at Angel. He was on the balls of his feet, biting the rim of the King’s Cup like a kid. His eyes were wide, and he jumped every time the firing reached a crescendo.
‘The prison then?’ Leon got a red handkerchief out of his pocket and started to tie it round, to cover the lower half of his face.
‘Yes. Get a rifle. They’re in the cellar of the house over there. God bless Elena and her soldier boyfriends . . .’ He laughed, but I couldn’t tell whether it was a joke. He raised his voice, and called, ‘Elena! You ready? You and Ricky coming?’
The woman glanced at him and nodded. She sauntered over, one hand in her pocket, the other swinging her rifle. The group of men started to get to their feet, passing the bottle of vodka to each other and swigging from it. The last one tipped it up vertically and then threw it casually towards the barricade. It didn’t go over; it smashed on the near side, and a man jumped backwards, swearing.
I stood where I was, watching. My heart had slowed down. I felt almost safe; as if I was invisible. It was like watching a play.
The noise behind the barricade rose again, but no one paid any attention. Leon had disappeared into one of the houses, and everyone was on their feet. Karl was staring down one of the streets and muttering as if he was calculating the quickest way to the prison. I drew back into the shadows. There was no point staying here; I had to find Skizi.
There was a kind of rumble from behind the barricade; then, as if in slow motion, it started to collapse. A table half slid, half toppled to the ground, so that its legs were pointing at the sky; and the chairs and the mattress that it had been resting on trembled and started to edge forwards. The police were breaking through. I opened my mouth, but my throat had closed and I couldn’t make a sound.
And then, suddenly, there was a policeman clambering over, wielding a rifle; only no one had seen him, no one had time to turn and –
He started shooting.
The first bullet only ricocheted off a wall, chipping a cornice. I saw Karl turn, and look around for the nearest cover. Then the others started to notice, and ducked into doorways, pushing each other out of the way. But it took so long . . . and now the man was sliding down this side of the barricade, and behind him there were more, ten or twenty, all with guns – mostly rifles, but one policeman had a different model that I realised, with a dull surge of fear, was a sub-machine gun.
I stood frozen. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. Leon hadn’t come out of the house, and I prayed that he’d stay in the cellar, hiding, although I knew he wouldn’t.
They all opened fire; and the Communists returned it.
A few of the policemen spun to the ground, as if someone had lassoed their arms or legs, and blood blossomed slowly on their uniforms. But when I looked round I could see more bodies not in uniform; and the line of policemen advanced, the man with the machine gun in front, covering the others. The noise was deafen
ing: as if just the sound of a shot could kill you . . . I leant against the wall, squeezing my hands over my ears, but it was no good.
I saw Karl look round at the bodies, and then he stood up, and yelled, ‘Run! We haven’t got a chance! Don’t fight, run!’ And he dashed across the street, to the side street, and disappeared round the corner.
One by one, a few people followed him; then, all in a rush, the others ran too, scattering into the side streets, yelling to each other, skidding and stumbling. Someone ran past me, brushing my shirt with his rifle as he struggled to sling it back over his shoulder as he went. I flinched as someone else went by, swearing and smelling of smoke.
I thought: Leon. Leon was in that house, and if he came out now, with his handkerchief over his face, and his rifle in his hand . . .
The woman – Elena – had been crouching in a doorway, taking shots at the policemen; now she stood up, called, ‘Karl! Karl, see you at the prison!’ and started to run. She ran down the street, zigzagging to avoid the spray of bullets. I thought I could hear her laughing and whooping, as if she was running through a thunderstorm; she jumped over a body like a kid leaping a puddle, full of energy, having fun . . . Then she fell to her knees. She stood up and started to run again; but now I could see a dark patch on her trouser leg, and she was running oddly, throwing herself forward and flailing at the air with her arms as if she couldn’t keep her balance. She dropped her rifle, and for a moment she picked up speed. Then she tripped, and she fell flat on her face in the middle of the road.
The back of her neck was just a red bubbling mess. A thin slick of blood spread out underneath her.
Somehow I still expected her to get up: she’d tripped, that’s all; she probably hadn’t done her shoelaces up properly . . .
But she didn’t move.
And the last of the Communists disappeared into the side streets opposite me, and the policemen spread out, brandishing their guns and shouting insults, and I realised I was the only person left.
I started to run, too late.
Love in Revolution Page 11
