by Neil Rowland
Finding my broadest native twang I seek directions and information. The youths think I’m an ageing rubberneck spoiling for a fight. I don’t mention that my son could be one of the destroyed duo. The gang’s too agitated to offer full tourist information. But I get a better idea of my location, if not a free street guide. They don’t take the chance to empty my wallet or work me over. All right, so I’m not a lusty student radical with flowing locks any longer, but that doesn’t reduce my coolness. That doesn’t affect my credibility, even if my street fighting days are over.
At least I’m dressed for the occasion in Levi’s and black leather jacket. In fact I bought this jacket comparatively recently, after my marriage broke up, as a kind of ego lift. You have to stay true to your original image - even if it’s taken a recent battering. Around that time I began to date Rachael - in and out of the squash court - and I was convinced this outfit took years off me. The opposite may have been true. Tonight I resemble the Elephant Man in search of female compassion. Do I really intend to make conversation with these youths, who enjoy resting their feet on policemen’s faces? What kind of role model am I?
I’m formally joining the yoga society next week. The lady telephoned me and personally invited me along. Now I’m shaping up for an urban riot. You can’t predict where you may be going in this crazy life. Makes little difference if you keep your eyes open or not.
Before too long I stray into festivities. The riot is no longer a nasty rumour, a sensational news report or even an angry glow across the horizon. One minute you are looking at a picture postcard, the next you’re standing in the middle of the scene. I feel as if I’ve pursued Alice into her adventures. Fallen down a hole with her, then emerged into an orgy of violence. Is that the Cheshire cat grin hanging in the night sky below the moon? Could it belong to one Adam Jakes?
A huge crowd has gathered on an exposed concourse, between towers blocks, at the centre of the estate. It was here that we set out our stall and flew our gentle kites, on the summer day of their fete: A desolate strip tonight. A grainy wind blasts my cheeks, as people close around me. I’m locked in a nightmarish press of bodies. Pressure builds against my sore chest cavity. I’m forced to hold my breath, not to panic, feeling the overbearing crush. The under-class is coming back to the surface. The mob hurtles and lunges forwards, sideways, taking me with them like a tattered flagpole.
Faces press towards me, hardened with hatred. The front of the crowd edges into confrontation. I’m swept along with them like a hapless daddy-long-legs. I get glimpses of police lines, in closed ranks, further down the street - waiting to form a quick response. They have no idea they have a veteran peace protestor on the scene. In many ways this resembles past demonstrations, including torrents of missiles and abuse. Rocks and bottles fill the air above my head, as if a rubbish collector is switched into reverse, to spew the crap back out at high velocity. This storm of glass shatters on the road ahead, as a jolly thud of police shields cuff aside rocks and bricks. Finally the truce is broken as the cops make their first charge. The front of the mob cuts back through the mass, like a huge wave hitting a wall.
With panic, screaming and shouting, people trying to escape the suffocating crush, to avoid baton blows and arrest. Somebody’s elbow catches me on the cheek, which knocks me to the ground. I’m astonished to feel the grit and dust on my face, on the palms of my hand, broken winded, trying to struggle to my feet. I picture those waves of police bearing down on me. Thank God I’m not trampled. My luck’s holding out, my heart’s still beating, for the time being.
These moments of scrambling isolation give views of the cops, advancing visored and truncheon wielding. They’re protagonists in a malign Spielberg. I take my cue from the other protestors, getting back to my feet and peeling away to reach cover. My famous past as a student radical could re-emerge if they capture me. All my youthful misdemeanours will return to my dusty record, up for reconsideration, like the official release of a legendary bootleg.
For the first time since heart surgery I break out into a full run. The hegemonic muscle bulges like Fat Boy, the first atomic bomb. My limbs melt together like sticks of seaside rock left in a hot window. It’s a bad dream. I try to imagine myself scampering back to the base line, playing tennis again, trying to intercept a lob, but it gets away from me. My opponents approach the net just in case, waiting to kill off any reply.
As the riot police hunt down rioters, the mob disintegrates entirely and people are running away along alleyways. Truncheons seem to float in the air before coming down on heads in ruthless thrusts. I watch this and, to my horror, a cop singles me out and pursues me. The policeman is chasing after me, with the intention of cracking my skull and taking me into custody as well.
“Hey, officer!” I shout at him. “Let me explain! Don’t do that, right?”
He’s breathing like a Star Trooper. He has the collar of my jacket, jerks up his truncheon, waiting to strike me at the least resistance. That is what happened to Rupert Lloyd in fact, when he was invited to Paris by a student committee. The French riot police got him into a tight corner, while he was trying to show solidarity with Parisian students and workers out on the boulevards. This was completely unexpected to Rupert, but the ferocity of that squad is legendary and they were showing no special favours to British tourists. Speaking for myself, I was too stunned to fight back, so they didn’t require tear gas or water cannon against me.
Astonishingly, as I resign myself to getting arrested (facing the resulting scandal) some youngster steps up and bludgeons the cop. The kid smacks the riot officer across the shoulders with a lump of timber; what could be a requisitioned fencepost. The cop crashes forward on his knees, under this heavy blow, eventually crashes forward, until his helmeted head bounces on the concrete, as if a poison dart has pierced his armour. For a few seconds, what feels like an age, I stare down at the inert law-enforcer, stupefied. My rescuer fixes for a moment, elation in his eyes, before scampering away. Sometimes you don’t need to drop any tabs of acid.
My left eye is swelling up, I feel, after having received that crack to the cheek. I haven’t had this kind of vigorous exercise in months. My Brando style biker jacket is scuffed and scratched. Blame The Wild Ones.
My delinquent exploits vindicate Hoggart’s tracts about dissolute youth, in the early 1950s, when lads had regular punch-ups around the milk-bar jukebox. I’m a mothballed version of teen rebellion. What am I still rebelling against at my age? In my condition? What have you got?
Corrina Farlane is not so easy to impress, whether I’m in or out of the biker’s jacket. Oxford town, Oxford town. Everybody’s going down to Oxford town.
I fall back into my labyrinth.
Before I lose myself again I try to find the spot where, according to Jahinder, my son hooks up with his new mates. A signboard says that the drab construction ahead is really a maternity unit. It resembles a military hut. I wouldn’t like any child of mine to get a first taste of life here. It’s like a barracks with teddy bears. Then there’s a bus shelter and a block of public toilets, as master Singh informed me. You don’t want to hang out there either.
Smooth faced tower blocks loom up into a dead glow of faint orange light. Sixties brutalism doing time. They’re compensating for all that love and flowers gone to waste. Like a hasty marriage. For once those flats are the safest and cosiest places to be inside. Certainly you don’t want to be caught out here between rioters and police. I’m still afraid that Luke was one of the motorcycle tearaways. I struggle to keep that image out of my head; concentrating on immediate threats. Luke was always an easy going kid, he’d never wander off or get into trouble. I must search every place, looking into every corner, just as Lizzie and I did for our daughter.
Maybe Luke is sheltering in a friend’s house. There’s nothing to suggest he’s involved with the riot. What are the odds of finding him here? I’m the guy who’s leaving town soo
n.
As I wander uncertainly, alert for potential dangers, some youth steps up and hurls a petrol bomb through a window of the maternity clinic. There’s a smash and then the fire begins. I have to rub my eyes to make sure I’m awake - I am. He completes this move with the easy practised manner of an angler casting off. The young guy’s a loner type, laconic, with straggly hair and a sagging parka. He’s making his own nerdish contribution to the mayhem.
The blazing maternity clinic is a spark compared to the shopping centre. This was meant to be their community pride. I can see sheets of flame pouring from roofs, as the structures beneath groan and ache with intense heat and chemical change. Thick smoke billows out into the paved areas around; noxious threads of blue and green smoke in a heavy metal light show. Stuart Maybridge would have found this more awesome than Floyd among the ruins of Pompeii.
Advertising hoardings, public seats and litterbins sear into weird contortions, as if they are wodges of bubble-gum chomped by crocodiles. A squad of riot police emerges at the end of this thoroughfare, stomping at a canter through flaming shops, trying to deal with looters. Hopefully Luke has beamed up to his mother ship. The new community policing policy has gone up in smoke. Anyhow, I don’t hang around to do any window shopping.
The cops launch a baton charge, amidst screaming and shouting, the sound of things breaking and falling. The previous street fight has dispersed over the estate, flaring up in those scrubby desolate areas that only locals know. From these margins the youths ambush the police and hurl missiles and debris. No doubt the cops will lick the rioters eventually, but they aren’t having an enjoyable evening. Obviously the riot act has become too predictable.
I trot by the shell of a jacked-up car, its windows smashed, the tyres disappeared; burning like a Christmas pudding. Thank goodness it isn’t a vintage Citroen from the old movies. A swarm of little kids is cycling around this relic on their bicycles, whooping up a festival atmosphere. Man, this is the kind of party I’m happy to poop. I’m all in favour of early bed times.
Plastic bags from disturbed rubbish bins float off, sail past my head - strangely peaceful, almost spiritual. They remind me of kites, but I’d prefer to take Luke to fly them on the down with me. The cops have seized back control of the shopping arcade; though not many people are going to be doing their Christmas shop there. The riot cops march back down the tarmac esplanade, like a contemporary version of a Roman legion, banging their shields and shouting in unison. But I’m not going to wait to salute them as they pass. They wouldn’t understand where I’m coming from.
Bewildered by my futile search, I stray across another, very unusual gathering. These are mostly women, with pushchairs and little kids, around the entrance to a school. The kids look as if the excitement of bonfire night has turned against them. There are newspaper reporters hanging about - I recognise one of them - as well as a television crew killing time between shoots. What is this, Vietnam?
A female photographer moves around in various positions, showing off her long jodhpurs, whirring off images. There’s a guy with a shoulder-held camera. I’d hold on to that if I were him. Luke isn’t around here either. I’m getting deeper into my nightmare movie. He may have taken that chrome horse into the sunset.
These women look dignified, although many of them are crying. And they chat fiercely between themselves. There’s a bitter sting of threatening conversation. What’s their grief about? I notice that a display of flowers has been banked against the school wall. When I move closer my stomach churns at the sight. There are splotches of dark red, turning brown, splashed against the pale brickwork. Chunks and gouges too have been taken out of the surface. I conclude that this damage was caused when the young motorcyclists veered off the road. My liberal heart begins to bleed. Not if it was my son killed! Graffiti has been sprayed over the wall in tribute to the perished youths. Luke? No. Sean and Harry. So my liberal heart relaxes like a boxer in an ice bath. No need for any formal identification.
The police wisely keep away from the grieving mothers. They triggered this riot by pushing those boys to a premature finishing flag. A young Bob Dylan had an infatuation with motorcycles and Che Guevara went on a motorcycle tour of Europe, not only South America. Despite my poser’s leather jacket, I’ve never been a motorcycle fanatic myself. The jacket isn’t just to look cool on the back of Corrina’s machine, it was to protect me if she ever threw me off: that was a definite risk when she cuts the corners. Corrina’s bad accident in France wasn’t a discouraging factor. Maybe it should have been. Motorcycles are seductive icons. But I’m never going to turn the ignition. Neither will Luke, until he’s old enough to buy his own. Then he’ll need a powerful engine to go against the wishes of his mother.
I’ve got some vital dope on my son’s safety. Nobody takes any notice of me as I slip away from the school, despite my jacket and boots. I’m invisible as the ghost of rebellion past. Nobody looks twice at a sad skinny man. So I decide to feel sorry for myself. The angry hushed voices die away from me. Warily and disgustedly I walk past the burning community and youth centre. Maybe I should have introduced myself to the ringleaders of this protest. I know how to formulate a manifesto; I have some ideals and convictions; I understand how to get the media working on your side. I was the secretary of the Uni debating society for a year. That was all many moons ago. I don’t need to point that out.
I refuse dangerous shortcuts. I dodge away from another gang, like a rabbit getting the whiff of gunpowder. I can’t identify with any nihilistic group here. The idea is to get my kite tail out of here. No time to ask directions from police or thieves. I even saw an ambulance crew being stoned by youths. As were the firemen. Apparently firemen ruin everyone’s fun. A riot without a fire is like a wedding without a bride. These days the thought of storming the Winter Palace just gives me heart burn. There I have a psychological connection between the red flag and a bottle of ketchup.
Giving up hope of ever finding Luke, what should happen? I see him walking on the other side of the street. You just can’t predict. Moments later he notices his old man - or does a double and triple take - and suffers a horrible hallucination. A mescaline hallucination. His own eyes can’t be trusted. The look on his face is a picture but not a beautiful one. So I cross over to speak to him, while he’s too amazed to run off. I dig my hands back into my Levi’s pockets, gazing down at my boots, trying to keep cool.
“Hey, Luke. What’s happening?” I blab.
“What?” he challenges. His large green eyes round in disgust, like a bushbaby caught in a lamp. The spiked copper hair seems even more startled by my appearance.
“Out for a walk?” I say.
The puzzled expression doesn’t tone down. “What the fuck!”
“That was going to be my question,” I tell him, stepping closer.
“What?”
“This isn’t your quarrel,” I tell him, referring to the disturbances.
“I wasn’t in any fights,” he assures me. He eyes my riot gear contemptuously, as if I’m out of the wax works. But you can’t say his dress sense is any better.
“Why get involved here, Luke?”
“Who said I was?” he ripostes.
We stand having this crazy discussion by someone’s front wall. I notice a curtain twitching from the house, and the people inside observing the dancing apes outside.
I root about in my jean pockets, before pulling out that bit of scorched silver foil. It’s still there. I rustle it accusingly under his nose.
“You been pokin’ about?” he accuses.
“Come on boy, turn all your pockets out,” I insist.
I prefer to think that his high colour comes from all that fresh air and running about.
“What happened to you?” he wonders, inspecting my shiners. I haven’t yet prodded them in the mirror, but his reaction tells me a lot.
“Never min
d all that. Don’t get sawney with me now,” I encourage.
“You got a couple of bruised eyes,” he says.
“I know about that. I was chasing after you, wasn’t I,” I tell him. “Shouldn’t I take any notice? What you get up to? Let me see what you’re carrying.”
To my surprise he begins to empty his trouser pockets. What emerges is the typical youthful bric-a-brac, but he also pulls out a small plastic bag of junk - heroin.
“What do we have here?” I remark. “Come on.”
Luke responds as if he doesn’t recognise this, or know why it is on him.
Don’t ask me exactly how much junk, or what it could be worth. I’ve never cut anything in my life, especially after we lost friends that way. Adam Jakes offered to fix me up, to smooth away my troubles, a kind of bridge over troubled waters, although I’m way beyond that. Elizabeth could snatch Luke back after this, using her oddball lawyer as a getaway driver. She’d be justified in strafing me from a helicopter gun ship. Luke would sign up to her liberation army.
“So where did you get this stuff?” I enquire firmly.
“What’s the big fuss?” he objects, colouring deeply - rage and humiliation.
These scenes are not positive, nor are they avoidable. “Who sold you this shit?”
“It’s only a bit, aint it? For personal use. I’m not selling stuff.”
“I bloody well hope not,” I tell him.
