by Simon Mayo
‘Miss, you forgot your—’ Itch stared at the euros he was carrying. He was sure they were changing colour. ‘What the . . .?’ He looked closely at the blue, red and grey notes. Slowly but unmistakably, they were all turning brown. ‘Sir . . .’
Now they started to smoulder, and by the time he’d dropped the plate in front of Mr Hampton, small wisps of black smoke were rising into the air.
‘Itch, what have you done!’ cried Miss Coleman in alarm.
‘What? Nothing! I just brought them over!’
Now small glowing circles appeared as the reaction ate away at the centre of the notes; the holes opened quickly as the flames caught. Within seconds, the euros had turned to ash. Everyone stared at the remains of Miss Coleman’s money.
‘You forgot your change,’ said Itch quietly.
The smell of burning had caused heads to turn, and one of the waiters came rushing over, shouting in Spanish.
‘He says it is against the law to burn money in Spain,’ said Miss Coleman, who replied with some fast talking of her own.
‘Why do you need a law to tell you that?’ said Chloe. ‘What kind of a loser burns their money?’
The waiter was joined by a woman wiping her hands on her apron, who appeared to be the manager. She listened to what had happened, then angrily pointed to the door. Now both Mr Hampton and Miss Coleman joined in; all four were shouting over each other when a cry cut across them. A small boy of no more than eight was wailing and holding out his reddening fingers to his mother. At his feet, a five-euro note burned furiously.
‘What’s going on, sir?’ said Lucy as the manager and waiter hurried over to the crying child. The mother was now shouting too, and some customers started to leave. The smell of freshly roasted coffee had now been replaced by that of freshly burned paper.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ said Mr Hampton. ‘Money just doesn’t self-combust like that. Maybe there’s some chemical in the till . . .’
‘The plate was pretty warm when I picked it up, but that note looked like it was under a magnifying glass or something,’ said Itch. ‘Took a while to catch, but when it did, it was gone in seconds.’
‘You’re right, Itch, that’s exactly what it looked like. Maybe we should drink up and find a bus,’ said Mr Hampton, gulping down his coffee.
‘Should we check our money?’ asked Debbie, who was looking alarmed. ‘Everyone else is . . . look.’ They all glanced around, and sure enough, most customers had started to look suspiciously at their purses and wallets.
‘So at the science museum, it wasn’t the tills catching fire, it was the money,’ said Lucy. ‘And that taxi we crashed into – the cabbie was waving a note, wasn’t he? I bet that had caught fire. That’s why they looked freaked out. No wonder the other man ran off.’
‘Maybe it’s all a big joke,’ said Natalie, ‘and we’re being filmed for TV.’
At nearby tables students were looking at news websites on their laptops; one called to the waiter to change the TV channel. A remote control was found and the football switched to a news network. Images of fire filled the screen. The volume was now on full, and everyone turned to watch.
‘What are we looking at?’ asked Jack nervously.
‘Trouble in Valencia,’ said Miss Coleman. ‘And some looting in Barcelona too.’ Three men then appeared on screen, each with a handful of ashes in their hands. They were shouting at the camera.
‘No!’ cried the students next to Itch, hands over their mouths. It didn’t need translating. The burning money was not just happening in Madrid.
More interviews followed, each word loud in the silent café, even if the CA students barely understood a word. ‘They are saying the banks have taken their money,’ said Miss Coleman; ‘that all their savings will be burned.’
The report now showed hooded men throwing bricks at a shop window. The focus was erratic and the camera wobbled, but there were gasps of recognition from the watching customers. The students immediately grabbed their belongings, pocketing their phones and packing up their computers. One of them turned to the CA students, clearly trying to choose the right words.
‘We must leave,’ he said in heavily accented English. ‘You must leave. That’ – he pointed at the TV pictures of looters – ‘that is here. They are here.’
And then the café window shattered.
16
The air was full of flying glass. The customers screamed as a thousand fragments blew in on them. Itch felt little daggers hitting his neck and dropped to the floor, pulling Chloe down with him. Her cheek was bleeding, and she was breathing in short, panicky gasps. He grabbed hold of her jacket.
When the looters ran in, yelling and kicking over tables, he held her closer. Itch watched as the men, all with scarves round their faces, made their way over to the food counter, stuffing their pockets with wraps and sandwiches. They heaved the glittering coffee machine to the floor and swung a chair at the bean jars, scattering coffee and glass over the terrified customers. With more yells and chants, they ran from the café.
When he was sure they were gone, Itch looked around. All the customers had dived to the floor, some under tables, and most were wide-eyed and bloody. He saw that Miss Coleman’s eyes were closed, blood pouring from a wound in her head; a brick lay nearby.
‘Everyone stay down,’ shouted Mr Hampton. ‘Is everyone OK? Let me hear you call your names! Go!’
One by one, the students called out their names, some falteringly, others loudly.
‘Jack.’
‘Natalie.’
‘Chloe.’
‘Debbie.’
‘Lucy.’
‘Tom.’
‘Craig.’
‘Luke.’
‘Russell.’
‘Itch. Sir, Miss Coleman looks bad.’
Mr Hampton crawled over. He exclaimed when he saw the blood. Miss Coleman was conscious now, but she’d started to shake; he propped her up against an overturned table. The manager who, moments before, had been threatening to throw them all out now arrived with a first-aid box and some water. Miss Coleman nodded her thanks, then winced; she was already sporting an enormous bruise and her jacket was red with blood.
‘We’ll get you to a doctor. But first we have to leave,’ said Mr Hampton. Miss Coleman nodded again and struggled to her feet.
Everyone was standing now, pale and scared, Chloe holding onto Itch’s arm. Through the smashed window they could see groups of people running in every direction. Across the road through lines of parked cars, a group were kicking at a shop front. When it gave way, the alarm blasted to life and they disappeared inside.
‘Sir, might it be safer to stay put?’ asked Lucy. ‘We don’t know what’s happening out there.’
Mr Hampton found his map and, sweeping away glass and coffee beans, spread it out on the floor. ‘We are here,’ he said, pointing. ‘Paseo del Doctor Vallejo Nágera. We have to cross one of the bridges over the Rio Manzanares and make it back to the Plaza Lucenza, here . . .’ He stabbed his finger at a small square. ‘That’s maybe forty minutes’ walk – I don’t think we’ll find a bus now. I think we should go. It doesn’t feel safe here.’
They left the café, nodding their thanks to the manager, who was tending to one of the other customers.
‘Buena suerte,’ she said.
‘What’s that, sir?’ asked Jack.
‘Good luck,’ said Mr Hampton. ‘She said good luck.’
‘Where are the police?’ said Miss Coleman, a bloodied souvenir tea towel held to her head as she scanned the road. ‘You’d think they’d be here by now.’
‘Well, if the news was anything to go by, they’ll be busy,’ said Mr Hampton. ‘We can’t rely on them.’
‘Sir,’ said Itch, ‘why don’t I text that number we were given? I know it was just for keeping the police up to date with our movements, but—’
‘Yes. Do it,’ said Hampton. ‘In case any of them are watching their screens—’
&nbs
p; He was interrupted by shouts from the looters leaving the shop, arms full of trainers.
‘They did all that for shoes?’ asked Chloe in amazement.
‘They’ve only just started,’ said Lucy. ‘Look, they’re all on their phones. There’ll be more coming.’
‘You know you said we should leave our phones at the hostel, sir,’ said Jack. ‘Well, what if we get separated, what do we do then?’ Itch could hear the tension in her voice as she watched the looters coordinate their next move.
‘We won’t get separated,’ said Hampton. ‘We stay together. We look like tourists – no one will think we’re looters – you’re too young, and Miss Coleman and I look too old. We’re going to the hostel – we’ll be safe. Let’s go.’
With Mr Hampton on one side and a patched up Miss Coleman on the other, they walked in a tight group down the middle of the road.
‘We’re being watched,’ said Chloe, looking up at the top windows of the buildings, where silhouetted faces could be seen staring down at them. Scooters buzzed backwards and forwards, some with passengers riding pillion. After a couple of drive-pasts, one pulled up alongside them; its rider had a scarf around his mouth, his hood pulled low, and he studied them one by one.
They all increased their pace and closed ranks, the girls linking arms.
‘What’s he want?’ wondered Chloe, not taking her eyes off the road ahead.
Itch shrugged. ‘Who knows? Money? Our passports? Your trainers maybe.’ His attempt at cheery humour didn’t register, and when two more scooters arrived alongside them, everyone tensed.
Miss Coleman removed the tea towel from her face. ‘Soy inglesa,’ she said. ‘Habla inglés?’ None of them acknowledged her question, but one by one they peeled away. ‘I asked if they spoke English. Guess the answer’s no.’
‘Fire ahead . . .’ said Itch. ‘At the crossroads.’ Flames had burst from a wall and a crowd had started to gather. As the CA students approached, they saw that the building was a bank; a cash point was on fire. A weird high-pitched whistle filled the air.
From every direction, more people were coming to see the spectacle. The crowd already numbered around fifty and almost all of them were filming the fire at the ATM. The two who weren’t, Itch noticed, were staring straight at him. They were standing in the doorway of a darkened newsstand; unnerved, he turned to attract Jack’s attention, but when he looked back, they had gone.
More flames burst from the cash point; more cries from the crowd.
‘No wonder these people are mad,’ said Jack. ‘That’s their money that’s burning in there.’
‘No, it isn’t . . .’ said Itch, still looking around. ‘It’s just money. I think they’re just mad at the banks. Mad at everyone. Did anyone see those guys at the newsstand just now?’
A bottle smashed above the cash point and some of the crowd cheered. Itch’s question went unanswered.
‘Come on,’ said Mr Hampton. ‘Let’s not hang about.’ He steered his group around the crowd and down a street called Paseo de las Acacias. ‘Did you send that text?’ he asked Itch.
‘Tried to,’ said Itch. ‘No signal. Maybe it’s the network. Everyone else seems to be using their phones, though.’
‘The police might have shut the phone networks down. I expect the demonstrators are using the BlackBerry messenger system. Can’t stop that without killing the internet.’
‘But what are they demonstrating about?’ said Chloe.
‘Everything,’ said Mr Hampton as they strode quickly past department stores; the remaining staff pulling down shutters as fast as they could. ‘Unemployment. The government. America. Poverty. All of it. If you haven’t got much money to start with, your euros catching fire is a disaster.’ Hampton pointed at the end of the street. ‘That’s the bridge ahead. Puente de Toledo, the Toledo bridge. We need to cross there.’
Ahead, the wail of a siren; behind them, the sound of breaking glass. Itch glanced over his shoulder just as a car went up in flames. The wave of heat caught them by surprise, and Natalie swallowed a scream. They paused to watch a Renault disappear in the inferno; within seconds the Fiat next to it was engulfed too. Scores of chanting rioters in scarves and balaclavas ran to join in. Brandishing stones and bricks, they attacked car after car; windscreens shattered, doors were stoved in, boots looted.
‘We seriously need to keep moving,’ Jack shouted above the din.
‘Too right,’ said Lucy. ‘Those guys look like they might do anything – like they’re high on something.’
They closed on the bridge entrance. As the riot gathered pace behind them, they moved faster, held on tighter. Even the boys linked arms, Itch hooked up with Chloe on his left and Jack on his right. Lucy had Jack and Tom. It might have been the dropping temperature or the rising tension but Itch was aware that they all seemed to be shaking.
The bridge was around fifty metres across, raised slightly in the middle, with ornate walls and carvings along its sides.
‘How far, sir?’ asked Debbie, her black knitted hat pulled down low over her wide eyes.
‘Not far,’ said Hampton, in a manner that did not invite further questioning. ‘Itch, any signal on your phone yet?’
Itch checked. ‘Nothing,’ he called.
Hampton glanced at Miss Coleman, who had been checking hers too, but she shook her head.
As they approached the bridge, they realized they had company: a few people were, like them, trying to get back to the city centre, but most were running towards the riot. And amongst them were TV crews with lights and cameras under their arms, ready for action. A man in a suit and with well-coiffed hair glanced at them as they ran past.
‘Spot the journalist,’ said Hampton.
‘How do they get their hair so it never moves?’ wondered Itch.
‘Wax and vanity,’ said Hampton. ‘A potent combination.’
Suddenly, behind them, they heard glass breaking, then loud cheers. They turned to see that flames were shooting out of the department store windows. The crowd stepped back from the inferno, but they were exultant, those at the front jumping up and down and chanting.
The arrival – ‘At last,’ said Hampton – of blue flashing lights and piercing sirens changed the mood instantly. Scores of the demonstrators turned and ran from the police and straight for the bridge.
‘They’re coming this way!’ shouted Lucy, and they all started to jog.
Itch tried to concentrate on keeping in step and holding onto Chloe but the volume of the crowd was increasing and he needed to see how close they were. What he saw made him cry out, ‘Faster! We need to go faster!’
The demonstrators were running at a speed that indicated they were being chased. Across the width of the bridge they came, some still with scarves on their faces, others waving them like flags. Behind them, Itch saw the police cars, herding them across the Toledo Bridge like sheep.
The shouting, the sirens and the sounds of rioting were beginning to create panic: in the school party Natalie tripped, Tom falling over her and crashing to the ground. They all stopped to help, but by the time everyone was up and moving again, the running crowd was nearly upon them.
It was a stampede.
Staying still wasn’t an option.
They ran.
17
The students and staff of the CA on the Toledo Bridge soon realized that you can’t sprint holding hands. With the fleeing demonstrators metres away and closing fast, they broke ranks. The Year Eleven boys were already sprinting away, while Mr Hampton and Miss Coleman frantically tried to keep track of the dispersing group.
‘Itch! Stay with me!’ yelled Chloe, already falling behind. He checked his stride and they ran together, but now they were barely keeping ahead of the demonstrators. Jack and Lucy were out in front and so were the first to brake; they stopped dead.
With a wall of noise and flashing lights, white vans with POLICÍA emblazoned on the side screeched to a halt, and lines of black-clad riot police ran to face them. They
wore black helmets with visors pulled down, black padded jackets, and in gloved hands carried shields and batons.
The crowd struggled to stop, a few losing their footing and disappearing headlong into the crush. They backed up a few metres, but there were police cars behind them too. Shouts of rage and frustration erupted as they looked first one way, then the other. Itch thought Mr Hampton and Miss Coleman looked frozen, terrified. Natalie and Debbie started to cry.
‘Sir, we can’t stay here,’ shouted Itch. ‘We look like rioters. We’re with rioters. They’ll treat us like rioters.’
‘He’s right, Henry,’ said Miss Coleman. ‘They’re not going to bother sorting out the tourists from the rioters.’
‘And we go where?’ shouted Mr Hampton. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, we are being “kettled” – controlled, surrounded. They’ll keep us here for as long as they need to. No one’s going anywhere.’
‘But we need to tell them we’re not a part of all this!’ insisted Itch.
‘Do they look like they’re interested in chatting?’ Hampton turned to see lines of mounted police arriving behind the vans. A battery of camera flashes accompanied their arrival.
‘No, they don’t,’ admitted Itch. ‘They really don’t.’ He checked his phone again – still no signal.
‘Maybe try him,’ said Jack, pointing at the journalist with perfect hair. He was in the middle of the crowd, being jostled and pushed but still managing to speak into the camera.
Itch smiled briefly at Jack and pushed his way into the crowd. The demonstrators were so densely packed, it took five minutes to get anywhere near the TV reporter. But as everyone else was shouting, Itch couldn’t attract his attention.
Suddenly Lucy was by his side. She grabbed his arm and leaned in close. ‘What are you doing?’ she yelled.
‘I’m gonna talk to him,’ said Itch, indicating the reporter. ‘Someone needs to say we don’t want to be here and we aren’t rioters. That’s all.’
The man had started interviewing those around him, and Itch dived in, Lucy following close behind. He knew he was being sworn at as he shoved his way through, but it was in Spanish and he didn’t care.
