by Simon Mayo
The powerful TV light was shining at two young women with burning euros in their hands. Even though they’d seen it before, the watching crowd were clearly stunned: the spontaneous combustion illuminated shocked faces. Someone produced a T-shirt bearing the Spanish flag and, dangling it above the flames, set it alight. The cameras followed the blaze, and the reporter looked pleased, nodding at his cameraman.
He was about to move on to a woman with a Guy Fawkes mask when Itch shouted, ‘Habla inglés?’ It was what he had heard Miss Coleman say meant ‘Do you speak English?’ He knew his accent was terrible, but it worked: the reporter turned away from the demonstrator and raised his eyebrows at Itch.
‘Si! Yes. I speak some English. Why are you here? What is it you want?’ He pushed his microphone at him, and the powerful light made Itch squint.
‘We are on a science trip here from England and we want to get home,’ he shouted. ‘We got caught up in all this – our money started burning at a café and it got looted. We are not campaigning or marching or fighting . . .’ He looked around. ‘There’s a lot of scared people here who just want to get home!’
The reporter turned to the camera, speaking in Spanish, and Itch peeled away to find Lucy behind him.
‘You were great,’ she said. ‘Let’s hope he translates that.’
They had started to push their way back to the others when a man with a ponytail wearing an army-style camouflage shirt grabbed Itch by the arm. Itch winced.
‘You got a problem with this?’ he said, his English only slightly accented. He gestured to the demonstrators. ‘I heard what you said to the TV. We don’t need doubters and deniers. This is a battle. They’ve stolen our jobs and now they’re stealing our money.’ Others around them started watching and when the camouflaged man spoke to them in rapid Spanish, there were nods of approval for his words. When he reached for Itch’s other arm, Lucy pushed her way through in front of him.
‘Leave him alone! We are just on a school—’
Without warning the man head-butted Itch hard and, lights popping in his head, he dropped to his knees; someone pushed him over and a boot pressed down on his back. He felt strong arms wrap around his waist; two more took hold of his ankles.
What the hell is happening here? thought Itch. Someone’s trying to drag me away! He twisted and kicked just as the crowd surged and the hands were torn away, releasing him. With hundreds of closely packed people and the possibility of a police charge, Itch knew that he had to get up fast. He tried to ignore his splitting headache, and he writhed and spun away from the legs around him. A sudden gap in the crowd appeared as a fight broke out, and he found Lucy helping him up.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ she said.
‘What happened?’ said Itch, his head ringing. The camouflaged man was now exchanging blows with two other men.
‘Some guys started fighting with him. Let’s not be around when it’s over.’
‘And someone else tried to grab me . . .’ said Itch. ‘I’m sure of it.’ He looked around frantically, but the crowd was too dense for him to see anything. He shrugged; he didn’t know what or who he was looking for anyway. ‘You OK?’ he asked Lucy as they tried to push their way through.
‘Fine. Are you? That was some head-butt you took . . .’
‘Once my head stops throbbing, yeah.’
The few benches and bins on the bridge were being broken up, attacked with whatever the demonstrators could find. The sound of splintering wood and rupturing metal was everywhere.
‘Ammunition?’ said Lucy.
‘Guess so,’ said Itch. They watched graffiti being daubed along the walls and the pavement; most of it made no sense to them.
‘Don’t suppose that’s going to be in our phrase book,’ said Lucy.
They had progressed only a few metres when a man in front of them found a stone on the ground and after encouragement from those nearby, hurled it towards the police. It fell short, but others now found projectiles and threw them with greater success; the clatter of glass and stone landing on riot shields was heard by everyone.
‘This is bad, Itch,’ said Lucy, pushing him though the crowd. ‘This lot are pretty hard-core.’
‘Agreed. Feels like it’s building up to something . . .’
More stones and bottles were launched into the air, each followed by an exultant two-arms-aloft salute. Suddenly there was a deep thud, and a man in front of them collapsed, holding his head. Someone screamed and, looking up, Itch saw missiles falling everywhere.
‘They’re throwing them back, Lucy!’ yelled Itch, crouching and pulling her down as low as the crowd let him.
All around them the crowd were being peppered with the projectiles they had just launched at the police. Blood and screaming were everywhere. As demonstrators fell, spaces opened up in the crowd and Itch and Lucy stepped gingerly around the stricken, a path opening up back to the CA group.
They looked up and spotted their teacher. ‘There’s Hampton!’ cried Lucy. ‘He’s waving at us. But I can’t see the others! Come on!’ Eyes on their teacher, who was calling and beckoning them furiously, they dodged, weaved and shoved their way back. As they got closer, they could hear what he was saying, and Itch’s stomach seized up.
‘Itch! It’s Chloe! She’s been hit!’
As they reached the group they saw Chloe lying on her side, her bloodied head cradled in Jack’s lap. Miss Coleman was kneeling next to her, holding her phone to her ear.
‘Trying the emergency number!’ she said. ‘Maybe that’ll get through. She needs medical help fast!’
‘The stones just came at us out of nowhere,’ cried Jack. ‘She didn’t stand a chance.’
Itch knelt at his sister’s side. She looked deathly white and the cut was deep and ugly. A bystander gave Jack a handkerchief and she pressed it gently against Chloe’s forehead. It turned red in an instant.
‘We need to get her to a hospital, Jack,’ Itch cried. ‘And we need to do it now. Help me get her up.’
‘Are you sure it’s OK to move her?’ she asked.
‘No, not really . . . But either the police are going to charge or the demonstrators are. We need her on her feet.’
Jack nodded. ‘OK, that makes sense.’ She and Miss Coleman lifted one shoulder, Itch and Mr Hampton the other.
‘Chloe!’ called Itch. ‘We’re getting you help! Hang on in there!’ He ducked and put his arms under his sister. ‘OK, I’ve got her,’ he said, scooping up her limp body. She was heavier than he expected, but he knew exactly what he was going to do. Balancing his sister as well as he could, he stepped forward, away from the crowd.
‘Itch, stop right there!’ called Mr Hampton. ‘We stay together . . .’
‘Itch, what are you doing?’ cried Lucy.
‘Quickest way out is straight ahead,’ he said, glancing back. ‘When they see Chlo, they’ll have to let me through.’
Lucy held his sleeve. ‘Itch, they don’t have to do anything.’
‘No, but I do,’ he said.
‘OK . . .’ Lucy paused and added, ‘And . . . Itch?’ She waited till he had turned to face her. ‘Don’t trust anyone. Try not to be scared.’ She managed a smile.
Itch recognized the words immediately. It was how Cake, Lucy’s father, had finished his letter to Itch just before he died. Itch’s mouth went dry. The unexpected memory shocked him: the spoil heaps of Cornwall and the 126 seemed so far away. He realized he was staring at Lucy and looked away, back towards the lines of shields, batons and flashing blue lights.
‘This is what Cake would do,’ he said, and before anyone could stop him, he began his walk towards the police lines.
The no man’s land between the demonstrators and the police was thirty metres wide. Itch walked slowly, every step deliberate and focused. This was partly because his sister was bleeding and unconscious, but also because he wanted the police to see what he was doing. The first voice he heard was Mr Hampton’s.
‘Itch, you need to wa
it. You should come back!’
‘Chloe needs help now,’ he shouted back.
‘Well, wait for us, we should all go!’ His teacher sounded agitated again.
‘It’s better this way!’ Itch yelled and carried on walking. He heard the sound of the crowd change behind him as they stirred, seeing what was happening. He saw the ranks of riot police shift as they watched a boy with a wounded girl in his arms approach. Some shields were lowered; others raised. Through their visors, Itch saw them shouting to each other – they seemed unsure as to how to react. Camera flashes popped all around him and new TV lights trained on him.
Twenty metres from the police, Itch glanced back. He saw Jack and Lucy had started to follow him, tentatively edging forward; Mr Hampton and Miss Coleman calling them back. He didn’t want anyone else to get involved – didn’t want the police to have any excuse to attack – but he wasn’t turning back now. Chloe still hadn’t regained consciousness and the blood from her head had continued to flow.
Ten metres out and Itch could sense the nervousness in the ranks of the police. Some of the helmeted figures were shouting at him, and Itch wanted to slow down, but Chloe’s breathing was growing shallower and his concern for his sister overpowered his fear of the riot police.
Don’t trust anyone. Try not to be scared.
‘My sister is injured!’ he yelled. ‘She needs an ambulance. Now!’ His arms were shaking with the effort of keeping her still but at least his legs were steady. He kept walking. They were smaller steps now but he thought if he stopped, he might topple over. The riot police were pointing their batons and shouting at him. Some were staring at the crowd beyond and Itch feared that if his friends – and others – were following, it might look as though he was leading some kind of charge. A painfully slow charge, but a charge nonetheless.
Don’t trust anyone.
‘English!’ he yelled. ‘We are English! Please let us through. My sister needs help!’ He heard the desperation in his voice. Surely they’ll let us through, he thought. But the ranks of black-clad police hadn’t shifted; no path had opened up. If anything, they were bristling. Poised, ready for battle, waiting for an excuse. It was as though he had a battering ram in his arms, not an unconscious girl.
Itch guessed there were two lines of thirty riot police and counted six on horseback. Behind them were lines and lines of police cars. Flashing lights, camera lights and street lights all illuminated what seemed like an immovable wall of authority ahead; while behind was an unpredictable wave of anger.
Try not to be scared.
‘You have to help me! Look!’ He tried to hold out his arms, but they had locked, the muscles in spasm. He looked at Chloe. Her face was now deathly white, and in spite of everything, he stopped. Three metres from the first baton, he hesitated. A barrage of flashlights caught the moment and he squeezed his eyes shut. His arm muscles were screaming, and his head was spinning – he knew he was swaying . . . And then, from what seemed like miles away, he heard Jack’s voice.
‘Take her home, Itch! Don’t stop there!’
And he started walking again. Itch heard the blaring of the police radios, and the shouting of instructions or encouragement – he couldn’t tell which. At two metres he realized that it was him they were shouting at. At one metre a gloved hand grabbed his arm.
Itch tried to look through the riot policeman’s visor but it obscured all detail of the man’s face. However, his grip told him everything he needed to know: this was an arrest, not an offer of help. He held Itch in one hand and his baton in the other, ready to strike. Itch pulled his arm away, but the policeman was unyielding and shouted, incomprehensibly. Itch heard the crowd start a new chant, and all around him, shields were raised and batons drawn.
‘I just need a doctor!’ he yelled. ‘She needs help. Can’t you see?’
He heard smashing glass, then a bottle hit the policeman’s helmet, showering Itch and Chloe with an explosion of shards. The policeman reeled and, still holding his sister, Itch sank to his knees and closed his eyes. He was aware of running boots, of stones hitting shields, of screams from the crowd, but he ignored it all: he simply leaned over Chloe, protecting her with his body.
Hunched over like a fallen jockey protecting himself from the stampede, Itch felt every muscle tensed or screaming with pain. Someone tripped over Itch’s legs and he took a blow in the ribs; he knew he needed to get to his feet. He opened his eyes and, through the melee, saw two figures moving towards him, trying to create some space, holding demonstrators and police at bay. While one blocked the path of a man waving a metal barricade, the other knelt in front of him.
‘Itchingham Lofte? We’ve been looking for you. Come this way – hurry please.’ Dressed in a thick overcoat, the man looked as though he had just emerged from a business meeting, not walked into a pitched battle. ‘Here – let me help you.’ He reached out for Chloe, taking the weight from Itch’s trembling arms. ‘Félix Blanco, Centro Nacional de Inteligencia. We should go.’
Itch struggled to his feet, his arms immobilized by pins and needles.
Don’t trust anyone.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘How can . . .?’ He felt a hand in the small of his back, gently but firmly steering him away.
‘We’ll explain. But first, let us get off the bridge.’ The man’s colleague was now using the metal barricade to clear a path for them. They walked round the police lines, past the police cars towards an ambulance, waiting with its doors open.
‘No, wait,’ said Itch, stopping. ‘What’s happening here? Where did you come from? Was that you back there? Did you try to grab me?’
The man who called himself Blanco turned round, Chloe still unconscious in his arms. ‘We’re Spanish secret service, like your MI5. We knew you were here, but lost your phone signal when the riot started. Then you turned up on television, and we saw exactly where you were. And no, we haven’t approached you until now.’
‘You just happened to be close by?’ said Itch.
The man smiled. ‘When things like this happen . . .?’ He glanced in the direction of the fighting. ‘Yes, we are always close by.’ He glanced at Chloe; her short brown hair was now thick with blood. ‘Your sister?’ Itch nodded. ‘She needs help. We need to get away.’
Itch felt he had no choice. ‘OK. I’ll travel with her.’
Félix Blanco spoke quickly with his colleague. ‘All right, let’s go,’ he said, stepping into the ambulance and handing Chloe to the waiting paramedics.
Itch glanced back at the fighting on the bridge. ‘Our school party is out there, my cousin Jack . . .’
‘We know,’ said Blanco. ‘We’ll get them. Now, will you sit down? You need to get cleaned up.’
As the ambulance set off, Itch looked at his reflection in one of the darkened windows. He had forgotten about the flying glass – his face was covered in cuts. ‘OK, you’re right,’ he said. ‘But only after her. Will she be OK?’
Chloe was on a stretcher, an oxygen mask strapped over her mouth; a paramedic was carefully cleaning the head wound. Blanco translated the question, and the medic shrugged and muttered a few words without looking up.
‘He says she’s lost a lot of blood.’
‘I know that,’ said Itch, looking at his jacket. ‘Most of it is on me. But will she be all right?’
The agent didn’t translate again. ‘Let him do his job. You’ll find out soon enough.’
Itch watched the dressing on his sister’s head turn red and closed his eyes tight.
Try not to be afraid.
18
The route to the hospital was not a straightforward one. Every street seemed full of drama: burning cars, smashed shop windows, burning wheelie bins. Itch heard the driver curse as he had to detour around another makeshift barricade. He held Chloe’s hand as the paramedic attached a drip.
‘Is this all because of the burning money?’ he asked the Spanish agent, who sighed.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘On top of everything else. It’s th
e same in Barcelona and Valencia. People are panicking. It happened to me earlier.’ He reached down and picked up half a ten-euro note from the floor of the ambulance; it had the usual pinkish-red archway design, with a big number ten, but there was a jagged black edge where the rest had burned away. He held it up to the harsh ambulance strip light. ‘Imagine if this is your savings! What kind of country has a currency that bursts into flames for no reason? These people know they can’t trust the politicians or the bankers. Now they can’t trust their money.’ He handed it to Itch. ‘Here. A souvenir of your time in Spain. To go with the scar your sister will have.’
Silver coins seem so much safer, thought Itch. He took the burned note and they both looked at Chloe.
‘Do you think she’ll be OK?’ said Itch.
‘I do,’ said the agent. ‘I’m not a medic, but head wounds always bleed a lot, and’ – he shrugged – ‘I’ve seen worse.’
The ambulance was picking up speed now, and the paramedic spoke to Blanco. ‘He says we’ll be there soon. My colleague and I are to stay with you until you leave the country.’
Itch nodded. Here we go again, he thought. ‘Thanks.’
‘We don’t normally look after kids.’
‘Right.’ Itch didn’t know what else to say.
‘We were told someone sent you a parcel bomb. Is that right?’
Itch nodded and Blanco whistled. The agent clearly wanted more detail, but Itch didn’t feel like telling his story again and stared resolutely through the window. He noticed a road sign that said, HOSPITAL 2.
The paramedic tapped Itch on the leg, and nodded at Chloe.
Her eyes were open.
‘Chloe!’ Itch shifted along the seat into her eye line and she managed a feeble smile. ‘You got hit by a rock,’ he said. ‘We’re on the way to hospital.’ He smiled at her. ‘Another one,’ he added.
Chloe cleared her throat and the medic offered her some water. She sipped slowly. ‘Mum’s going to go mad,’ she whispered.
Itch had rung home as soon as Chloe was delivered to the doctors at the hospital. His sister had been wrong – Jude Lofte had seen the news of the riots in Spain and watched in horror as the cameras focused on the image of the boy with the bloodied, lifeless girl in his arms. For the media it was the definitive image of the night; for Jude it was her son and daughter in mortal peril. When Itch rang to say that Chloe was awake and talking, Jude broke down in shuddering sobs of relief. She said she or Nicholas would fly out soon, and Itch had promised to be back in touch.
