I arrived to find half the number of tents, and only Diana amongst them. A man who wasn't Greg appeared from her tent and stood beside her possessively as she gave me a hug. I explained my reasons for leaving, recounting the story of the policeman and his threat of arrest.
'You did the right thing,' Diana said. 'Don't get arrested. That's stupid. Some of the boys were suspicious that morning, though. Greg thought you were a spy.'
'Greg always thought I was a spy. It's one of the reasons I was happy to leave. Greg made me feel pretty uncomfortable here.' I noticed Diana's new companion bristle each time I mentioned Greg's name.
'It's why I'm off, as well,' Diana said. 'Not Greg. He disappeared. Didn't like living in a tent, in one place in full view of everyone.' She pointed over to the police officers at the gates to the Houses of Parliament. 'But it's been getting worse and worse here.'
I could see that. Six riot vans were parked around the square, each full to capacity with reclining police officers. The night before, a mob of drunken revellers had surrounded the tents and chanted threats. The security wardens had called the police, who had appeared within minutes and dispersed the crowd. I remembered the security warden I met on my first morning, who asked me: 'Have you ever considered that we might be here for your protection?'
We sat inside Diana's tent while she brewed cups of tea. Perhaps understanding that I was not there to steal his woman, Diana's companion, Paul, had warmed to me and had begun to explain his personal five-year plan.
'All I care about's me son. She's all right to him, but that prick of a boyfriend, he's a shit. I need to get him out of there. But the first thing they tell you is "you need an address". Without that, they can't do shit.'
'We're on the same page, Charlie,' Diana said, pulling the kettle from the gas-burner and decanting it into three dirty cups. 'I told you about my court case, didn't I?'
'Actually,' I said, taking the warm cup from her hands. 'You never really explained it to me.'
'Didn't she? All she ever talks about to me!'
'Leave it, Paul.' Diana slapped him playfully on the arm. 'It's my daughter, see? She was in a care-home for a while, and she used to come visit me when she was allowed. But she got physically abused when she was there. Multiple head-wounds. I know it happened while she was in care, but they're saying I did it when she came to visit. But I couldn't do that. You believe me, don't you, Charlie?'
I did.
'So I'm getting the same problems as Paul. No one will take me seriously and take my side unless, and they all say the same thing, unless I've got an address. But we've just got some good luck. We managed to get a static caravan just outside London, got its own postcode and everything, and now I can get her back legitimately.'
Diana pronounced that last word with relish, and I got the sense that she was excited at the prospect of plugging back into the grid.
'So we're off tomorrow,' she continued. 'And it couldn't come at a better time. Things haven't been good here. You were right to leave when you did.'
'Maybe,' I said, 'but I've missed it here. I've been over at St Paul's with the Occupy London lot.'
An uncomfortable silence fell, both pairs of eyes dropped from mine, and we all drank tea awkwardly.
'We don't like them,' Paul finally said.
'Why not?'
'They've got them politicians working at all hours to try and find a way to evict people who put up a tent in London. They'll pass a law to get them out. And when they do, they'll use the same law on us here.'
I sensed severe disapproval, something akin to the kind I used to feel from Greg. Diana, as always, diffused the mounting tension.
'That doesn't matter to us any more, though, does it, Paul? We've got our caravan.'
'True,' Paul muttered, slurping on his tea.
'Fact is, I can't wait to see the back of this place,' Diana continued. 'A lot's happened since you've been gone, Charlie.'
A lot had, and she enumerated it in detail. The same day I left, a man moved on to my pitch and erected his tent. Soon after, everyone began to notice that things were going missing from their own tents. They confronted the man, who admitted to his thieving, and then, as one, they repossessed his tent and kicked him out. He had returned two nights later, early in the evening, and a nasty fight had broken out.
'We got rid of him, but that's happening more and more often these days.'
'Some twat started on me the other day,' Paul agreed. 'I nutted him.'
'Paul,' Diana remonstrated. 'But he's right. It's getting too violent here. People don't trust each other any more.'
'It's because of those two pricks,' Paul said.
Diana nodded. 'You met them, didn't you, Charlie?' She described the young couple, Rolly and Rudy, who begged each day and then flashed their notes around the campsite at night: Rolly with his diabetics-paunch and leather jacket; Rudy with her contrived lingo and jittery knees.
'It was this huge scandal,' Diana said. 'The police came in one afternoon and abducted her. It was good for Rolly that he was still begging and she'd come back on her own. The police came back later that evening looking for him. Turns out Rudy's lied to us all, even to him. Said she was eighteen, but she was only fifteen. Ran away from her foster home. Told Rolly she'd been on the streets for three years, but it was only a month before she met him. The police said if he came back we should let them know. Said they wanted him for questioning. Paedophilia, like. But he didn't have a clue. When he got back, we told him what had happened and he just did one. Haven't seen him since.'
'Where's Ian?' I asked, gesturing over at the still-standing Rainbow Tent. 'Unusual for him to not be on guard duty.'
Diana shook her head sadly. 'He's in jail. I think.'
Ian, Diana explained, had started spending more and more time at his girlfriend's flat. He had also, for reasons Diana could not fathom, started to carry a knife. One evening, at his girlfriend's for dinner, he had produced the knife and threatened to stab the two male friends eating with them. The police were called, Ian created a scene, and he was arrested and taken away. The girlfriend had come to the square the next day looking for him, but he had not been back since.
'He was getting wilder each day,' Diana said. 'Drinking in the mornings, trying to pick fights with tourists. He started to scare me. He had a lot of problems.'
There was ice in my stomach. I lamented what had happened to Ian, more so because it was deeply plausible. 'What about Marek?'
'Now he's done good for himself,' Diana replied, and my spirits lifted. 'He got accepted into a shelter. A group of nuns run it. They're really strict on him – he's got a curfew and has to work all day either in the building or handing out donations to other shelters and refuges. But he loves it. He comes by some afternoons and drops off coffee and bread for us. I've never seen him look so happy. He says the nuns treat him like a ten-year-old nephew, but he's earning the roof over his head, and they've sorted out medicine for him so that he can sort his leg out and get back into work. It's all he wants, all he talks about. Work, work, work.'
'He's a good bloke, that one,' Paul affirmed.
I revelled in the good news after all the horror stories of arrests, runaways, thieving, knives and betrayal. And I liked Diana's closing repetition. Marek wanted to work, and that was key. He would, I had no doubt, do so, and this was the best way for him to get back on his feet, as lamed as one of them was.
I stood up and thanked them both for the tea and the conversation. 'Good luck with your daughter,' I told Diana, and to Paul: 'Good luck with your son.'
'And good luck with your book,' Diana said.
'You're writing a book?' Paul asked.
I nodded.
'Make sure you tell the truth, mate,' he said.
'I will,' I promised.
17
Feti and I sat on the steps of St Paul's Cathedral while the evening's General Assembly droned on. Between us lay a plastic carrier bag filled with cans of cheap ale, and we took turns shari
ng them out into concealed plastic cups.
'I love this!' Feti cried, lighting a roll-up and toking hard. 'This…' he pointed at the current speaker, one of the Media Liaison team, who was proudly detailing her conversation with a Guardian journalist, '… this is why I want to become British national. This is important!'
'Why?'
'Why? You ask me why? Look at all this. You think this can happen in many other countries?'
'From what I've read in the papers, it seems to be.'
'Yeah, yeah. In Western countries. The developed world. The First World. But I tell you, you try to do this in my country, in fucking Algeria, and it all over, man. But here you can protest. You understand how important that is? You should be proud. A man has to have principles, you know? It is why I came here, to Britain. Men can stand up for their principles here, not like in Algeria. I swum the Channel to get here.'
'Piss off!'
'Yes! I did! It is true! No lie! They caught me in the sea!' I had visions of police boats, of a huge fishing rod, of Feti dangling gleefully from the end of it. 'I had to wait six days in prison while they threaten to deport me. People gave me cigarettes – not tobacco, real cigarettes – so that I would tell them my story of swimming the Channel. I smoked like a king.'
Feti seemed to enjoy protest for the sake of protest. Perhaps his fundamental principle was a defence of the right to defend one's principles.
'I went on the student riots earlier this year. I was kettled, man!'
'Are you a student?'
'No. I'm a gardener. But I was there anyway. They kettled me all day. Nowhere to go! So I made a fire to keep warm.'
With plenty of tinned ale in my belly, I fell asleep quickly that night, woken a few hours later by the reverberating thump of something bouncing off the exterior of my tent in concert with a male scream.
'I'm gonna fucking kill you!' The voice ricocheted off the cathedral and echoed across the site.
I unzipped the door and poked my head out of the tent. The rapid dip and rise of a torch flashed across the square as a young man raced forward in search of the disturbance. I recognised him as the spokesperson for the Tranquillity Group. His light found its target: two men grappling on the floor, a tangle of legs and shoulders. Muffled expletives accompanied the unmistakeable noise of flesh hitting flesh. Somehow, inexplicable in the torchlight, a shoe cascaded through the air. A woman clad in thin pyjamas howled inaudible invectives from the ringside. Other heads began to appear from other tents. Some laughed; others barked 'Break it up!' and 'We're trying to sleep!'; one wept and moaned like a Spanish grandmother at a funeral. The Tranquillity Group spokesman reached into the scuffle and found his leverage, splitting the two brawlers with a scissor-like motion of his arms. Other men had walked over and grabbed the two fighters, pulling them away from each other. They continued to kick and paw, ineffectual bursts of machismo reduced to comic bravado.
'You need your fucking head looking at!'
'I'm gonna wait for you, cunt!'
'Slash your fucking throat!'
I slipped back into my tent as others appeared from theirs and sauntered over to the growing group. Wait for it, I thought, someone's going to say…
The expected proclamation came with unerring timing. 'Guys!' the voice bellowed. 'We shouldn't be fighting each other! We should be fighting them!'
My prediction of cheesy movie sound bites gave me no solace that night. The argument raged until the sun rose.
An emergency General Assembly was called the following morning. Reports of the incident conflicted and contradicted. The two guys got drunk and had a little scuffle. The two guys got drunk and beat the shit out of each other. The two guys got drunk and one of them sexually harassed a girl. The two guys got drunk and one of them called the other a nigger. Whatever had actually happened, I gathered it was because the two guys got drunk.
What troubled the GA speakers most of all, however, was that the two guys were occupiers. They were not visitors, not drunken clubbers on their way home, not even day-supporters, but men who lived and slept on the square every day and night. They had been evicted, of course, but how to stop it all happening again? We all, it was explained, lived in such close proximity, and aggression was bound to result. This was the worst flare-up, but it was not the first. The Tranquillity Group were exhausted. The Media Group wondered what the press would make of it. Outreach said we had lost our bearings. Anonymous UK said that it was all a natural reaction to our circumstances. The spokespeople held the stage for the next two hours, squabbling over possible outcomes, venting hypotheses and semantic quandaries. A '20 Point Peace Plan' was disseminated and then quibbled over, criterion by criterion. Few listened.
18
Whatever had happened and whatever was going to happen as a result of the night's disturbance, camaraderie had become displaced on the campsite, and people eyed each other with a newfound distrust. Eviction rumours had always abounded at St Paul's, it was part of the daily conversation. 'Tonight's the night,' people whispered to each other. 'They're coming.' But that day those rumours seemed heightened. It was true that the police presence had doubled in Paternoster Square throughout the day, and there were more riot vans and marked cars parked up on the kerbsides than I had ever seen before. Perhaps people were attempting to supplant the previous night's fight by projecting their distrust outwards, but it could not be denied that we were being watched by more and more eyes every hour. 'Are you ready for it?' I was asked more than once, fathoming in the words of the questioners an excitement I did not like.
After lunch, I walked back to my tent. Dillon had rolled up his sleeping bag and was shouldering his rucksack.
'Are you off?' I asked.
'Fucking right. It was good while it lasted, but I can't be doing with the police. I'm not getting arrested tonight.'
I found myself agreeing with him.
It took fifteen minutes to pack my knapsack, to fold down and re-sheath my tent. A few watched me as I worked, but only one approached. It was the infuriating equivocator I had met on my arrival.
'Why are you leaving?' he asked.
'Leave is a strong word,' I replied. 'Is it your place to ask me such things?'
He smiled at me, and it irritated me that I had not irritated him.
'We're getting evicted tonight. And it'll be forceful.' When he spoke the last word, he smiled. I looked into his eyes and knew immediately that he looked forward to it. He couldn't wait to test his mettle against the police; he relished the opportunity to get righteous and angry. Deep down, everyone here wanted to get righteous and angry.
'I'm finding it hard to share your enthusiasm,' I said. 'I'm with Dillon on this one. I don't want to get arrested. Maybe that makes me a coward.'
He nodded, confirming my suspicion.
'You know,' I said, 'there's people here doing good and important things, working tirelessly to raise awareness of issues which need to be addressed. But tell me, what have you actually done? All I've ever seen you do is sit around, drinking coffee and talking shit.'
He gestured at the placard in his hand, the same one he had carried when I first met him. THIS IS NOT A PROTEST. THIS IS A RIGHT.
'Exactly,' I said. 'That's your contribution. A banal aphorism.'
'Fuck you,' came his reply, still with a smile.
'And that's why I'm not sticking around.' I lifted my tent and knapsack from the ground, one in each hand, and left St Paul's. It was time to go home.
I used Marcus's Oyster Card (I could return it to him later, along with his tent) to catch a Number 11 bus from St Paul's to Victoria. Arcing through Westminster, we passed Parliament Square at a crawl. I noticed an empty space where Diana's tent had been. Perhaps this was fortunate, for every other tent had been cordoned off behind strict fencing, and police officers stood at two-metre intervals around the campsite. Protesters and homeless alike, more than I had ever seen at one time on the square, harried the police with heated discussions. Guilt at my desertion mingle
d with relief to have made the decision to leave it all behind. A single wish rose above it all: that the coming winter would not be too cold.
My eyelids grew heavy as the bus stalled in traffic along Victoria Street. The shouts and arguments and noise which succeeded the fight outside St Paul's had left me bereft of sleep for the rest of the night. As I thought of it, I remembered my first night on Gwithian's sand dunes. My journey had circled back upon itself. Those two nights were so alike: they were both cold and uncomfortable, they both gave birth to little respite, and they had both left me utterly miserable.
As the bus crawled nearer to the coach station, I found myself reflecting on all the outdoor nights of my journey. Sleeping rough was, I decided with little originality, far more extreme and difficult than anything I had ever done before: a descent into a lifestyle which was still, after all these months, alien to me, for I could not conceive how anyone could cope with it. And sleeping rough on city streets was the bottom rung. I would not wish it on anyone. Those dunes and fields, those woods and cliff-tops, they had been tolerable; but those nights on the streets of London, even the ones I weathered within the shelter of a tent, had left me feeling more vulnerable and threatened and exposed and imperilled and insecure than any other place I had visited in the world.
No Fixed Abode Page 23
