by Bret Allen
British Gods
No less than seven young men, hoods pulled up and scarves wrapped around their faces, shouted and jeered as they thrust a wooden sign (Cut and blow dry from £19.95, no appointment needed) into the window of a Currys. The glass cracked but held, keeping a delicious assortment of electronic goods just out of reach. The shop’s alarm was triggered, but it was just one of many going off that night. The police were nowhere in sight, dealing with similar scenes in the surrounding streets.
London had become a playground for rioters; for a few nights only, the rules had been broken. The streets were not safe, or rather, they were less safe. Fires illuminated the gloomy August night, occasionally joined by the blue flicker of emergency vehicles. Few people were out on the streets, only those looting shops or those trying to stop them. In keeping with tradition, there were exceptions; two of them sat on a bench outside an untouched book shop, watching the riots unfold.
One observer was an old man, the other a middle-aged woman. Both had the appearance of homeless people. He wore a ragged coat and had long, messy hair to match a long, messy beard. He had a spiral tattoo on his neck, in blue ink. He held a fishing rod, which he hovered over an open manhole. He also appeared to be in pain.
She looked quite different, wearing a flowing, once-white summer dress despite the cold. She had long hair and fine but stern features. A large handbag sat beside her on the bench, sporting a somewhat garish union jack pattern. She held a fork, which she used to ruthlessly stab at a battered fish wrapped in newspaper.
“They’re even attacking the fire engines,” grumbled the old man.
His companion chewed some of her fish before replying.
“In fairness, so would I. If you really want to start a fire, it makes sense to stop the fire engines too,” she pondered aloud.
“That’s just you thinking like a soldier, Brit,” he replied. “They aren’t thinking at all. Just fighting. Fighting…” he added before tapering off, unwilling to pursue the train of thought.
“I know that, Noddy. Oh… they’ve got into Currys.”
They had, indeed, got into Currys. The window finally gave way to the onslaught of the makeshift battering ram, crashing inwards. The youths (though not all as young as they appeared or acted) cheered and climbed through the window, reaching for plasma televisions and tablet computers and the like. Two of them stayed outside to watch out for the police, or another gang.
“Two young males of the pack stand watch,” said Noddy, putting on a mock-documentary voice. “A fresh kill will soon attract opportunists…”
Brit laughed, but it died away fast. The mood was not quite right for jokes.
“Fine jest, but comparing them to animals is an insult to animals,” she replied. “Look at them… mindless. They don’t care for culture and have no comprehension of dignity. Only a few of them even know why this started. This has nothing to do with that awful business.”
“No argument from me. I know that sometimes people need to stand up to their kings. I know that the rulers of this land deserve a bloody nose and the people deserve some justice. But most of these kids… they’re here to steal and burn, for fun. They don’t care why and they don’t want to see change. You can’t fight oppression by nicking a flatscreen.”
“I know, it’s disgraceful. Earlier, I saw some talking head on the television say they’re rioting in protest. Protest! They aren’t all that hard done by. Not like people once were,” she said.
“You don’t have to tell me,” grunted Noddy. “When I was young… before your time… people had to carve a life from the earth. The world is too small now, too fast. Too easy. It makes them weak.”
“It’s not the whole world, or all of the people,” she replied quickly.
“It’s still wrong!” he shouted in irritation.
When he raised his voice, the gang of youths seemed to notice the pair for the first time. A few moments passed and they forgot them again, their attention somehow slipping away from the bench and its vulnerable occupants.
“You’re hurt,” she said, sliding the comment in somewhere between question and statement.
“The land is hurt. You know it works both ways,” he muttered.
“You caught anything yet?” she asked, gesturing with her fork.
Noddy shook his head and flexed his right hand. His fingernails were the only part of his hand not caked in dirt; in fact they caught the streetlight with a glimmer like silver.
“Not as yet. My hand isn’t what it once was. Arthritis,” he explained in a quiet, sad voice.
The gang of rioters took their loot and ran, scattering down the nearest alleyways. Other groups ran through the street but did not linger, roaming in packs, faces obscured. They stopped only to kick over bins and smash anything that would break.
“I thought you and your hand could catch anything,” teased Brit. Noddy shrugged and adjusted his fishing rod.
“Once, maybe. I’m so old, Brit. I’ve had too many names. I’m older than you and you’re a bloody relic,” he moaned.
She poked at him with her fork.
“We’re not that old. Not forgotten,” she replied.
“Not yet, you mean. These days it’s all ‘Allah’ this and ‘Vishnu’ that. As if the bloody Christians weren’t bad enough. They don’t belong here, not in my bloody city,” he retorted, his beady eyes watching a gang of Asian men that had appeared at the other end of the street.
“You don’t mean that,” said Brit, calmly eating her fish.
“Surely it bothers you? Foreign invaders…”
“No, it don’t. They’re all British to me. Besides, we did our fair share of invading too. The waves took the empire to the four corners of the world and back, and they were red with blood by the time we were done. I was there, every step of the way.”
“You were magnificent. You were a queen.”
“Yeah, yeah, I ruled the waves. Maybe so, but once upon a time I was a newcomer to this land, you’d do well to remember. Before I became… me. You know the history of this ‘blest isle’ better than anyone. We all came here from elsewhere,” she replied sternly.
“Alright, I’m sorry,” he said quite solemnly, turning to her and lowering his gaze. “I didn’t mean all that. I spoke out of… frustration.”
“You’re a daft old bugger who forgets his own wisdom.”
The Asian youths were joined by friends, two black men and three white men. All wore a kind of rough uniform of cheap street clothing, caps pulled down and hoods pulled up. They were failing to get into a Jessops when, at the other end of the street, a rival gang of sorts suddenly arrived.
Five policemen with bright jackets and shields came around the corner, moving in a loose line, marching to the tune of their beeping and chattering radios. One of them led a snarling police dog. The groups eyed each other, gauging the situation, or perhaps awaiting orders. Someone shouted an obscenity, but there was no telling who. The two on the bench sat in the middle and watched. Noddy sighed:
“This is my city, Brit. Caer Lud. Named after me, on account of how I founded it. When I was a king for a bit.”
“Hang about. Are you sure that’s accurate?” she asked dubiously.
“Are you sure it isn’t? Don’t spoil the story,” said Noddy.
“Sorry. You were saying…”
“Well… they bound me to this land, but now they’ve turned their backs. They’re burning my London, for no good reason. It is, in my professional opinion, sacrilege.”
“Come on, it’s hardly the sack of Rome,” said Brit, rolling her eyes.
“That’s not the point, Brit. This is just a… sign of the times. A symptom.”
“Yeah,” she sighed. “I know. It hurts me too. Their frustration is warranted, but they’re wasting it on a childish tantrum. Where’s their pride? They’re like empty shells, hollowed out by television and greed.”
“You’re right. Empty. They aren’t fighting for a cause, not like what the Morrigan’s doing over in Irel
and. I don’t condone what’s happening over there for a moment, but at least it’s got a reason and a rhyme. For most of these kids, this is just… entertainment.”
“It’ll only last a few days, then they’ll get bored.”
“That’s even worse! It’s the attitude, not the violence; not compared to the things we’ve seen, or the real riots where people get shot in the streets. It’s the way they don’t care, like it’s a computer game. They’re smashing up their own city! They’re fighting their own country! They’re fighting... us. Don’t you see? They don’t know it, but they’re killing us.”
“The world’s moving on, Noddy. Look at all the forms we take over the centuries, from one place to the next. Some of us last, some of us fade, some merge together. We’re just ideas. Ideas have to change.”
“But… but like this? You said yourself that they’re all British to you; so that includes the ones who hate in your name and the ones who piss on their own land. Your own people are doing this.”
“I didn’t say I like it. I just… I have to love them, warts and all. I have no choice on that front, so instead I’m choosing to see that these are just the actions of a few,” she said quietly.
“Look: I know,” sighed Noddy. “It just hurts...”
“I blame lack of discipline,” said Brit wryly as a looter set fire to a bin, regardless of the eyes of the police on him.
“Well, you would say that. I suppose these bloody coppers are more your cup of tea.”
“Don’t you start on them,” said Brit. “They’re my boys. They might not always get it right, but they’re wearing my colours.”
“What, fluorescent yellow?”
“Oh, sod off. You watch, they’ll soon sort out these kids. Formation, boys!” she called out.
One or two officers looked over, but seemed to lose interest immediately. One of the youths threw a half-brick at the police, but it fell short of their line by several yards.
“What’s that thing they used to do, with all their shields locked up over their heads?” asked Noddy.
“The tortoise?”
“That’s it. I liked that. Even if it did kill hundreds of mine…”
“Leave it out, that’s ancient history,” said Brit. “Here we go. Would you just look at that? Such disrespect…”
A bottle sailed through the night and this time it did not land short of the mark; it exploded against a policeman’s shield, scattering glass across the street. The two groups moved inexorably closer to each other. One of the policemen tried to read the riot act to the gang, only to receive a much blunter warning in return. The curious tension of intention filled the air as battle lines were drawn in their minds.
“Now,” whispered Brit, under her breath.
The two groups collided. The police were better armed but the youths fought with tenacity and anger, fuelled by a hundred factors, justified and otherwise. They used bricks and bars against batons and shields. Two officers pushed one young man to the ground, using their size and padding to contain his struggles. One of his friends lunged at them with a knife. The blade was stopped at the last moment when the police dog suddenly latched onto the man’s arm and dragged him ferociously to the ground.
“Was that you?” asked Brit, watching the dog closely.
“Nothing to do with me. He’s just being a good boy and protecting his master,” replied Noddy with a shrug.
“At first I wasn’t sure which side you’d take, if I’m honest.”
“What? As much as I like to see people standing up for themselves, I can’t abide this nonsense. It’s a plague on the land. They’re thieves, nothing more.”
“I realised that when I saw how much it’s hurting you,” she said, briefly squeezing his hand.
A hooded man in his early twenties was pushed to the edge of the brawl, where a police officer lay on the floor with a broken wrist. The man looked down at the injured officer, then reached into his belt and brought out a gun. He hovered over his helpless victim, unseen by the others. He aimed the gun slowly, weighing risk against kudos.
“That’s not very British,” said Brit.
“It’s very bloody British,” said Noddy. “But it’s not the part I like. Sort him out,” he added, cradling his aching hand but resolutely holding onto his fishing rod.
Brit rose from the bench and the hooded man noticed her for the first time. He still had his gun pointed at the fallen policeman, who was scrabbling backwards to get away. He hesitated.
“You little shit,” said Brit.
“Fuck you, bitch!” replied the gunman, raising the weapon to point at her.
Brit charged forwards so fast that he barely had time to blink. In the blur of motion, just for a moment, she looked like something else. She was a warrior woman of the Amazon, or maybe a helmeted Valkyrie, or… perhaps a majestic Roman goddess brought to a new land.
Most important and true of all, she looked like a proud and fearless woman. Her huge handbag swatted the gun aside and her fork flashed as she buried it in the man’s shoulder. He shouted with pain, eyes wide with astonishment. She kicked his knee, dislocating the joint and causing him to drop to the floor, where she kicked him again. She took his gun.
The police officer stared at her. She handed him the gun and helped him to his feet.
“Thanks for saving me, sonny,” she said. “I am but a helpless citizen. Thank God, hah, that you’re here. Go away.”
He returned to the brawl, somewhat disorientated, his mind latching onto the fact that his comrades needed his help. He forgot all about the hooded gunman. Brit did not. She knelt down beside him and inspected his knee.
“Before you ask, no,” said Noddy.
“You’re a healer, aren’t you?” said Brit.
“He’s fine. He deserves worse.”
Brit helped the stunned man up and half-dragged him onto the bench. She took hold of the fork (still embedded in her new friend’s shoulder) and used it to keep him there.
“Perhaps, but that’s not the point, is it?” she asked.
Noddy looked at her for a moment and sighed. He took one hand off his fishing rod to roughly inspect the patient. The man tried to struggle away, so Brit held his upper arms with the steel grip that only older women can muster.
“Sit still!” she commanded. “His eyesight isn’t what it once was and you know what healers are like. If you squirm around he might do the wrong bit and you’ll end up needing a sodding silver hand like he did.”
“I got a flesh and bone one after all that palaver. People forget that. Skin-hand doesn’t make for a good epithet,” grunted Noddy. He plucked the fork out, then took the man’s hand and placed it over the wound. “Apply pressure here, to stop the bleeding”.
The man numbly complied. As soon as he was distracted with that, Noddy brought his fist down hard on the man’s knee. There was a wet crunch and a subsequent yelp of pain. The dislocation relocated.
“Will he play the piano again?” asked Brit as the man slid to the pavement and desperately scrambled away.
“Give over. It was only the kneecap, it’ll mend. You’re going soft…” he replied. Before his patient could get too far, Noddy leant forwards and grabbed him by the collar. “Fine, don’t thank me then! Just you remember this…”
Noddy whispered something in the man’s ear and let him go. He crawled back into the street, confused, disarmed and unlegged. The police quickly spotted him. The dishevelled pair on the bench slipped away from everyone’s attention once more.
“Will he remember, deep down?” asked Brit.
Noddy shrugged.
“He won’t forget, and that’s the best we can do. It’s all we could ever do,” he replied.
They watched the police leave with their haul of looters, the street growing quiet as the action moved on. Some moments passed. They sat in silence for a while, staying apart from the chaos, brooding, feeling the bitter cold and watching climbing pillars of smoke in the distance. Suddenly, Noddy went tense.
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br /> “That was fast…” he muttered.
“Caught something?” asked Brit.
“I reckon so. You know, we’re more than just ideas,” he said as he stood and pulled the fishing rod upwards. “We’re lessons.”
Noddy strained against some unseen resistance in the sewer. Then, with care, he wound in the line until he stood triumphant with an old boot.
“It’s not exactly the catch of the day,” said Brit as she waved away the stench.
“This is the holy grail! Can’t you see it?” he asked excitedly, staring at the boot as if it were made of gold.
“Is that what passes for a grail these days? Are you so old and beaten? Is this land so ill?”
“Grails are what we make of them,” murmured Noddy, inspecting the boot. “It’s wretched, but it’s mine. It came to me.”
“You’re going to drink from it, aren’t you?” asked Brit with disgust.
“It’s traditional. Harm the land, harm the king. Heal the king…”
He tipped sewer water from the boot into his mouth, spilling some on his beard. Brit scrunched up her face and turned away.
“Nodens, you old romantic,” she muttered.
He swallowed and threw the boot back down the manhole.
“That… was vile. Ugh.”
“Do you feel any younger?” she asked.
“Nope, not one bloody bit,” said Noddy with a smile. “But, maybe tomorrow I will.”
He offered her his hand and she took it, laughing. She rose from the bench and he wrapped his other hand around her waist. They began to dance a haphazard, arthritic waltz to the tune of sirens.
Into the night they went, two ragged figures turning slowly through the burning streets, with all of the time in the world.
Thornback
Thornback, nocturnal sentinel, territorial and never defenceless.
Prickpig, snorting derision, snuffling sergeant of the garden.
Urchin, solitary warrior, armoured in spears to defy all foes.
Bristlebeast, feasting on beetles, bugvore bastard of the hedgerow.
Hedgehog, summer ranger, softness hidden and sharpness shown.
