The Riot Act

by J. S. Monroe

  Jean Paul looked around briefly then pulled out of the queue of cars, drove up to the red lights and crossed them, hooted all the way by other drivers. He turned right over Vauxhall Bridge, narrowly missing a Danish Bacon juggernaut (there were pigs everywhere) and roared up Vauxhall Bridge Road, smoke pouring out of the cindered exhaust. Danny still had his head out the window, shouting wildly.

  “Shut him up, Dutchie,” Leggit said. “Turn left here, by the pub.”

  I pulled Danny from the window just as Jean Paul was braking. We fell to the floor together, our faces suddenly as close as lovers. Danny’s eyes were glazed, naive. “Raise your game, dickhead,” I said. “And whatever you’ve taken, next time wait for the rest of us. We might not think you’re so fucking stupid.”

  We abandoned the van in a red-bricked archway, and ran across Vauxhall Bridge Road, Danny still shouting, turning circles in the traffic. I caught him by his hood and dragged him forward. Above us, helicopters were bending across the Westminster sky. I could hear chanting in the distance.

  I had missed days like this.

  We walked down John Islip Street spread out in twos, reducing our chances of being arrested. Leggit pulled out an Amplex packet and passed round small blue pills, uneven spheres, to everyone except Danny. He wouldn’t say what they were, just that they were new, from Holland and weren’t designed to freshen your breath. I swallowed mine in one, too late to notice Leggit sliding his into a back pocket.

  Parliament Square was surging with demonstrators by the time we arrived – police and TV crews scanning the huge crowd nervously. Ranks of stamping horses were breathing heavily on the pavements, half lost in their own steam. It was a moment I used to savour, the uneasy hiatus: a time to reflect, to inhale the primitive air.

  “Head for the scaffolding,” Leggit urged. He was suddenly at my shoulder, sharp focused, too close. “We wasn’t even meant to reach the square. What a beautiful cock-up.”

  I looked towards the middle of the crowd. A group of edgy riot police standing three deep were guarding wooden hoardings. A London Underground poster apologised for any inconvenience. Leggit was right. It was cock-up. Behind those hoardings were clamps, poles, rocks. The march should have been diverted.

  We steamed into the front of the crowd, shoving protesters out the way. “Fuck off home, lentilhead,” Leggit shouted at a woman who looked like Katrina. I tried to say something to her but I couldn’t.

  I was sinking.

  My arms felt heavy, leaden. The tarmac tugged at my feet like treacle, making it difficult to walk. I looked ahead, trying to focus on Leggit’s khaki-cream back, now no more than a smudge. Where was Danny? Blood sluiced noisily through my ears. I felt so tired. The sky was no longer clear. Clouds, ink-black and twisted, were pressing down on me, buckling my forehead. A helicopter hovered, so low I thought it would somersault my severed limbs through the air. The weight of my body was no longer bearable. I had to lie down, flatten myself against the earth, sink towards its core until I could fall no further…

  *

  Lying prostrate in the middle of a demonstration was not good form, I realised that. It was physically dangerous, but worse, much worse, was the possibility that someone might have mistaken me for a D-bar protester. The sort who held hands, organised die-ins, and locked themselves to railings. The thought hurt me more than my bruised ribs. I wasn’t sure if I had been walked on, run over by horses, or privately kicked. Jean Paul had probably been unable to resist a quick toe jab, and the police! What a joke. I would have been carcassed if they had recognised me. Instead I was lying conscious in a cell, glad to be a slaphead.

  “Hello?” I called out into the silence. My mouth was parched, in need of a drink. Given my condition and circumstances, I didn’t feel too bad. I almost felt high. What sort of gear were those pills? The thought of not seeing Leggit for a while appealed. Where was he in my hour of need? And I hadn’t liked the way he had talked of Annalese.

  My cell was on a small, dimly lit corridor, at the far end of which was a door. A faint light seeped through a crack at the bottom and there were two people talking on the other side. The cell was pitch black, but I could just make out the shape of a bucket in the corner. It was hard to tell whether the other cells, three, maybe four, were occupied.

  “Anybody home?”

  “Can’t you shut it?” a voice said in the darkness.

  I wondered what time it was. The voices grew louder. Whoever it was, they were arguing. Then the door opened, throwing a tidy box of light across the floor of my cell. I covered my eyes, but I could see two people approaching. The profile of one was unmistakable.

  “Don’t say a word,” Walter said, holding up his hand. “I’m not sure I could bear the sound of your voice right now.”

  The duty officer unlocked the barred door and walked away, not looking at either of us. “Come back John Major, all is forgiven,” he muttered.

  “He’s had a bad day,” Walter explained. “We all have.” He stood at the entrance and directed me out of the cell.

  Once outside – we were somewhere near Victoria – Walter took me by the arm and moved quickly through the cold night air towards his Daimler. There was no driver and I settled myself in the passenger seat. Walter was in no mood to be trifled with; reclining in the back might not be taken the right way.

  “Okay kid, I’m not going to lose my temper,” he said, slamming his door shut. “But what in God’s name did you think you were doing out there?”

  “I believe in dockers’ rights, that’s all.”

  “Bullshit. You don’t believe in anything.”

  Walter tried to fasten his seat belt, drawing it slowly from its spool, but the buckle kept stopping a foot short. Either it was jammed or the designers had had someone slimmer in mind. He tossed it back over his shoulder and started the car, looking at me briefly. The silence made me edgy as we drove off towards the river.

  “Kill the Bill, Kill the Bill,” I chanted quietly.

  Walter threw me a worried glance. “Are you drunk?”

  “Just committed.” I felt drunk, though. “Can we stop for a drink? Water.”

  We were passing over Vauxhall Bridge. On our left the Security Services building was lit up like the Great Pyramid, its warm, sandy colours fooling no one. I wanted to ask him about the tunnel, but thought better of it.

  “Does the name Martin Denton mean anything to you?” he asked, braking late at the lights. He didn’t notice me flinch. “Yes or no?”

  “No.”

  “Let me tell you something, arsehole. He was working for MI5, a joint operation with Special Branch. This morning he was found dead, in a South London parking lot.”

  Walter was driving fast, badly, sliding across lanes under a barrage of hooters. A race between him and Jean Paul would be interesting.

  “Second point. Does the name Lenny Fisher, ‘Leggit’ to his friends, ring any bells in your minute, hollow skull?”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “Heard of him! Jesus, Dutchie. He’s just been charged with Denton’s murder.”

  I began to feel heavy again, exhausted.

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Someone saw you in the pub.”

  “So what?”

  “So what?” Walter was beside himself, breathless. He looked at me, then ahead again, just in time to swerve past an old man stepping on to a pedestrian crossing.

  “Why wasn’t I charged?” I asked, tempted to take him to boiling point.

  “Because I said you were working for the Security Services, that’s goddam why. And because for some unknown reason, you chose not to kick the shit out of Martin. It was all filmed by the way.”

  “He wasn’t a policemen, then.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “He used to be in the police. We’ve employed smarter guys, too. But he had a family, two kids and a wife who loved him.”

  I ignored him, and wondered why
MI5 was mixing it with Leggit.

  “You’re scared, all of you,” I began, “scared of losing your jobs. I can see the front page now: ‘MI5 given P42s’.”

  “What?”

  “You must dread that.” I was rambling, lost in establishment initials, still high on whatever it was Leggit had given me.

  “Listen to me, Dutchie. You don’t seem to understand. This entire project is in jeopardy. Your face was on the evening news. You’re walking into the City Monday morning a marked man. Are you committed to this or not? I need to know.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  He didn’t reply. I remembered the crimes Walter had listed the previous night. He could add murder to the list now. Why did he need to blackmail people to work for him?

  “Can I ask you something?” I said. “Has anyone gone before me, to the City?”

  “You would have been the first.”

  “And the best you’ve got?”

  “Please, don’t use the word ‘best’. It seems truly inappropriate right now. Do you know who you rang when the police gave you your one call? Do you?”

  “No.”

  I couldn’t remember being arrested, let alone calling anyone.

  “You dialled a goddamn hooker. Can you believe that?”

  I couldn’t, but then remembered the calling cards I had taken from the phonebox. I had to smile. Christ, I must have been out to breakfast, lunch and dinner.

  We sat in silence for a while, driving through the night towards Clapham.

  “It wasn’t a good crack today,” I said finally, as we neared the house. “If it makes you feel any better.”

  “Oh, so that’s okay then,” he said, his temper refuelled. “Do you know how many policemen were injured out there? Forty-eight. Ten of them badly.”

  “And I missed it all.”

  “You’re a disgrace to your country, and to your father.”

  The car turned into the driveway. Charlotte’s light was on upstairs. Walter turned off the engine and saw me looking up at her window.

  “You’d better watch your butt. She’s not happy, I warn you.”

  “I think I’ll kip in the car,” I said, feeling the side of the seat for the reclining button.

  “Don’t push it, Dutchie,” he said, leaning across and opening my door.

  12

  I crept up the stairs, treading silently on the sides of each step, much as I had done that morning. It had been a long day. Walter appeared to be sleeping on someone else’s sofa tonight. After making sure I had gone in, he had driven off. Perhaps he was going to sleep in the car.

  At the top of the landing I stopped and listened. My door was diagonally opposite, Charlotte’s was to the left. She had left it slightly ajar and I could hear a television inside. Had she heard me come in? She must have seen the car. Tiptoeing, I turned left, almost falling against an Aubrey Beardsley print. A man was standing hand on hips, displaying his telescopic member to a posse of harlots. Who chose these pictures? Walter?

  I closed the bedroom door behind me, relieved, and then felt short-changed. I had been steeling myself for a torrent of rage from teacher, but she hadn’t reacted. I got undressed, moving around the room with less care, knocking a wire coathanger to the cupboard floor where it settled with a rattle. I coughed without restraint, spat in the basin, hesitated a moment before closing off the cold water tap. The pipes juddered somewhere above me. I wanted to get it over with tonight.

  But Charlotte didn’t stir. I lay there in bed, the light off, trying to sleep. Could I hear her television? I listened. Nothing but the distant hum of traffic. Clapham was a confused place. A beautiful stretch of grass and trees, carved up by a latticework of roads. I had been here once before, I remembered now, to see Archaos, the French circus troupe. A woman with bare breasts had walked around on stilts, chased by men with chainsaws.

  I got out of bed and went to the door, opening it slightly. Charlotte’s light was still on. I went back to bed, sat on the edge, looked out of the window, went to the basin. Wincing, I removed the rings from my ear and nose, and lined them up neatly on the glass shelf beneath the mirror. Then I put on the dressing gown hanging behind the door and stepped across the landing.

  “It’s me, Dutchie,” I said, knocking on her door impatiently. “Are you awake?”

  There was no response. I pushed the door open and walked in. The room was bigger than mine, with a double rather than single bed. Charlotte was sitting at the end of it, her back to the door. She was watching the television, shoulders hunched, one hand propping up her chin. She didn’t turn around. A small light was on beside the neatly made bed. The room was cold, white, and smelt of apple soap.

  I stood there, wrongfooted by the stillness, and wondered whether I should back quietly out of the room, try again in the morning, pretend I had never come in.

  “Anything good on?” I asked hopefully, watching the black and white screen. It was a trilby movie of some sort. Did spies watch spy films? I took a few steps further into the middle of the room. Charlotte was wearing jeans and a thick, fisherman’s jumper which concealed her neck. With effort she turned her head as I moved even closer. Her pallor shocked me. She had been crying and her eyes looked scratched.

  “Close the door, sit down,” she said, sighing imperceptibly. I paused for a moment, then went over to the door, pressed it until it clicked, not knowing what I felt. I almost wanted to laugh. Was she so upset that I had played truant? I looked around, checking that there wasn’t anything else in the room to sit down on, and then perched awkwardly on a fragile dining room chair.

  “Had a good day out, then?” she said, lighting a cigarette and moving around to face me. The bed creaked. “Out with the boys.” I needed a cigarette too but she didn’t offer me one. She was hard to predict, held more cards.

  “It’s been a while,” I said.

  “Lost your touch?”

  “Popped the wrong pill.”

  She inhaled, looked away from me. She was more attractive in profile, subtler. I watched as she put the cigarette to her mouth again; her faintly painted lips were pursed, seersuckered, and left rippled imprints on the stem.

  “I had a lot of enthusiasm for this project, it interested me,” she began. She wasn’t speaking naturally. The words sounded prepared, her gaze was elsewhere.

  “Me too.”

  She ignored me. I leant forward and helped myself to one of her cigarettes. She didn’t offer to light it.

  “There was a real chance for Walter, for you, for us all to do something substantial, worthwhile. That’s quite rare in my job.”

  “I’m sure,” I said. I didn’t want to be confrontational; I just wanted to move beyond this childish charade.

  “That’s not possible now,” she said.

  “Why not? Walter’s kosher about it.”

  “Martin Denton was a good friend. We spent a lot of time together, working.”

  I got up and walked to the window, tightening my dressing gown as I went. So that was it. I breathed heavily, let my shoulders drop, and heard the sound of Martin’s moan. I resented being made to feel bad about the death of a copper. Okay, he wasn’t one anymore, but he had been once. That was good enough for me.

  “He knew the risks, didn’t he?” I said, still looking out into darkness.

  “I just don’t think I can work with you. I’m sorry. It’s not possible. I’ll talk to Walter in the morning.”

  I turned around.

  “He tried to squeeze out of a window that was too small for him. He cut himself up.” My voice was surprisingly urgent. For the first time, I sensed the project was in danger. “Look, I won’t be seeing them again. He would have died anyway.”

  She sat silently for a few moments and then spoke. “Would you be prepared to testify against Leggit?”

  “Testify?”

  “The evidence is only circumstantial.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “It would be in camera, anonymous.”
r />   “I haven’t seen Leggit for over a year, I am not involved with him any more. I don’t even like the geezer that much. But I can’t grass him up, not for a…”

  “… for a what?”

  We were so far apart. Perhaps it was better I worked with someone else.

  “For a fucking copper. I’m going to bed. What time do we start?”

  Charlotte said nothing. I went to the door, stood there for a few moments wondering whether to say anything else, then left. In bed I stared at the ceiling, following the cornicing around and around. In one corner there was a gap, no more than a few inches, but my mind soon plugged it. The room was glowing from the street lamp outside and I didn’t feel like sleeping. Instead I thought of Annalese. I feared the image of her in the morgue would come to dominate all others, but the stitched face was fading and I saw her supine on the beach, sitting at the table on the barge reading to Leafe, in bed with me now. It was three in the morning and we had been out with her friends in Penzance. I had been given a cool reception. We were both lying there, each conscious of the other, thinking back separately over the uneasy evening.

  “You’re a good person, underneath,” she said. “Not everyone can see it, that’s all.”

  “That’s not why you stay with me.”

  “No.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “I think I can change you.”

  “Can you?”

  “I have to believe I can.”

  “And if you can’t?”

  There was a pause. We had slipped into one of those quiet conversations where different rules applied: whatever we said could not be used again in any future rows.

  “Then I don’t deserve anyone better.”

  “You want me to change?”

  She paused again. “No. Not really.” Rolling over towards me, she linked a leg over mine. “That’s the problem. I think I would be bored by someone kind, someone who bought me flowers every day and said they loved me. Flattered, but bored.”

  “I feel like buying you flowers, sometimes.”

  “But you never do. You just say ‘I nearly bought you some flowers today’.”