The Future of London Box Set

by Mark Gillespie

  “It was the usual things at first - smoking, drinking and then a bit of weed.”

  Sumo Dave nodded. “Sounds normal.”

  “Like you say,” Mack said. “I do have a good home and good parents. And these kids, they weren’t the type of people that someone like me - with my background - should have been hanging around with, eh? That’s what made them the cool kids I suppose.”

  Sumo Dave nodded. “Just like you’re doing now, eh? Hanging with the cool kids.”

  Mack smiled. “Aye,” he said. “But they only liked me because I could afford to buy them things. Know what I mean? I was never really one of them. I was always the one stumping up cash for fags and booze every weekend.”

  “So what happened?” Sumo Dave asked.

  “I was always trying to prove myself to them,” Mack said. “It’s so fucking stupid. Trying to prove that I wasn’t this nice middle-class boy. I’m doing the same thing with you lads I guess - going out to Croydon and all that.”

  Sumo Dave shrugged. “I like ya mate. Haven’t asked you to buy anything for me, have I?”

  Mack grinned. “Not yet”

  Sumo Dave winked at Mack. “Although if I hadn’t been nicking everything I need for the past week, then who knows? Eh?”

  “Aye.”

  “Anyway, go on,” Sumo Dave said.

  “We were always getting into scraps with other gangs,” Mack said. “Just fistfights you know. I was coming home with cuts and bruises – my parents knew something was wrong. I said it was nothing. They worried anyway. Anyway, one Saturday we were all hanging about in Leith and this guy from another gang walks past and he starts having a right pop at me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Aye,” Mack said. “Calling me a rich cunt, a spoilt wee bastard and all that good stuff. Fuck off back to mummy rich boy.”

  Sumo Dave smiled. “Sounds like a real charmer.”

  Mack nodded. “We used to carry knives on us,” he said. “I don’t know why - we never used them. They were just there in our back pockets. All the scraps we used to get into – it was always skin. Punches and kicks, you know? But we carried these knives anyway.”

  “Yeah,” Sumo Dave said.

  “Well this guy,” Mack said. “He was a few years older than me. Rossi, his name was. His family was probably more fucked up than Hatchet’s. Heroin.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “Well he starts in on my family,” Mack said. “Calling my mum all sorts of things and telling me what he’d like to do to her, you know?”

  “Nasty,” Sumo Dave said.

  “I flipped,” Mack said. “It wasn’t just what he was saying, it was all sorts of shit I’d been burying inside for years. It all bubbled to the surface in that one moment. I pulled the knife, hoping he’d back down. Guess what?”

  Sumo Dave leaned in closer. “What?”

  “He had a knife too.”

  “What a bastard,” Sumo Dave said.

  “It got serious in a hurry,” Mack said. “The chants started up - Fight, fight, fight. I don’t mind telling you mate - I’ve never been so shit scared in all my life. He kept jabbing at me with the knife and I found myself thinking about all those old films from the fifties, know the ones?”

  “Yeah,” Sumo Dave said. “James Dean.”

  “Aye,” Mack said. “So this Rossi – he charges at me. With his arm out, steaming in and I thought – I swear to God – I thought he was going to kill me. I actually thought I was about to die. And so fuck it, I thrust the knife out at him, more out survival instinct than anything. And I was faster than him. The knife went into his stomach.”

  Sumo Dave grimaced. “Sheeeeeeeeit!”

  Mack closed his eyes. “All that blood and screaming.”

  “What age were you?”

  Mack opened his eyes again and looked at Sumo Dave. “Sixteen,” he said. “Same age as I am now. Why do you think we moved to London?”

  “Holy shit,” Sumo Dave said. “This just happened? “I thought it was because of your old man’s job that you came to London?”

  Mack shook his head. “Nah. That’s just what we tell people down here,” he said.

  “Is Rossi, is he…?”

  “Dead? No. He pulled through.”

  “And you didn’t go down for it?”

  Mack shook his head. “I’m a rich kid, remember? We had a better lawyer than he did. And it was self-defence.”

  Sumo Dave grinned. “You are the original rebel without a cause mate. Bloody hell, I never would have guessed it. Not a chance.”

  Some of the kitchen staff were looking their way, and then looking at the queue piling up outside the door.

  “Rossi had a record and I was clean,” Mack said. “Who would you believe? I was cleared.”

  “You see,” Sumo Dave said. “There are advantages to being a rich tosser.”

  Mack smiled.

  “Bloody hell,” Sumo Dave said. “And here’s me telling you to worry about Hatchet,” Sumo Dave said. “I’ll need to tell him to watch out, eh? Don’t mess with Mack the Knife.”

  Mack looked down at his hands. “That’s what the local kids called me after it happened.”

  His palms were warm and sweaty.

  “Did you see the blood on Hatchet’s hands the other night Sumo?”

  Sumo Dave spoke quietly. “Yeah, I saw. He’s a crazy fucker. But he’s a mate.”

  “That’s what my hands looked like that day.”

  “LADS,” someone at the counter shouted over to them. “If you’re not eating can you make room for the others outside please?”

  Without another word, Mack and Sumo Dave started walking towards the door. As they squeezed in between the bodies that filled the cafe, voices came down from the TV above their heads.

  INTERVIEWER: Are you seriously suggesting Sadie, that we should become vigilantes? That we should be hanging people on the streets of London?

  SADIE HOBBS: We need to stop being so soft in this country. This would NEVER have been allowed to happen in America.

  INTERVIEWER: But it did happen. It happened in 1992 in Los Angeles. And before that, it happened in 1967 in Detroit.

  SADIE HOBBS: Whatever! Look, these are desperate times and this is not the time for political correctness. There are rats running riot out there. Feral rats! And it’s about time they were exterminated.

  PHASE TWO:

  CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE

  Chapter 23

  Transcript of a video uploaded to YouTube.com (posted on 14th August 2011)

  (Mobile Phone Footage)

  A shower of electric light pours down from above, illuminating a vast and abandoned supermarket. Within every aisle, the steel shelves have been stripped bare and in some cases, overturned. The floor is covered in empty boxes, tins, and the carcasses of rotten fruit.

  There are flies everywhere, attached to the supermarket like it’s a giant decomposing corpse.

  In the distance, a small crowd - their faces hidden behind masks – explore the ruins. Scavenging each aisle, one by one, looking for scraps.

  As all this is happening, ‘London Calling’ by The Clash, is playing through the speakers.

  The cameraman flips the phone around. It’s pointing directly at his face – a face covered by a skull hoodie, zipped over the top of his head. Dark brown eyes glare through the peepholes, while the cameraman’s breathing is heavy and laboured. When he talks, the quiet, raspy voice is a familiar one.

  CHESTER GEORGE: This is London Calling. This is London Calling. Welcome one and all – welcome to the unofficial Olympics, brought to you by us, The Good and Honest Citizens of London.

  He turns the camera back on the supermarket.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Mr Prime Minister of the Dis-United Kingdom. Today, I want to do you a favour – I want to save you some money. I want you to forget about pumping billions of pounds into the 2012 Olympic Games next year. What about helping the Londoners – the real Londoners who live in the shadow of the Olympic Village? I
’m talking about the people who will still live there and pay taxes long after the athletes have gone home. Okay? So this is the plan - you take care of them. I’ll take care of the Olympics. Right here, Right now.

  Chester George approaches a couple of masked figures - one short, one tall - with the hoods of their jackets pulled over their heads. Various bits and pieces of food – rotten fruit mostly, are scattered about the floor at their feet.

  CHESTER GEORGE: So let’s get the 2011 Supermarket Olympics underway, shall we?

  The two masked youths giggle.

  Chester George positions himself in the middle of the others, turning the camera on all three of them.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Up first is the Four Hundred Metres. Or as close to four hundred as we can get. You know the drill, don’t you lads?

  The other two nod their heads, still giggling excitedly. They get into their starting positions - feet shoulder width apart, one foot forward and pointing towards the imaginary track.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Are you ready? Set. GO!

  The two runners take off at high-speed along the front of the supermarket, next to the checkouts. They shrink into the distance while the others cheer them on and shout words of encouragement.

  The runners take a left at a ransacked alcohol aisle and disappear out of sight. Less than a minute later however, they both appear at the opposite end of the fruit and veg aisle where the race began, and it’s neck and neck as they run towards Chester George.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Ooooh! It’s going to be a photo finish Mr Prime Minister. It’s going to be soooooo close.

  The shorter of the two runners prevails. He celebrates by picking up his baseball bat, lying at Chester George’s feet, and proceeding to destroy Checkout Number 14.

  Chester George walks over to the next aisle, where a gang of masked youths are messing around in what used to be the bakery.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Now, after all that excitement – are you ready for the next event in the Supermarket Olympics?

  Somebody calls out from afar – ‘WHAT IS THE NEXT EVENT?’

  CHESTER GEORGE: I thought you’d never ask. Time for the javelin, what do you say?

  The Good and Honest Citizens cheer.

  CHESTER GEORGE: There’s only one problem. We don’t have a javelin.

  More cheers.

  CHESTER GEORGE: (Pointing the camera towards the youths) Which one of you lads is the skinniest?

  Instantly, a lanky individual, wearing a baseball cap, a blue mask and a black hoodie is pushed forward.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Perfect. Perfect. Our javelin has volunteered willingly. Let’s get on with the Olympics, shall we?

  While Chester George films, several of the others pick up the skinny youth - despite his high-pitched squeals of protest - and with little restraint, they proceed to throw him over the bakery counter as if they were tossing a caber between them. The human javelin crashes onto the hard floor with a thud and cries out in pain upon landing. Slowly however, he gets up and seemingly without any serious damage. He jumps over the counter and returns to the fold, where the others cheer and pat him on the back like a conquering hero returned.

  Chester George points the camera towards his face - close up - and laughs.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Let’s take a break from all this sporting excitement, shall we? How about something a little bit more intellectual?

  He looks at something out of shot.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Now this is interesting.

  Chester George turns the camera towards the front of the building. There’s a masked figure sitting at one of the checkouts. The body shape is clearly that of a female: large hips, pert breasts, and thin shoulders. Chester George keeps the camera pointed at her as he speaks.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Hello there.

  GIRL: (Waving) Hi.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Now my dear, I’d like you to talk to the camera for a little while. You’re a representative of The Good and Honest Citizens after all.

  GIRL: What am I supposed to say?

  CHESTER GEORGE: Well, for a start – tell us how old you are love.

  GIRL: Eighteen.

  CHESTER GEORGE: And where are you from?

  GIRL: The East End.

  CHESTER GEORGE: And isn’t it true my dear, that you’re an athlete?

  GIRL: Yeah.

  CHESTER GEORGE: What kind of athlete are you?

  GIRL: I run. Look I don’t really want to go into too much detail about it.

  She points at her mask.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Sorry my dear. It’s just that I want the people watching this to know something about the Good and Honest Citizens. You see for some reason, they think we’re all mindless thugs.

  GIRL: Alright then.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Now - you’ve never been arrested before have you?

  GIRL: Never.

  CHESTER GEORGE: You’ve never been in any sort of trouble with the police, have you?

  She shakes her head.

  CHESTER GEORGE: And isn’t it true my dear, that one day you might run in that other Olympics – the boring one that everyone gets so worked up about every four years.

  GIRL: I will run in the Olympics.

  CHESTER GEORGE: And tell me. Why aren’t you at home with your mum and dad tonight?

  The girl takes a quick glance around the supermarket.

  GIRL: ‘Cos this is fun. This is probably the best time of my life.

  CHESTER GEORGE: (Laughs) Me too love. And your mate who’s somewhere in here, the one you’re running around with. Tell me about her.

  GIRL: She’s a nurse. She’s a bit older than me - twenty, she is.

  CHESTER GEORGE: A nurse? A nurse and an athlete. That’s interesting isn’t it Mr Prime Minister. You got any other mates who run with The Good and Honest Citizens?

  GIRL: Yeah. I know of one girl who’s a social worker and she’s been out every night since it started. I’ve met law students, riding instructors, and even a ballerina on the streets. My mate’s a lifeguard and he’s having it large big time.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Thanks love. You can go back to the rest of the Olympics now. And remember - this is your time to shine.

  The girl gets up and walks towards the aisles where the others are holding impromptu Olympic events. Chester George stays put and turns the camera back on himself.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Now I can guess what you’re going to say. All you academics, crawling out from underneath your little universities and chasing after us with your psychological and sociological theories. Desperately seeking understanding.

  Chester George sits down on the supermarket floor. Nearby, the sound of breaking glass can be heard.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Now let me save you academics a job. This is what you’re going to say about the likes of that girl and all her friends in their well-to-do jobs – out on the streets rioting with the likes of me.

  He scratches his chin carefully.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Contagion theory. That’s it. It’s ordinary people getting carried away in crowds and losing themselves in the mob. Ordinary people doing things they wouldn’t normally do in their everyday lives.

  He pauses to catch breath. The camera remains steady in his hand, while the breathing is somewhat laboured.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Why would a good girl like that get involved in all this nonsense, eh? An athlete. You - the academics - will tell us that she abandoned her sense of personal identity and lost all sense of individual responsibility. It’s the crowd you’ll say. The crowd is alive. It leads people to commit acts of violence that normally they wouldn’t dream of committing. That poor girl is suffering from a rapid descent into mob mentality. Reasonable people no longer exist. They lose their reason in a crowd. That’s contagion theory.

  Chester George stands up. He points the camera around the supermarket and we get brief glimpses of the others, trashing what’s left of the supermarket, knocking over shelves or smashing them in with baseball bats.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Yes indeed Mr Prime Minister. We are a
n epidemic behaving with all the characteristics of a disease. This groupness is a virus and it affects the mind. The mind is infected. And the epidemic moves from person to person, town to town, city to city, country to country, until it’s everywhere.

  He stops once more for breath.

  CHESTER GEORGE: The mob? The crowd? It’s you. It’s your culture. We see it all the time at football matches where you gather together in your different coloured shirts. The crowd. It’s why we boo for some and cheer for others.

  He turns the camera back on himself.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Well, I hope you enjoyed our little Olympic event. Now there’s no need for another Olympics is there Mr Prime Minster? Why not spend the money on the people who live here, and who don’t give a shit about your Olympic Village.

  There are wild cheers off camera, followed by the sound of more glass breaking.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Now. Before I go it’s time for a little announcement. Or should I say a big one. Very soon, I’ll be calling a meeting of The Good and Honest Citizens in London. And I want all of you to be there. This meeting will take place in London’s very own advertising Mecca - Piccadilly Circus.

  Chester George raises a finger and things quieten down in the background. The music playing over the speakers is cut off.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Now listen to this. It’s time for Phase Two of our little revolution. Phase Two. I want ALL violence in the city to end – as of right now. Spread the word. Tell all the Good and Honest Citizens. There will be no more trouble on the streets from us. No more looting. No more rioting. But keep to the streets and occupy the space my friends. This is civil disobedience. But don’t break any more shop windows or burn anything else down. Don’t give them an excuse to stop us coming together in Piccadilly Circus. After all, the world is watching and they can’t touch us if we do no wrong.

  Chester George pulls the camera closer to his face. The skull design leers back at the lens.

  CHESTER GEORGE: Mr Prime Minister – now it’s your turn to listen. If any of your feds or soldiers try to get in the way of our peaceful meeting, then I say this to The Good and Honest Citizens – BURN this city to the ground. Burn it. And last but not least, before you turn London into a pile of ashes, make your way to Westminster, to the Houses of Parliament, and have your fun there.