Time to celebrate the Lord's day by snorting Ritalin and shotgunning Coors.
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TROY
It’s hours they’re up there. Don’t know what they’re doing. I mean I do – but still – ain’t right bringing all the vodka and everything then just disappearing so everyone else is hanging around waiting.
Afternoon trickles past nothing happening – Matchstick stacking tyres and knocking them over – Lee spraying stuff – Femi off somewhere don’t know where – them two at it upstairs – and me just sitting there I swear it might as well be me that’s the hostage – that’s how bored I am.
Eventually I go in to the guy. Take a Smirnoff. Ain’t opened yet but I mean what’s stopping me – why should I wait for them?
It’s weird the way he looks up at me like not awake not asleep but half of each. Skin around his eyes gone all red. Under that grey with tiny lumps like a lizard or something. Mouth and cheeks look like they’ve sort of collapsed in – almost like he’s starving but he ain’t cause we fed him and everything.
He looks at me but not scared like before – just kind of wary and tired like he given up.
You want a drink? I say holding out the vodka. Opening it. Click click click it goes with the seal breaking apart.
He hears me but it’s like I ain’t even spoken. He don’t say nothing or shake his head or nod – it’s like he don’t even understand the language.
I stand there watching him – feeling the tiny sharp bumps on the rim of the lid round and round with my index finger – then I take a big gulp and I swear it’s so disgusting. Like petrol or acid or I don’t know what just poison. I like the bit after it’s out your mouth though. The burn as it goes down. All them bits of your insides what you don’t normally even know is there – you can feel them lighting up one by one as the voddie passes through. Then there’s this afterglow in your mouth a tingle a bit like pain but not.
It’s over I say to him. Tomorrow. All over.
That makes him listen.
His eyes go small then his mouth opens and he starts to talk but the first thing that comes out ain’t even a word. It’s more like a grunt I don’t know what it is but you can see he’s as surprised as I am that his words ain’t coming out how he wants. He stops a moment and tries again – but slow – like he’s got used to the idea of being tied up and time just going nowhere and nothing ever needing to happen in a hurry cause there ain’t anything going to happen anyway.
Are . . . you . . . serious? he says in a voice a bit like a retard that’s almost funny but actually ain’t.
It’s horrible being in with him now. Just so depressing. Pitiful it is – the sight of him. He ain’t playing no games now – trying to mess with me – figure out an escape – he ditched all that a while ago. Now he just sits there. Even after this is over I know his face is going to haunt me. It’s what a person looks like when you strip out what it is that makes you alive. Or most of it. You can’t see him without thinking how people and animals is almost same – how if you take away the talk and the freedom to decide what to do – what’s left ain’t no better than a dog.
Ought to make you feel big. The power. The difference between me and him it ought to make me feel like a king. Don’t though.
Can’t figure out why Blaze wanted this. Can’t figure it out.
Serious I says. This is the last night. Vodka?
I hold out the bottle again – but hoping he won’t reach out cause then I’d have to go closer and I don’t want to. Just want to get out of there.
He shakes his head and I leave.
Give the bottle to Lee. He takes a big swig. Screws up his mouth and eyes – looks almost like he’s going to cry – but he gets it down.
Not exactly a party is it – just me and Lee swigging this throat-scraping acid – tragic more like – but eventually Blaze and Karen come down – lazy and loose like floating back to earth from their blissed-out cloud. Can’t even look at that smile they got on their faces.
Blaze puts on some music and things get going. Femi turns up after that – weirdest look he got – like a ghost – reminds me of the hostage I don’t know it’s something in the eyes something there but not there – and he don’t say nothing but takes a bottle and gulps it like water. Keep on thinking he has to stop but he don’t. The amount he gets down it’s scary.
Then Lee’s got the hostage walking around with him and he’s on the rope almost like a dog and Lee’s saying let’s paint him.
Nobody even knows what he’s talking about but Lee just does it anyway. Lets go of the string and the guy don’t run or do anything – he just stands there – and Lee gets a can of paint and starts spraying him white all over on top of his clothes. Not his face but everywhere else. Gets another can and does another and another – yellow then red then black – then this dancey track comes on and I think the vodka must be hitting cause soon we’re all dancing – all of us around him in a circle – swirling round and round this weird painted man – and Karen starts shouting at him to dance – yelling in his face – it’s weird she must be out of it but it don’t make no difference – he don’t dance. His legs sort of crumple under him and he falls to his knees – then Blaze takes him away and we put the music up even higher and the dancing turns into climbing up things and jumping off them and jumping all over each other and I can’t stop thinking about how it’s going to be over tomorrow and how that’s just a massive relief. Don’t know if it’s the vodka or the relief that makes everyone go so mental.
Just gets wilder and wilder. Everyone chucking tyres at each other and doing the weirdest stupidest dancing you ever seen. Then Lee’s on the balcony and he climbs up on to the railing right over the big drop with one hand on the wall to steady himself and he says watch this and he takes his dick out and starts pissing. Piss sprays down everywhere and he’s laughing and laughing but nobody else is and Karen’s going THAT’S DISGUSTING THAT’S DISGUSTING YOU’RE SICK! but he don’t care and he keeps laughing and pissing until he slips. He’s got one hand on a bit of metal that’s sticking out the wall but now his legs are dangling on the wrong side of the railings and it’s like an electric shock – one second you’re out of it – next second you’re just so alert running up them stairs – I’m the first and Blaze is right behind – but Femi’s nowhere he’s passed out or something and Karen’s just screaming.
We get there – hold him round the waist – drag him back in – and it’s horrible cause his trousers are down and half-covered in piss and he don’t even know what’s happened. He’s still laughing and we just leave him there on the balcony pissy trousers down and everything. Don’t want to touch him any more than we have to.
And that’s that. Party vibe totally gone. I walk over and check that Femi’s breathing and everything which he is – then I just flop out. Feel like I probably need a piss or a puke or maybe both but I can’t be bothered. Just sort of drop down and zone out easy as flicking off a light.
There’s a half-thought floating round my head as I drift off – wondering where I’ll be sleeping tomorrow – but I don’t let it in. Or try not to anyway. Plenty of time to worry about that later. All the time in the world.
It’s good that we partied even if it ended bad. Last chance. Maybe ever.
DAY SIX
Idiot exhusband drops the boys back without Xxxxx’s Ritalin. Tells me he hadn’t had it for two days. Awesome. This will be fun.
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THE NEGOTIATOR
When the call comes in, my first reaction is that they must be extracting the proverbial Michael. Frankly, I have never heard anything so ludicrous. I try to explain that taking things in this direction is unnecessary, dangerous, jumping the gun, rash, unworkable, just not appropriate by any measure of prudent or competent policing whatsoever.
But do they listen to me? The suits? Of course not. These people who have never been face to face with an actual felon in their lives, they see fit to tell officers like my good se
lf, with years of front-line work under the belt, how to resolve a situation. Decades of experience, and what does it count for up against some manicured nancy boy with a degree? Zip.
It’s a strange conversation, though, because the guy who tells me what’s going to happen doesn’t seem to disagree about any of my objections. If I were required to summarise the conversation, I’d do it as follows:
1 – These are your orders.
2 – It’s an atrocious idea but it’s what the mayor wants so there’s nothing we can do to stop him.
3 – Make sure he doesn’t get killed.
The mayor has clearly sniffed out the political capital in an attempt at physical heroism, and it’s our bollocks on the line (excuse the French) if it goes tits up (ditto).
The press must have been tipped off, because they all perk up and reappear carrying takeaway coffee cups and microphones minutes before the mayor’s car speeds into view. From the moment he steps out of his vehicle the place becomes not so much a crime scene as a film premiere. The cameramen go wild, wanting shot after shot of him arriving. He doesn’t exactly pose for them, but he doesn’t not pose either. He walks towards me as slowly as is humanly possible, pausing to look around like a mountaineer surveying the view from a summit, to guarantee that every photographer gets every shot they want from every possible angle.
Journalists fire questions at him, asking him to confirm or deny the rumour that he might be going into the warehouse. His people must have leaked the story, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he won’t deny it. If he’s mad enough to be considering going in, he’ll have some plan for how to milk it for maximum drama.
He doesn’t answer any of the journalists until he’s standing beside me. He silences the crowd with one raised hand. You can see by the half-smirk at the corner of his mouth how much he enjoys the instant effect of that small gesture.
‘I can’t comment on those rumours,’ he says. ‘I haven’t come here to talk; I’ve come to listen. We have some of London’s finest, most experienced officers on the scene here, and I’ve come to see first hand the excellent work they are doing, to hear more about the progress they are making, and if there is anything I can contribute to their fine efforts, I will of course do whatever I can. I hope to have more news for you soon.’
With that, he turns and walks away from the baying press pack. He walks purposefully, but in no particular direction. I hurry to catch up with him.
‘Where the hell am I going?’ he mutters.
‘Incident room’s this way,’ I say, swerving him towards the small requisitioned office where we’ll be able to talk in private. A vapour trail of minions follows behind, but only a couple are selected to attend our talk. They hover in the background, scowling at me, not with any particular hostility, more because they appear to have the kind of faces that only know how to scowl. It’s the white-collar tough-guy look, which is to say not tough at all. Scowl back and they’d urinate.
The mayor sits, before I have offered him a seat.
‘You haven’t achieved anything here, have you?’ he barks.
‘We’re making progress. Patience is of the essence in this kind of situation, for the safety of the hostage.’
‘Nonsense,’ he says. ‘We don’t have time for that.’
‘These rumours. Are they true?’
‘Of course they’re bloody true. Why do you think I’m here? For a chat with you?’
‘You want to go in and talk to the kidnappers? On your own?’
‘I don’t want to. But it’s an opportunity that is simply too good to throw away, and these are the moments on which a career is built. So I’m going to do it.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve been assured you are a perfectly adequate policeman, but it’s clear you know nothing about politics, which is fine, so let’s just circumvent this entire debate. Just get me some kit. Bulletproof vest. Stab vest. Something like that. Something that can go over my suit jacket.’ His gaze suddenly shoots to the female minion. ‘Or shirt sleeves? What do you think? Jacket off?’ She nods and he turns back to me. ‘Something with an aura of “war zone” about it, but not so bulky that I look overcautious or afraid. Have you got something like that?’
‘Before we get to the costume, I feel compelled to remind you that there are serious risks involved in what you’re doing. If no officers go with you, and even if they do, we can’t ensure your safety.’
‘They’re kids. I’m the mayor. What are they going to do to me? Since when did everyone get so terrified of kids?’
‘Kids are the worst kind. They have no moral compass, no self-control, and no idea of the consequences of their actions. I deal with these people on a daily basis and they’re feral. Society means nothing to them. If you think you’re safe, you are mistaken. They’re not like us. They’ve had no proper parenting and they probably spent most of the last ten years bunking off school. They don’t know anything about anything, and they’ve never eaten a vegetable in their lives.’
‘Perhaps I should take them a courgette. Would that help?’
‘I just feel I have to strongly advise you against the course of action you are taking.’
‘You are approximately the hundredth person to say that to me, but if I have one skill, it is an ability to know what plays well on the news. When was the last time you saw a politician actually do something?’
‘I didn’t think that was your job.’
‘Precisely. And if I can do this, if I can go out there and show a bit of guts, take this fellow’s challenge and run with it, I’m a bloody hero, aren’t I? And how many other people in my party can say that?’
‘What if they attempt to harm you?’
‘It’s a handful of teenagers with a pocketknife. It’s not al-Qaeda. We need a bit of perspective here.’
‘It’s very much against procedure to allow this.’
‘Everybody in the whole country has had enough of cowering away from these people and being pushed around by them. This is my chance to lead from the front. I know there’s a risk, but it’s a small one, and this is an opportunity that has to be grasped immediately, or it’ll be gone. There’s a once-in-a-lifetime political jackpot just sitting there for the taking, right now, and I can’t let that go. I’d be mad to let it go. Now STFU and get me a bloody vest.’
‘STFU?’
‘Shut the. You can figure out the rest.’
I feel my face going puce. I know he is the mayor of London, but that’s no excuse for language. Luckily I am a man who possesses quite supreme self-control, because at this instant I am livid. Few things make me as angry as being spoken to with this combination of lewdness and arrogance. Nobody has made me this furious for years, except perhaps my son, my wife, my ex-wife and my mother-in-law. There’s also my ex-mother-in-law, traffic wardens, asylum seekers and benefits scroungers, but apart from that, rage of this sort is a quite unfamiliar sensation to me.
If the population at large knew what politicians are really like, there’d be riots on the streets. Of course, there already are riots on the streets, but I’m referring to a different kind of riot. Different rioters, educated ones, rioting with good reason at the vanity and pomposity of the class of people elected to serve us.
Under provocation like this, the Dalai Lama himself would probably blow his top and chin the bastard, but I take a couple of deep breaths and do what I can to maintain my professional demeanour.
‘Well, you’ve clearly made your decision,’ I huff, my tone of voice making it clear that he has very much lost my vote. For good. ‘I’ll get you a stab vest. I suggest that once you’re inside, you stay close to a window. The snipers will try and cover you.’ This is the first thing I’ve said that has penetrated the carapace of his ego. There’s something about the word ‘sniper’ that always wakes people up.
He takes the vest. There’s some debate about whether or not to go tieless, and after assessing both looks, it is agreed that an open neck goes best with the body armour. F
ollowing a quick check of the hair in a minion’s hand mirror, he turns and without even a word of thanks heads out.
This man is either slightly crazy or very, very ambitious – or, more likely, both. Perhaps the two are indivisible.
The press pack have been herded into a new spot, one that will give them a good wide shot of the mayor’s solo walk into the warehouse. He strides towards them, but I don’t go with him. I can’t bear to hear another word seep out of that supercilious, scatological orifice. I am a tolerant man, but I simply cannot abide language.
bascaly i have gaiend a lot of twiter folwers v quickly since i started taking ‘ritalin’ !!! thank u, performace enhanciNg druges :)
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LEE
the pain of it’s unbelievable
my head I mean just BOOM BOOM BOOM throbbing like you wouldn’t believe
don’t even know what happened but I swear my trousers honk
I’m on lookout
somebody’s got to be and it’s always me which ain’t fair but
a guy walks up
don’t look like a fed
I seen him before on TV or something
Femi does some but not as much as me
it’s that hair I seen it before
Matchstick says he ain’t tall enough to see out the window but he could stand on a box couldn’t he?
what’s wrong with a box?
definitely recognise him
don’t know why it’s always me ain’t fair and it’s roasting up here
he’s that bloke politics or something
walking right towards us
ain’t fair Troy don’t never do it
don’t know why it’s never his turn
it’s piss that’s what the smell is
yesterday’s piss kind of turning sweeter in the heat as the day goes on
he’s like right up at the door and I’m thinking I know who this is and he’s walking right in just like that
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