The Future of London: (L-2011, Mr Apocalypse, Ghosts of London)

by Mark Gillespie

  JAMIE LEE: I don’t condone violence! I was out on the streets till three in the morning last night trying to encourage the rioters to stand down, to stop what they were doing. But we can’t be blind to the root cause of this sickness. Poor communities like this one in Brixton and throughout inner city London are in pain. There are cuts to public services; there is a lack of opportunities; there is little to no hope. They are stopping and searching black people for -

  NO-GOOD-REASON!

  JAMIE LEE: We condemn the violence Dick. But Chester George is right - we must also condemn the government, the politicians, and the bankers - all of those who are guilty of economic violence.

  This gets a round of applause from the onlookers.

  JAMIE LEE: The bankers and politicians have done more damage to the world than these kids out here on the streets.

  DICK RONSON: Isn’t it true Jamie Lee, that you yourself have been involved in riots in the past? In the 1981 Brixton riots?

  JAMIE LEE: (Furious) Have some respect! I have never been involved in riots. I have been involved in marches and demonstrations, but never riots.

  DICK RONSON: Jamie, tell me. Are you disgusted by what you saw last night?

  JAMIE LEE: You tell me Dick. Would you be here today - would the topic of social inequality have been raised at all had these people not taken to the streets? Answer me please.

  DICK RONSON: (Touching his earpiece) Well it seems like we’re running out of time. Jamie Lee, thank you very much.

  Dick Ronson turns to the camera, showing his back to the crowd.

  DICK RONSON: Well Sophie, that name - Chester George - is everywhere at the moment. A video blogger, with just two short clips to his name, has become an Internet sensation, not to mention the spearhead of the London riots. But who is he? Where is he? And what will he do next?

  This is Dick Ronson, CBC News at Six, in Brixton.

  Chapter 20

  12th August 2011

  * * *

  Mack fell into the armchair, and the soft leather swallowed him up like quicksand.

  He stared blankly at the CBC News. His eyes followed the pictures - the masked hordes, the journalists, the authority figures, and of course, the burning buildings - but his mind was reluctant to get involved.

  He laid a hand over his full stomach. Isabella Walker’s homemade lasagne was making a nest in there, forcing the rest of his body to shut down, and to declare a national state of food coma. Any second now, the front of his body would rip open and it would be John Hurt in Alien all over again.

  Mack dabbed the back of his hand against his damp forehead.

  The Walkers had gathered in the living room after dinner to watch the news. Mack’s parents were as usual, sitting on the leather couch next to the large flat screen TV. Mack was on the other side of the room, sitting in one of two black leather armchairs.

  On TV, the newsreader Sophie Wallace was talking about the trial of former Ukrainian Prime Minister, Yulia Tymoshenko, who was facing charges of abuse of office. Mack raised a half-hearted eyebrow. Finally. He always knew there had to be something else going on in the world apart from the London riots.

  And you did nothing to help that policeman.

  Why haven’t they mentioned him on the news? Maybe they haven’t found the body yet? Maybe there isn’t a body left to find? Maybe he didn’t die? Maybe he got a few bumps and bruises and picked himself up and walked away?

  You let them drag him down that alley. You did that, by doing nothing.

  He’s dead. Somewhere.

  Mack shot a worried glance at his parents. They were still looking at the screen, listening to a CBC journalist talk about the events in Ukraine.

  His mother – perhaps just as uninterested in the Ukraine story as he was - turned towards him.

  Oh shit.

  “It’s terrible isn’t it?” Isabella said. “I can’t stop thinking about that poor old man who died in Croydon a couple of nights back.”

  Archie Walker - reclining in an old T-shirt and a pair of loose jogging pants - piped in.

  “Aye, bloody scumbags,” he said. “Beating a helpless old man to death in the street. Stick a rope around their necks. It’s gone way too far now.”

  Mack’s blood ran cold. Richard Coggins. Croydon. Two nights ago.

  “Hmmm,” he said. He rubbed at his belly, trying to soothe the monster bathing in his digestive fluids. Any more talk about the riots and he’d puke for sure.

  Don’t think about that policeman then.

  “A war veteran,” Isabella said, shaking her head. “Richard Coggins. He was a pilot. He fought for his country, defended us against the Nazis and look what they did to him.”

  Archie Walker nodded. “Let the army deal with it now.”

  Mack looked across the room at his mother. She looked as if she’d aged twenty years just over the past week. There were bags under her eyes, like little hammocks made out of skin. The lines on her face were deeper. His mother had always been a thin woman, but Mack wondered now whether she’d been losing weight recently too. He’d watched her pick at her own dinner that evening, and not for the first time that week.

  Isabella had been coming downstairs in the middle of the night too. Mack had lain in bed, listening to her run the tap in the kitchen, bringing a glass of water into the living room. What was she doing in there? Sitting by the window no doubt, watching and waiting. Waiting for the sound of glass breaking on Stanmore Road, and for the first whiff of smoke to come drifting across their neighbourhood.

  Archie Walker put an arm around his wife and stroked the back of her tawny hair, which hung loose around the shoulders. Then he turned to his son. The grim expression on his face filled Mack with an immediate sense of dread.

  “We’ve been thinking about moving back home Mack,” he said.

  Mack didn’t blink. “To Edinburgh?”

  His mother turned towards him. “We can’t stay here,” she said. “Not with all this going on.”

  She pointed at the TV, which was showing a department store building on fire. Several fire engines were parked outside, and the crews were working furiously to control the blaze. The caption below the images said the store was called Morleys and that it was an important location with historic value for the community.

  “It won’t be forever,” Mack said. The food in his belly and the thought of going back to Edinburgh were combining against him. Puking was now a very real possibility.

  “It’s been six days Mack,” Archie said. “Croydon’s in ruins. Ealing – that’s in trouble. And it looks like Brixton’s next. It’s only a matter of time before Tottenham goes down too – look at what’s happening on the High Road every night. It’s only going to get worse.”

  “But what about your job?” Mack said. “Don’t you need the job here?”

  Archie smiled. “I’ll work something out,” he said. “I’m sure I can get the old one back in Edinburgh. And your mum can get back into teaching up there if she wants to.”

  “Nothing’s certain yet,” Isabella said. “We’re just preparing for the worst.”

  Mack knew that wasn’t the case. The decision had already been made and they were just softening him up.

  “What worries me is that we’re the targets,” Archie said. “The middle-class. I don’t want a brick crashing through the window in the middle of the night. Do you?”

  Mack shook his head.

  Isabella turned towards him.

  “What do you think?” she said.

  “I’m just beginning to make friends here,” he said.

  Isabella shook her head. “You’re settling in here? Into this madness?” Once again, she pointed at the TV.

  Mack nodded. “It’s not as bad as they make it out to be.”

  “It’s not bad?” she said, her eyes bulging. “Riots, burning buildings, supermarkets low on food, old-age pensioners getting beaten to death in the street - what else has to happen before you think it’s bad Mack?”

  Both hi
s parents were staring at him now. They were steeling themselves for a fight about the pros and cons of the Walkers leaving London.

  Mack knew he couldn’t win.

  “I just like it here,” he said. “That’s all. Can we drop it?”

  But Isabella was just getting started.

  “Where exactly have you been these past few nights young man?” Isabella asked. “All we ever get from you is ‘out’ or ‘Sumo Dave’s’. Well ‘out’ is no longer good enough. Where have you been spending your time? And if you don’t tell us, you won’t be setting foot outside that door until we’re leaving for Edinburgh.”

  Mack’s shoulders sagged in defeat. He wanted to crawl upstairs to his bedroom, to close the door, dim the lights and lie on the bed. To open a window and let the cool air float gently into his lungs.

  To think about that policeman. And his wife and children who you let down.

  “Well?” Isabella said.

  Mack felt sweat dripping down his forehead. Food coma.

  “What do you want me to say?” he said. “I go down to Sumo Dave’s flat. We play video games.”

  Isabella didn’t blink. “And…?”

  “And what?”

  “Why do you never bring him back here?”

  Mack threw his hands up in the air. “Just spit it out Mum,” he said. “You think I’m one of them, don’t you? You think I’m one of the rioters, out killing old men and setting police cars on fire.”

  Archie looked away. But his mother kept her eyes on him, like a hawk on its soon-to-be-prey.

  “It must be tempting Mack,” Isabella said. “All that free stuff lying around.”

  Archie Walker looked at his son.

  “You know you can’t be getting into any more trouble son,” Archie said. “Not after everything that happened in Edinburgh.”

  Mack shook his head. “The same Edinburgh you want to take me back to.”

  Archie sighed. “Mack…”

  “Let’s not go there,” Mack said. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  For a while, the three members of the Walker family stared at the TV in silence. They watched as the news finished and the next programme - The Magazine Hour - was introduced. Usually, this was a light-hearted show with interviews, celebrities, and so on. But it was filmed in Central London and Mack just knew - as the cheesy intro theme came on - that there’d be more about the riots coming up.

  “We don’t want you to fall in with a bad crowd,” Isabella said.

  Mack looked over at his mother.

  “Just tell us son,” she said. The anger seemed to have left her. “Please, just tell us - are you involved in the riots? Have you been doing a bit of looting with the rest of them? It’s okay, you can tell us.”

  His parents looked across the room at him. Their eyes still hopeful that they’d got it wrong. That it was all a big mistake on their part.

  Mack heard those muffled cries for help in his head. The policeman was calling on him, again and again.

  He saw himself running away.

  Would he ever stop running?

  “No,” he said. “I’m not involved.”

  His parents nodded, and then turned away quietly. Nothing more was said that night. Mack sunk deep into the folds of the leather armchair. He glanced at his parents, now leaning into one another for comfort.

  Mack turned his attention back to the TV. On The Magazine Hour, somebody was talking about the Blitz.

  Chapter 21

  12th August 2011

  * * *

  The Magazine Hour

  * * *

  Kris Sayers, a lanky twenty-nine year old television presenter with a riot of ginger hair and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, is standing on the steps beside the studio audience. The camera has just cut back to him following yet another montage of clips from the London riots.

  * * *

  KRIS SAYERS: I’m sure we’re all agreed ladies and gentleman – shocking scenes there on the streets of London today.

  * * *

  Kris turns around and walks up a couple of steps.

  * * *

  KRIS SAYERS: Several of those buildings we saw on fire in the film actually survived Hitler’s bombs during the Blitz in 1940. Seventy years later and tragically - they’ve fallen to a gang of thugs.

  * * *

  He stops beside two women sitting at the edge of the middle row.

  * * *

  KRIS SAYERS: Well a little earlier tonight, we found out that one of our audience members actually lived through the Blitz.

  * * *

  Kris squeezes past the two women and sits in a vacant seat next to the one furthest from the steps. She’s an elderly lady, dressed in a white cardigan and pale blue skirt. A walking stick sits neatly between her legs.

  * * *

  KRIS SAYERS: Ladies and gentleman, how about a big round of applause for Joni Banks.

  * * *

  The crowd applauds while the presenter squeezes up tight next to Joni, who smiles politely.

  * * *

  KRIS SAYERS: (Grinning) Hello Joni my love!

  * * *

  JONI BANKS: Hi Kris.

  * * *

  KRIS SAYERS: Joni, thanks ever so much for making yourself known to us. Who are you here with tonight?

  * * *

  JONI BANKS: My daughter Michelle.

  * * *

  Joni touches the arm of the middle-aged woman to her left. The other woman smiles bashfully at Kris.

  * * *

  KRIS SAYERS: And if you don’t mind my asking Joni – how old are you my darling?

  * * *

  JONI BANKS: I’m ninety-one.

  * * *

  This sparks another round of applause.

  * * *

  KRIS SAYERS: (Standing up) YES! YES! Ninety-one! You go girl!

  * * *

  Kris sits down again and holds his hand up for a high-five. Joni is quick to respond, slapping the palm of his hand gently.

  * * *

  KRIS SAYERS: Well it’s a real honour for me to speak to you Joni, especially because you lived through the Blitz.

  * * *

  Kris gives Joni another round of applause – no one else joins in.

  * * *

  KRIS SAYERS: So Joni, how does it make you feel to see what’s happening out there in London right now?

  * * *

  JONI BANKS: Well it brings back memories, that’s for sure.

  * * *

  KRIS SAYERS: I’ll bet. You probably remember those old buildings from way back in the day don’t you my love? Look at them now!

  * * *

  JONI BANKS: (Laughs) Oh no. I wasn’t talking about the buildings. I meant the looting. It’s the looting that brings back memories.

  * * *

  KRIS SAYERS: (Looking slightly confused) Okay it sounds like you’ve got a story to tell my love. Who wants to hear Joni’s story?

  * * *

  Kris stands up and frantically leads the audience into a cheering frenzy.

  * * *

  KRIS SAYERS: C’MON! You can do better than that. I said who wants to hear Joni’s story? Let’s hear you!

  * * *

  The audience responds with a little more oomph, and Kris sits back down beside Joni.

  * * *

  KRIS SAYERS: Go on Joni dear. Tell us about the Blitz.

  * * *

  JONI BANKS: (nods) Well, back in 1941, I was twenty-one. And like most twenty-one year olds I was on the lookout for a little excitement in my life. Especially during the war when everything was so serious. Anyway, that’s how I ended up in the Café de Paris on the night of the 8th March.

  * * *

  KRIS SAYERS: The Café de Paris?

  * * *

  JONI BANKS: You’re too young to remember dear, but I’m sure there are a few people out there who can still recall what happened that night.

  * * *

  KRIS: What did happen Joni?

  * * *

  JONI
BANKS: A bomb hit us.

  * * *

  Momentarily at least, Kris Sayers is lost for words.

  * * *

  JONI BANKS: I loved going out back then. And I never gave a damn about the sirens either. Sometimes I’d find myself in the cinema watching a film when the sirens went off, warning us that a raid was imminent.

  * * *

  Kris is now listening intently, hanging onto every word.

  * * *

  JONI BANKS: No way, I used to say to myself. I want my sixpence worth. And so I stayed and watched the film all the way to the end. Hitler be damned.

  * * *

  Some of the audience members laugh softly.

  * * *

  JONI BANKS: Sometimes I had to walk home in the blackout, but even that didn’t bother me. You had to point your torch down onto the pavement so that there wouldn’t be any light for the planes above to see.

  * * *

  KRIS SAYERS: Wow. Isn’t that incredible?

  * * *

  JONI BANKS: (Sighs) I was young and fearless back then. And that’s how I ended up in the Café de Paris that night. We’d been warned that bad raids were coming, but I didn’t care. Reg - my fiancée - was on a rare week’s leave from the army and we were determined to go out and have a good time.