Travers glanced towards the departing train, his face grim. ‘Whatever it is, it’s not nice.’
Eighteen
Scott followed the broad back of the desk sergeant through a series of long corridors, a notice board, its brown cork surface scarcely visible under a deluge of bulletins, the only thing breaking the monotony of bare walls. For the past two hours he’d been locked in the sick bay waiting for a doctor, worrying about what was going to happen, yet determined to speak out, to tell someone. So far he’d been lucky and no one had taken his fingerprints. At the station, he’d been left in a side room while the rest of the group were processed, lining up to pass through a scanner to check their ID. As far as he knew, only the one guy had had his prints checked.
The young constable, assisting the officer in charge to book them in, had definitely been local, his accent pleasant and friendly, peppered with long slow vowels, but no way senior enough to offer help. The desk sergeant fitted the bill except Scott disliked him on sight. With his flushed face, he appeared to be suffering a bad case of heartburn, greeting the long line of detainees with a heavy scowl. Finally, it had been Scott’s turn to confirm his name and address, the inner door swinging shut behind the last of the group.
‘Turn your pockets out,’ the man ordered, his manner abrupt. Scott piled a handful of broken pieces of plastic onto the desk in front of him. ‘And what are these supposed to be?’
‘My mobile. It was smashed when I was hurled across the road by the blast from the petrol tank. Can I phone my parents. They’ll be worried.’
The response was a blistering negative. Scott swallowed, trying to keep the anger from his voice. Determined not to seem intimidated, he placed his eye drops and lens container on the desk. ‘I really need these. I suffer from dry eyes.’
The sergeant nodded taking no further notice and, gratefully, he returned them to his pocket, still smarting from the put-down.
He’d been on his own in the sick bay, an apology for a room, its two beds covered in paper roll to protect them from muddy boots. He’d been glad to lie quietly though but couldn’t stop his thoughts festering like an unlanced boil, relieved when the door did eventually open to see a doctor standing there.
‘Anything of concern that you need to tell me, lad? Double vision, sickness…’
Scott took a deep breath. It was now or never. Even if the doctor didn’t believe him, he’d have to take it further. The door opened again. The sergeant from the front desk stood there, a grim scowl covering his face, swinging the set of keys dangling from a chain on his belt round and round.
Scott felt a muscle clench in his jaw at the sight of the impatient figure. ‘No, I’m fine.’
‘Right, off you go then. And do try to keep out of trouble.’
The building was modern, the holding cells a huge barracks of a place, vaguely reminiscent of a changing room at a swimming pool, a line of doors either side of a narrow walkway, except there the doors were mostly of coloured preformed plastic. Here, they were reinforced steel with grilles at shoulder height to allow guards to see in; locked and bolted from the outside.
Impatiently, the sergeant flipped open one of the grilles, its flap tumbling down with a loud clunk. He peered in, counting names listed on the chalkboard outside before moving on.
‘Bloody yobs. It beats me why you can’t get a job and stay out of trouble like decent folk.’ Pointing to a door on the far side of the corridor, he selected a key, its chunky length fitting neatly into the gaping aperture of the lock-plate. The door swung open. A row of heads jerked up and eight pairs of eyes stared towards it.
Scott hesitated in the doorway. ‘I think my sister, Natasha, is somewhere about. Can you…’
‘You should have thought of that before ruining my Saturday afternoon,’ the officer snapped. Gesturing Scott to enter, he locked the door behind him. Scott heard his footsteps fading away all at once grateful for living in a country where there were laws to protect prisoners. The sergeant was the type who would happily have cast him into a watery dungeon and thrown away the key, blatantly more interested in watching a football match on television than caring for his prisoners.
‘Thought you’d been let go.’
Scott glanced across the cell, seeing the guy that had led the chanting. He stared round seeing other faces he recognised from the police van, and gave a relieved smile. At least he was in with the walking wounded and not the same cell as the rioters. He winced, remembering the glazed expression on the face of the guy who had started it all by pinching his bike. How stupid had he been to try and retrieve it. If only he’d walked away when Hilary had begged him.
‘I guess you been with the medic?’ The guy patted the bench. ‘’Ere, budge up, you lot. It ain’t much, but you’re welcome to it.’
Narrow, double-stacked benches made of heavy-duty plastic lined the walls, a couple of guys stretched out on the upper deck apparently asleep. The bunks didn’t look particularly comfortable but Scott guessed comfort was furthest from the designers’ remit; more important was an ability to withstand a drunken onslaught. No mattresses or blankets. Hopefully, if they were forced to spend the night, mattresses and covers would be provided. Scott wasn’t confident, especially after sampling the hospitality of the sick bay. Nothing to look at or read, the plastic beaker so flimsy it had buckled under the weight of the water. And the officer escorting him even took that away, once he’d had a drink, in case he was tempted to use it as a tool for suicide or escape.
High up in the wall was a small barred window, its only role an indicator of day and night, too small to provide anything other than the merest suggestion of natural light. Hidden behind a metal grille in the ceiling, electric light burned steadily. In the uppermost corner, out of reach of marauding hands, a CCTV camera had been bolted to the wall and, at ground level, again built in to prevent their being smashed and used as a weapon, was a flushing toilet with a wash basin and cold tap.
‘I’m Lightnin’, by the way.’ As the guy leant across to shake his hand, Scott caught sight of a strawberry birthmark on his cheek and neck, his hair dragged forward in an attempt to hide it.
S – Travers Randal,’ Scott stuttered tripping over his friend’s name.
‘I know. I saw your ID.’ Lightning grinned mockingly. ‘Nice to meet yah, Travers.’
‘Lightning’s your real name?’
‘Nah, it’s Peter Sparks – god-awful name. Lightnin’ suits me better.’ He grinned cheerfully pointing to the chains and zips festooning his jacket and jeans. Scott recalled his hands loaded down with rings, at least two on each finger, including a cameo with a grinning skull. They were bare now, and he guessed they’d been removed by the custody sergeant.
‘Is your head, okay?’ The guy seemed friendly enough and, despite his ripped shirt, relatively clean, although at first glance the coloured spikes of his mohican, like a dirty comb, had been a real turn-off.
‘I’m sorry I hit you. I thought… you know… you were one of them.’
‘Think nothin’ of it. She your girlfriend?’
‘No… my sister,’ Scott remembered just in time.
‘Okay.’ Lightning sprawled out on the bench squashing the guy next him, who hastily moved along. ‘Still the march was goin’ fine till you came along on that bloody-red bike.’
Scott flinched. ‘Were you injured?’
‘Nah! Limp’s put on.’ Lightning grinned and straightened up. ‘You get a damn-sight better treatment if you act injured,’ he added amiably. ‘The rest will be herded in like pigs. At least here you get to sit down. You still at school?’
‘Yes. Doing A-levels next year. Maths, biology and geography.’ It felt good to talk about something normal. Being alone in the sick bay had almost driven him mad, worrying about what was going to happen. ‘Why?’
‘No reason.’ Lightning shrugged. ‘Bit young to get arrested though.’
‘Doesn’t all this bother you?’ Scott asked, his smile tentative.
‘N
ot much. You never joined protests before?’
Scott thought about shaking his head then decided against it – his headache bearable only if he remained perfectly still. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The paramedic who treated me said we’d get seven days.’
‘You’re joking!’ The guy opposite jerked upright. The movement dislodged his glasses. Old-fashioned with thick lenses, they hung drunkenly from one ear, a strip of white tape around the earpiece holding them together. ‘You’ve only to look at the CCTV,’ he exclaimed in a shrill voice. Tall and weedy his chest wall dipped inwards, and his blue jeans were loose and ill-fitting with ragged hems that dragged along the ground, his trainers scuffed and worn down on one side. ‘We didn’t have anything to do with it. Any idea where those characters came from?’ He glanced hopefully round the cell.
‘They were bussed in, I saw them getting off.’ One of the guys occupying the upper bunk, who Scott had thought sleeping, propped himself up on one elbow. Older than Scott and brown-skinned, his checked shirt was liberally stained with blood, his face covered by a large wad of cotton wool which he clutched across his mouth,
Lightning sat forward, regarding the guy intently. ‘You’re jokin’.’
‘Not! Ouch!’ Scott noticed his bottom lip was swollen and split. He obviously found speaking painful. ‘James…’
He pointed to a guy nursing a black eye who raised a hand, his fingers stained yellow with nicotine. ‘That’s me.’ He gave a cheerful grin.
‘He was organising the student protest,’ the guy mumbled, ‘and I was late. Took a short cut across the car park. They were on a minibus.’
‘I saw them too,’ Scott volunteered. ‘They must have been parked up waiting. I was trying to avoid the traffic and I swear the road was empty when I came down. No one about. Next minute, these guys showed up.’
‘So where did you spring from?’ James pointed across the cell at Lightning. ‘You’re not one of us. I’m the union rep and know most of the faces on campus.’ He stared accusingly.
Lightning held his hands up in mock surrender. ‘Hey, don’t pin this on me. Remember, I’m the dude with the loud-hailer…’ He grinned mockingly. ‘You should be thankin’ me, I got the crowd laughin’ – always a good sign.’
‘So where do you come from?’
Lightning wriggled his shoulders against the wall as if he had an itch. ‘Nowhere special. I heard about the march and I’d nothin’ better to do.’ He pulled his jeans pocket inside out. ‘No money for footie and Exeter were playing Cheltenham. I wanted to see that match. Besides, I like marches, you meet a nice class of people there.’ He frowned, twisting his mohican round and round. ‘I’m as puzzled as you lot how it set off.’
‘Puzzled? I’m bloody furious. This yob came straight up to me… socked me straight in the eye,’ a voice called out from the bunk above. Scott caught sight of a head leaning down over the edge. Noticing Scott staring up at him, the guy lifted away a pad of cotton wool concealing the lower half of his face. The area under one eye was cut and swollen, a purple bruise covering his cheek bone. ‘Bloody oaf had a knuckleduster.’ He pointed to the cuts. ‘Came prepared. I thought at the time he was all coked up.’
‘That big guy, the one they called Tyson…’ Blank stares greeted the name. ‘You know, the one on the bike,’ James said, eager to talk. Scott nodded, remembering the blank stare and uncalled-for aggression. ‘He was as high as a kite; it took three cops to load him into the van.’
‘Did they all get pinched?’ Lightning asked, his question greeted by shrugs.
‘We were all too busy checking we were in one piece,’ the tall nerdy guy replied.
‘That’s right. I heard someone call out the rozzers were on the way. That’s when they blew up the bike.’ James leaned back against the wall. ‘Never saw nothing after that, I was too busy trying to pick myself up off the ground.’
‘Was it your bike that caused all the trouble?’ the student on the top bunk called down.
‘Yeah,’ Scott aimed for a smile and failed miserably. ‘But I promise you, I wasn’t planning on being a part of the march. I wasn’t even riding it at the end. You said the guy’s name was Tyson? I’ll remember that. He owes me a bike.’ ‘The cops said someone blew up your petrol tank.’ James said.
Scott nodded, still angry. ‘So why were you marching? Do you really believe protesting will bring the monarchy back?’
The guy with the broken glasses shrugged. ‘We’re not actually about the monarchy, it’s more about democracy. Our country fought two wars to keep democracy alive and now we’re letting bureaucrats make decisions that affect everyone in this country. And no one says anything. I mean, it was the European parliament that got rid of the monarchy, we never had a say…’
‘And I doubt you’ll get it,’ Lightning butted in, ‘however much you march. Not while Rabinovitch is President. Bloody dictator. You might as well save yer breath. I’m like you – but we’re on a hidin’ to nothin’.’ He swivelled round in his seat. ‘What that paramedic said – he’s right. And so are you, er…’
‘Chris!’ the boy twiddled the arm on his broken spectacles.
‘Okay, Chris, it’s another law the government never voted for. If you’re found guilty of affray or even bein’ in the wrong place at the wrong time, justice is swift and unmerciful. Has bin ever since the riots in London and Paris a few years back.’
‘You a lawyer?’ a voice piped up from the bunk above to the accompaniment of relieved laughter.
‘But that’s only if you’re found guilty, right?’ James said. He got to his feet, prowling restlessly round the cell. With his stocky build, he gave the impression of someone in a hurry; short and bustling, his whole demeanour was quite different from Chris sitting next to him. His posh accent alone would have given Scott cause to avoid him, since egg-heads tended to use words he didn’t understand about subjects he’d never heard of. But they were obviously friends. Scott remembered they’d sat next to one another in the police van.
‘I checked with the college authorities. They don’t like you marching but will grant you permission provided it’s peaceful. It wasn’t our fault. Chris is right and the CCTV will prove it. I mean… the worst that can happen is we spend a night in the cells while they check the tapes.’ He stared round the bare cell, his glance hovering over its single toilet.
Without warning the bolt on the door slid back noisily, two officers standing in the doorway.
‘Right, you lot.’ One of the officers beckoned. ‘We’ve found a magistrate and you’re off to court. You won’t be coming back here so make sure you don’t leave anything.’
‘I’m all for that,’ Chris said, getting to his feet.
‘What about food? I’m starving,’ a voice shouted.
‘Don’t worry.’ The officer barked a laugh, the flashes on his jacket sleeve awarding him the rank of sergeant. ‘You’ll get fed. But it’ll be a while yet. Now fall in, single file.’
‘Here we go.’ Lightning got to his feet. He clutched the wall mimicking someone having difficulty standing up.
Scott didn’t need to pretend, his heart pounding out of control against his chest wall. His head swirled uncomfortably as he got to his feet, the pain intense; the pain killers the paramedic had given him making little difference. Scared, he shut one eye testing it for focus and then the other, relieved to find he could see okay. Hopefully, the doctor was right and it was only a bad bump.
The little line of prisoners made its way up a flight of stone steps and out into a courtyard, the two officers bringing up the rear. All around were tall red-brick buildings stacked high with windows, a small patch of sky visible above their tiled roofs. The light was beginning to fade, its sullen cloud base darkening swiftly towards evening: a typical November day in which sunlight became a distant memory. Across the mouth of the courtyard, thwarting any attempt at escape, were a pair of heavy steel gates; on the far side the blacked-out silhouette of a coach, a second one parked behind it.
‘Court’s right there,’ the officer said, pointing to a flight of steps leading downwards. ‘As you leave, you’ll be handed a pack of sandwiches, crisps, and a drink to eat on the coach. That’ll have to do you till tonight. But you won’t starve.’
Scott couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
‘But I didn’t do anything,’ he burst out, unable to stop himself. He looked up at the windows flanking the courtyard, silent and dark. The people that worked in these offices were at home – no one worked weekends. James was right. It was logical to assume they would be held overnight or even till Monday morning. By then Mr Randal would have made enquiries and got him out. This was all wrong; they were being sentenced and they hadn’t even been tried. ‘Isn’t anyone interested?’
The sergeant stared over the line of heads, his gaze ferreting out Scott standing at the rear. ‘I’ve worked in this job nigh on twenty year, lad. In all that time, I’ve never come across anyone that’s guilty. White as driven snow you lot are! Stop belly-aching and accept your punishment like a man. Do your time and hopefully you’ll learn a valuable lesson. Don’t get mixed up in protest marches.’
Scott felt his face burning with anger. He opened his mouth to retort.
‘Leave it.’ Lightning grasped his arm. ‘It’s not worth it. And it’ll make no difference except you miss out on the food.’
It was like being on a conveyor belt, everything speeding by so quickly it became a blur, leaving Scott with a vague impression of a dark tunnel, a line of shuffling figures passing them on the far side, their heads lowered as if with shame. There’d been no sign of Hilary and that bothered him. The officer directed them up a flight of dark steps, a patch of light burning ahead. Scott saw they were in a courtroom, stout railings around the dock stalling any further progress.
It felt hot and stuffy although the windows on one side of the room had been opened to let in some air. Scott caught a murmur of voices and guessed that members of the public had also been allowed in. He didn’t bother to turn round and check, unsure of how good his disguise was and nervous of being recognised.
Turning Point Page 19