by Celia Rees
The violence wasn’t all one way. All around me, people were snatching up anything they could lay their hands on: placard poles, plastic cones, metal barriers, and hurling them at the police. Everyone cheered when a policeman went down. His colleagues pulled him back, formed a wedge and launched an even more vicious attack. The crowd was spilling into the square and I was getting pushed forward, nearer and nearer to the thrusting shields and flailing batons, when I felt hands on my shoulders. I struggled under the gripping fingers but we were packed too tight together. I couldn’t turn.
‘They’re sectioning the crowd, closing in from the rear,’ a voice said in my ear. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’
It was Charlie. He’d been on the bus, but I’d lost him in the crowd. He began to move sideways, pulling me with him, holding his camera high, taking pictures over the heads of the crowd. The chanting turned to shouting and screaming as people realised they’d been caught in a trap. Above us, helicopters were circling and there were guys on the periphery filming the crowd, taking photographs, ready to pick people out.
We dodged down a little side alley, dog-legging round to another part of the square. The crowd was more broken up here. A group had surrounded a police van, spraying it with graffiti, using traffic cones to smash the windows. A boy in a black parka with the hood up, scarf over his face, climbed on top of it and was trying to kick the lights off. The rear doors were swinging open, all kinds of riot gear spilling out. I picked up a helmet. Charlie yelled: ‘Put it on!’ He took a photograph, so did a news cameraman. I gave him the finger. Someone was filming behind him. That’s the footage that got on the news. Sirens were sounding in the distance, getting nearer.
Charlie looked around. ‘They’ll have this part sealed off soon. Time to go.’
There were running battles with the police now. Small groups, like flash mobs, hoods up, faces covered, were breaking off to take the fight on to other places, scattering like sparks in the wind. There was the sound of glass shattering, glimpses of fire. Charlie ran after one group who were kicking in windows and spraying slogans. I went with him. I was shaking all over, but not from fear. It was the most exciting thing I’ve ever experienced. I didn’t want it to end. I couldn’t wait to do it again.
That’s how I met Theo. We travelled back with them to the Dean Street Collective in their beat-up old van. If this was a day for new things, new experiences, then Dean Street was a further revelation. They didn’t just talk about the day, what they had done. They talked about what the day meant. They’re activists. Black flag anarchists, anti-capitalists, dedicated to changing society by any means necessary, taking action against a violent, oppressive state.
I thought about the police with their horses and their batons, charging the crowd down, beating people back, really doing damage. I recognised the truth of what they were saying. I knew they were right.
Everything I knew, everything I thought, everything that I had done, my whole life up until that moment, seemed irrelevant and trivial.
Being suspended from school seemed like a battle honour. It meant I could spend more time at their house on Dean Street. It’s a run-down terrace in the south part of town. It was always cold and smelt of damp. There were old mattresses everywhere and most of the furniture had been collected from skips, but I loved it there. It had a kind of grungy glamour. The walls were painted red, black and purple, and decorated with slogans and murals – agitprop artwork. People would turn up at the house from France, Germany, all over, stay a few days then be replaced by others. Always people there. Always something happening. Ideas being discussed. Music being played. Actions being planned.
I was Theo’s pet project. He liked the fact that I was still at school. Young minds are the most powerful, unpolluted by compromise. He’s older than the rest of them, even older than Charlie. If they had a leader, he’d be it. He’s kind of charismatic and they all listen to him. He says that we have reached the cancer-stage of capitalism. Things are happening all over the world, in every country people are taking to the streets, fighting for what they believe. Peaceful protest is not enough. Violence is an inherent and legitimate part of political struggle. If one sets a car on fire that is a criminal offence. If one sets hundreds of cars on fire that is political action. That’s what he says. At first, I didn’t know what he was talking about, but he lent me books and I found loads of stuff on the Internet. I didn’t want to be just a little schoolgirl. I wanted to be able to discuss things on his terms.
He’s spent time in Germany. He was in Berlin when the Wall came down. He said he’d been in contact with RZ, a revolutionary urban guerrilla movement who carried out bomb attacks and hijackings in the Eighties and even into the Nineties. Charlie reckoned he was blagging, but I believed him. It sounded amazing. I wished I’d been there with him, but I wasn’t even born.
He told me about the Red Army Faction: Andreas Baader, Gudrun Ensslin, Ulrike Meinhof. He told me about their idealism, their passion, their sacrifice. Their martyrdom. They were acting before their time, he said, that’s why they were defeated. All the while he was talking, I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck rising. He gave me a badge he’d picked up in Berlin. RAF for Red Army Faction – Kalashnikov and red star. More than that, he was giving me something to believe in. The badge in my hand felt like a talisman. He said it was time for another generation to take up the cause. I’d never felt such a powerful emotion. I went from believing in nothing very much to complete commitment. I guess that’s how it is with me. Zero to ten in one go.
The Red Army Faction. I’ve got their pictures on my wall. Their words in my head. Petra Schelm was the first to be martyred. She drove her BMW through a police road block and was killed by a single shot to the head. She was young, like me. Just twenty years old. When I had my hair cut, Theo said that I even looked a bit like her. I wished that I could have been there, could have known them. It was like falling in love with ghosts.
I would like to do something that is worthy of them. Dedicate that action to their memory.
Theo’s moved on, it doesn’t do to stay in one place for long, but we keep in touch through chat rooms. Anonymous and totally innocuous. He is part of an underground group. Aktion 262. They are very secret and membership is strictly limited. To belong, you have to prove yourself.
I have a plan but I need an instrument. I might just have found it.
Chapter 10
‘Where did you get to last night?’
Martha’s in the kitchen, sitting at the breakfast counter, eating yoghurt and muesli with bits of fruit cut up in it. It looks disgusting, like sick. She’s still in her dressing gown but she’s probably been up for hours. She’s got the sections of the Guardian spread out in front of her. She actually reads it, cover to cover, apart from the sport, of course. I think she’s a pretentious cow and she thinks I’m a moron because that’s the only bit I look at. I go to the bread bin and get out two slices.
‘I’m making toast. Want some?’
She shakes her head. ‘And don’t start frying bacon while I’m in here,’ she says without looking up from the paper.
Martha is veggie, has been since she was a little girl and Rob told her where lamb chops came from on a trip to Wales.
‘You don’t have to worry. There isn’t any.’ I shut the fridge door. ‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Gone to the supermarket. Hence, no bacon.’
‘Is there any coffee?’
‘Coffee’s bad for you.’ She dunks the bag in her herb tea. Caffeine. That’s another of her things. ‘What happened to your arm?’
I glance down. There’s a bracelet of bruises where Rob had hold of me last night. I rub at it, as if it’s ink and will wipe away.
I look vague and shrug, as if I can’t remember, hoping that Martha won’t guess, or question me further.
I put the bread in the toaster and boil the kettle to make the coffee. I drink it black with plenty of sugar.
‘You shouldn’t have that, eit
her,’ she says as I stir.
I take a sip. It’s scalding. ‘When I want dietary advice, I’ll know where to come.’
‘Where did you get to last night? I saw Cal with Sophie. Did he run out on you? Leave you all on your own?’
‘Rob was out with the lads. I went with them.’
‘That must have been fun Alpha male stuff. Let’s see how much beer we can throw down our necks, then fight, fuck, curry and spew, not necessarily in that order.’
‘Fight is right. I found him outside the town hall. He’d been beaten up. He’s OK, thanks for asking. Lads looked after him. Don’t tell Mum. She’ll only worry.’
Martha shrugs and goes back to the Review. ‘Oh.’ She looks up again. ‘Before I forget. You’ve got a fan.’
My heart skips. Can she mean Caro? Can’t be. If they met, they’d be bound to blank each other. I’m thinking this, but still it could be. They could have bumped into one another. In the Ladies, say, redoing their make-up. Caro could have leaned over, asked to borrow a mascara, and said, ‘You know your brother? I think he’s really hot.’
‘Lee. She likes you.’
I fiddle with the toaster controls to hide my disappointment.
‘She’s really, really nice,’ Martha goes on. ‘And attractive. Want me to put in a word? You could do a lot worse. Let me rephrase that slightly. You could do a lot worse. Oh, let me think, you have done a lot worse.’
‘’S OK. I’m good at the moment. Want to stay single.’
She looks up. ‘And why’s that? Because of your burgeoning social life? Without Cal, you have no social life. Now him and Sophie are a “couple”.’ She sketches quotation marks. ‘Where does that leave you, Billy-No-Mates?’
‘I’m doing all right. If I want your match-making skills, I’ll ask.’
‘Or maybe you’re saving yourself.’ Her eyes light up. She’s on to it. You can’t get much past her. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’re saving yourself for the divine Caro!’
‘Don’t be stupid. I don’t even know her.’
‘But you’d like to, wouldn’t you? You’d like to know her really well. I knew it! You’re blushing!’ She holds up her hands pretending to warm herself. ‘No need to use the toaster!’
This could go on all morning, but just then Mum comes struggling in through the back door, carting Sainsbury’s bags, Jack behind her. ‘Hello, you two,’ she says. I get up to help her put things away. Martha finishes her muesli.
‘Good night?’ Mum asks.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘All right.’
‘Rob got into a fight,’ Martha says as she puts her bowl in the dishwasher.
Mum freezes, her hand halfway into the fridge. Her expression changes from sunny Saturday morning to anxious. Any mention of Rob puts years on her. Unless it’s good news and it’s usually not good news.
She leaves the fridge door swinging open and comes to the counter. Jack takes over putting stuff away.
‘Is he all right? How do you know? The police. The hospital. Did they call?’
It has happened before. Sometimes the call doesn’t come until Saturday morning. Friday night being just too busy.
‘No, Jamie found him bleeding all over the pavement outside the town hall.’
Mum turns to me, her brow furrowed. ‘What happened? Is he all right?’
‘Yes, he’s fine. He’d been in a bit of a fight. The lads took him back to Grandpa’s.’
‘Why don’t you go and see if he’s OK?’ She says this in a bright and breezy, what-a-good-idea kind of way.
‘Do I have to? It’s not exactly what I had planned and I’m working this afternoon!’
I’ve had enough of Rob for the time being. I’m feeling bruised from the night before, and not just on my arm.
‘Please, Jamie. It’ll put my mind at rest and you know I can’t go.’
‘Oh, OK.’ I figure she’s got enough on her plate without me making her life more difficult. Besides, I’m spent up from last night and need to be in her good books.
‘You can take him these.’ She hands me a stack of ready-meals. ‘I’m worried he’s not eating properly.’
‘And those are “eating properly”?’ Martha raises an eyebrow.
‘It’s better than chips and takeaways.’
‘Only marginally.’
‘Give it a rest, Martha.’ Mum gives her a look. ‘I don’t want a lecture on nutrition from you.’
Martha doesn’t reply but looks mutinous and sulky. Nobody’s saying it, but Mum’s main worry about Rob isn’t to do with food, it’s to do with a drug intake and alcohol consumption which is verging on heroic. Mum doesn’t know the half of it, but what she does know about has her worried. She’d never blame him for it. He holds such rage deep inside him; drinking and smoking dope are the only way to damp it down. Mum knows that as well as I do.
‘Your dad had his own demons,’ is what she says. ‘I’m the last one to judge.’
It was her forgiveness, her understanding that made it so Rob couldn’t stand to be near her. It’s better now he doesn’t live here, but he doesn’t like her going down there. When she does go to see him, she does things that really annoy him, like collecting all the bottles and putting them into the recycling. She doesn’t mean to, but she just gets on his nerves.
‘Anything else you want me to take?’
‘Yes – I’ve got some stuff in the freezer. I suppose he was drinking last night?’
It’s so obvious, I don’t even answer.
‘He really shouldn’t, not with all the medication he’s taking.’
‘Supposed to be taking,’ Martha says. ‘He knows that, Mum. We know that. How do you stop him?’
‘That’s why I wish he was back here . . .’
Mum stops what she’s doing and leans on the kitchen counter. All her concerns about him settling on her, pulling her face down into sagging lines.
‘Oh!’ Martha turns on her. ‘And that worked, didn’t it? He still drank like a fish, smoked all the time, came in at all hours, making the whole place stink of beer and takeaways. He never took a bit of notice of you, or any of us. It was a nightmare, Mum, and you know it. It’s been loads better since he went down to Grandpa’s.’
Mum does not reply. She just winces as though each one of Martha’s words is a little tiny blow and goes to get things out of the freezer.
‘Take these down, too,’ she says to me. ‘They’re home-made.’ She looks over at Martha. ‘And I wish one of you at least would go and visit Grandpa. He does so like to see you.’
Mum is trying to deflect the conversation away from Rob, but Martha’s not having any.
‘Never mind Grandpa. He doesn’t even know who we are! Rob’s a fuck-up, Mum. Why don’t you admit it?’
Swearing was a mistake. Mum rallies. ‘I won’t have you swearing, Martha.’
‘Why not? Rob does, so does Jamie.’
‘Hey! Don’t drag me into it!’
‘I don’t like any of you swearing. Not in the house. You know that.’
‘I wasn’t swearing as such, Mother, just making a statement of fact.’ When she’s in the wrong, when she’s cornered, Martha shows her claws. ‘Perhaps you prefer the term “nutter”. Is that more acceptable?’
‘He’s your brother, Martha. I would expect you to be more understanding.’
‘Whatever. He’s only happy when he’s causing trouble, I know that. He’s doing it now and he isn’t even here. He nearly split you and Jack up and . . .’
‘Don’t drag me into it, either,’ Jack says, trying to make light of it but his shoulders tighten. He carries on putting cans and groceries away.
‘I’ll be off now,’ he says. ‘See you later.’
He goes without anyone really noticing. He doesn’t like it when we row like this. Who would? It doesn’t happen all that often, and it’s always about Rob. Martha’s right. He doesn’t have to be there – he can detonate rows by remote control.
‘He’s had his problems, you know t
hat, Martha,’ Mum says. ‘He was very badly wounded. It takes a long time to get over it. It’s up to us to be understanding. He’s suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.’
‘Is he crap! That’s just an excuse for doing what he likes and being a total prick. No one asked him to join the Army. No one asked the Army to go to Iraq and Afghanistan. He joined up because he wanted to. He loved it. He actually liked killing people. He told me.’
‘You are making out he’s a monster.’ Mum rounds on her. ‘I won’t have it.’
‘He didn’t actually say that,’ I point out. ‘He said he liked being a sniper.’
‘And what do snipers do? They kill people!’
‘Only bad guys.’
‘We all know that’s not strictly true.’ Martha glares, defiant, but I can tell that she knows she has gone too far.
The kitchen goes quiet. You can hear the tap drip, drip, dripping in the silence. When Rob first came back, he’d wake up sobbing and Mum would go in to him. He talked to her about things he’d done that he shouldn’t. One time, Martha overheard them. She’s stored it away to use against him.
‘We don’t talk about that, Martha.’ Mum’s voice drops to just above a whisper. ‘Not ever. Do you understand me?’
Martha nods. Her face is still flushed with anger but she doesn’t say anything. She bites down on her lip and looks away from me quickly to hide the tears starting in her eyes. However hard she tries to be, she doesn’t like to fight with Mum. Mum doesn’t like to fight, either. I dash upstairs to grab a shower. I’m still in T-shirt and boxers. I don’t want to be around for the hugging and crying and girly heart-to-heart.
Chapter 11
I go down on my bike. All the curtains are drawn. He’s generally an early riser, but after last night I’m not sure that he’s going to be up. The door’s on the latch, he must have forgotten to lock it last night, so I let myself in. I go into the kitchen to drop off the stuff and he’s there, sitting in his boxers, laptop open on the counter. One eye is closed, the lid red and shiny, the skin underneath stained purple shading to black. His nose is swollen, thickened across the bridge, and his lip is cut and puffy. His knuckles are scabbing over. There are bruises as big as hand-spans down the sides of his torso, blue and green circles with purple centres where the boots connected.