by Jo Brand
Sim looked bemused and Flower and Charlie’s middleclass sensitivity showed on their faces.
‘Sarah,’ said Flower gently, ‘you don’t have to do this.’
Sarah ignored her. ‘… And then when she grew up the girl got away and met someone really handsome and intelligent and breathed a sigh of relief, until one day he hit her…’ Sarah buried her head in her hands and began to sob.
‘So what poor slag’s that about?’ said the ever-prescient Sim.
For once Charlie was puncher not punchee.
Sim was reluctantly ushered out of the door protesting that his best story so far from Zimbabwe about the witch-doctor’s chickens, had been left unaired.
Flower lay Sarah down on the makeshift bed, put a blanket over her and hoped she’d have a good night free of demons.
In the morning the flat looked immaculate; the dope had obviously had a bit of an odd effect as Sarah had cleaned it from top to bottom, dropping unconscious at about six o’clock in the morning.
‘I took an aspirin for my headache,’ she explained and Charlie kept quiet.
No one had done anything sensible like check the weather for the demo, so Sarah’s wailing ‘I don’t know what to wear,’ made Flower even more irritable than she already was.
‘It’s not like a party or a wedding,’ she told her. ‘You can wear what you like — express yourself through colours and fabrics.’
‘But I like to be told what to wear, so I know,’ said Sarah, whose lack of structure and security as a child ensured she now imposed a rigid routine on all her domestic chores and a system of coding her clothes that would defeat the most anal of obsessive compulsives. In the end Flower chose the least formal things she could find in Sarah’s suitcase, all of which had been painfully pressed and folded.
‘Will I need an umbrella?’ said Sarah.
‘Only to thump a pig with,’ said Charlie cheerfully.
‘Are there going to be animals there, then?’ said Sarah. Charlie gave up and decided to leave well alone in Sarah’s mind which to him seemed to be a vacuum with the odd bit of celebrity knowledge floating about in it.
Sarah, Flower and Charlie caught a bus up to the City to the prearranged meeting place. The atmosphere was relaxed and unthreatening although Charlie immediately pinpointed the troublemakers who would doubtless produce some medieval instrument of torture from their rucksacks and continuously bang it on the heads of policemen until they flew off.
The demo was at the vague behest of an umbrella organisation which covered a loose federation of eco-friendly groups brought together by the internet and with their main aim to destroy global capitalism. Unfortunately. no one in any of the organisations had worked out how this could be done properly so the groups were forced to gather at centres of global capitalism like the City of London where they were today and shout abuse in the vain hope that all the City boys on the dealing floors would suddenly see sense, stop washing for a bit and join their ranks and curtail their evil operations. Except it was a Saturday and the place was deserted bar protesters and police.
There was music, a few stalls selling food, lots of singing and dancing, and for once Sarah felt attracted to this world she had looked at from the sidelines for the past week.
‘So it’s not just dirty dogs on a rope, is it?’ she said to Flower.
‘No, it’s not,’ said Flower, who felt under pressure for some reason she couldn’t put her finger on.
Sarah had assumed that as Flower was trying to be a comedian she would be funny all the time at home but was shocked to discover the opposite: Flower was akin to a pressure cooker, letting out little bits of steam here and there and often on the point of exploding. Sarah knew all about Flower’s legendary PMT and why Charlie didn’t have a dog which he had always wanted. Flower had explained that she would only kick it every month when she was stressed, and when Charlie looked at the way Flower treated him monthly, he was pleased they didn’t have a dog as its poor arse would by now be concave.
Charlie and Flower were chatting when Sarah said, ‘Hey, isn’t that Martha and Ted coming with, er, what is he called?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Flower. ‘Hey, Martha!’
Martha had seen something about the demo on the local news and felt sure Charlie and Flower would go along, taking poor Sarah with them. It would be an opportunity to tell them Jesus’s new name. Ted agreed, but was along on sufferance and once he saw the array of raggle-taggle hippies everywhere, part of him, and he put it down to his age, felt rather sorry for the minibuses of young policemen spotty and raw who sat waiting for crusty Armageddon.
Martha, Sarah and Flower all kissed and hugged, because this was the first time for a while that they had all been together. The place was starting to get more crowded and bustling so the naming ritual had to be done while there was still room and they could all hear. Martha got the baby out of his buggy and held him up like a trophy, which he didn’t much like and started to grizzle.
‘As you know, everyone, we couldn’t agree on a name, ‘said Martha. ‘I wanted Jude, Ted wanted Melvin after his dad. So we’ve decided to compromise and we would like you to meet…’ there was a short pause ‘… Jelvin!’
This was followed by a long silence in which the entire population of the demo seemed to stand in open-mouthed horror.
Bloody hell, that’s worse than Jesus, thought Sarah.
‘Only kidding,’ said Ted. ‘It’s John.’
A sigh of relief spread over the group. Flower was still worried Martha might have done something stupid, like given John the middle name of ‘The Baptist’, but no, it was just good old John. Nobody had broached the fact yet that Ted ran a lap-dancing club and Flower wondered whether she should mention it.
‘What do you think?’ she asked Sarah. ‘Should I say something to clear the air?’
‘What, you mean ask him for a job?’ said Sarah. ‘I might do too, I’m bored shitless in that call centre.‘
Flower stared into the chasm that was the gap between her and Sarah socially, culturally and, well, in every way.
‘No, I didn’t mean that, Sarah. I meant how unacceptable it is as far as Women are concerned for these clubs to exist.’
‘Oh, lighten up,’ said Sarah. ‘People don’t care about that sort of shit any more.’
Perhaps they don’t care about domestic violence any more, either, thought Flower but said, ‘Well, they bloody should and I’m sick of it.’
‘Oi grumpy,’ said Sarah.
‘Sorry,’ said Flower. ‘Forget it.’ And she kept her mouth shut, because she didn’t want to get into a row with Ted on today of all days, a lovely sunny one with a happy band of protesters.
Unfortunately this didn’t last long.
As the group stood round chatting, a missile hit Flower on the back of the head, ‘missile’ being the euphemism used in these scenarios for anything bigger and heavier than a bar of chocolate.
‘Ow,’ said Flower and looked down to see what the missile was. It was a quarter of a brick and she marvelled that it hadn’t knocked her out. It seemed to have come from the area where the police were.
‘The police have started something!’ she screamed at Charlie above the music.
‘Right,’ said Charlie, ‘they’re not getting away with this,’ and he pushed his way through the crowd towards the straggly police line, as were many other men dressed in exactly the same uniform as Charlie.
‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ shouted Flower at Charlie’s retreating back, which was a bit like shouting after a cat, ‘Leave those mice alone, now won’t you.’
Ted suddenly realised that his baby and Martha were in the middle of a riot just about to go off and he said to Martha, ‘We’d better get going,’
Martha, temporarily forgetting that she had given birth a few days ago, was quite keen to get stuck in, calling him a spoilsport.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ said Ted.
It was too late. The unrest had spread quickly and the
re was no way out as the police had surrounded what they thought was the biggest group of troublemakers and, like sheepdogs herding sheep, were trying to force them down a side street where they could control them better, rough them up a bit and drag out the ringleaders.
Martha saw a few people attack McDonald’s. ‘Look at those stupid bastards,’ she said, ‘and I’m bloody starving.’
‘They’re fighting the influence of global capitalism,’ said Flower.
‘Well, standards have dropped in there recently. Maybe they need a wakeup call,’ said Sarah.
‘Come on, Martha,’ said Ted, and tried to push the opposite way to the crowd; as he was such a big bloke, it started to work. Martha, John, Flower and Sarah trailed in his wake and after much shoving and cursing, with their nostrils assailed by unwashedness and hippy perfume, they reached. the edge.
‘Let me out, mate,’ said Ted to a copper on the edge. ‘I’ve got my family here and I’m worried they’ll get hurt.’
‘Should have thought of that before you joined the troublemakers,’ said the policeman. ‘Stay where you are.’
‘Oh come on,’ said Ted. ‘We’re caught up in this totally innocently.’
‘Let us out please,’ said Martha. ‘I’m dying for a pee and I feel faint.’
‘Shut it, slag,’ said the copper.
This was too much for Ted and with his clenched fist propelled at some speed, the policeman was soon sprawled on the ground with no helmet, looking very angry.
Ted was immediately swarmed over by a group of policemen on a mission, the mission being to uphold the honour of their colleague who had, rather too easily some felt, plummeted to the deck at the lightest of touches. Still, however hard Ted’s touch had been it didn’t matter because one by one they took it in turns to kick him.
Martha was overcome with shock by this behaviour being practised so openly. Rather naively she had imagined that, at the very least, the police would make an effort to pretend they weren’t a bunch of thugs, but they didn’t seem too bothered.
At one point, as blows were flailing down upon him, Ted received a few curt words in his ear to the effect that he was under arrest and would be taken down to the police station and dealt with. Ted sighed, aware that his arrival at that particular venue would probably involve another flurry of blows from Her Majesty’s finest.
Martha tried bravely to reason with the policemen who had arrested Ted but as they weren’t the sort of men who would support the idea of paternity leave and this was Martha’s starting point, it seemed highly unlikely they would let Ted go home on the basis of being the father of a newborn baby.
Sarah amazingly found herself outraged, too. Given that she had lived her life in a right-wing tabloid cocoon of sanctimony, she had, up until now, refused to admit that bad police behaviour existed. As for more subtle concepts, like class differences, a little clock ticking in her head had started to count down to enlightenment. Billy’s words rang in her ears, the putdowns, the swearing, the threats — and suddenly she saw him as a very successful policeman. Perhaps she should suggest a career-change. He might hit others instead of her. She joined in Martha’s pleading to no avail and found herself addressing the big policeman as ‘a cunt’, not something he liked to be called and certainly a word Sarah would never have imagined herself using a week or so ago, particularly to a policeman.
‘Well done,’ said Martha, patting her on the back and temporarily forgetting that her man was buried underneath a sea of serge and about to be removed.
Suddenly the police sprang into action, lifted Ted up as though he was a great big coffin and ran with him to a van and delivered him into the back as though he was a big sack of shit in a great big coffin.
Martha, whose hormones were continuing to race around her body at almost the same rate as they had when she gave birth, burst into tears as Flower ineffectually shouted, ‘Die, you pigs,’ to the backs of the policemen and Sarah joined in sounding awkward but with a fair degree of gusto.
Suddenly Charlie appeared from nowhere licking an iced lolly as if he was on a day out at the seaside. Everyone looked at him aghast and he returned their look with a benign perplexed face.
‘What?’ said Charlie, and then he realised that Martha was crying, Sarah was red-faced and looked like she wanted a fight and Flower had her usual demonstration expression on, a mixture of bemusement and aggression.
‘For Christ’s sake, Charlie,’ she said irritatedly. ‘You’ve missed everything. They’ve taken Ted away.’
‘That proto-fascist,’ said Charlie. ‘What did he do? Beat up a woman?’
Martha stopped crying. ‘Fuck off, Charlie,’ she said. ‘He may not have your Glastonbury credentials but at heart he’s a decent man.
‘Tell that to the junkie women with AIDS he employs in his lap-dancing club,’ said Charlie.
‘Oh grow up,’ said Martha. ‘They’re all posh students raking in a fucking fortune.’
‘They’re exploited, man,’ said Charlie.
John started to cry.
‘Right, I’m off,’ said Martha. ‘Suppose I’d better find out what’s happening with Ted.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Sarah. ‘I might talk to you about getting a job with Ted.’
‘Sarah,’ said Flower, ‘what the hell are you thinking of?’
‘Well, I’ve got the figure,’ said Sarah, ‘and I bet it’s a fuck of a sight better than my present shitty job. Anyway, do I always have to have a politically cracked reason for you?’
‘It’s “correct”,’ said Flower.
‘What will Billy say?’ said Martha, before she could stop herself.
‘I don’t care,’ said Sarah. ‘Billy and I aren’t together any more.’
Flower and Martha clapped and danced up and down on the spot. Charlie looked pleased too.
‘Come on then,’ said Martha to Sarah and off they went.
Flower and Charlie watched them go and the crowd seemed to part for them. Charlie shook his head. ‘Should we talk her out of it?’ he said, unthinkingly lighting a joint.
‘Nah,’ said Flower. ‘I don’t think you could.’
Just then, a policeman flew almost horizontally through the air at Charlie, rugby-tackling him to the ground. And that was how Charlie and Ted ended up sharing a rather small cell at the local police station.
The cell was packed. It contained two pickpockets who’d taken advantage of the crowds to see what they could drum up, a mentally ill hippy whose care in the community wasn’t being managed very well, since he tended to drift towards any trouble that was going on, a man who had hit his girlfriend during an argument, and two teenage boys who had stolen a car and driven it round the fringes of the demo aiming an air rifle at anyone they didn’t like the look of.
Charlie and Ted got themselves into a corner and tried to avoid any involvement with the madness going on around them.
As there wasn’t much else to do, Charlie cast himself in the role of the father of the bride, interviewing Ted as to his suitability as Martha’s partner. It was natural that Charlie should launch straight into the subject of the club that Ted ran, as he had spent so much of his life railing against this industry that he felt it his duty to try and take it apart brick by metaphorical brick.
‘Women are just treated like objects, man,’ opined Charlie, ‘and you’re encouraging that.’
‘Look mate,’ said Ted, exasperated and bruised and unfamiliar with the inside of a cell, ‘I’m not arguing with you and yes, that’s the way our society is, but isn’t it better that if these places have to exist, that they are run by someone like me who’s kind to the girls and makes sure they’re safe.’
‘So you don’t perv them up then?’ asked Charlie.
‘No, I don’t “perv them up” as you so charmingly put it,’ said Ted. ‘Come down one night and see.
‘Flower would never allow it,’ said Charlie, with a very slight trace of regret.
‘Bring Flower too,’ said Ted.
>
Charlie guffawed loudly at this suggestion and imagined himself asking Flower, particularly when she had PMT. He shuddered.
‘Has someone just walked over your grave?’ said Ted.
‘No, but they fucking would do if I ever asked them down a lap-dancing club,’ said Charlie.
Ted laughed. ‘I’ll have a word with her,’ he said.
‘I hope they let us out by tonight,’ said Charlie. ‘Flower’s got a gig in Maidstone, and it’s her last one before she does her first proper night at London’s top comedy club tomorrow. I really want to go and support her.’
‘You’ll be lucky,’ said Ted. ‘I reckon we’re due a night in the cells.’
Charlie realised that being with big ugly Ted was protecting him, the puny scruffy old hippy, and for the first time in ages, he felt quite secure. Ted only had to look at the other guys in the room to warn them off and his great big body acted as a solid reassuring barrier during the night.
Flower and Martha had tracked Charlie and Ted down to the same police station on Flower’s mobile and were told they would probably be released sometime in the morning when they had been processed.
They’re not lumps of cheese, thought Flower to herself, and was then reminded of Charlie’s old sandals that she could not persuade him to throw away.
‘Shit,’ she said aloud. ‘We’ll have to go to Maidstone on our own.’
‘Wish I could come,’ said Martha. ‘I’ll have to wait at home with John in case his dad is let out.’
Flower and Sarah noticed that Martha had a little glow about her and a catch in her voice as she mentioned Ted.
‘Are you and Ted going to stay together?’ said Flower.
‘I don’t know,’ said Martha, ‘but we’re getting on well at the moment and he is gorgeous, isn’t he?’