Purple People

by Kate Bulpitt

  Magnus again! Eve tried to ignore the bubbling sense of failure that accompanied any mention of him, especially today, with Duncan’s non-appearance, and read on.

  There will be musical performances from outspoken singer-songwriter Iggy Interception, along with popular ska bands Township and The Furys. George McPhillips said, ‘Obviously there’s a serious point to the event, but hopefully in addition to being seen and counted in the fight against the Purple Scheme, people are going to really enjoy themselves. It’s always a terrific, uplifting thing to feel the solidarity of the crowd around you – and with the great bands who’ve agreed to play and everything else that’ll be taking place, we should have quite a festival vibe going on too. People really should come and join us!’

  Underneath was a schedule for the afternoon’s events. Eve carefully tore the pages out to keep with her for reference. As she folded them she saw what was on the following page: an interview with Magnus. There was an accompanying photo of him sitting on the edge of a desk in his studio, casually dressed in a Humane t-shirt, jeans and Doc Martens, the wall behind covered in framed posters for various tours and campaigns he’d worked on, and though there was a warmth and approachability to his expression, even here, in smudgy black and white, to Eve his unnerving, unwavering gaze seemed to say, I see you, Eve Baxter, in a way she wasn’t sure anyone else had. A highlighted quote from him declared: ‘If you want something, you should be willing to fight for it – don’t wait for someone else to fight for you.’

  Eve sighed and continued to crease the pages into a flat, neat rectangle, knowing that even as she now folded Magnus out of sight, these sheets would end up being tucked away somewhere, further reminders that she wouldn’t throw away. After the near-miss at the debate, she wondered if she would see him at the rally, and would she want to, given the choice? Had seeing Helena reminded him of her? What would he make of her achievements, so far from the aspirations she’d confided in him all those years ago, if he even remembered her at all? Given where they both were in their lives, he the nation’s campaigning sweetheart, she a world-class purveyor of pet stories, Eve wasn’t sure what she would have to say for herself, if their paths crossed. Her knees tingled and she felt a bit breathless at the prospect. She attempted to distract herself, looking out of the window at the fields of sleeping sheep, and washing lines draped with sheets and waving shirts.

  The Embankment was bustling with protesters, and a more diverse crowd than Eve had expected. Young, old: from parents with pushchairs to poncho’d pensioners, and an assortment of banner-waving, placard-holding, these-boots-are-made-for-walking-wearing, cheery, chanting folk in between. Eve joined the edge of the march, watching the people around her: a middle-aged collective in sun-hats and sensible shoes with rolled up broadsheets poking from their backpacks; a couple with two small children, both looking perplexed – a son in a stroller and a daughter on dad’s shoulders, gazing out across the crowd; a band of students dressed as barristers, wrapped in safety-pinned black-sheet gowns and wearing wigs fashioned from loo roll tubes and cotton wool. Eve took out her camera so she could snap the merriest contingents for Say Fantastique! Just wait until Adio sees these, she thought.

  There were the banner-wielding posses, pledging home-made, hand-painted allegiance: Pets Against Purpleness had brought their dogs and, from what Eve could see, a ferret with them, while D-I-S-C-O Says N-O wore flares and mauve fancy-dress wigs, and were accompanied by a boom-box, currently blasting the appropriately titled tune ‘Don’t Leave Me This Way’. Some marchers, bleary-eyed and clutching coffee cups, didn’t seem too keen on the latter, and either hurried or slowed their pace so as to move away from the music. Charities and trade organisations, meanwhile, marched with mass-produced placards in neon colours. One group, representing a student union, were chanting ‘Purp-le, purp-le, no, no, no, Fletch-er, Fletch-er, go, go go’, and not far from Eve half a dozen friends, probably about her own age, kept piping up with a song to the tune of an old pop record: ‘They’re only human, let’s give them all a break. Don’t turn them purple, it’s a big mistake.’ A couple of the warblers laughed and pulled faces at their inability to hit the high notes.

  A woman next to Eve, probably a bit older than her, and seemingly with her boyfriend and another couple, said to Eve, ‘Good turnout, isn’t it?’

  ‘Definitely. You’ve come far?’

  ‘Yeah – got a coach down from Leeds early this morning. I’ll be needing an early night tonight!’

  Further over, Eve spotted a small crowd of lads who looked, if she were going to commit the judgemental sin of assigning them to a stereotype, like the sort who would usually have been found partaking in some Saturday football hooliganism or a right-wing rally, in bovver boots and bomber jackets, despite the heat. One was shouting so loudly that with his now-red face and bald head he looked like a body topped with a beetroot.

  A little further ahead a policeman managed to just about curtail the contents of a pot of purple paint that a Pro-Purpleness protester was about to throw towards the crowd. A few marchers were lightly splattered, but when they saw how the scuffle had left most of the paint on the policeman and the protester they laughed it off. One flecked marcher twisted around, continuing to walk, but now backwards so he could shake his fist at the protester and repeat the ‘No, no, no’ chant at him. The protester squirmed in the policeman’s clutches, but was frogmarched away.

  ‘Why would you care about people who don’t care about you?’ a grandfatherly man called from the sidelines, looking on sadly as the procession continued past. There was something that made Eve want to stop and talk to him, but she was now surrounded by people and being swept along.

  ‘Theo Fletcher, Terminator!’ shouted another Pro-Purple protester, before adding gleefully, ‘Keep on Turning!’

  Eve and the coach trip couple shared an astonished look, and they walked on.

  By the time they reached Hyde Park, it was already packed with thousands of mingling marchers. Many people were covered in purple face paint, and some had added flowers or peace symbols to their cheeks – Eve later spotted a number of stalls offering such a service, like the kind usually found at festivals and carnivals, where children would come away with beaming faces decorated as tigers or butterflies. She also spotted a fair few ‘Lee’ masks, like the cardboard cut-out ones of pop stars and royals that were stocked by party shops. Each wearing one of the masks, some teenage boys in shorts and t-shirts posed for a photo, their arms raised in combative gestures which reminded Eve of karate. Generally the mood of the rally was jolly, but this photo opportunity seemed a tad disturbing. How was Lee already a fancy-dress character? Did the Purpleness signify something for kids to parody, or, worse, admire?

  ‘Lads,’ Eve found herself saying, approaching the teenagers with her camera. ‘Mind if I take a picture?’

  A couple of the boys had pushed up the masks so they were on top of their heads, but pulled them back into place.

  ‘Yeah, go for it!’

  As the camera clicked, the boys shifted their positions, mirthful splutters coming from behind their masks as they egged one another into various elaborate poses. In one they adopted a uniform strong-man stance, their mostly weedy biceps not quite bulging.

  ‘Thanks,’ Eve smiled. ‘Much obliged. And can I ask, what do you make of all this?’

  ‘It’s a laugh, isn’t it,’ said one.

  ‘Not really,’ said another. ‘You wouldn’t wanna be Purple, right?’

  ‘I would!’ said a third.

  ‘Nah, you wouldn’t.’

  ‘It’d be cool.’

  ‘Cool? You wouldn’t be able to leave your house.’

  ‘Yeah, but everyone would think you were hard.’

  ‘Your mum wouldn’t – you’d be in big trouble.’

  They all laughed.

  ‘What made you come here today?’

  ‘Dunno. To see what it was like.’

  ‘To see real Purple people!’

  �
��And have you?’

  ‘Yeah. They look so weird. Like aliens.’

  ‘You were scared of them.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t. I felt sorry for them.’

  ‘You want to be one!’

  ‘You are gonna be one!’

  More laughter.

  ‘Well,’ Eve lifted her camera and said, ‘thanks for the picture.’

  The boys grinned and continued to lark about.

  Glancing around for other potential photos, Eve saw an actual Purple person, the first she’d encountered at the rally. Although this was the third Turned soul that she’d seen, Eve’s breath still caught in her throat at the strangeness of his appearance. He was a pinky-blue hue, which at first could appear to be a trick of the light, until anyone of the natural palette of peach, beige or brown came into view.

  The man was at a hot dog stand, which seemed somehow incongruous, reaching into his pocket for money to hand to the stall-holder. A woman in the queue, probably about Eve’s parents’ age, gave the Purple man a warm smile, before paying on his behalf. The man nodded in thanks before taking the hot dog, the stall-holder’s arm and the mauve-tinted one meeting under a serviette-wrapped bun. Momentarily remembering the camera in her hand, Eve jolted out of her slack-jawed reverie and sneaked a couple of snaps. As she again lowered the lens, she noticed others around her staring too, bug-eyed at the close proximity of this strange skin. Ignoring them, or giving an admirable impression of doing so, the man joined a nearby friend who, arms folded, shot a terse look at anyone whose glance lingered on his mate for more than the briefest of moments. Then they wandered into the crowd.

  Eve looked down at her camera, recalling the pictures she’d taken. A close-up captured the hot dog, something of a tanned limb itself, a dividing line between the stall-holder’s pinkish, slightly sunburnt flesh and the compelling wounded indigo (their composition formed a stunted cross of sorts, and Eve imagined it as the country’s flag, illustrating an astonishing state of the nation). She had surprised herself; it was a lucky shot, and a good one.

  Here in the park, there seemed to be plenty of Purple people, which contravened the restrictions put in place for them, specifically that no more than one Turned person could be seen in public at any time, and Eve wondered how the organisers were getting around that. They were being interviewed by camera crews, questioned by human rights campaigners wearing fluorescent tabards bearing the Humane logo, and approached by fellow marchers, who would ask them how they were and give them a firm handshake in solidarity. Eve watched one man embrace a Purpled guy that he’d just spoken to, squinting as she saw the latter – surely not? – lift a wallet from his supporter’s pocket. She glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed, but apparently they hadn’t. Before she could walk over to tell him, the man went to reach into his pocket and realised. Eve watched his face register surprise, disbelief and then – what? Indignation, anger, disillusionment? He turned to find the Purpled man in the crowd, but of course he was already gone. The wallet-less man walked away, shaking his head.

  Nearby, Eve noticed a Purple person talking to one of the Humane representatives. They were standing near a bench. Eve walked over, reaching into her bag to find her sandwiches, and feeling a dejected pang as she did so – this was a lunch made for Duncan and her. She sat down, cheese and pickle sarnie in hand, and tuned into their conversation.

  ‘You don’t wanna know, mate.’

  ‘Well,’ said the rep, ‘whatever it was that caused you to be Turned, we’re here to talk to you. We want to know how you are, how people who’ve gone through what you’re going through are getting on.’

  ‘How people who’ve gone through what I’m going through?’ the Purple man laughed, nastily.

  As though surveying the crowd, Eve stole a glance his way. He was wiry, with close-cropped hair, a narrow chin, and beady, flinty eyes. With the pointiness of his features and the triangularness of his head, he reminded Eve of the kind of Stone Age hammer that was pulled up during archaeological digs; he was the sort of person you’d instinctively shy away from on the street, whether or not he was Purple.

  ‘Seeing as you’re so interested,’ sneered Stone Age, ‘I was with a couple of mates, and we gave some bloke a few kicks. When I say a few, he ended up in hospital. Black eyes, broken bones, internal injuries. He hadn’t really done anything, we were just bored and fancied giving him a kicking. Would you still like to hear how I’m getting on?’

  ‘If you’d like to talk,’ said the rep, ‘I’m here to listen. We want all Turned people to know they have support.’

  Eve had noted the rep’s body language was steady and professional. He stood straight, making respectful eye contact, and when he spoke he sounded firm, neither rattled nor sympathetic. But Eve wondered if this was one instance where he thought a person being Turned was actually a good thing.

  ‘Really? Here’s what I think of your support.’ With some gargled phlegm-mustering, Stone Age spat on the ground. ‘Pathetic. All the softies here, all caring and sharing when really they’re pleased as you like, being able to spot the thugs, like colouring by numbers. What a joke.’

  Stone Age appeared in Eve’s peripheral vision, stomping away.

  ‘And yet you’re here,’ the rep murmured, under his breath.

  Eve looked round and saw him completing a form attached to a clipboard.

  ‘He seemed like a nice boy,’ said Eve, having already checked that Stone Age was well out of earshot.

  ‘It definitely takes all sorts,’ the rep replied. He glanced at a colleague to the other side of Eve, who was busy talking to a younger Purple person, then walked off, into the crowd.

  Taking a bite of another sandwich, Eve listened in to the second rep’s exchange.

  ‘What time of day was this?’ she asked intently, pen poised ready to note the response.

  ‘Evening, but not late. I dunno – say seven?’

  The rep appeared to check a box on her form. ‘Were there many other people around?’

  The Purple youth gave her an incredulous look. ‘I’m not stupid. I wouldn’t have been taking it if there was, would I?’

  ‘Sorry,’ the rep said, before adding, as though this lad was less au fait with criminal behaviour than she was, ‘You’d be surprised. People get away with all sorts in broad daylight.’

  The boy looked neither surprised nor interested.

  ‘So, you didn’t notice anyone in the vicinity? No police officers?’

  The lad shook his head. ‘Nah.’

  ‘And as you left, with the bike?’

  ‘I cycled away pretty fast, and I didn’t see no cops.’

  ‘No one who might have been a plain clothes officer, perhaps?’

  The boy shrugged.

  ‘So, just to confirm, you didn’t see anyone around you?’

  ‘No cops, no.’

  The rep smiled patiently. ‘Anyone at all?’

  ‘A few geezers outside a pub, but it was some doors down, not right where I was. Maybe someone walking a dog, a bloke using a pay phone. But none near me, none looking at me.’

  The rep nodded, jotting everything down. ‘And then at what point did the colour change occur?’

  ‘I watched telly, went to bed, got up the next morning.’ He held up his hands. ‘And this.’

  ‘How did it make you feel?’

  The incredulous look again. ‘Yeah, brilliant, charmed.’

  ‘Had you heard about the Purple Scheme before this happened to you?’

  ‘Yeah, course.’

  ‘It didn’t deter you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have done it if I thought this was gonna happen to me, course not. But I didn’t see no one who was gonna catch me, so who was gonna make me like this? No one I could see.’

  ‘How have people treated you since the change?’

  ‘They give me looks. They watch me. I ain’t murdered no one. Ain’t hurt no one. A bike, right? It’s nothing. I’m being judged for nothing. This is wrong, real wrong.’


  The rep nodded again. ‘Absolutely. Well, we’re fighting to get this changed. And we’re providing legal advice, and counselling, if you’d like either of those. Any other comments you’d like to make?’

  ‘I’m no angel, right, but I ain’t hurt no one, and this don’t help me. Sometimes you do things you shouldn’t do, but… sometimes what else are you gonna do? Nothing’s gonna improve for me now, right?’

  The rep looked at him earnestly. ‘It can, really. You can turn things around,’ she said. ‘We’ve got counsellors here if you’d like to talk to someone? Or get legal assistance?’

  ‘I dunno about that…’

  She handed him a card. ‘Take this. We really want to help, so please do call if there’s anything we can do.’

  The lad looked at the card and gave a cautious nod.

  As he departed, the rep said, ‘Best of luck.’

  Eve approached the rep.

  ‘Hi,’ she said with a smile. ‘Great work you’re doing here.’

  ‘Thank you. And thank you for coming today. It’s really heartening to see so many people united against this.’

  ‘Absolutely. I was curious about a couple of things. How is it that the police aren’t doing anything about there being so many Turned people here? I thought there wasn’t supposed to be more than one in any public place.’

  ‘You’re right about that, but we got a special dispensation for this event.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Mm. George McPhillips can be very persuasive! Actually, they weren’t allowed to take part in the march itself, but they’re allowed to be here until three pm. And you’ll have noticed all the extra police officers keeping an eye on things. Along with an assignment of parole officers, they’re also going to be escorting them from here so there’s no rowdiness – ’ the rep rolled her eyes – ‘when they leave.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Eve. ‘It was good that you were able to get that dispensation, then. It must be the only exception so far, isn’t it?’