‘Shouldn’t have that on this time of morning,’ Mum says as she barges in without knocking. ‘Cost a fortune.’
‘Bank holiday,’ I say. ‘Cheap rate.’ And I lean in to cover the computer screen as she strides across the room to fling the airing cupboard open. So annoying. When they built the extension, the boiler ended up in my room for some reason. ‘What time you leaving?’
‘Soon. First race is at ten.’
She grabs three pairs of freshly-aired trainers—three different colours, same stupid tick—then races off downstairs again, calling, ‘You finished those sandwiches, Ian?’
She’s left the door wide open. I sigh and shut it after her, then go back to the website for a last-minute check.
Is it today?
Yes. May the first.
And do I know where?
Yes. London A-to-Z. Pocket of my army trousers.
Turn off the computer. Go downstairs. In the living room, David is watching television—wearing matching trainers and tracksuit bottoms. In the dining room, Mum is torturing her hair before the mirror. In the kitchen, Dad is spreading sliced wheatgerm with margarine. He has to shout over the drone of Mum’s dryer.
‘What time’s your train?’
‘Quarter to ten.’
‘Want a lift to the station?’
‘It’s alright. I’ll walk.’
I sit eating cereal, drinking tea as sandwiches are packed into boxes, boxes into bags, and bags into the boot of the car.
At the front door, Mum hands me a fiver.
‘Get yourself a McDonald’s.’
‘No thanks.’
‘Something vegetarian then!’
In the driver’s seat, Dad starts the engine. In the backseat, David sticks out his tongue. In the passenger seat, Mum belts up and belts out, ‘You be back by seven!’
‘Yes, Mum!’
‘And don’t do anything I wouldn’t!’
Her door slams shut, and they’re off. Up the road and round the corner. I hold my breath and listen for the last of the motor. Then grab my bag and head out the back door.
The greenhouse is at the top of the garden. Dad grows cucumbers in summer, but it’s mine the rest of the year. I open my bag and, one by one, place the pots inside.
I’m ready to leave by nine-fifteen. Make a last check I’ve got everything.
Money. Key. Pen. Water, sandwiches. Ventolin.
I’ve never been to London on my own. But now I’m sixteen, Mum says I can. I have been with school to see the National Gallery. That’s where she thinks I’m going today.
Westminster station is surrounded by police. I try not to make eye contact as I exit, and join the crowd reclaiming the street.
Some are carrying flowers. One or two with wheelbarrows. A woman wearing face paint hands me a leaflet. Guerrilla Gardening! Mayday Action! I’m in the right place, then. The leaflet explains that—should the police get me—I have the right to remain silent and should consult a lawyer before saying anything. There’s a number at the bottom.
Look up. See a woman climbing a lamp post. And over there, there’s another one. Something is swinging on a rope between them. It’s a banner. It says Let London Sprout.
Fucking brilliant.
Someone’s put a maypole up. Kids are dancing round it. Someone else has put grass down in the street. They’re having a picnic. And there’s a strip of grass on this statue’s bald head. Looks like a mohican.
Fucking brilliant.
Wander to the centre of the square. The earth feels lumpy beneath my feet. They must have laid turf in the night. But now, they’re digging it up and putting in plants. I try not to tread on any of them. Some look like they’ve already been stood on. Others are wilting in the sunshine. The website said bring water. Looks like no one bothered. I brought two litres. This bag’s killing my shoulder.
I stop in the corner and put it down. I look around. The website said form groups. I kind of assumed it would just happen.
Realise I don’t know anyone.
‘Window shoppers not welcome.’
He’s about the same age as me. Bit older maybe. Mohican, like the statue—except his is blue—and a ring through his eyebrow. He’s pulling up flowers with his fingernails.
‘Sorry, what did you say again?’
‘Fuck off or give us a hand.’
He turns back to his tulips. I find my fork and join him in the flowerbed.
‘I’m Jason.’
He nods. ‘Bod.’
I’ve never met a Bod before. ‘Why are you pulling up plants that’re already here?’
‘Liberating them.’
‘What from?’
‘Borders are a form of fascist oppression.’
He starts ripping up grass—with only his fingers, hard work. I lend him the fork, then carefully manoeuvre a cutting between my bag’s zipper.
‘Does it matter where?’
‘You mean you don’t have permission?’
‘Do I have to get...’
He laughs. ‘Wherever you like, man.’
Feel stupid. Start digging. ‘What are they filming?’
‘Who?’
‘The policemen.’ They’ve got cameras—those little digital ones.
‘Us. Fucking perverts.’
I hide behind my hair. Give my plants water. Try to make them stand straighter. Bod has finished. His are lopsided.
‘Very nice,’ he says. ‘You want some of this?’
I had a joint once. When Trevor’s parents went away the weekend. Didn’t really do anything. I’m asthmatic. I’m not very good at inhaling.
‘Alright then.’ I check no-one’s looking and take it from him.
‘Been on one of these before?’ He lolls back. And his System of a Down t-shirt rides up.
‘No. You?’ I try not to look at his belly fluff.
‘Yeah. See those riots last year? I was there. Fucking give the pigs what for.’
I try not to cough.
How embarrassing.
I try again.
I’m laid back on the grass watching clouds floating past when I notice a woman stood over us.
‘Give us a drag, Bod.’
She’s older than we are, hair laced with shells and silver. Bod passes the joint over.
‘Jason, this is Maya.’
She smiles in my direction. ‘Some great stuff going down.’
‘Mm.’ I seem to be grinning.
‘You come on your own?’
‘Mm.’ I seem to be unable to formulate a sentence.
‘Aw...’
I turn to the sky again. Try to focus on something but the clouds keep moving.
‘Fucking brilliant man!’ A guy with blond dreads looms into vision. ‘Someone smashed the McDonald’s in.’
Bod says, ‘Where?’
Dreads says, ‘Trafalgar Square.’
Bod says, ‘I’m there.’
He jumps up. ‘Coming?’
I realise he’s looking in my direction.
There’s this statue on which someone has written men’s toilet. Bod laughs and takes advantage. We notice some policemen and run. I try not to notice Bod’s dick, still dangling from his zip. He shouts, ‘Fucking pigs!’
There’s this sea of heads and Nelson’s Column in the middle. Bod tries to push through but there’s too many people. ‘Fuck this.’ He pulls me into a side street.
There’s this row of police vans and policemen piling from them. They’re wearing masks. They’ve got shields on their arms.
And then they’re stood between us and Trafalgar Square. On this side are protesters. On that side are protesters. The police keep piling in, hundreds of them, forming lines behind the front one. I don’t understand what’s going on.
‘Why do they have to spoil everything?’
‘Because they’re fucking pigs.’
When we work out the police are letting in tourists, we squeeze past, pretending not to speak English. Inside the square, it’s emptier than expected. And strangely silent.
There’s the police.
And then there’s us.
Now what?
I notice the sun has gone in. Then I hear something smashing and a woman screaming. She’s got a baby in a pushchair. She shouts, ‘Keep together, keep together!’ as her other kids run after her.
Bod’s laughing. He’s got a bottle in his hand. He says, ‘Your turn.’
His eyes are blue as his mohican. My heart stops beating. I look down to see my hand take the bottle from him.
I’ve never been good at throwing. I don’t expect to hit anything.
The policeman just keeps staring, staring as splinters fall around him.
I stand waiting for the earth to open. It doesn’t.
Fucking pig.
I’m addicted.
When the police start moving in, we run—back out the way we came.
Bod pulls up out of breath. ‘I need a drink.’
I offer what’s left of my water. He shakes his head.
‘There’s this party at Maya’s—you wanna come?’
‘Should be going—said I’d be home by seven.’
Fuck. Did I really just say that?
His eyebrow ring rides up a bit.
Now I’ve really blown it.
‘You got a number? Be back in London again soon.’
Not got any paper, so he writes on my travel card. I say I’ll call him maybe next week, and watch his blue fin dipping in and out of vision along the crowded street.
When I get home, they’re all watching television.
Dad says, ‘Didn’t want a lift then?’
And Mum, ‘Best put your own dinner in the oven.’
Marks and Spencer’s vegetarian lasagne. Still eating when she calls through to the kitchen. ‘You see this, Jason? Been a riot in London.’
I hear the reporter from outside the living room door, ‘...defacing a statue of Winston Churchill before proceeding up Whitehall...’
Mum says, ‘Innit terrible?’
My heart beats triple-time as I step in.
‘...the Cenotaph was desecrated...’
I loiter behind the sofa, staring at the screen over their shoulders.
‘...a branch of McDonald’s vandalised...’
It’s not the same protest at all. There’s no plants. No maypoles. Just pixelated pictures of smashed windows
‘...the National Gallery forced to shut...’
Mum says, ‘Isn’t that where you went?’
‘Must have been after I left.’
But the screen contradicts. Because there I am. And there’s the bottle, leaving my hand.
David stares from his armchair. The silence from the sofa lasts forever. Or at least until broken by the news reporter.
‘…police are requesting that viewers who recognise any protesters please call the number now appearing on your screen…’
She says, ‘Pass me the phone, Ian.’
‘What’re you doing?’
‘That wasn’t why you were let go to London.’
‘But, but…’ My hard drive is struggling to start up. ‘It wasn’t like that!’
‘Like what?’
‘It was the police’s fault.’
Her eyebrows knit, like she can’t compute this. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘Everything was fine until they came along.’
She says, ‘Ian, will you pass me the phone.’
He says, ‘Your great-grandfather died in that war.’
‘What war?’
‘World War Two. They teach you anything at that school?’
‘So?’ I centimetre towards the door.
‘The Cenotaph. Do you know what it’s for? It’s for all the soldiers who died, yeah? And without those men, you wouldn’t even be here,’ he says as he picks up the receiver.
I run.
Out the front door and onto the street. He runs after. ‘Get back here!’
He’s faster. But he’s wearing slippers. One of them falls off. He has to stop.
I stop around the corner.
Fuck! What if he comes after me in the car?
Keep running. Can’t see for sweating.
What am I gonna do?
My fingers find a solution, as they scramble in my pocket for a tissue…
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