Justice (Chapter Six)

Chapter Six

In the basement pen, I had plenty of time to think.
It seemed impossible that 16 months ago my life had been relatively normal. Now, my world was cracking up right in front of me.
The summer before last, the three of us watched in awe as London burned. The news had never been so enthralling – even Shannon, who only ever watched it by accident, would barely leave the room. Her eyes, arrested by each pulse of violence, drilled into the television. The fear that the rioters might plunge through the pixel barrier and land straight onto my Mum’s cream carpet, spread through our suburban living room.
On the afternoon of the worst rioting, we watched in silence. Maggie flicked her eyes to the screen occasionally, more concerned with checking her phone to see if her father had texted back, her fleshy face layered with stress. When the phone did vibrate, she grabbed for it, accidentally batting it deep under the sofa. Shannon and I helped her in the scramble, but averted our eyes when she started to read. After a moment, she locked the keypad and wriggled the phone down into her pocket,
“It’s him. He’s fine.”
Having a father working as a diplomat in London was all very glamorous until law and order took an unplanned holiday. It was only a few months before Maggie’s father and his family were called back to Sweden. The official line had been something about a change of duties, but Maggie confided in us that as soon as Sense came to power, the Swedish government had wanted their people out of the U.K.
We’d looked on as what had started out as a peaceful protest about rising unemployment and pay cuts exploded into outright war. For months, we’d all heard about how bad things were in the economy, how the big banks were failing and how cuts would have to be made. It was boring. Most people seemed to accept that the politicians had got it wrong, again, and we’d all just have to get on with it. The shaking camera images from that summer’s riots proved that assumption to be incorrect. It took one mounted police officer charging at a group of protesting nurses to create nuclear fission. A protestor caught it all on their phone; in seconds it was on the net and in a few hours London was in turmoil. It was as if someone had gently nudged an Egyptian canopic jar off its plinth: thousands of years of civilisation were dashed to worthless dust.
We’d only ever seen similar images from distant countries, countries with despotic leaders, U.N intervention plans and unpronounceable capital city names. Countries where news reporters paled as burning missiles passed and made them question if the prestige and the pay were worth it.
Shannon, Maggie and I never thought we’d see burning cars and forty-strong gangs embarking on modern day Viking raids on the high streets of Croydon and Clapham.
From behind the safety barrier of the screen, we saw the streets bleed noxious vapours as the epidemic of swelling violence galloped across the city. Thousands of stationary police stood, dolls made of recycled materials, against hooded trolls with bricks, knives and homemade bombs. The riot shields, neat tessellated shapes, were trotted forwards in sporadic charges, while projectiles pelted down from blackened rooftops and clouds of smoke spewed over sparkling roads of glass. If it hadn’t been so frightening, it might have been beautiful.
Shadowy, monk-like figures raised piles of burning debris – beacons of anger in the night sky. They set alight whatever they could find; wheelie bins and window boxes became make-shift incinerators, purging the estates of all the dirt and anguish. Bankers, their £3000 suits shredded, were dragged towards burning pyres, bodies reeling against the heat while ash snowflakes graced them with a frosted benediction of scalded bank notes. The mob held them firm. The cameras cut away.
As the packs grew larger, I had to check myself that this was not a reality T.V. show: no, this was (word 'was' should be in italics) reality.
Danger shifted and evaded – retracting in one area, rearing in another. The battle lines became living creatures; a dice was rolled, a message sent and the madness twisted back on itself or erupted elsewhere without warning.
Civilians barricaded their doors in fear that the brutality might gush through and gobble up their Marks and Spencer lives and concerns about catchment areas.
“Why are they doing this? Why don’t the police just stop them?” Shannon gasped.
Maggie turned to her,
“Got a few hours? Can’t say I’m shocked by it all. This was bound to happen. It’s been on the cards for ages – a class war, a revolution, call it what you want, but it’s here now. And this won’t be the end of it.”
As usual, Maggie had been right.
And afterwards? Afterwards, Sense. The shining light, the way forwards out of the rubble and the darkness. Normality, peace, serenity – all words people wanted to hear in the aftermath. Sense’s fist of reason punched its way through the country. Causalities would be inevitable, a part of the process to restore order. Dad, well, he was just periphery static to be channelled and cleaned. You had to expect a little collateral damage along the way, didn't you?
The red walls throbbed and the white tiles gleamed under the florescent light. And while I occupied myself with thoughts of the past, my future waited beyond the door.