Arctic Zoo, page 21
‘Try the dishwasher basket,’ Georgia suggested, before hanging up.
A bunch of SAG members from other branches had already arrived at the restaurant. Georgia felt cringingly out of place in school uniform. The restaurant wasn’t like any she’d been to before. The floor was covered in loosely woven rugs, with big flat cushions to sit on and exotically carved tables, barely twenty centimetres high.
Georgia was spared navigating an Ethiopian menu. The early arrivals had agreed a fixed price for the whole SAG group and the staff set out stacks of finger bowls and jugs of house wine, before bringing platters of food.
‘A little drop?’ Zac asked.
Nobody commented on Georgia drinking wine and she pulled pumps off aching feet and chilled out. Grateful for soggy cushions and her first food since breakfast.
‘No clue what I’m eating, but it’s not bad,’ Georgia said.
Georgia topped up her wine as someone asked a waiter to switch on a TV behind the bar. A big cheer went up from the SAGgers as the six o’clock news started with helicopter shots of the vast crowds in Central London.
‘The headlines at six … London grinds to a halt with an estimated eight hundred thousand protestors out on the streets.’
Georgia felt her cheeks burn as she saw herself on the screen for a soundbite. Her caption, Georgia Pack – SAG Activist & School Protest Organiser.
‘We elected this government to end austerity. They’ve betrayed every promise and it’s time they listened.’
Georgia cringed, hearing her voice come out of the TV, but another huge cheer erupted in the restaurant and people reached over and patted her on the back.
‘I’m not a bloody organiser and I’ve never even been to a SAG meeting,’ Georgia protested to Zac.
‘Georgia, my sons weren’t interested in this,’ a woman with cropped greying hair explained as she leaned back from the cushion behind. ‘But when they saw the photograph of your leap, they saw it wasn’t just another one of Mum’s lefty causes. You made them want to get involved. They made banners, they were texting schoolmates. Thousands of young people came out today because of you.’
‘That’s good …’ Georgia said weakly, then gave Zac a get-me-out-of-here look.
‘You’re amongst friends,’ Zac soothed. ‘Eat, relax, but go easy on the wine.’
There were a few cheers as the TV news cut to live scenes, with a sunset sky over Piccadilly Circus. Most protestors had gone home, but a few hundred troublemakers had stuck around to battle the cops.
As the correspondent crouched beside a burnt-out Lexus, police with riot shields faced masked protestors and a barrage of souvenir plates looted from Pride of London gift shop.
‘Gerard, you’re missing all the fun,’ Zac joked.
All joy got sucked out of the restaurant when a woman with a stiff face and grey lampshade hair came on screen for an interview. Her caption read: Yvonne McMahon, Minster for Communities and Local Government.
‘This government is committed to providing excellent local services. We respect the passion of people who came out to protest, particularly the hard-working council staff, teachers and care workers. And I can assure them—’
‘Minister, your government was elected with manifesto promises to increase local government spending,’ the newsreader interrupted. ‘After last week’s violence and today’s huge protests, will there be a spending review?’
The minister shook her head. ‘There will be no spending review. In real terms, this government will be spending eight-point-four per cent more on local government services than the previous …’
The rest of the minister’s response got drowned in a restaurant full of jeers.
‘This is why we need real action,’ Gerard roared, pounding a fist into his palm. ‘Left wing, right wing, they’re all bandits! We need bombs!’
This triggered outrage and debate. A few radicals agreed with Gerard, but the majority were in the violence-is-always-wrong camp. Georgia was amused by the way nobody seemed to be listening to anyone but themselves, then Zac shot to his feet with the loudest voice in the room.
‘There hasn’t been a revolution in this country for hundreds of years,’ Zac said passionately. ‘The political class is way too comfortable. You just saw the minister brush off today’s protest. Bombs might not be the way forward, but we need something more than peaceful protests.’
A few tables over, Gerard stood up and glowered at Zac.
‘Something like what?’ he asked.
THIRTY-EIGHT
The area in front of the house was full of limousines and cop cars, so the riot truck could barely get in the gate. As Julius and Gabe weaved between cars towards their home, police officers went the other way, carrying boxes out to dark blue vans.
Teddy, the soft-spoken political technologist, held the front door. Gabe shot under his arm and found his mother by the bottom of the main staircase.
She squeezed Gabe and kissed his sweaty forehead as Julius looked around. More cops were carrying boxes down the stairs. In the large living area to the right of the front door, a dozen men and one woman were deep in conversation. At the poolside, bodyguards and drivers in suits and dark glasses sat on loungers, awaiting orders.
As Gabe hugged Orisa, Julius faced his mother. Their hug was short-lived, like two boys forced to shake hands after a fight.
‘What are these clothes?’ Bunmi asked suspiciously.
‘A washing line,’ Julius said, shaking his head and tutting loudly. ‘Do you think it’s safe to walk through town in St Gilda’s uniform?’
She accepted this grudgingly. ‘You were always the clever one,’ she conceded. ‘I am grateful you looked after Gabriel.’
While his mother remained stiff, recent awkwardness with Orisa was forgotten as the cousins hugged.
‘I was scared you were gone for good,’ Orisa said, dabbing her eye. ‘I prayed with my whole heart for this!’
‘Where’s our stuff going?’ Gabe asked as he eyed his PS4 sticking out of a box.
‘We will stay at the governor’s mansion for a while,’ Bunmi explained. ‘The security there is superior.’
‘Their indoor pool is the best!’ Gabe said brightly, but Julius’s first thought was about sharing a home with Collins.
Teddy approached warily, one spindly finger on his Breitling watch.
‘I know this is a family moment,’ he told Bunmi, barely above a whisper. ‘But the timings for Julius are extremely tight.’
Bunmi nodded to Teddy, then glanced at Orisa. ‘Are Julius’s things packed?’
‘Timings for what?’ Julius asked, sensing a ride to military school in time for some thuggish induction.
‘Come to my office,’ Bunmi told Julius. ‘Teddy too.’
They waited for cops with boxes to pass before Bunmi led the charge to her office.
‘Shut the door,’ Bunmi said. She took a tin out of a glass cabinet. ‘You know what Teddy does?’
‘He’s your political-campaign advisor,’ Julius said as Bunmi clanked the tin down on the desk.
‘Your behaviour is continually scandalous,’ Bunmi said. ‘In a major crisis, you risk the centre of town to see this Duke.’
‘I went to the only people I knew I could trust,’ Julius blurted.
‘Balogun is our enemy!’ Bunmi snorted. ‘Your homosexuality is known around St Gilda’s. It is only a matter of time before it causes a publicity scandal, during a finely balanced election campaign.’
Julius sighed and shook his head as his mother kept talking.
‘Teddy pointed out that your behaviour could still cause scandal if I send you to Army Boys Academy, or any other Nigerian school.’
Bunmi opened the tin and Julius saw the family passports stacked inside.
‘Here,’ Bunmi said, flicking Julius’s passport across the desk. ‘Teddy has the details. Your flight leaves for Lagos at 7 p.m.’
‘Tonight!’ Julius blurted.
‘Collins needed plastic surgery,’ Bunmi said. ‘That incident caused a family rift and it is not sensible for you to stay at the mansion.’
‘I can stay here,’ Julius said desperately.
‘To sneak off and cavort with Duke?’ Bunmi scoffed.
‘Where am I going then?’
‘Teddy has your itinerary,’ Bunmi said, swiping her hand to show it wasn’t important to her. ‘I have many things to do before I visit Taiwo at the hospital. You will be gone before I get back.’
As Bunmi headed out of her office, Teddy shuddered from the awkwardness as he took a plastic packet from under his arm. Julius saw London Heathrow on the flight itinerary as Teddy set it on the desk.
‘Your helicopter is waiting on the pad at the edge of this development. It will get you to Lagos Heliport in an hour. The direct flights to London are booked, so you change planes in Amsterdam—’
‘London,’ Julius said, gobsmacked. ‘To the family house?’
Teddy nodded. ‘A car will meet you at the airport. You’ll stay at the house over the weekend. On Monday, you have an interview with Mr Craven. He’s an educational placement specialist. He will discuss your school options, help you deal with any entrance exams. He thinks you can be settled into a British boarding school within weeks.’
It was a big deal, piled on top of a massive day. The one thought that rang clear was that the toughest British boarding school was a let-off compared to Army Boys Academy.
‘When do I have to leave?’ Julius asked.
‘Right now,’ Teddy said. ‘It will be evening rush when the helicopter lands, and you know how the lines at Lagos Airport can be.’
‘Can I at least shower and swap these stolen clothes?’
‘I spent your ma’s money on business class,’ Teddy said, showing a touch of sympathy as he opened the door. ‘There are showers and decent food in the Star Alliance lounge.’
Orisa was waiting outside, with a big wheeled suitcase and in-flight backpack.
‘I can easily send anything I have forgotten,’ Orisa said. ‘There’s eight hundred pounds and an ATM card in a zipped pouch at the bottom of the flight bag. Milena, the housekeeper, says she will fix a British phone by the time you arrive, and she will prepare your food until school starts.’
‘At least give him a clean shirt,’ Gabe said as he raced out of Julius’s room with a striped Superdry polo. ‘I’ll miss you.’
‘I’ll call,’ Julius said, swapping his shirt, then snatching Gabe off the floor so they could hug face to face. ‘I’ll be back in the holidays.’
Gabe was trying not to sniffle as Teddy took Julius’s flight bag and led a charge downstairs. Orisa brought up the rear, the heavy case crashing on each step. A driver was waiting, with the trunk of his big BMW open.
Julius quickly hugged Orisa, shook Teddy’s hand and looked back to see if Gabe had come out to wave. There was no sign of him as they reversed carefully out of the crammed driveway.
The helicopter stood on an unsold lot at the edge of the walled development. It had been chartered at short notice, a battered veteran of a thousand hops between oil platforms in the delta. The seats were dirty and there was a strong smell of jet fuel. A white-skinned, white-shirted co-pilot turned round and spoke in a South African accent.
‘You good with the harness, man? Wear the ear defenders in the pocket.’
The driver loaded Julius’s luggage into the spare seat and gave the pilot a thumbs up before shutting the wobbly plastic door. The jet engine went full blast, pelting dust and grit that made the driver fear for the paint on his BMW.
The ear defenders snapped Julius into a cocoon as the helicopter lifted. He saw home, with the pool and the car-packed drive. At helicopter speed, St Gilda’s soccer pitches were less than three minutes away. He eyed towers of smoke from the city centre and skimmed close to the revolving restaurant above the green expanse of Arctic Zoo.
From high up, the puddled penguin pool reminded Julius of the silvery lining of a razor shell. He remembered the afternoon when things had been perfect. Riding their boards, with the tall weeds cutting them off from everything but clear blue sky.
PART THREE
Walter J. Freeman Adolescent Mental Health Unit – East Grinstead, UK
Georgia knocked but didn’t get a response. The door had been propped open, so nurses could look in as they walked by, and she craned her neck into the opening.
‘Hello?’ Georgia said, her nose catching body spray as her sheepskin slipper took a half-step. ‘Julius?’
There was something comical when she saw him sat up in bed: a cartoon bear who’d been hit on the head by a beehive. A nurse had dressed Julius in mouthwash-green disposable pyjamas while he was sedated, but they dug into his armpits and the button over the belly had pinged off.
‘The ward manager, Susannah, said you were awake. She asked me to show you around and take you upstairs to breakfast … I’m Georgia by the way.’
Julius laughed, wagging a finger that Georgia realised was longer than her whole hand. ‘I know who you are,’ he said, then winced and put a hand over the eight scab-crusted stitches from his trip through the coffee table. ‘It hurts if I smile,’ Julius explained. ‘My head is groggy from the knockout juice in my ass. So, when I wake and see Georgia Pack, I be hallucinating.’
‘I’m ninety-six per cent sure I’m real,’ Georgia joked.
‘Matt – my boarding-school roommate – would shit!’ Julius said. ‘He has ten of you taped to the walls around his bunk.’
As Georgia cringed at the thought of being a pin-up, Julius threw off a triangle of bedclothes. He whipped them back in a panic, remembering that the disposable pyjama bottoms covered him even less effectively than the top.
‘Oh …’ he babbled, embarrassed. ‘Give me … I mean, if you step out while I put on …’
Julius had an unzipped wheelie case on the floor. Once he’d put on a hoodie, black Nike tracksuit bottoms and some Prada pumps, he caught up with Georgia in the hallway. New arrivals always spent a night in the observation room opposite the nurses’ station, and three staff stared out of their glass cube as he emerged.
‘That way is just more rooms,’ Georgia explained, pointing right. ‘You’re not supposed to go into another patient’s room, but they’re not super strict.’
Georgia led off in the other direction.
‘Laundry room there,’ she said, as an Indesit spun. ‘Powder is in the cupboard above. The machines are first come, first serve, so it gets busy in the evenings. Kitchenette over there.’
Next, they passed into a D-shaped reception. Scandinavian leather chairs and a spherical vase filled with lilies were designed to impress parents forking out a thousand a day to keep teenaged darlings safe. Two sets of toughened-glass doors separated reception from the world, the outer set only opening when the inner ones were locked.
‘Escape eez impossible,’ Georgia said.
She was trying to sound like a soldier in the cheesy WW2 movies her dad liked, but Julius just looked baffled.
‘Through those doors are the therapy rooms, and the waiting area where you—’
‘Lost my heroic struggle for freedom,’ Julius joked.
Georgia liked this turn of phrase and laughed. She’d only agreed to show Julius around because Susannah would nag until she agreed. But she sensed that Julius might be OK, provided the lumbering head-in-the-clouds charm didn’t vanish with the last effect of the haloperidol-lorazepam cocktail they’d shot in his rear.
‘There’s a gym in the basement, if that’s your thing,’ Georgia said, aiming a hand towards two lifts with the unit’s main staircase wrapped around them. ‘There’s a rec room with a pool table in the general ward on the second floor. We’re allowed up there, but eating disorders on three and the addiction ward on four are off limits.’
‘And food?’ Julius asked.
‘First floor, you can join me for brekky now if you’re hungry.’
‘I’m queasy, but my mouth is dry,’ Julius said, stroking his throat. ‘I could probably go for milky coffee. Maybe yoghurt if they have some …’
‘In little pots,’ Georgia said, moving towards the stairs. ‘Food here is mostly OK. But every week has the same menu, which gets repetitive after a while.’
By the time Georgia had explained this, they’d reached a first-floor hallway, lined with some of the better efforts of patients in art therapy.
‘When are we allowed out?’ Julius asked.
‘You’ll be confined until you’ve been assessed by your psychiatrist,’ Georgia said. ‘After that, most people can go out with family. But you’re restricted to hospital grounds if you’ve been sectioned like me.’
‘What’s sectioned?’
‘Sent here by a court,’ Georgia said. ‘Either because of something you did, or because you’re a suicide risk. I’m here for a pre-sentencing evaluation, before my big day in court.’
‘I see,’ Julius said, smirking. ‘It’s so weird that you’re showing me around. I remember the day it happened, it was all anyone at school could talk about. And that other guy who lost his eye …’
‘Gerard,’ Georgia said.
The double doors into the dining area were wedged open. It was peak breakfast, with thirty diners, a line for hot drinks and noise worthy of a school canteen. All tables were either in use or waiting for staff to clear trays and wipe down, so Georgia was pleased to spot her friend, Alex, surrounded by empty chairs.
Georgia got chocolate-chip Weetabix and tea. She showed Julius how to use the coffee machine. He found yoghurt and also his appetite when he smelled bacon and put three rashers on a side plate.
‘Alex, Julius. Julius, Alex,’ Georgia introduced as she squeezed between two chairs and set her tray down.
‘Julius baby, what are you in for?’ Alex asked, narrowing her eyes, as she sucked a baked bean from the tip of her fork.
THIRTY-NINE
Six Months Earlier: Dormansland Hall Boarding School – Sussex, UK
The Hall – as everyone called it – had a three-hundred-year tradition of almost being one of Britain’s elite boarding schools.
