Arctic Zoo, page 9
‘I remember,’ Julius said, nodding. ‘Ma threw a vase when she found out.’
Thirty union men had piled into the centre of the precinct and weight of numbers had forced the church women to surrender. There were shouts of Don’t touch me and Keep your hands away as the angry women were stripped of leaflets and banner and muscled out of the precinct.
But a new sound was growing from of one of the streets feeding into the precinct. A mix of shouts and footsteps.
Duke closed his food box and shot to his feet.
‘We have to bounce.’
‘Why?’
Before Duke could stand, sixty burly men armed with wooden clubs and black masks charged into the precinct. A man screamed as his costume jewellery stall was toppled. Merchandise flew everywhere as men used bats and crowbars to tear the wooden stall apart.
‘Who is this?’ Julius gasped, glancing around, not sure which way to run.
‘Area boys,’ Duke explained. ‘Like the ones we paid five hundred to park. They still support Adebisi. My guess is, they sent the ladies into the square, knowing it would lure all the Transport Union thugs into one place.’
More masked area boys poured from another alleyway. They’d clearly been well drilled, some with orders to smash market stalls and shop windows, the remainder charging into the centre of the precinct, launching clubs and iron bars at union men while chanting, ‘Adebisi, Adebisi, Adebisi!’
Julius felt sick with fear as a stall selling lamps a few metres in front of him got toppled. Its owner tried escaping with the day’s takings, but an enormous area boy booted her in the back, then tore the money pouch from around her waist as another punched her brutally in the face.
Pie Oven’s plate-glass frontage got caved as a mass brawl broke out between the area boys and Transport Union enforcers in the precinct’s centre.
‘Back to my bike,’ Duke said, tossing his pie and starting to run, with Julius close behind.
They pushed their backs to a wall as union reinforcements stormed past them into the square. A woman with two screaming kids turned her ankle in a pothole as Julius heard a bang, followed by a flash of flame.
‘The union have always controlled the precinct,’ Duke explained breathlessly. ‘If the area boys are going to try and take it, it means all-out war on the streets.’
Julius was more concerned with the injured woman than the politics. He helped her up, then grabbed the larger of her two frightened toddlers. Hundreds of shoppers were fleeing the precinct. Julius found himself funnelled into an alleyway, between market stalls, getting tilted by the crowd as owners frantically tried to pack away their stock.
There were two more bangs and an eruption of car alarms. The kid in Julius’s arms wailed as Julius looked back to make sure Duke and the boy’s mother had kept pace. The first police siren wailed as Julius almost stepped on an elderly woman who’d fallen and twisted her arm.
‘My bike’s here,’ Duke said, cutting out of the stream of bodies as they reached a fork in the road.
Julius looked behind for the mother, who mouthed thanks before taking her child back and hurrying on. Duke went down on one knee to unlock his bike.
As Duke kicked his scooter to life, Julius looked back towards the precinct. At least one large shop was ablaze. Swirls of dark grey smoke rose from smashed market stalls and the victorious area boys had made his name into a war chant.
Adebisi, Adebisi!
Victory, victory, Adebisi!
THIRTEEN
Everyone shopped at the Pegasus Centre on the edge of town. Even at Saturday lunchtime, the old High Street behind the train station was lightly populated and the family butcher where Georgia’s nan got her meat had Going out of business in the window.
Red Parrot Books was sandwiched between a Cancer Research charity shop and the boarded frontage of a short-lived bagel place. Georgia felt wary as she pushed a door with a big Boycott Amazon sign in the window.
The heating inside wasn’t doing much. There was a musty smell, in a space too small to be anonymous. Georgia found herself confronted by a table stacked with copies of Socialist Worker, Support the Living Wage mugs and busts of Karl Marx moulded from recycled vinyl.
The cafe was on the first floor, up stairs with a wobbly bannister and layers of peeling stickers. It had a greenhouse roof, chairs that didn’t match and three toddlers rumbling over grubby beanbags where the sloped roof was too low for grown-ups.
‘You found us!’ Zac said brightly, catching his knee on a table as he stood from behind a half-drunk soy cappuccino. He pulled Georgia into a tight hug. ‘Sorry it’s short notice. The hospital keeps changing my shifts.’
Georgia shrugged. ‘I was just sat at home.’
‘How are you feeling?’ Zac asked.
Two weeks after her sister’s death, Georgia was feeling wrong. She was getting up, going to school, doing homework and all the other stuff she’d always done. But where there had been goals and meaning, it now felt like endless grey days. And when Georgia was alone, she sought the meaning of existence, but only found an ache, like someone was using a handheld Dyson to suck out her insides … But that’s not the first thing you say when you meet a pal for coffee, so she half smiled and said, ‘Not bad, I guess … You?’
‘Everything’s weird,’ Zac confessed. ‘I looked in Sophie’s wardrobe before I came out. If I throw her stuff away, it’s like I’m throwing her away. But, if I don’t, I’m the creepy guy in a flat full of dead-girlfriend clothes.’
‘Her memorial service was amazing,’ Georgia said. ‘And I really like that she donated her body to science.’
Zac nodded. ‘Your mum seemed less keen …’
‘Nothing makes my mum happy,’ Georgia groaned. ‘If Sophie had a normal cremation, she’d have still found something to moan about.’
‘Is she still staying with you?’
‘No, thank God,’ Georgia said, managing a smile. ‘Mum had a screaming row with Dad the day after the memorial and stormed out. Apparently I always take Dad’s side, so she’s not talking to me either.’
‘How is he?’
‘Dad’s working every waking hour on some presentation. It’s been great having you text and stuff. You feel like the only sane adult in my life.’
Zac gave a flattered smile, then laughed. ‘I’m not that sane … My sleep is messed up and I’ve been drinking more than I should.’
Georgia looked concerned. ‘Really?’
‘I got a written warning at work,’ Zac admitted. ‘One of the paramedic bikes got in a smash and the front brake hasn’t been right since it was repaired. My shift controller ordered me to go out on it and I told her where she could stick the idea …’
‘Surely that’s dangerous,’ Georgia said sympathetically.
Zac nodded. ‘Definitely no fun if your front brake locks at fifty miles an hour. An outside mechanic checked the bike. They agreed I was a hundred per cent right not to ride it. But I still got written up, because the hospital has a zero-tolerance policy on aggressive and threatening behaviour.’
‘Could they sack you?’
Zac shook his head and laughed confidently. ‘They’re massively understaffed. But I’ve got to meet someone from human resources next week. Then I’ll probably have to waste half a day doing an anger-management workshop.’
‘That sucks,’ Georgia said as she opened a menu. ‘I haven’t had lunch. Is the food here OK?’
‘I think they source the bread from a Soviet gulag, so avoid the sandwiches,’ Zac suggested. ‘But Kamila bakes vegan muffins and brownies out back and they’re pretty rock and roll.’
Georgia furrowed her brow. ‘I want a latte, but it says they only do soy or oat milk.’
‘Soy is better IMO,’ Zac said. ‘Think of the poor dairy cows, udders covered in shit and infected pus oozing into the milk …’
There was only one staff member working. After bringing tea and toasties to the mums of playing toddlers, the round-faced waitress smiled fondly at Zac, then spoke with a Czech accent.
‘You must be Sophie’s sister,’ she said brightly. ‘You are so like her!’
Georgia smiled and blushed as Zac charmed the waitress.
‘Georgia, meet the wonderful Kamila. Kamila, I’ve just been praising your muffins.’
‘The orange is really fresh, baked this morning,’ Kamila said proudly.
‘I’ll go for that and a soy latte,’ Georgia said. ‘How did you know Sophie?’
‘Through SAG,’ Kamila said.
‘The Socialist Action Group,’ Zac explained. ‘This is where we have our weekly meetings.’
Georgia nodded. She’d heard of Zac going to SAG meetings, but Sophie wasn’t as political as Zac and Georgia wondered if he knew she’d called it SWAG – Socialist Wankers Action Group – behind his back.
‘Sophie was too busy to come regularly,’ Kamila told Georgia. ‘But she made an important contribution.’
‘Cool,’ Georgia said, stifling a smirk.
As Kamila headed behind the counter, Zac leaned across the table and cleared his throat.
‘Something ominous?’ Georgia asked.
Zac spoke delicately. ‘I asked you to meet here because I had an idea. I just hope it doesn’t seem patronising …’
‘I’ll do my best not to be offended.’
‘I moved to a new school when I was a teenager in Hong Kong,’ Zac began. ‘I felt alone and powerless, until I started getting involved in pro-democracy meetings. At first, I was scared to go on a demonstration or speak in a meeting. But I found that I got along better with people who cared about more important stuff than shopping and video games. Instead of being a kid in a room messaging a few dumb friends, I had a connection to something that mattered.’
Georgia looked suspicious. ‘You think I should get into politics?’
‘Political activism,’ Zac said defensively.
‘I could join the Young Conservatives,’ Georgia teased. ‘My dad would like that.’
Zac laughed so hard he banged a knee under the table. ‘Don’t say that here, you might not make it out alive! But, seriously, I’d love it if you came to one of our SAG meetings. It’s informal. Everyone has different opinions. We usually meet Thursdays, but we’re actually meeting up at the town hall on Monday night to try and stop the council finance meeting.’
Georgia looked confused. ‘That’s the budget cuts, or something?’
Zac nodded as Kamila slid coffees and two orange muffins on the table between them.
‘I was telling Georgia she should join us on Monday night.’
‘Of course!’ Kamila said brightly. ‘I’ll be there.’
Kamila shot off to give menus to customers who’d just come up the stairs as Zac explained.
‘Everyone voted for a government that promised to end right-wing austerity. Now the left is in power, playing a different tune. Every local council in the country must approve an annual budget by the end of this month.
‘Local governments are cutting back on social care, education and housing. Closing libraries and leisure centres. Old people won’t get care. There will be less social workers looking after vulnerable kids. No money to repair school buildings, bigger school classes and less choice of subjects.’
Georgia could hear her dad saying, Money doesn’t grow on trees … She had nothing on, but bought thinking time by checking Google Calendar on her phone.
‘I’ll feel like a freak,’ Georgia said awkwardly.
‘I’ll introduce you,’ Zac said. ‘There’s a fair few teenage activists and none of them bite.’
Georgia laughed as she broke the top off her muffin. ‘Any good-looking ones?’
Zac flicked one eyebrow. ‘If you don’t come, you’ll never find out.’
FOURTEEN
Rain hit as Duke’s scooter twisted its way out of the crowd. Dust turned to coffee-brown slicks and potholes flooded. The downpour would make skating the penguin pool impossible, but the violence had left Julius too shocked to care.
He’d spent enough time around his mother and uncle to know political success depended on the loyalty of key groups. Army, police, area boys, churches, university cults and the big unions were all courted with money and favours. But knowing was different to being on the ground, watching a stallholder punched and robbed, or seeing the desperate face of the woman tangled in the fleeing crowd.
It was a ten-minute ride north to Duke’s apartment block. He wheeled his bike down to a metal storage cage in his building’s basement, then warned that although the electricity was currently on, they’d be stuck in the elevator for hours if it cut out.
They had a good-natured chase up thirteen flights, clothes dripping wet, and an interlude helping an elderly lady with two sacks of rice.
‘Rain’s come late this year,’ the woman said as she unlocked the metal gate over her apartment door. ‘We need it to clear the stink.’
‘It was my pleasure,’ Duke told the woman, refusing a 100 note, then giving Julius a shove and sprinting back towards the stairwell.
Julius bounded three stairs at a time to catch up. Duke smiled as he crashed into the wall on every landing, making screeching noises and giving a commentary like a kid driving Hot Wheels.
‘He rounds the last corner beautifully. The gangling Julius Ade-beastie is catching up, but it’s the final stretch and he’s not going to make it past the six-time champion of the universe …’
Julius kept running, bundling Duke into the steel-plated door of apartment 6J. They gasped and laughed as Duke pulled keys chained to his belt loop, turning two deadlocks, before a regular lock let them stumble inside.
‘Drink?’ Duke asked, kicking off squelching canvas sneakers as he moved towards the fridge.
It was a decent size by the standard of city apartments, though the entire place would have fitted in Orisa’s kitchen. There was a single bedroom and a small shower room. The main area was open-plan, with a basic kitchen at one end and a folding wooden partition separating Duke’s sleeping area.
Books and file boxes made the space feel smaller. Not just shelved, but mounded on chairs and tables. Histories, biographies, stacks of yellowing newspapers, jazz CDs, VHS tapes and audio cassettes hand-labelled with the names of famous people interviewed by Duke’s Uncle Remi.
As Duke poured a glass of Coke, Julius picked up a tarnished award, shaped like a TV camera on a tripod.
‘Nigerian Broadcaster of the Year, 1998,’ Julius read aloud, then from an award next to it that looked like a big gold testicle, ‘United States Broadcasters Association, Outstanding Report by an Overseas Reporter, Remi Balogun, 2003.’
A framed photo behind the trophies showed a decades-old picture of Remi in a brightly coloured safari suit. A man of action, jumping from a helicopter a couple of metres off the ground.
‘I remember when your uncle read the news,’ Julius said, nodding thanks as he accepted the Coke. ‘It’s eighteen hundred hours, and these are the headlines from Africa’s largest network …’
‘Uncle had a three-year contract, a smouldering Brazilian wife and a five-bedroom villa on Victoria Island,’ Duke said. ‘But he resigned when the broadcasting minister demanded that the evening bulletin have more lifestyle and entertainment news and less criticism of the president. Now, Uncle is a rebel, writing anti-corruption blogs and newspaper opinion pieces and binning angry letters about his bank overdraft and non-payment of his beloved nephew’s school fees.’
‘A rebel,’ Julius laughed. ‘That’s where you get it from.’
Julius moved to get a glimpse through the sliding balcony doors. He wiped condensation with the sleeve of his army jacket, thinking he might see smoke rising out of the precinct. But the view was in the opposite direction, towards Arctic Zoo. From this distance, the zoo was a hilly green canopy. The mildewed enclosures matching the green of overgrown paths and the hulk of the revolving restaurant topping the hill like some vast, rust-streaked flower.
‘I’ve drawn the zoo from up here,’ Duke said. ‘It looks eerie in the rain. And if the balcony doors are open, you can hear the tigers roar.’
Julius stared for ages. The violence at the precinct had been distressing and he tried to calm himself with deep breaths and the sight of rain pelting treetops.
‘Something stronger?’ Duke suggested.
Julius was startled when he turned away from the balcony. Duke had taken off his sodden shorts and polo shirt, leaving tight orange undershorts and his giant hair comically flattened by rain. The bottle on offer was Squadron dark rum.
‘Since we can’t skate …’ Duke said. ‘And to calm my nerves!’
Julius let his friend top his glass with rum but suddenly felt edgy. Duke was smaller but had chest and navel hair. He rarely thought about Duke being two years older, but now it felt important. For all his bulk, Julius’s body remained boyish. He feared Duke would find him unattractive. And while part of Julius wished it hadn’t rained and they’d gone skating, another part was thrilled by Duke’s body and things that might happen in the privacy of the apartment.
‘I’ve never been alone with a guy before,’ Julius said, necking half his rum and Coke for courage.
‘Same,’ Duke said, closing in with a crooked, uneasy smile. ‘I’ve read a zillion web pages though …’
This admission made Julius smile with recognition, remembering trawls for websites that offered upbeat advice for gay teens. They mostly had images of white boys with skinny jeans. Kids who didn’t live in countries where cops fired tear gas canisters into gay clubs and sex between men was punishable by fourteen years in prison …
‘I’d always erase the browser history afterwards,’ Julius confessed. ‘But I was terrified there was some way my mum or brothers would find what I’d been looking at …’
‘In Holland, they give gay kids lube and condoms in school,’ Duke said enviously.
‘Gay pride, gay marriage,’ Julius added, laughing as he drained his glass and planted it atop a stack of books. ‘Lucky pricks …’
