Dark Clouds (15 page)

Scores of young people are pouring out of the subway station. They all look fresh and excited, like they’re going to a football match or getting ready to celebrate something that makes them feel good. 

‘They’re just cannon fodder,’ Robson snorts dismissively. ‘Gormless rent-a-crowd yobbos. They’d turn out for anything, but you watch how they’re marshalled into line.’

‘If it was just about some black person who had died in our custody,’ Earl adds, ‘it would probably be fairly straightforward.’

I’m listening and Robson’s agreeing. A lot of black activists would surround the police station, Earl explains. Bricks would be thrown, cars would be set alight and shops would be looted, all pretty spontaneously. This would probably continue until riot police moved in with snatch squads. They’d make a few arrests and the whole thing would then wind down.

‘But that’s not going to happen now,’ I suggest.

‘I don’t think so,’ Earl says. ‘Because our friend Marvin was active in the Nation of Islam movement.’

Robson’s biting angrily on his lower lip as I try to pull up cuttings library pictures of Louis Farrakhan and his Black Muslim followers in the States. These shaven-headed guys usually wore shades, suits and bow ties. They looked menacing, but I couldn’t remember any shots of them actually fighting with the cops in either New York or Chicago, where they were mainly concentrated.

‘So you think there could be a religious element here?’ I ask and Earl laughs.

‘I wouldn’t say that exactly, Rudi … what these people want is chaos and mayhem.’

Robson’s nodding respectfully. He may have a card with a flag of St George in his wallet and he may occasionally think of deporting non-white persons from England. But Earl is his superior officer. He respects his judgement, and on this occasion, his colour is irrelevant.

‘We got a good vibe here,’ a young Asian guy says when we get out of the people carrier and start to mingle with the crowd. He’s looking at Earl with strong empathy. ‘
We is together today, mate. You is black an’ I is brown, but for now I’m there for you an’ we is brothers.
’

Earl responds with a great grin. ‘
We is on side an’ together, bruv … an’ if we stay that way, we’ll get there – believe me!
’ It’s high five hand slapping time with more heartfelt smiles and perfect, brilliant white teeth.

I’m checking out the crowds. There are almost as many Asians as there are Afro-Caribbeans and whites. There are also quite a few light brown skinned guys who could be from North Africa or the Middle East. They all look like they know what they’re doing, and I’m thinking repercussions from the Iraq war when there’s a chant from outside Brixton police station. ‘
Mal – u – go!
’ they’re shouting and it’s escalating.

‘Keep your phone switched on,’ Earl says. ‘If you see anything or anyone that might be relevant, use the camera. But be discreet – OK.’

Of course – I’ll do my best. Just now though, I’m concentrating on a Police Community Support Officer. She’s seriously overweight, but she’s walking bravely through the crowd, and she’s handing out leaflets.

I take one and read about how
‘Marvin Malugo was apprehended at the scene of a viscous sexual assault … he resisted arrest,’
the statement says.
‘And when approached by psychiatric social workers, he brandished a machete … he was restrained with a caution and informed of his rights. When he later collapsed in custody, a respected medical practitioner confirmed that the prisoner had a history of mental instability and that his death was due to a brain haemorrhage. This followed on from,’
the statement adds,
‘but had no connection with his lawful arrest.’

It all seems pretty straightforward, but a mohican-haired girl with face and ear-piercings is challenging the Police Community Support Officer. ‘
You’re a fuckin’ murderer, you are …you ‘ear me slag? You fuckin’ killed ‘im, didden you, bitch?
’

It’s an aggressive confrontation, and when the girl with the Mohican haircut and the piercings has pushed the obese Police Community Support Officer up against a building, she grabs her leaflets and throws them into the air. ‘
There …so what you gonna do about it, slag? You wanna fight?
’ The girl screams.

This could be the incident that gets it all going. But the Police Community Support Officer has clearly been trained in anger management. She doesn’t try to retrieve any of her leaflets. And she keeps her head down as she walks through the crowd to a police patrol car that has just pulled up on the other side of the street.

‘That woman deserves a commendation,’ Earl says from behind his hand. Robson and I both agree. The PCSO showed a lot of courage. An incident that could have started a riot had been averted. The way it’s going though, it won’t take much more for the centre of Brixton to explode. Already, chants about ‘
fascist pigs!
’ and ‘
Mal-u-go’
are increasing. I’m losing Earl and Robson in the crowd. I also think my blood sugar levels are falling when I hear a bugle, followed by the repetitious tapping of small marching drums.

It’s a little eerie at first when the crowd quietens. It’s a ‘
respect, man!
’ response to Marvin’s memory and I’m waiting for the drums to appear. They’re getting closer, and then suddenly, they come round the corner. Black, shaven-headed guys lead the procession with bow ties and shades, just like in the States. Only they’ve got banners from the Shepherds Bush and Camberwell branches of the Nation of Islam. An honour guard of young Asian men and a troupe of Afro-Caribbean women accompany them with virginal, nun-type headdresses and flowing white church-like robes. I catch a glimpse of Earl waving at one of them: A buxom lady with an enveloping smile. She responds encouragingly and I think her fingers are beckoning him to follow on behind the procession.

It’s a moment of intense symbolism for the crowd, who respond to the symbolic mourners with a heartfelt cheer. I feel obliged to join in and shout ‘
Mal-u-go!
’ a few times. The guy is dead after all, and whatever he did, his family and friends are now doubtless grieving for him. I’m getting a bit soppy and sentimental when the first brick goes through a window at Brixton police station. The wanton torching of an abandoned parking warden’s mini-bus follows it almost immediately.

The crowd has now swallowed up Earl and Robson, and I’m not sure what it is I’m meant to be looking for. In most of the street protests I’ve experienced, the chanting and sloganeering is sometimes followed by disorderly looting and random destruction. That’s what I think I’m waiting for. People who are excited but need maybe a television set or some trainers. Just now, it’s all pretty ordered, however. The crowd seems to be waiting for a lead. It comes unexpectedly when small groups are marshalled together. They throw bricks at police Special Patrol Group units and then attempt to lead the cops off in different directions.

‘
Come on, you fucking bastards!
’ a surprisingly articulate Asian man shouts. He then throws a bottle filled with petrol and a flaming fuse into a clump of cowering cops, one of whom is set alight. The pattern is repeated all around the centre of Brixton. The police are confused, and they’re soon exhausted by having to chase after so many disparate groups of taunting demonstrators. Some of the instigators are females with Muslim hijabs and jilbabs.

There are also a few whose faces are completely covered with chadors or niqabs. Most of the women seem to be Asian, but there are a few who could be from Somalia and others who might be Arabic. A man who looks like the elderly, chess-playing actor, Omar Sharif, is leading a disciplined group towards a large Marks and Spencer store. It’s a march with a mission, and when they get to the entrance windows, the Omar look-a-like dislodges a manhole cover from the pavement. It’s a sturdy piece of metal, which he holds like a trophy over his head before throwing it through the glass and onto the life-size photograph of a well-known and quite elongated English model.

‘
Yo – man …let’s get the goods!
’ a Rastafarian shouts. Nickers, socks, underwear and dullish shirts will soon be swept from the shelves. It’s not very edifying, and I’m thinking of touching base with Earl or Robson when I suddenly see a familiar face. He’s got a shiny bald head and he looks like an Asian. I’m waiting for the eyes, and when I see them, I’m convinced. He’s the same guy whose picture fell out of Sulima’s bag on the terrace at the lakeside restaurant in Geneva. ‘
He’s gone to join Osama, Rudi
,’ she said and there didn’t seem to be any doubt about it. I can see the inscription on the back of his photograph:
‘I’ll always love you, Pele
.
’

He’s moving towards a large group that’s being pushed forward by a squad of stick-wielding cops in riot gear. There are Afro-Caribbeans in the crowd and Sulima’s guy, Pele, is shouting:
‘Mal-u- go! Mal-u-go!’
His voice is strong. He’s a natural leader and everyone’s following him in yelling out Marvin’s surname like he’s some sort of un-canonised, super-hero saint.

They’re heading towards a block of municipal offices and Pele’s taking a brick from one of his acolytes. There’s a sign on a glass door that says
‘Equal Opportunities’
. It shatters instantaneously, and Pele follows the brick with a bottle of petrol that’s got a flaming paper fuse. I’ve taken two pictures of him when a Rasta giant asks who the fuck I think I am.

‘Press!’ I shout, retreating. ‘I’m with the
Guardian
,’ as in
I’m nice, a little soft, definitely liberal and – occasionally – on the left
. ‘Peace, man … it’s my job!’ I yell, but I’m already running.

‘Hey
– get that fucking bastard!
’ the Rasta yells. ‘
He’s an infiltrator!
’

A woman in a grey burqa tries to stop me. I can’t bring myself to slap her hand or stand on her toes. She’s looking mischievously through the eye-slit of her virginal garment when she trips on the end of the material. ‘Take care!’ I shout, but I’ve dropped the camera Earl has given me, and the burqa lady has grabbed it. ‘
You’ll die, infidel!
’ she yells but I’m sprinting away as fast as I can.

I stop when a traffic bollard hurtles through a huge window at Boots the chemists and an electrical goods store is stripped. Already, there are family groups on the streets with carrier bags full of Adidas, Reebok and Nike trainers. The stores are torched as they’re looted and many of the arsonists look like they’re Asians or Arabs, although there are some Africans and Afro-Carribeans.

‘
Yo, man …is de filth …and der de pig!
’ a Rasta yells. He’s one of a group that shouted obscenities at me outside the municipal offices.

I’m running again, and this time a mob is chasing after me. One of them throws a looted trainer, which hits me on the shoulder.

‘Earl – I need help,’ I shout, while cowering in an alleyway off the Coldharbour Lane.

‘OK – you stay there,’ he says when I’ve given him a few markers. ‘And if you have to leave, try to go north up the street – you got that?’

‘Yes – I think so.’

I’m trying to work out what’s north and south and where the River Thames is when my phone rings.

‘Rudi?’

‘God – Ingrid, hi … how are you?’

‘I’m fine … are you going to Fiona’s do at Claridges?’

I hope so, and a civilised partner with a knowing nod would be welcome. Does Carla Hirsch, I wonder, have any idea what it’s like for one of her coerced agents to be on active service in the field?

‘Honey – bear with me, I’ve been held up, and there’s a bit of a riot going on here in Brixton. But take care … I’ll see you soon.’

She’s sympathetic about my situation although she wants to talk about her exhibition in Newcastle. It will be cool, and I want to engage with her, but I can’t. It’s too dangerous.

‘
Yo …he there now, bruvs …let’s fry the bastard!
’ my Rasta yells, and he means it. There’s a door ajar beside a ravaged store when I scoot around a corner, so I slip into the stale smelling hallway and call Earl again.

‘I’m lost!’

‘North on the main road, man!’ he shouts. ‘Christ – have you no sense of direction?’

No – not really. But I wait until I think my Rasta man and his pals have disappeared. I then step out and ask a befuddled pensioner with a stick where the River Thames is.

‘Up that way,’ he points. ‘Just carry straight on – only I need to get home … and do you know what’s happening. Has everyone gone completely mad?’

I’d like to take his arm and guide him along, but I can’t risk it. A large part of Brixton is now in flames and as fire engines, ambulances and police reinforcements race in from other parts of London, I thank the pensioner and tell him it will all be fine in a day or so. I then walk quickly up the Coldharbour Lane towards what I hope is the northern end. I’m feeling more confident until I hear a now familiar scream.

‘
Yo man – he there! We gonna cut you tiny balls off, cunt!
’ 

It’s an appalling prospect, and I’m off again. But the mob are gaining on me and they’re throwing cans of beer and chocolate bars from a looted off licence when I see a police bus with a punctured tyre. Inside, there are scared-looking constables, most of whom are in their late teens or early twenties. They don’t want to get involved in the Brixton riots.

‘I need help,’ I shout to a civilian driver. ‘These guys are chasing me, and they’re a mean bunch ... believe me!’

‘You can’t come in ‘ere, mate,’ he says. ‘This is an operational vehicle!’

But there are now bottles of beer crashing around me on a cracked pavement. I don’t want to become a defenceless victim, so I dive through the open door of the police bus and pull the door shut behind me. Outside, Rastafarians, liberal whites, multicultural Trotskyists and misguided Muslims stand perplexed. Not for long though. I’m calling Earl again when they start to shout: ‘
You scab! You is a  spy for de filth
,’ and ‘
we is gonna ‘ave you, cunt!
’