The correspondent nodded. ‘Chris Bradford, thank you very much for talking to me.’
‘Cram it,’ Bradford sneered, as the cameraman turned off the light and moved the weight of the big camera off his shoulder.
Bradford refused Jett’s offer of a handshake and skulked towards a lonely-looking woman on the opposite side of the pen.
James overheard Jett telling his cameraman to take some footage from outside of the pen before they left. The policemen lifting up the barriers to let the BBC crew out asked when the story was likely to be on the news.
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Jett said drearily. ‘I’m down here in case something kicks off, but I told my editor before I left: SAG is yesterday’s news.’
‘Hope so,’ the policeman said. ‘That officer up in Brum lost a lot of blood. She was lucky not to be killed.’
Jett nodded sympathetically. ‘You take care of yourself, officer, and have a great Christmas.’
‘You too,’ the officer smiled.
As the cameraman filmed the barriers and lines of police, James raised the hood of his jacket and pulled the drawstring tight so that it covered most of his face. CHERUB agents are trained to keep away from the media and he gained further anonymity by taking out his mobile and staring down at the screen, typing a message to his girlfriend, Dana.
HOPE YOU’RE FEELING BETTER. TEXT ME I’M A LONELY BOY!
James pressed send and regretted it straight away. Dana hadn’t replied to his last message and I’m lonely made him sound weak. He couldn’t work out what he’d done to piss her off, but she’d been acting weird for days.
Two metal barriers were lifted away, opening up one end of the steel pen. The petite inspector in charge of crowd control bawled out, ‘It’s three-thirty, people. Time to march on Downing Street.’
The inspector knew she’d been heard, but the protestors ignored her. She grabbed a megaphone from a colleague before repeating herself.
‘This demonstration was scheduled for three-fifteen,’ she blared. ‘You’ve already been allowed an extra fifteen minutes for assembly. Anyone not leaving the assembly point now will be arrested for a breach of the peace. Now MOVE IT!’
Bradford stepped towards the officer and glanced at his watch. A lone press photographer snapped a photo as the big man faced the squat officer with her fluorescent jacket and megaphone.
‘Come on, sweetheart,’ Bradford said, turning on the charm and tapping the face of his watch. ‘We’re waiting for a few more chaps to arrive. I’ve sent my man up to the station. The underground trains must be delayed, or something.’
‘You’ve had your time,’ the inspector said, shaking her head resolutely. ‘My men want to get home. So you can march, you can disperse peacefully, or you can take a ride in the back of a police van. What you can’t do is waste any more of our time.’
Bradford spat on the pavement, before turning towards his pathetic gathering. ‘You heard the nice lady. Let’s roll, people.’
The photographer’s flash popped as thirteen protestors filed out of the pen with fluorescent police jackets surrounding them. The cops exchanged grins, amused by SAG’s pathetic showing.
Shoppers watched curiously as the march filed past and kids gawped as if it was a continuation of the street entertainment and human statues in the covered market a hundred metres away. As the police led the protestors briskly over the cobbles around Covent Garden market, James began eyeballing clumps of people in the uniform of rebellion: a mixture of punk, Goth and army surplus similar to his own. Some joined the back of the march, quickly doubling its strength, while others tracked its progress from a distance.
Bradford sidled up to the inspector as they turned out of the market and on to a side road leading downhill towards the Strand, a broad avenue of shops, theatres and hotels less than fifty metres from the north bank of the River Thames. James was near the head of the march and Bradford gave him a wink as two dozen youths dressed in sportswear emerged from a side street.
‘Looks like someone turned up after all,’ Bradford said to the inspector. ‘Someone must have written the wrong address on our invitation cards.’
The inspector didn’t give Bradford the satisfaction of an answer, but James could tell she was on edge. She grabbed her radio and ordered backup as she realised that the protestors had made a mockery of the police’s attempt to assemble all the demonstrators in one place.