From: [email protected]
Subject: URGENT IMPORTANT student incident on Monday
Morning Maddy, wfh today but need to tell you that your Circ Ec and Brand Inv student Jonty Carruthers (0075692) was one of those arrested at Magdalen Gate on Monday. I only just found out.
Jonty is currently being detained under Terrorism legislation. Our Legals are involved but I’ve no idea what they can do. Basically he was protesting the Wall and made a nuisance of himself. Nothing to do with the guy that died afaik.
Please keep this to yourself for now. It’s sensitive. Comms are drafting a statement for the Dean to issue.
Bests
Dr Batul Mirza
Senior Lecturer and Programme Lead (Ethical Investment and Business Conduct)
London Road Business School, Oxford, OX2 0BP
mirzabusinessadventures.com
@profitshy
—
Sweat runs down Jak’s arms, wetting her hands that slide around in the oversized work gloves. She tugs at the end of a finger, struggling to get a precise grip through the thick rubber but eventually pulling the whole thing off. She dries her hand on the back of her jeans and pulls the other glove off. Now with two free hands she lifts the hardhat from her head and shakes her salt-matted hair, removes the safety glasses and rips off the velcroed hi-vis vest.
Jak’s hands ache from the morning’s work. She fumbles with the locker key but eventually gets the wire-mesh box open, takes out her lunchbox and towel, and puts in the safety kit.
The lockers are in a portacabin, filling up with workers on their lunch break. It is hot, stifling. The sun on the metal roof, the carbon dioxide of the men’s breath, the smell of sweaty bodies. Jak gets out as quickly as she can, weaving through the crowd, and into a corridor between hoardings, attached together with plastic cable ties.
After about ten yards, the corridor turns ninety degrees to the right and leads to the official ‘lunch zone’. But the ground slopes away beneath the end hoarding, with enough space for a relatively small person to squeeze under. Jak sits, legs pointing down the slope, lunchbox in hand and towel round her neck, and wriggles through feet first.
She scrambles down a small bank to a lichen encrusted concrete slab. To her left, sheltering this spot from the hot sun, is the old variegated yellow sandstone of Magdalen Bridge, to her right the pale grey breeze blocks of a 1960s office building with graffitied security shutters covering the windows.
In front of Jak is the River Cherwell and across its narrow, drought depleted, channel, a thick line of trees and undergrowth. Just round a bend, mostly obscured by the trees, is a little landing staithe with eight or nine long, narrow punts bobbing around in the water next to it.
Jak sits down, cross-legged, on the concrete and runs her towel through her hair to feel the air on her scalp.
A dark streak of movement above the river catches the corner of Jak’s eye. She looks up. Empty blue sky, fringed by sunlit green leaves. Then more movement – a small bird, quick and agile, flies past and into the space beneath the bridge like a bat into a cave. Jak’s eyes follow it but lose it in the murky shadow. She waits patiently.
Another bird, this time at eye level, flies past before dipping and banking, and returning under the bridge.
It’s pale underneath, dark on top with a bright white patch at the base of its tail. A house martin. Catching insects. Probably with a nest and young, maybe under the bridge.
Jak smiles at the thought of martin chicks, shouting incessantly in their tiny nest, with their mother trying to quieten them the only way she knows how – by stuffing food into their gaping mouths.
With her eyes looking out for more birds, Jak dries off her sweaty arms and runs the towel under the straps of her vest top, across, between and below her breasts, and down each side of her stomach. She is about to loosen her belt to dry round the waistband of her jeans when she senses movement behind her.
A young man, hi-vis top loosely velcroed across his bare chest and hanging off his thin shoulders, blue denim shorts stained with sweat and grey dust, and once-white knee pads flecked brown with mortar.
He looks Jak up and down, and smiles, “been for a swim?”
“No. Forgot my cozzie.”
“Could go wild swimming.”
“Still need a cozzie.”
“Do you? You sure?”
“Wild swimming doesn’t mean naked, just that you’re in a river or whatever instead of a swimming pool.”
“Oh, I see,” the young man shrugs his shoulders resignedly, “thought it meant naked. Maybe not bother then. So what are those birds you’re looking at?”
“House martins.”
“Oh, I don’t know them. But I love birds. They make me feel free. Red kites are amazing, the way they soar and then swoop down. I’d love to be a red kite. What kind of bird would you like to be?”
“That’s a stupid question,” says Jak, turning away from him to eat her lunch, “we’re not birds, are we. So what does it matter?”
“Suit yourself,” the young man sits down beside her and drinks from a can, “want some Fanta?”
“No thanks.”
They sit, and eat and drink, in silence. Jak continues to look across the river, hoping to see more birds and hoping the young man will go away.
‘Ham sandwich, no pickle. Gee thanks mum. Actually no, stop being a prick Jak, be fair here. Thank you mum for bothering to make me lunch even though we’re not speaking. You could’ve not bothered. To be honest, I wouldn’t have. But you did bother. So, genuinely, thank you. I’ll get some pickle from the Co-op on the way home tonight.’
Eventually, the young man starts talking again.
“I’m Ped. What’s your name?”
“Jak.”
“Hi Jak,” he holds out his hand, which she ignores, “aren’t you going to say hello?”
“No.”
“Fair enough. You know, I’ve never been here before, have you?”
“Yes.”
“Were you here yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Were you here the day before?”
“No.”
“So you only found it yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Great, innit? So peaceful. And cool. Cool, like temperature. But also kinda cool. Been really hot lately, hasn’t it?” he waits for an answer, before continuing, “okay, fair enough. You got a boyfriend then?”
“No. I’ve got a girlfriend,” Jak pauses, keeping her eyes on the river, “she’s in prison.”
“Oh. Oh I see. That’s bad luck. So, you into birds and birds then? Oh, I guess so,” Ped briefly loses his flow before adding brightly, “they’re great, aren’t they? Both kinds I mean.”
“Some of them,”Jak wrinkles her nose, “most of them, I suppose.”
—
Robbo nudges open the Bottleshop door and slinks inside. Ali is serving customers. There’s a queue.
Robbo inspects the labels on expensive beers, comparing the ingredients in different languages with the English translations, and keeps an eye on the queue. It’s going down.
He joins the queue just as Ali hands the last customer, a tall but hunched man, a striped carrier bag to put his cans in. The man slopes off towards the door.
“Good afternoon, Robbie Bobs. What brings you to my emporium of delights today?”
“Got any cheap wine?”
“Wine? Since when did you drink wine, my friend?”
“Trying to keep flat tidy. Wine bottles are classier than lager.”
“That they are, my friend, that they are. We have a selection of discounted Spanish reds for your pleasure. Or, everyone’s favourite from the fatherland, dated Black Tower – £3 a bottle or four for a tenner. Get ‘em while stocks last.”
“Alright, alright, yeah okay,” Robbo scratches at the back of his hand nervously, “there’s also something… a question, you know like advice…”
Ali smiles at Robbo’s awkwardness, “I’m all out of Viagra, mate. You could try a chemist…”
“No, no, no. Not that. About Mr Rumbelowe.”
“What about him?”
“Visit him? In hospital?”
“Yeah, sure thing Robbie Bobs,” Ali laughs derisively, “you take him some flowers, or grapes instead so he doesn’t call you a poof.”
“Grapes?”
“No you moron!”
“What then?”
Ali rolls his eyes, “as I must’ve said before to you, get him the money as quick as you can. And then go see him. He wants your money, that’s all. That’s all it ever is with Mr R. He’s way happier fleecing you than getting you beat up.
“Talking of which, my friend, the man I served before you was Big Dave. He’s Rumbelowe’s number two and really can be a great big number two at times. Tends to lurk in the background though and don’t worry, he’s here to check on me, not you. Just, you know, be nice to him if you see him.”
Robbo shuffles from foot to foot, “open up the back?”
“What?”
“Exit out the back. To avoid Rumbelowe’s man. Please.”
“No, Robbo my friend,” Ali shakes his head sternly, “he’s not here for you, like I said. This is off his beat, he’s just keeping an eye on things, gathering intel. If Big Dave wants to see you, he’ll see you up in Rose Hill. It’s his home turf.”
“Fuck.”
“Don’t worry, my friend, he won’t do anything. Not for now. His boss has bigger things to worry about. He’s sick and Crispin Miles is moving in.”
“Mr Miles the Marston guy?”
“Yeah, the half of East Oxford and growing guy. Friends in high places, Oxford Authority, Messina himself some say. Strong squad too. And of course whores and any kind of shit you want, stuff the kids are doing I’ve never even heard of.”
Ali pauses and drops his voice, as if someone might be eavesdropping, “I’m lucky. I guess, Robbo my friend, I guess it’s coz I’ve got white friends like you. I get away with paying with brandy and cigars.
“I know guys who are having to deliver big wodges with no notice. It’s heavy stuff. They’re talking about moving out. They love this place, our Cowley Road. All of human life is here for better and worse. But now we got all these overgrown schoolboys out and about, flashing their new pieces…”
“Threaten you?”
“Threaten, yes. Pull a gun on me, no. Like I say, I’ve got it easier than some,” Ali pauses for thought, “anyway, some guys are talking about getting out, maybe Wales.
“My friend, Izz, he’s got a cousin in Cardiff, says things are better there. Dunno if it really is, racism’s everywhere, but the squads are easier to deal with, more old school, like Rumbelowe. They want your cash but don’t care where you pray or where you were born.
“But these posh gangsters here with their politics… not just payrolling politicians, becoming them.”
“Okay,” Robbo nods to acknowledge that he’s been listening, “sorry to hear. Posh bastards. But what about the hospital? Gotta message. Appointment next week. Monday.”
Ali looks at Robbo quizzically and asks in a hushed voice, “my friend, are you sick?”
“No.”
“What’s the appointment for then?”
“Tests for new drugs,” says Robbo brightly, “get paid.”
“Well paid?” asks Ali.
Robbo shrugs, “not bad.”
“Do you still want those four Black Towers? Or something nicer, you wanted something classy didn’t you…”
“Four Black Towers. Wine all tastes the same anyway.”
Ali shakes his head and smiles, “see you soon my friend. Get some cash together as soon as you can. Don’t visit Rumbelowe til then. Take care.”
On the street outside, the tall hunched man is waiting. He stands up straight to his full height and glowers down at Robbo, “Mr Rumbelowe expects his money.”
Robbo runs, his bag of wine clanking, turns into Cowley Road and keeps running, head down, hard along the busy pavement. People grumble and mutter but generally get out of his way. He only brushes against a few and doesn’t really collide with anyone.
The tall man doesn’t give chase, doesn’t even start to, but Robbo keeps on running until he gets a stitch. He stops, doubled up in the doorway of a butcher’s shop, clutching his wine and gulping in air.
—
It’s Friday afternoon. Sylvie has made her weekly client ‘check in’ calls. There’s a bit of tedious admin to do, logging the calls, submitting work requests for the following week. Or she could just look out the window at the blue sky for a couple of hours until it’s five o’clock.
She opens up the call log spreadsheet, starts typing. But it could wait until next week. Of course it could. Okay do the work requests, they won’t take long.
‘Who are OxGrowth? Not one of the big construction firms, anyway. Never heard of them. Never seen them on my socials. Obviously local but what have they built before?’
‘In times of ignorance, Google is my friend’, she reminds herself. But all it can find are some dodgy looking cryptocurrency pages. So she types, ‘Oxford wall construction’ into Google and scrolls through the results. There must be some mention of oxGrowth. Surely.
‘Do you have professional construction management qualifications…’, ‘The Oxford Authority gave the go ahead…’, ‘Oxford City Wall Tours’. Nothing about OxGrowth. She keeps scrolling: ‘A history of Oxford walls…’, ‘Build the wall high says Oxford professor…’, ‘Oxford memories: the Cutteslowe walls’.
Lots of articles. But still none the wiser about who Jak is working for. Oh well, as long as she gets paid.
Okay Dr Messina, what do you do? She types in ‘hellstix’. ‘Did you mean Hellestix?’ Maybe.
‘Global partners for healthcare enhancers, medical innovators and future focused body solutions.’ Sylvie follows the link to a corporate site: ‘Fastcair – the world’s personalised health and body care solutions brand. Treat yourself, you deserve it.’
Sylvie makes a mental note to look out for Fastcair products the next time she’s in Superdrug. But it’s got nothing to do with the wall or Jak’s employers. Maybe there just isn’t anything to know. She types ‘what did Carly Griffiths do’.
‘Terrorists attack Oxford’s Magdalen Gate…’, ‘Radicals fail to prevent Arch construction…’, ‘Crazy woman captured…’, ‘Security guard mum thought she might die…’, ‘Terrorists – one down, four to go.’
‘Nobody has a good word to say about her. But then again, they are all crazies like they’re on day release from Littlemore. Oh babe, maybe you’re right, sort of.’
—
Jak unlocks the front door and pushes it open. On the mat, there’s a scrap of lined yellow paper with neatly handwritten words: ‘Message delivered’.
She picks up a notepad and pen from the kitchen table and runs upstairs with them.
‘Dear Tabs
So glad you got my note. Dont know if youve forgiven me. I feel ashamed. Im sorry. If you can forgive me heres an other. Saw a house martin today catching insects for its young to eat. That made me happy for a second. Its like that swallow we saw remember? Wish I could see you. Will ask your uncle if I can. Havent met him but I will. Mum being bit of an arse but never mind.
I so want to see you. I love you lots and lots and lots.
Jaxxxxxxxx’.