“Thanks Mrs Mountjoy,” Jak waves as she gets on her neighbour’s bike and heads off down the street.
She cycles through a little warren of narrow residential streets to a main road that crosses a bridge over the Oxford Ring Road to Cowley Centre. At this time of the morning it is busy but not slow. Cars, vans and double decker buses pass within inches. Jak, who prefers country lanes and parks, stays as close to the pavement as she can.
Turning left at Cowley Centre, she then turns down a residential street towards Florence Park. The sun has been up for three hours and the park is quiet save for the excited barking of dogs and a couple of Blackbirds. Jak can relax and cycle down tree-lined paths to the far corner where she joins another path leading to Iffley Road.
At the junction of Iffley Road and Donnington Bridge, the traffic is backed up as it often is. Jak dismounts and walks the bike along the pavement until she is clear of the junction. The rest of the way is easy going, slightly downhill and very little traffic all the way to the temporary barrier – ‘Road CLOSED’ – at the Plain roundabout.
She locks the bike to a fence on a side street, walks round the Plain to Magdalen Gate and joins a queue at the security entrance. A bored guard quickly checks her bag and she swipes through without fuss. The screen momentarily flashes up, ‘Jacqueline Churchwell – Workstation 2’.
Jak stashes her bag in a locker and takes out the regulation yellow hard hat and steel-tipped boots.
As she joins her ‘gang’ at Workstation 2, the man in front of her swipes a hard hat, which was loosely perched, straps dangling, from another man’s head and throws it rugby style back to Jak.
She tries to catch it but can’t get a grip on the plastic and fumbles it. The hat bounces along the ground and rolls back over to the feet of the man who had been wearing it in the first place.
“What do you think you’re doing Church’ll,” yells the foreman, his white hard hat with blue Oxford Authority logo strapped tightly under his chin, “shift has started. That means I have the power to dock ya’. Don’t forget that. And you Titoff or whatever your name is, now put your hat on proper and get to work. That goes for all of you!”
—
Sylvie has a new colleague, “oh just call me New Girl for now, I kinda like it, and nobody ever-ever gets my name right. Can I get you a morning cuppa?”
“I could give it a go. I’m Sylvie by the way.”
“Hello Sylvie. It’s a really long Indian name. Indian from India. Not American Indian. That confuses the hell outta people all the time as well.”
“Okay, New Girl then. And yes please. Tea, milk, no sugar. Have you just moved to Oxford?”
“Yeah, sort of. Sure is an interesting place.”
“Is that an American accent?”
“I’ve lived in a few places, Canada, Italy but yeah, I was raised in Ohio, the Buckeye State.”
“Buckeye?”
“It’s a kinda tree, from Ohio. It’s like the horse chestnuts you’ve got here.”
“Oh, I see. How come you’re here?”
“Oh just temping for a few weeks, seeing how it goes. But hey, I love this office. Great views,” she turns to face the window above the office kitchen sink, which is full of dirty tea cups, “horse chestnuts and everything!”
“Well,” laughs Sylvie, “a few trees and some buildings. Not sure I’d describe it as ‘everything’!”
“Better than the business park where I used to work, anyways. What do you do for fun then, Sylvie?”
“Oh well, you know,” Sylvie racks her brain for something interesting to say, “I like going out for food, you know with friends.”
“Alright, sounds good,” enthuses New Girl, “where you hanging this weekend?”
“Er, well, we’re having a picnic…”
“I love picnics! So English!”
“In Bury Knowle Park…”
“In what where?”
“Bury Knowle Park, up at Headington, just past the shops.”
“Ah, yes. I kinda know where that is. Okay, when’s that?”
“Saturday lunchtime.”
“Alrighty, Sylvie, I’ll be there!”
—
‘Wonderful world, beautiful people
‘You and your girl, things could be pretty.
‘But underneath this, there is a secret
‘That nobody can repeat.’
Donny, rainbow waistcoat proudly displaying a white poppy, leans over his deck, headphones perched atop a Che Guevara style beret, and counts people filing into the Moonshine beer garden. He slowly slides down the volume on the sound system as the song fades out. And wipes away a tear as he lifts the needle from the record.
“Welcome everyone and thank you for coming,” Donny addresses the gathered audience of around forty people – men, women and children, some dressed colourfully, some more sombrely, “it truly is a wonderful world when it has such beautiful people in it. Mick would have been glad to see you all here, I’m sure.
“Mick believed strongly in showing solidarity with anyone who is suffering and that includes the suffering of grief that all of us here share. And solidarity is so important at this time in our city, our wonderful city that is divided and under threat like never before when hope itself seems to be clinging on by its fingertips.
“I’ve known Mick for nearly as long as I can remember. Together, as kids, we helped defeat apartheid, or so we claimed at the time. We both had pictures of Nelson Mandela on our walls when other boys had Liam Gallagher or some skinny girl in her underwear. And then we helped hold the line against the far right establishing themselves in Oxford and campaigned in solidarity with the Palestinian people when others still parroted Israeli lies. And we stood shoulder to shoulder with the younger generation against climate change.
“Just a few of the causes that Mick dedicated himself to. And through it all, he always had hope. Hope for a better world ruled by the kind of love he showed everyone – friends, comrades, his students and his lovely family. And of course we all miss him terribly. But by standing together and letting love guide our actions we will, in our way, be keeping Mick present in our world.
“Now, that’s enough from me for now, so I’m going to handover to Mick’s dear sister, Kat. Come on up Kat.”
Donny steps back and claps as Mick’s sister steps to the front to give her eulogy. The congregation briefly applauds before quietening for Kat to speak.
Sticks stands at the back, hands in the pockets of his dark suit. He nods his head towards Donny as he comes over.
“Good to see you, comrade,” Donny holds out a hand which Sticks, with a slight pause, shakes.
“I was sad to hear the news. I had my disagreements with Mick but he was a sincere and good man. We can all learn from good men like Mick. Well done on your speech.”
“Thank you. But, you know something Sticks, those successes seem a long time ago now,” Donny stares at his polished but old maroon shoes, “things move so much quicker these days.
“Anti-apartheid, gay marriage, landmines… these campaigns were built up over years, decades even, and got lots of people involved in actually making decisions about protests, local groups, those kind of things. You know, organising the old fashioned way.
“Now it’s all slogans on social media, so much of it so crude as well. Just a load of individuals shouting at each other. There’s no sense of belonging, no collective.
“What happened to the good old days, eh Sticks? The marching together and shared optimism, no matter how shit things really were sometimes.”
“There never were any good old days for me, Donny. I was a soldier. I mean, sure, there was a camaraderie, a shared illusion of being part of a team even as the powers that be fucked us over. And there’s camaraderie in your campaign group. But you’re still getting fucked over by the powers that be.”
Donny shakes his head, “you going to try and tell me something to make me optimistic?”
Sticks laughs, “no.”
“Nothing?”
“Look, Donny, I love you man, I really do. And everyone here’s a nice guy,” Sticks waves his hand at the congregation, “Mick was a nice guy. But things are getting harsher. The Authority have got Americans, Messina’s private paramilitaries, going in and out of St Aldates cop shop with their guns.
“Carly’s in real danger. Workers getting turned back at Folly Bridge and Botley Road for no reason every day. Even some of the profs getting hassle, could be for the chop.
‘All my contacts are looking around, maybe leaving Oxford altogether. It’s a shit show. And Messina’s got serious guys in to run the place. They’ve got plans. Nothing is safe.”
Donny stares at the ground, “I’m not sure I can cope with this today, Sticks. Thanks for coming but I need to get back. I’ve got more words to say about Mick.”
“Okay, but you need to get serious with your campaigning. Can you get numbers together? Make some noise, maybe next week or over the weekend?”
“I’ll see. We’re all pretty worn out with everything.”
“Okay, I’ll see you whenever. Oh,” Sticks heads to go but then turns back, grabs Donny’s sleeve and asks, “is there a collection?”
“Er, yeah. Global Youth Justice Action for something. Something like that. There’s a Just Giving page. I’ll email.”
“Alright, I’ll contribute later. See you comrade. Good luck with the rest of your words.”
—
Jak cycles hard. Where there’s pavement, or a dirt track by the road, she cycles there. But mostly she cycles on the A4074. It’s a road where cars whoosh past her ears and lorries shake the ground beneath her wheels. Nobody slows down or allows room for a cyclist.
Around half way to Berinsfield she pulls off the road into a small, dense wood. She follows a path through the cool, dark trees to a bright clearing where she sits down on the grass. It is still warm from the day’s sun.
She pulls out a sheet of paper and pen from her bag.
‘Dear Tabs another short one Im afraid. I dont know what to say. I keep trying to imagine you where you are now but I cant. I try to see your face in my mind. But I really want to see you for real. I hope you want to see me. Nothing else matters. Write back. Let me know. Please. Jax xxx’
There’s no answer when Jak knocks on 7 Clumps View. She folds up the letter into quarters and pushes it through the letterbox just as a dark green Land Rover pulls in and half mounts the pavement. It is old looking but immaculately clean apart from fresh flecks of mud on the bumper.
Sticks, driving gloves still on, scrambles out of the car and limps hurriedly towards Jak but, as soon as he recognises her, slows his steps and smiles.
“Good to see you, Jak. I just need to put my vehicle in the garage round the back and I’ll be right with you.”
As Sticks opens his front door, holding it open for Jak to go in, he bends down to pick up the letter from the doormat and puts it in his pocket.
“Any news?” asks Jak.
“Not really,” sighs Sticks, “seems like Carly is in legal limbo at the moment.”
“Do you think she’ll be in there for a long time?”
“Hard to say. My main worry is they’ll try to extradite her…”
“What?” Jak feels her stomach knot, “extradite her? You mean like deport her? Where to?”
“Yeah, to America,” confirms Sticks calmly, “they might because the Wall is being built by an American company so they’ll say that under the Freeport agreement it comes under American jurisdiction.”
“But it’s Oxford,” Jak feels her mouth dry up, and her legs go shaky, but she is determined to understand – and challenge – what she is being told, “not America.”
“Jak, my dear, Oxford is effectively owned by America. Or at least Americans. Look, sit down, a little history lesson for you,” Sticks beckons Jak to sit beside him on the sofa.
“Okay, okay, history not my thing,” protests Jak weakly, “more bothered about what’s going on right now. But okay.”
“You can tell me all about birds sometime in exchange. I could do with getting more in touch with nature. But for now, this is important to Carly’s situation.”
Jak nods, “okay, deal.”
“So a group of American companies calling themselves Fix run the Oxford Authority,” Sticks speaks authoritatively, projecting his voice like a lecturer or documentary maker, “all their contracts, from planting flowers to security, even their statutory housing obligations, limited as they are, are given to Fix companies via one of their recently set up local subsidiaries.
“And the big man behind Fix is a Doctor, so-called Doctor, Antony X Messina the Third. His company is the big player in Fix, the others are just service providers to them really. He’s got allies in the White House, or Trump Palace or whatever they’re calling it these days, and of course the poodles of Downing Street in his pocket. Or maybe I should say, on tight leads.
“I doubt Oxford was the kind of place the government had in mind when it sold the ‘freetown’ licences. But the council’s finances had gone belly up so it qualified under their so-called Investment Act, the Selling England by the Pound Act, and it was exactly the sort of place that suited Messina.”
“Why?”
“Oxford, it’s like owning the soul of England. The dream of England. The dreaming spires and all that. Americans love all that shit.
“For a megalomaniac like Messina, it’s perfect. And also, what a great R&D base for his personalised healthcare company. A load of big brains in one place. Hospitals desperate for funding. People desperate for cures.
“I’ve researched this stuff. They do all sorts of wacky, might-work-might-not tech for the rich to try and cheat death, reverse ageing, that kind of thing.
“But also big contracts. He’s got one with the NHS. That’s why Downing Street can’t really say no to him. If that falls over, so do they. They can’t blame everything on immigrants forever,” Sticks pauses for breath, “but anyway, Messina, he’s really a wanna-be emperor in a business suit with a private army of gangsters, capitalism at its purest.”
Jak nods to signal she is listening but remains sceptical, “okay, but so what?”
“It was Fix, specifically Messina, who wanted central Oxford separated from the rest of Oxford. They funded the whole operation, security gates, electric fences, bribes, admin costs of reorganising the councils… everything. ‘Not a penny of taxpayers’ money’, that was the slogan, remember. It was just pennies to them. Or cents.
“They need cheap labour. That used to come from immigrants but they’re not really an option anymore. So they’ve turned working people in Oxford into internal migrants. The gates going up devastated the economy, as they knew it would, and made people desperate for work.
“You might think you’re being paid well for working on the Wall but you’re not, Jak, not even close. Just a bit better than most of your neighbours. And that’s only because they’re desperate to build it fast, as fast as the Arabs do and sod health and safety.”
“But what’s it got to do with Carly?”
“Honestly Jak, I think Messina wants a show of power. He’s already running Oxford but this is about his political ambitions stateside. He’s got the money, Oxford gives him the status. Now he’s trying to show he’s the real deal, boss the Brits about, lock up a few lefties, come for a few muslims, guarantee investors a good return – make him out to be an emperor in waiting.
“They want that in America these days. Continue what Trump and his goons started.”
Jak stares into space. What if Carly is deported to America? Will she ever see her again? What can she do?
“We really need to get Carly out of there somehow,” sighs Sticks, “but at the moment, at least for a little while, we need to be patient, keep paying the lawyers.”
Is that sadness that Jak can see in Sticks’ face? Maybe he’s hurting as much as she is. But he doesn’t want to show it and the politics, all his talk, is a way of keeping his emotions in check. She tries to see as far into his eyes as she can. He looks away.
“How come you know so much about politics?”
“I was a soldier,” Stick’s voice is flat and barely above a whisper, forcing Jak to lean in to hear, “I killed and was nearly killed. Then I wanted to know what it was all about.”
“What is it about?”
“So powerful men, mostly men some women, cowardly bullies like Messina, can have martyrs to eulogise. I guess I was a would-be martyr, we all were, measured up for flag-draped coffins so government ministers could be filmed saluting fallen heroes, laying wreaths and all that shit, all that…”
Sticks’ voice drifts off and he shakes his head, before turning to look into Jak’s eyes, “we can’t let Carly become a martyr. Because there are some on our side who would love that. Any chance, and I mean any chance to get her out, we gotta seize it.”
Tears well up in Jak’s eyes. A martyr? What is he saying? She reaches out a hand towards Sticks. He seems in a world of his own for a second before he snaps out of it, stands up and goes to the front door to open it.
“I think you should come back next week. Tuesday? Maybe we can think more about what we can do for Carly,” he holds the door open for Jak, “but don’t come your normal way. Authority agents might be watching you. Come a long way round via somewhere else, like you’re just going shopping or visiting a relative.”
“My mum’s sister lives in Abingdon. Don’t like her much but could come up with an excuse to put a card through her door, maybe a happy midsummer card, she already thinks I’m a right hippy.”
“Perfect, call at her’s first and then bike along the river path like you’re out for a nice bit of evening birdwatching. See you then, Jak. Oh and remember to turn off your phone before you get here, if you really need to bring it at all. Take care now.”
—
‘Dear Tabs
‘I keep wanting to write more but I dont know I cant really see you in my mind. Then I realised its because Im trying to imagine you in prison and I cant. So now Im imagining you right here beside me and I like that even though its not real.
‘I made a friend at work. A boy called Ped. Im going to take him birdwatching. Hope you dont mind. Youre not really bothered about birdwatching are you? I need a birding friend, take my mind off things. But maybe when you get out we can go together.
‘I dont understand what is happening. No idea. Everythings complicated but your uncle helps explain things a bit. I dont know what he really knows. I wish I could just ask you. Also dads vanished hope hes ok bit of a worry and mum still hanging with the witch and the broomstick.
‘Everythings on pause Tabs thats me. I go to work, I go home, I eat my meals, I sleep. I want to see you nothing else matters. Hope its soon.
Lovelovelove
Jaxxx’
‘Oh God it’s still rubbish. Why can’t you just write like how you feel, Jak? It makes so much sense until you try to write it down. Where’s that PoetyProse app? Must’ve deleted it. Fuck it, just tell her you love her.’
‘ps I love you x’