“Left queue, left queue, right queue,” a security guard, dark blue uniform with a taser hanging from the belt, barks directions at each worker as they arrive at the Plain, “right queue, left queue.”
Jak joins the right queue, narrowly avoiding a puddle, as it snakes back along the pavement from Magdalen Gate. It moves slowly.
As she gets a little closer to the work entrance, another security guard, working his way down the queue, pats her down: breast pockets, sides, jean pockets, front and back, quickly down the side of her legs. He is quick, efficient, doesn’t let his hands linger at all. She is relieved about that.
Before going through the entrance she is patted down again. This time by a woman, while a man goes through her backpack.
“Name?”
“Jak.”
“Full name?”
“Jacqueline Churchwell.”
“Okay. I’m taking your phone. No need to swipe in, I’ve already done that for you. You’ll get it back at the end of the day when you scan out.”
“Why?”
The male security guard doesn’t answer but hands Jak her bag back with a slight shove to encourage her to keep moving. The normal barrier is open as she walks through the entrance although she still needs to pause for half a second as her eyes are scanned and her name flashes up on the overhead screen, ‘Jacqueline Churchwell – Workstation 3.’
—
Jak looks, and looks again, for the gap under the hoarding she usually squeezes through. It’s not there. A rigid plastic strip has been attached along the bottom, millimetres above the ground. No riverside picnic today then.
She trudges on, to the official ‘lunch zone’. It smells of male armpits. Ped is nowhere to be seen. But a big man with a shoulder tattoo of Jesus on the cross, partially covered by the strap of his vest top, is looking her up and down.
‘Maybe it’s something else? Hard to be sure. Where’s Ped? Different shifts I guess. It’s not that busy in here. Maybe that’s why they’ve been messing round with times so that not everyone’s on lunch together. What is going on?’
The man with the Jesus tattoo walks across to her, still looking her up and down, “alright my lovely, what’s in the sarnies today then?”
Jak pretends not to understand, turns away and puts her sandwich back in her tupperware lunchbox. She walks to the other side of the room to wait for the shift bell to ring.
—
Sylvie waits for the kettle to boil and pours herself a cup of tea. She scrolls through her socials, takes the tea bag out, scrolls a bit more, gets the milk out the fridge and pours a few drops into her cup, scrolls a bit more, wishes she had some biscuits and adds them to her unwritten shopping list.
‘Miaow,’ Itchycoo alerts her to his presence and rubs around her legs, ‘mrp, mrp, mrp.’
Sylvie sits down at the small kitchen table, tea in one hand, phone in the other. Itchycoo immediately jumps up on her lap, paws at the thick, fluffy material of her dressing-gown and settles down, nose-to-tail, in a furry circle.
“Looks like I may be here for sometime,” Sylvie smiles at the cat and continues scrolling.
‘What was that YouTuber called? Oxford Outlaw… Google hasn’t heard of them, ah, Oxford Outcast – ground reports from the city of the dreaming spires…’
“I’m singing in the rain, just singing in the rain, what a glorious feeling, I’m ha-ppy again,” a woman in leathers and a crash helmet, twirling a rainbow umbrella over her head, skips around a garden before returning to address the camera from behind the anonymity of her visor, “if the Oxford Authority has been doing rain dances down at the Town Hall, then they finally paid off in spades – or maybe that should be buckets – last night. But one downpour will only give a temporary reprieve to Oxford’s mismanaged water supply.
“With the new Abingdon reservoir delayed. A-gain! Farmoor reservoir and water treatment works overloaded and underfilled. And the usual leaky pipes problem submerging Outers roads, gardens and several houses. We are running out of water folks!
“And guess what the Oxford Authority is doing. You’ll never guess. Oh go on, you’ve already guessed haven’t you. Yep, that’s right, the Oxford Authority – those sweet souls who answer direct to God himself – have reduced the flow to South and East Oxford, so as to increase the flow to Central and North Oxford. And West Oxford, you’re next guys.
“You probably noticed a fall in water pressure on the thirteenth, I know I did – right in the middle of my shower! – and that the pressure’s stayed low ever since. Well, measurements taken by a contact, who just so happens to be an experienced water engineer, shows that pressure in water systems throughout much of the Outers suddenly dropped on or just before the thirteenth of June. Unlucky for us!
“But water pressure at Farmoor itself has only been dropping slowly, steadily but slowly, over the same timeframe. And of course neither the Authority nor their mates at GeeForeCircle, or whatever the big corp in charge of our water is called these days, thought to tell anyone. But apparently, according to a statement, ‘the water supply to the Outer Oxford Border Zone is secure and the water is one hundred per cent safe to drink’.
“Of course, being the trusting kinda gal I am, I’m sure they’re not lying. But just in case… guys, whatever else you do, remember to boil your water!”
Sylvie strokes Itchycoo and wonders if that applies to cat’s water as well.
“Also, a big thank you to the citizen journalist who sent me this footage of unsafe working on the Wall,” continues the Oxford Outcast, “you know who you are and no one else needs to, including yours truly.
“The picture is a little shaky in places and the sound is muffled, that’s undercover filming for you, but what is clear to see is that while a jobsworth supervisor berates a worker – apparently for having drawn smiley faces on their boots – a young man is left on his own struggling to wheel a barrow load of stones up a narrow ramp immediately next to a team of brickies mortaring in a course of bricks. If that teetering barrow tips over… well, thankfully it didn’t.
“Did you know that nearly one hundred workers died on building sites in England last year? These are dangerous places to work, guys. But of course, as we have previously been informed, the Oxford Authority is ‘in no way responsible for operational matters, or liable for disadvantageous outcomes, pertaining to the construction of the Magdalen Gate’. They won’t say who IS responsible if their Wall falls on someone and kills them, but it ain’t them guv.”
—
Ped: Sackd
Ped: Not fkllowing correct proceedure🤦♂️
Ped: Not gettin payfthis wk
Ped: Basturds
—
Jak unlocks Mrs Mountjoy’s bike from railings near the bottom of Iffley Road. She cycles up to Donnington Bridge, braving a brief snarl of rush-hour traffic at the junction, and joins the Thames river path.
Beyond Iffley Lock and the ring-road bridge, the concrete path gives way to a dirt track, sticky from the recent rain. Jak feels the difference in surface pull at her leg muscles. She pushes on but after Sandford Lock the path turns slightly away from the river, running behind a line of bushes and becomes little more than a faint line through brown but damp grass on the edge of a field.
She dismounts. The smell of vegetation hangs thick in the air. Jak takes a deep breath, drinking it in. She can almost hear the plants growing around her, stems and leaves straightening and rising, as they wake from their drought-induced torpor. If she doesn’t keep moving will they just swallow her up?
She wants to tell Carly about it. But she hasn’t got all day and there are still over four miles to Abingdon, never mind the further six to Berinsfield.
‘Why am I going this way? It’s stupid. Keep moving, Jak, just keep moving. You’ve got a letter to send.’
For much of the way, the river itself is hidden from the path by trees and bushes. Every now and again there’s a little landing point or miniature beach. And side channels that branch from the main course, with narrow wooden footbridges, and then rejoin further downstream towards Abingdon.
It would be a good place to hide if you had a boat. A little rowing boat that you could pull under the footbridges. Or a punt. If, somehow, Carly got out of her cell in St Aldates nick, she’d be, what, a hundred yards from the river at Folly Bridge? If there was a boat there she could use it, pretend she’s a tourist, to make a get away down river without having to go through any gates. or is there a fence along the river? Jak’s not sure but keeps mulling the plan over in her mind anyway. How to get Carly out of the nick in the first place? Sticks knows people. But does he know any coppers? Or anyone else who works there?
From Abingdon Weir, Jak uses her phone to work out how to get to her Aunt Michelle’s house – downriver a short way and on the opposite side so the only way to get to it is to cycle through the town centre. A bit of traffic but not too bad. Not many pedestrians about. Most people have already gone home for the day.
She turns into the street, a crescent shaped cul-de-sac of 1990s-built semi-detached houses with recently constructed flood defences obscuring much of the once sought after, and then much unwanted, view of the river.
‘Mum’ll be cross I never told her I was coming here, never mind. Don’t know when she last saw Aunty Mish. Hope Uncle Bart isn’t there, washing the car as usual. Oh, he is. Fuck’s sake, it rained yesterday.
‘Maybe I just give him the card and go. The card… where… oh for fuck’s sake Jak it’s in your locker isn’t it? Have you got your letter for Carly… yeah, okay that’s the main thing.
‘Why am I doing this anyway? Going to see someone I never see is more suspicious than just going to Stick’s direct, isn’t it? No one’s following me anyway. I’d have seen them by now on the river path. Fuck it.’
—
Sticks stands in the doorway of 7 Clumps View, “I’ve been let down badly and had to change some plans. So I haven’t got much time.”
“Can I come in for a minute?” Jak wipes away a drop of her journey’s sweat, “and get a glass of water?”
“Alright. Go in and sit down. I’ll get you water.”
Jak sits and stares absently at Sticks’ boxing and chess trophies. If Carly punted to Iffley could they – he, Sticks – pick her up from there in his car? Would it be suspicious? Cops would be out looking for her. And people don’t go on punts all the way down there. Maybe before Donnington Bridge, there are a few little side streams she could hide out in.
“How’s your aunt in Abingdon?”
Jak is startled, as if woken from a dream, “what?”
“Your aunt,” Sticks repeats slowly, emphasising each word in turn, “in Abingdon.”
“Yes, yes, I went there but she was out, probably went out for a drive. Her and Uncle Bart like doing that.”
“I see. How’re your parents?”
“Um, Mum’s fine. Dad went missing but showed up…”
“Where’d he go?”
“Um, University Parks. We thought it might be to do with owing Mr Rumbelowe but it wasn’t. He went looking for a friend who’d disappeared,” Jak’s voice rises as she says it, as if questioning her dad’s story. It does sound strange but also, she knows, perfectly possible and he wouldn’t just make it up, he’s not really capable.
Sticks nods but says nothing.
“Have you seen Carly?”
“Not had time.”
“Oh, so is she still in the police station? Is she being held with others? What did the lawyers say?”
Sticks sighs, he seems annoyed, “yes, still. The lawyers are pressing for her to be charged or released but the cops are citing American security law and keeping her in.”
“And the others?”
“Getting bail. Noel on compassionate grounds and the kids because they’re just useless kids. They’ll get a slap on the wrist and be expected to testify against Carly. The other one is someone you know.”
“What?”
“Jonty Carruthers.”
“Oh yeah, he’s a classmate. Was a classmate. Sort of a friend but not really. How’s he involved?”
“I think Carly knew him through the student socialists or Greens or some other rabble. Anyway, point is, you have to be careful. Their main prisoner is your girlfriend and one of the others is also known to you. If the coppers find out, and I’m sure Carly won’t tell them but Jonty might, they’ll be knocking on your door – their algorithms will insist on it. You’ll be a person of interest.”
“Okay, so I still can’t see her then?”
“No. And I’m not sure about the letters…”
“I’ve written one, a bit better, longer,” Jak pulls the letter out of her bag.
“I’ll see what I can do… You don’t drive, do you?”
“Er, no.”
“Shame,” Sticks sighs again.
“Could she escape?” Jak blurts out, “I thought if she could get out of the police station, she could punt, I know where to get hold of punts just opposite the Wall, and then she could…”
“You’d need friends in the actual cop shop. Also, the river by the Wall is heavily surveilled, hidden Authority spy cams everywhere. You’d get caught. You’d need another source of boats,” Sticks pauses for several seconds and, just as Jak starts to wonder if she should say something, asks her, “how’s work? Everything normal?”
“Um, well,” Jak is not sure what to tell him, “all a bit odd today, they took my phone…”
“Did they give it back?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you got it here?”
“In my bag, yeah…”
“Fuck,” Sticks starts pacing across the room, rubbing his fist into his palm, “is it switched off?”
“Er…”
“Tell me it’s switched off! They took your phone? And then they gave it you back? Switch it off. Switch it off now. Then you can go,” Sticks marches to the front door and opens it.
“What?”
“Is it off?” Stick’s voice is full of anxious urgency, “come on!”
Jak scrambles to her feet, tries to give him the letter for Carly but he ignores it. She shoves it back in her bag and pulls out her phone.
It’s a three stage process to turn it off. She presses the power button, then confirms she really does want to turn it off and then has to prove she is the rightful person to turn it off. Her hand is trembling as she holds it up to scan her eye and it doesn’t work first time – ‘Unable to scan!’.
Sticks leans against the front door, still rubbing his fist into his palm, and glares at her as she fumbles with her phone.
“S-sorry, so-so sorry, that’s it.”
“Okay. Go now. Come back tomorrow. Don’t bring your phone. Do bring your dad. We’ll talk more.”
“My dad? Why…”
“Just do it. And make sure he doesn’t bring his phone either.”
“Okay, um…”
As Jak crosses the threshold, the door is shut firmly behind her.
Shaken, she struggles to fasten her helmet back on and unlock her bike. And she feels too unsteady to ride on a busy road. So she heads the opposite way from the A4074, through a small housing estate and along a narrow road to reach the old Roman Road. It is sticky from the recent rain, and more up and down than the A-road, but at least it’s a familiar, safe route home.