Jak finds herself kneeling on the stage, hands trembling above her head, looking out across a field of prostate bodies on the Plain. One by one, in slow motion so it seems, they get to their feet, crouching and running at the same time away from the road where her dad is laid, sprawled out in a pool of blood.
‘Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God’, Jak can’t breathe. She can’t move. But she has to. She has to get up off her knees, ‘dad, oh my God, dad.’
The security guard, still clutching the flowers, crouches over Robbo, strips off his shirt and places it beneath his bloodied head as a part-pillow, part-bandage.
Jak staggers forward but before she can get to her dad, two more security guards push her back to the floor as they run to the podium to escort the cowering professor off the stage. Yet more security guards form a barrier around Robbo.
Jak raises herself up again and stands alone on the stage, ignored. All she can do is watch as two bright green uniformed paramedics make their way through the dazed crowd, some still on the ground. Her dad is now totally surrounded by dark-blue uniformed guards. They part to let the medics through.
Behind her, the seats are now empty. In front of her, the crowd is being herded into two streams – one exiting the Plain onto Cowley Road, the other onto Iffley Road. A handful of guards prevent anyone exiting onto St Clements. Jak doesn’t know what to do, where to go, but reaches into her pocket for her phone, fumbling and shaking so much she can barely press the button to turn it on.
It takes a minute to flicker to life, and then she can barely speak, “mum?”
“Babe, is that you? Why are you calling? What’s up?”
“Dad.”
In the distance, sirens wail. They get louder and louder until blue flashing lights appear at the bottom of St Clements, at the junction with the Plain. The ambulance slowly makes its way round until it is directly in front of, and just below, where Jak is standing. She watches and cries down the phone to her mum, unable to describe what she is seeing.
—
Sylvie’s phone is full of a jumble of messages, some personal, most not. She really must sort out the feed settings. ‘Curate This!’ does nothing of the sort. Well, not the free version anyway.
Protein Bot: Ffs they’re shooting peeps in oxford
Reckless Andy: We need to clear these yanks out. Disgusting behaviour
Scorpion Joe: I know thst guy he”s ok why would antone shoor him
Andy Simples Simkins: Paul Robertson? @SylvieChurchwell are you ok?
Marcus Frail: We need to organise and reclaim Oxford now ✌
Rach The Great: They’re just murderers. Justice for Paul
Larry Looms: American badyards
Andrew Chen: There will need to be a full and open investigation. Operational processes, command chain, everything!
Annanpappa: Not safe anymore need citizen police
Honest Bob: You cant just shoot someone coz their annoying!
Sherry Dan: Thats awful
*** You have mail from Polly Maguire ***
Polly Maguire: OMG have you seen the news about Paul??? Are you ok. Here for you if you need.
Larry Looms: Bastards 😂
Fresh Jazz: Need accountability but thete won’t he any. Messina out! Reclaim Oxford!
Understated: I hate Oxford. We’ve been colonised by wankers
Franky Shanky: It was fucking off Israel bet you
Hoojafink: Is that real? Looks staged
Chelsea 🏴: We’re under attack
Woozivue: How very very dare you
Roundabout Dave: OMG yeah @SylvieChurchwell hope you’re ok. Justice for Paul!
Swindon Onlyfan: Fucking hell oxford wtf
Alice In Chinos: Protest meeting Moonies at 6. Reclaim Oxford ✊🏾 Justice for Paul
Mandy Acourt: Oxford is hell
Susy C: Crying with fury right now
*** You have mail from Ruthy Babes ***
Ruthy Babes: Just seen what’s happened. Shall I come round? Message me anytime. I’m in shock. It must be awful for you and Jak.
Mazzy Glow: There shooting us in our own streets. Where will it end? Justice for Paul
Fresh Jazz: Just to confirm all come to protest. Meet 6 in Moonies. Reclaim Oxford ✊🏾 Justice for Paul campout
Peace Frog: Blood is flowing in the streets of Oxford
John Ball: Didnt happen
Missing Aziz: Protest now! Reclaim Oxford now!
Barry Barry: Shoot the yank bastsrds back obly language they understand
Passer By: Justice for Paul
Hangus Pangus: Calm down everybody 😂
Maggie Coombe: Reclaim Oxford ✊🏾 Justice for Paul
Mikey A: We are UK fuck the USA 🇬🇧
Andy Simples Simkins: Justice for Paul
Mike In Oz: Thinking of you guys 😔
Julianne: We have to resist
Angry Suze: This is war right now you dozy fuckers
<scroll down for more like this…>
—
On Tuesday 10 February, 1355, a dispute broke out in the Swindlestock Tavern, at Carfax in the very centre of Oxford, over what some students considered to be poor quality wine. They threw the wine in the face of the landlord, who was also the Mayor of Oxford, and beat him with a pot.
When local tradesmen banded together to apprehend the assailants they were beaten off by a crowd of students. The dispute then further escalated over the next few days when the students armed themselves and the Oxford men were joined by a large group from the countryside.
The students were greatly outnumbered and fled for their lives, some hiding in college buildings. But not all escaped – some were imprisoned, some disfigured and others killed. In all, it is claimed that 62 students died in what became known as the St Scholastica Day Riot after a coincidentally named sixth-century Italian saint whose feast day was 10 February.
Meanwhile, the Mayor sought help from King Edward III. But the King sided with the students against the townsfolk, imprisoned the Mayor in the Tower of London and ordered the people of Oxford to elect a new mayor.
—
Robbo is transported head-first along a bright white corridor, the trolley wheels rattling over an antiseptic floor. Ambient panel lights are punctuated by red security flashes from the ceiling. Brown-overalled porters haul him through a set of double doors as the paramedic crew, eyes flitting from his serene form to jumpy monitor readings and back every second, run to keep up.
Security guards flank the trolley and keep people out of the corridor. But stay out of the way of the emergency team.
A surgeon hastily slides her life-saving hands into their work-skins and her arms receive a hero’s gown. She rechecks her array of instruments, nods to her assistants and begins the operation. The Emergency Theatre, as one, sucks in a deep, urgent breath. And its pulse races faster than any machine can comprehend.
A slight incision. A pause to staunch the flow of blood. A delicate but firm grip. The sniper’s gift is ejected and dismissed. More blood absorbed. Fine fingers sew the slit, barely visible. The fierce wound is cleaned fresh and inspected. Tiny grains of bullet and bone removed, washed away like sand. Blood once more held, bandage bound.
Her life-saving hands acknowledge an outpouring of applause.
Robbo lies still on a paper sheet. Steady breaths are taken for him, all effort spared. Blood flows freely into his arm. And circulates around its new home, introducing itself to belly and brain. Lights wink gaily at his quiet, sedated heart.
The fresh blood fills him. Robbo is raised and carried to a starch-clean bed. His head nestles in a soft pillow. A needle is slipped into the back of his hand and he is tethered to life by a clear plastic tube.