Chapter 41

Mlle: Go see your Dad again😉

—

There is no guard on Special Ward 7 this morning. Jak notices what she didn’t before, there are other beds in her dad’s room. And this time, one of them is occupied. A thin, grey faced man weakly raises a hand. Jak nods back in acknowledgement.

On the cabinet by her dad’s bed is a wilting dandelion in an empty cider can. She takes the can to the sink by the shuttered window, traces of sun peeking through the gaps. The tap splutters, gurgles but eventually water comes out. A thin but steady flow. She scoops a little into her mouth and then half fills the can. 

A weak, raspy voice calls out behind her, “thirsty, miss. I’m thirsty.”

There’s a stack of plastic cups by the sink. Jak takes one and fills it from the tap. She walks over to the grey man.

“Thank you, miss,” he reaches out but instead of grasping the cup takes hold of Jak’s wrist, “is that your old man over there?”

“Um, yes,” stutters Jak nervously.

“I heard that lot talking,” he gestures towards the door and whispers, “they’re moving him.”

“Oh right, thank you. Where?”

“Going private,” the man’s grip tightens, “you see it’s alright for some, miss.”

Jak instinctively jerks her arm back, spilling the water over his bed. The man lets go and wipes his face with the now damp blanket.

“I’ll fill it up again for you,” apologises Jak.

She leaves the refilled cup on the grey man’s cabinet and quickly retreats back to the sink to collect the freshly watered dandelion. Glancing back at the man as she crosses the room, Jak returns to her dad’s bedside. 

The oxygen mask has gone, he is breathing for himself. But there’s still an IV tube connecting a drip to the back of his hand. And he is still comatose.

“Worst hangover of your life, eh dad? You’re going to get better though, don’t worry.”

Jak takes a pair of ear buds from her pocket and taps a few times at her phone.

“Dad, in case you can hear me somehow, I found that old song you like, that your Aunty Babs sang to you. Mum was singing it to Coo-Coo the other day. You know, I think they both miss you in a funny kind of way,” Jak puts the buds in Robbo’s ears and presses play on her phone.

“Over Bridge of Sighs, to rest my eyes in shades of green. Under Dreaming Spires, to Itchycoo Park that’s where I’ve been…”

As the song plays, Jak hugs her dad and then lightly holds his limp hand. She watches his chest slowly rise and fall. Apart from the faint, tinny sound from the ear buds, and occasional beeps from a machine in the corner, the room is silent. 

Jak reads the notes, fixed to a board above Robbo’s head.

‘Transfer Approved Pending Resuscitation: Viscount Nuffield Assisted Living, Watlington. Invoiced.’

The song comes to an end. Jak has things to do, it’s time to go. She waves towards the grey man, who is staring at the ceiling, and kisses her dad on his forehead.

—

“Okay, we’re ready to roll. Now, remember, turn to face Mademoiselle as if speaking to her and I will count to three. After I say ‘three’ turn to face the camera. Look down the lens, literally straight down the lens, and then start to speak.”

Crispin Miles shuffles in his seat and fiddles with his suit jacket cuffs. The drab setting is so uninspiring, the camera so intrusive, the comms guy so dull… but what has to be done, has to be done.

“Hello. My name is Crispin Miles. And I have some news about the future of my hometown, Oxford,” his eyes dart to the side, glancing at his sister who motions to him to look at the camera, “His Majesty the King has decreed that I assume the position of High Sheriff of Oxford. I am greatly honoured. With that position comes responsibility and a seat in the Oxford Authority.”

He takes a deep breath, he can feel his voice shrinking to its normal near-whisper and he has to push himself to project more, as advised, “I have both local knowledge and experience of law and order. And security requirements. I believe I am well placed to deliver security to all the citizens of Oxford.

“I am not replacing Dr Messina. I want to be perfectly clear about that. I will be co-operating with Dr Messina, whose investment is so helpful to Oxford’s long-term productivity. 

“I will ensure that essential infrastructure is better protected against attack. Including and especially Oxford’s water supply. And I will be restoring full control of law and order in both parts of our city to the Police,” he pauses, clears his throat and reaches for a glass of water, which his sister passes to him.

Crispin Miles fixes the camera with his unblinking gaze and raises his voice to a crescendo, “there will be no more armed Americans, or any other foreign nationalities, on the streets of Oxford!”

“Cut! That was great work, Mr Miles. Now take a minute, a little water and loosen your tie slightly, thank you. Then we’ll move onto your Oxford background credentials. Definitely stick to the ‘experience has made me wiser’ script and do try to smile when you’re talking about bunking off school. That’s your chance for folks to relate to you better, a local boy with a bit of a rep but now made good.”

—

Jak checks recent transactions on her phone. She has been paid for the Saturday shift. At least they haven’t tried to rob her. The cash point, just off the main reception foyer at the JR, charges for withdrawals so she walks to Headington Post Office, just a mile away opposite Bury Knowle Park.

“One thousand, two hundred and thirty-seven pounds,” the woman behind the grill announces cheerfully, “and seventy-six pence. And I can confirm your remaining balance as zero pounds, zero pence. Enjoy!”

Jak carefully packs almost all the notes away in a sealed bag in an inside pocket in her small, strap-fastened backpack. And puts a twenty, along with the coins, in her pocket.

—

The bus wends its way down Cowley Road, which is quieter than usual. Most of the tents from two nights ago have gone. But a few remain, pitched on the pavement, sporting defiant placards. Police officers stand watch over them, their vans all parked up in a side street ready for action.

The air is warm, stiflingly humid. But in the bottle shop it is cooler and, despite a flickering tube, brighter. 

Ali is enthusiastic about a new beer he’s had in, “it’s from my old friends at Church Hanbrewery. The sort of thing to appeal to the better quality of customer, if you see what I mean. And also local. I think that might be a big selling point now. And probably ethical in some way. 

“I mean, Jak my dear, your father, a loyal customer, is in hospital, and his friends have gone sober or moved on. So you see, I do really need to expand my customer base if I’m going to stay here and keep Mr Miles’s dogs from the door, so to speak. I can’t just rely on the Authority making everyone thirsty every so often.”

“Indeed, Ali,” sympathises Jak, “dad is improving I think. Breathing for himself. There was an empty cider can by his bed but he’s still in a coma…”

Ali bursts out laughing, “if anyone can knock back a can whilst in a coma then… I’m sorry my dear, just a little joke, slightly bad taste maybe. I think I know who that might be from.”

“Anyway,” continues Jak, ignoring Ali’s joke, “once he comes round or gets brought round, that’s probably how it works, ain’t it? Anyway, so yeah, he’s going to be transferred to a care home in Watlington. I don’t know how long for.”

“I will most certainly visit him there. I look forward to talking with your father again, my dear. It was strange seeing him lying there…”

“I know. Me too.”

“I will visit him in Watlington and I will take him a nice chilled bottle of Bavarian weissbier. I’ve seen him eyeing them up but I know he can’t afford it, you see.”

“I do see,” smiles Jak and gives him a hug, “thank you, Ali.”

“Do drop in anytime, my dear. Don’t have to be about your dad, it’s nice just to see you once in a while. See you soon. Take care, my friend.”

“It might be a little while but I will take care, and you too.”

Jak carries on down Cowley Road. It is crawling with police – on corners, outside shops, a whole group of them standing by the entrance to Tesco Express eating fried chicken. People hurry past, eyes down. Those who are normally sat in doorways or at bus stops, asking for money, are nowhere to be seen.

A young man, wearing a baggy lumberjack shirt over an old Radiohead t-shirt and pushing a child in a buggy, crosses over to avoid walking past a pair of officers and then crosses back once past that corner. He does this twice more, staying as far away as possible from the police, as he walks up the road until he disappears from view into St Mary and St John’s tree-lined churchyard.

After passing the church gate, Jak ducks into a Turkish takeaway for a falafel wrap. She’s still eating when she gets to Boots and stands outside for a minute, near a pair of police officers, picking at the last bits of soggy flatbread, chilli sauce dribbling down her arm. They ignore her.

Inside the shop, she walks to the back and follows on-screen instructions to upload and print single copies of three photos: her and Carly in Moonies, with her dad at Pride, and an older one of her, when she was still at school, with her mum at an end-of-year picnic, grinning with mayonnaise smeared around their mouths and a large bowl of potato salad between them. She also buys a waterproof wallet and purse, toothpaste and a bar of soap. 

At the till, the assistant grumbles about her paying with cash and claims to have no change. Jak asks to see the manager. 

“Um, well, she’s on lunch.”

“I can wait if I have to, although it’s pretty poor customer service…”

“Okay, just let me look again. Oh yes, there it is, silly me, just at the back of the tray, put in the wrong place by my colleague but there you go. That’s all correct now. Thank you for your custom, do come again.”

Jak trudges down the road. It’s been a tiring but necessary day. Just one more visit and then the bus home.

—

Polly Maguire: Good video from Mr Miles. And well said by your daughter @SylvieChurchwell

Ruthy Babes: Nice suit but do not trust him one bit. Hope Jak ok

Sylvie Churchwell: We’ll just have to see.

—

It is a very short walk, down a side street, from Cowley Road to the Moonshine pub. The heavy green curtains are drawn and one of the windows is smashed, jagged shards jutting out of the frame. Jak nudges the door open. It creaks slightly.

Donny is on a stool by the bar, slouched with his hands forming a pillow beneath his head. Jazz is wiping tables. A lingering stench of sewage mixes with the familiar smell of stale beer.

“We’re not open yet, water’s still off. Not sure when… oh, it’s you…” Jazz’s voice trails off as he turns to face her.

“Sorry,” says Jak quickly, “you must be busy. But I wanted to let you know about Carly.”

Jazz puts his cleaning cloth down, “what do you know?”

“I saw her,” explains Jak, “yesterday. She’s been tortured…”

“Oh my God!” shrieks Donny, stumbling off his stool.

“Bastards,” growls Jazz.

“I know, that’s what I said. She could get out but…”

“What do you mean?” demands Jazz.

“Things are changing. And people,” Jak pauses to choose her words carefully, “people that are becoming important, English not Americans, don’t really want Carly locked up. They don’t really care about all that kind of thing.”

Donny steps towards her, bleary eyed but hopeful, “will they release her?”

“They would,” Jak struggles now, she can feel tears coming, “they would if she agrees to something.”

“What?”

“Something, kinda, sort of helping them politically I guess…” Jak’s long-held tears flow steadily down her face, “but she won’t. She’s too brave. Too… I don’t know, honest. Too true to what she believes in. You know, like you guys.”

Donny’s face freezes for a second but then softens and he gently pats Jak’s arm, “thank you for coming here to tell us this. Carly has real integrity. More than most of us.”

Jazz looks to the ceiling, “wants to be a martyr, I suppose, putting the cause before happiness. The collective before the individual. I do admire her, I do. In theory… no that’s not right, in reality as well. It’ll help the cause for sure.”

Donny nods, “I couldn’t do that. It’s incredibly brave. I mean, we’ll campaign for her release. Don’t worry, we won’t let her be forgotten about. But there’s a line most of us won’t cross, which seems to just not be there for Carly.”

“No,” Jak shakes her head, dries her eyes and raises her voice, “Tabs don’t want to be a martyr. And yeah, sure, you campaign for her if you like. But she just wants to be true to herself. And she’s doing it.”

—

Mrs Mountjoy has nearly finished the washing up when the doorbell rings. She starts to pull at her pink rubber gloves but decides not to bother, she’d only need to put them on again. Limping slightly, she goes to the door, “hello Jak. How you doing, my dear?”

“I’m okay, Mrs M. Are you okay?” Jak smiles at the sight of soap suds on her marigolds, “your water back on then?”

“Yes, thank you dear.”

“You heard about my dad…”

“Yes. A terrible thing. Have you been able to see him, how is he?”

“Pulling through. The people at the hospital are very good.”

“Yes, yes,” Mrs Mountjoy takes a deep breath and puffs her cheeks out, “I know. They do their best in difficult circumstances, don’t they? Anyway, what can I do for you? Are you heading out on the bike again?”

“Tomorrow morning, quite early. Would it be possible to leave me the key to the shed so I can just get it myself rather than disturbing you and Mr M?”

“Yes of course, my dear,” she gestures at a cast-iron hedgehog in a flower bed, “I’ll pop it under Mrs Tiggywinkle. And you just pop it back there when you’re done, just remember to lock the shed when you go, won’t you?”

“Yes Mrs M, don’t worry. I’m thinking of going for a few days. I’m sorry to keep asking for things but do you still have that tent, you know, you mentioned it once.”

“Oh yes, Alex’s tent. He used to go to festivals with that. Please keep it…” she shakes her head and looks away for a second, “look, my dear, you and your mum being there for us meant so much. After the accident, everything was so hard. You were like a pair of angels.

“And you were ever so helpful when Mr Mountjoy wasn’t very well that time. Helping out, fetching shopping. It’s a real weight off my mind to know there are good people nearby who look out for us. 

“So anytime you want to borrow something, you just need to ask. And, like I say, please keep Alex’s old tent. We don’t want it back. It’s good that it’s getting used. Do you want the rack for the bike to carry it on?”

“Yes please. Thank you so much.”

“I think there’s a little stove and kettle as well. If you want them. Not sure about gas. Anyway, you go and have a good time, my dear. You deserve it, the week you’ve had.”

Sylvie is making a pot of tea when Jak walks back into the house.

“Just brewed up to watch another Oxford Outcast, babe. Wanna see?” she lowers her voice, speaking somberly but tenderly, “I thought you were very brave, babe, in that video. It’s gone out. You did know that didn’t you?”

Jak nods and joins her mum, huddled over her phone on the kitchen table. They sip their cups of tea.

A news ticker scrolls across a still image of Foresters Tower at Wood Farm.

‘Breaking news… local man murdered… two arrested… body of Arthur ‘Tudor’ Jones found early this morning in woods.’

“Welcome to the Oxford Outcast,” says the woman in full motorcycle leathers and helmet, filming herself across the road from a different tower block on a different estate, “I’m here, bright and early, in Blackbird Leys, about three miles from where Arthur Jones’ body was discovered by, apparently, an anonymous dog walker. Just a few minutes ago, a whole squad of police went running into the Evenlode to arrest a suspect… and here I think, he comes…”

“Get back bitch, get back now,” a man’s panicky voice is heard off camera.

“And so I am complying…” she continues filming herself.

“Get fuckin’ back…”

“As quickly as I can…”

“Further back, get fuckin’ further back!”

“But it might be best if I fully retreat behind this skip,” she is panting but continues filming, “and show you whatever I see from there.”

Two men, one tall, one short, both hunched over and with hoods covering their heads, are manhandled by a group of eight police officers. An officer under each arm, another dragging them forward, and another behind, beating them with a truncheon like a jockey flogging a horse.

As they approach the two parked police vans, more officers step out to drag them inside – one into each van.

The shorter man, already unsteady on his feet, stumbles as he is forced to step up into the van. He twists around, falling sideways towards the pavement and, as he does so, pulls up his hood. There is a wide blue tape over Philip Rumbelowe’s mouth. 

Police officers descend on him like dogs on an injured fox, grabbing whatever bit of him they can and pulling him about. They yank down his hood so firmly that his head strikes the curb, and bundle him into the back of the van. Three of them go in after him and pull the door shut behind them.

The scene switches to a blurry shot of trees, and comes into focus as the woman walks towards the camera. 

“So, as you have just seen, the notorious Mr Philip Rumbelowe, along with his associate, Mr David Evans, has been arrested in connection with the murder of Mr Arthur Jones of Forester’s Tower, here in Wood Farm.

“I have to say the, let’s call it, vigour of the arrest surprised even me. But I’m sure many of you will have Mr Rumbelowe stories to tell. 

“Although how many of you will actually want them told is another matter. Given his past as the owner of a certain shop on Cowley Road, you know the one I mean,” the camera zooms in and she lifts her visor far enough to reveal a long, winking eyelash, “I wonder how many of you are secretly hoping they keep that tape over his mouth for good.” 

“Police sources have revealed that Mr Rumbelowe is in, and I quote, ‘a poor state of health’, which maybe adds even more context to the forcefulness of his arrest. Watch this space for further developments.”

Sylvie shakes her head, “I know he’s a very bad man but he’s an old and sick man as well. There was no need to treat him like that.”

“I know, mum,” agrees Jak, “but I don’t think they care.”

“No, I don’t suppose they do, shall I… oh…” Sylvie breaks off in mid sentence.

“And in other, also breaking news,” the helmeted woman sits down on a tree stump, “our very own alleged terrorist, yeah right, ‘terrorist’, Ms Carly Griffith, is to be transferred to a secure detention vessel moored at Portland, Dorset. A date for Ms Griffith’s trial, which The Oxford Outcast can exclusively, if unsurprisingly, reveal will not take place in Oxford, will be set in due course by our esteemed chief justice on high… so we can all sleep safely in our beds tonight. Or whoever’s bed you happen to be in. 

“And with that, I shall bid you farewell for now…”, the woman lifts her visor again by a few centimetres and, as if blowing a kiss, puts a couple of fingers to the gap and then to the camera. 

The picture freezes, her slightly separated fingers in focus, her face inside the helmet dark and out of focus.

Another ticker starts up: ‘Breaking news… Crispin Miles appointed Sheriff of Oxford… satire declared dead (again)… Outcast Special: Oxford bad boy made good? Watch from 25/07/33’

As the words scroll across the screen, a song plays: ‘I know you’ve deceived me now here’s a surprise, I know that you have ‘cause there’s magic in my eyes. I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles a-and miles, Oh yeah-eh!’

Sylvie nods sadly and gently squeezes Jak’s left hand. With her right, Jak takes another sip of tea.

—

She lies on her bed facing the ceiling, eyes wide open but seeing just a blank space. How long has she been lying there? She’s not sure but outside her window, from the magnolia and the sycamores and the old telephone wires, the dusk chorus is in full voice.

‘Cmon Jak, you knew something like that would happen. They weren’t going to keep her in Oxford forever. Just stick to your plan, even more reasons now.’

Maddy Birch: Devastated to hear about Carly. It is a total injustice. Anything I can do to help just let me know. Or if you fancy a coffee anytime?

Jak: Thanks Dr Birch

She turns off her phone. And sits on the edge of her bed to write a letter.

‘Dear Mum going on a trip. 

Dont know when Ill be back but dont worry. Youre a great Mum. I am so lucky but done growing up now. Got to find a place myself not Oxford. Left you cash for bills and that. And my phone with pics of us. Got a real pic of you and me in my bag. Love it love you. See you soon.

Jak x

ps Dad being moved to place in Wallinton’

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