The Magdalen Tower bells ring six times, clear and clean in the morning air. A pale blue sky, almost translucent, lets in a glimpse of the heavens – a once brilliant Venus fades in the East.
Hidden from view, behind Magdalen Gate, the honey coloured, old sandstone buildings of the High Street curve away to the South-West – bathing in the warm morning sun. Patches of mist cling to the River Cherwell, in shadow beneath the bridge.
Also still in shadow, save for the tops of the trees in its centre, is the Plain roundabout, which this morning is lined with temporary, light-weight metal fencing, separating pavement from road. A line of police bars the approach to the gate at the entrance to Magdalen Bridge. They form an arc to shield a Victorian drinking fountain, long since run dry, that sits in the middle of the road.
Two men in dark blue overalls are using a masonry drill to attach a plaque to the stone base of the fountain: ‘This Fountain occupies the place where the St Clements Toll House once stood. Originally constructed in 1790, this building ensured road users paid a fair price for the upkeep of Oxford’s main streets: High Street, Cornmarket, Queen Street and St Aldates. The octagonal design of the Fountain resembles that of the Toll House.’
No Boots But: Morning up and about early how are you santa 🎁
Xmas Man: Feeling foolish but have good friend.
No Boots But: Catch you later
Xmas Man: Yes.
A queue forms at the police barrier, looping round the Plain in both directions, fed by separate queues in St Clements, Iffley Road and, especially, Cowley Road.
A lone bell rings once. It is 6.30am. The police line breaks to allow two gaps for people to pass through to the metal-barred gate beyond. Groups of officers stand either side of the head of the queues, and others position themselves on the pavement outside shop entrances at intervals around the Plain. On the road itself, sits a dusty white, unmarked van.
“Scan the QR code in your email from Over the Bridge Recruitment, and proceed briskly and calmly into the controlled area. Scan the QR code in your email from Over the Bridge Recruitment, and proceed briskly and calmly into the controlled area. Scan the QR code in your email from Over the Bridge Recruitment, and proceed briskly and calmly into the controlled area…” the tannoy above the gate blares without pause. The queues shuffle along obediently.
No Boots But: How was the party 🤪
Maccy: Great
GT: Just woke up
Deathly Silence: Great
GT: Yeah great
No Boots But: Howd you sleep
GT: Yeah great
Deathly Silence: Tiptoed past parents
Maccy: Just woke
No Boots But: Sorry Greeny
GT: Up and about
GT: Ready for coffee
No Boots But: Bit early
Alice and Donny take a pole each and unveil their hand painted ‘STOP the Wall’ banner at the foot of Cowley Road. A group of about 20 form behind them and start chanting, “Join our gang and stop the Wall, Oxford should be free to all”.
Several groups of police officers converge on the protestors, “move along, move along, keep it moving now.” And herd them through the queue to Cowley Place, a small side street leading to Magdalen College School.
Red metal barriers separate the street from the roundabout. A line of traffic cones cordon off the pavement. The police officers, as one, shove the protestors into the cones, and keep shoving, “through you go, don’t stop, easy does it ladies and gentlemen, you’ll be more comfortable on the other side, through you go, don’t trip up now”, and force them to stumble through.
Some of the protestors have to be helped by their comrades to step over the fallen cones rolling about at their feet, the heavy plastic bashing against their ankles. They restart their chanting, from behind the barriers, and Alice and Donny re-erect their banner. A line of police officers keeps them mostly, but not entirely, hidden from the queuing applicants.
No Boots But: Brewing up ☕
Xmas Man: About to sit together.
—
Folly Bridge is the latest in a thousand year-old series of stone bridges built over the River Thames to the South of Oxford city centre, connecting St Aldates to Abingdon Road. It was constructed in the 1820s and a toll house was erected on it in 1844. The building is still there, albeit no longer used for its original purpose, and sits by a modern gate, which is constructed of mock Victorian, wrought iron style black-painted metal, and is just wide enough to allow a single lane of traffic when fully opened. But today, it is for pedestrians only.
It is not even close to rush-hour yet but the overworked, underprepared Access Control Guards are struggling to cope with the steady stream of cleaners, grounds keepers and other early starters who would usually go through Magdalen Gate. The queue shuffles slowly up Abingdon Road towards the bridge. Noel and Mick shuffle along with it.
—
Jak glances nervously at the penned in protestors. She can’t see Carly but recognises Donny and Jazz from Moonies, and lifts a hand to hide her face.
The rest of the queue ignores the demo until a scuffle breaks out as two young men attempt to sit down in front of the gate. People shout and swear, telling them to get lost, get a haircut and get a job.
One of the young men handcuffs himself to the temporary metal fence between the pavement and road. Police descend on him, separate the sections of fencing and drag him away, still locked to one piece of it, by his feet. They drag him across the road, his head scraping along the tarmac with the piece of fence clanking behind, before hauling him into the back of the unmarked van.
The other young man is wrestled to the ground by members of the queue, who hold him by his arms and neck until a couple of policemen drag him away too. Jak watches on, glad she isn’t closer, glad she doesn’t have to get involved one way or another.
But she can’t stay uninvolved for long. From the other queue, across the Plain roundabout, Carly makes a run for the gate, handcuff dangling from one wrist.
But she doesn’t get the chance to lock on. A woman, dressed in an unmarked black uniform, emerges as if from nowhere and rugby tackles her to the ground.
Jak stands still and stares.
The queue pushes her forward. She stumbles but retains her footing. Her ankle twinges.
—
Before the tired and harassed Access Control Guard at Folly Bridge Gate can react, Noel and Mick quickly handcuff themselves to the two black metal gate posts. Noel, also with a cuff on his other wrist, grabs Mick’s hand and fumbles with the catch. Still not fully realising what is happening, the guard just stares at Noel as if he is an alien before eventually trying to move him aside – giving him time to lock on to Mick. They have done it. They have blocked the gate.
—
Sirens wail and further vans, these ones clearly marked ‘Police’, arrive at the Plain. Carly struggles, resisting her captor, kicking out with her shiny red boots as a second and third security guard descend and pin her to the road.
Jak is now at the front of the queue.
“Scan the QR code in your email from Over the Bridge Recruitment, and proceed briskly and calmly into the controlled area.”
She glances quickly over both shoulders, hoping no one notices, before holding her phone up to the scanner. The light above the gate turns from red to green, and a lock clicks. She pushes the gate and limps through.
And then she hears Carly’s voice, screaming, just a few yards away, “get off, get off, that’s assault!”
Jak tries to turn round as the gate closes behind her but, feeling more pain in her ankle as she does so, is too slow. All she can see through the barred gate is a ruck of police officers. A security guard encourages her to “keep moving along now. C’mon my dear, never mind any of that nonsense”.
The ‘controlled area’ is decorated by tall hoardings with CGI depictions of a warm-honey coloured sandstone wall with a large octagonal central tower and two shorter, square side towers. All three towers are crennelated like a medieval castle. They completely obscure the view across Magdalen Bridge.
“Name?”
“Jacqueline Churchwell.”
Another security guard encourages Jak to step forward and place her chin on a plastic rest. A red point of light flashes into each of her eyes.
“Application successful. Congratulations Miss Churchwell. Please proceed to the staff waiting area and await further instructions.”
—
At Folly Bridge Gate, a man is enraged. His wife is fighting cancer, he has two kids to feed and take care of, and his father has dementia and can’t cope by himself anymore. The man is close to his wits’ end but if only he can earn and save enough then maybe he can pay someone to care for his dad while he looks after his wife and kids.
Then first they close Magdalen Gate and force him to walk an extra two miles to Folly Bridge. And now here’s some preachy guy, in an old hippy hat, trying to stop him from getting to work altogether.
Fuck it. The man grabs Mick by the throat and yells in his terrified face.
He’ll never remember what he yelled, just that he wishes he hadn’t. He is glaring with rage and fury into Mick’s eyes as the lights go out in them.
A pain grips Mick’s left arm like a vice, his neck muscles seize up, his chest feels like a rock has been dropped on it. He can’t breathe. Or call out. He convulses. And goes limp.Mick is held up like a crucified criminal by the handcuffs locking him to the black metal gate post on one side, and his traumatised comrade on the other.