Part 13 (2/2)
”Come on, ” Annie kept saying. ”Are we nearly there...? ”
There were a surprising number of people on Oxford Street. Quite a crowd, all wearing that happy secret expression. I couldn't help smiling too. Suddenly Annie was running on ahead, then coming back to haul me along. Now she wanted to speed up. I kept having to apologise as I b.u.mped into people.
It was mostly kids in their twenties, in couples and little groups. They parted indulgently as Annie dragged me, ran on ahead, dragged me.
There really were an astonis.h.i.+ng number of people.
I could hear music up ahead, and a couple of shouts. I tensed, but they didn't sound angry.
”Annie!” I called, nonetheless. ”Come here, love!” I saw her skipping through the crowd.
And it was really a crowd. Was that a whistle? Where'd everyone come from? I was jostled, tugged along as if all these people were a tide. I caught a glimpse of one young bloke and with a start of alarm I saw he was wearing a big jumper with a red-nosed deer on it. I just knew to look at him he didn't have a licence. ”Annie, come here, ” I was calling, but I got drowned out.
A young woman next to me was raising her voice and singing a note, very loud.
”Weeeeee...”
The lad she was with joined in, and then his friend, and then a bunch of people beside them, and in a few seconds everyone was doing it, a mixture of good voices and terrible ones, combining into this G.o.dawful loud squeal.
”Weeeeee...” And then, with impeccable timing, all the hundreds of people sort of caught each other's eyes, and their song continued.
Looking for Jake, By China Mieville ”. . . wish you a merry Christmas we wish you a merry Christmas... ”
”Are you mad? ” I screamed, but no one could hear me over that b.l.o.o.d.y illegal rumpty-tum. Oh my G.o.d. I knew what was happening.
We were surrounded by radical Christmasarians.
I was spinning around, shouting for Annie, running after her, looking out for police. There was no way the streetcams wouldn't spot this. They'd send in the Yule Squad.
I saw Annie through the crowd-G.o.ddammit, more people kept coming-and ran for her. She was beckoning to me, looking around anxiously, and I was batting people out of the way, but as I approached I saw her look up at someone beside her.
”Dad,” she shouted. I saw her eyes widen in recognition, and then-did I see a hand grab her and s.n.a.t.c.h her away?
”Annie!” I was screaming as I reached where she'd been. But she was gone.
I was panicking: she's an intelligent girl and it was broad daylight, but whose was that b.l.o.o.d.y hand? I called her phone.
”Dad,” she answered. The reception was appalling in this crowd. I was bellowing at her, asking where she was. She sounded tense, but not frightened. ”. . . ok . . . I'll be . . . see . . . a friend . .
. at the party.”
”What?” I was yelling. ”What?”
”At the party, ” she said, and I lost the signal.
Right. The party. That's where she'd make her way. I controlled myself. I shoved through the crowd.
It was getting more bolshy. It was turning into a tinsel riot.
Oxford Street was jammed; I was in the middle of what was suddenly thousands of protestors. It took me anxious ages to make headway through the demonstration. What had seemed an anonymous mob suddenly sprang into variety and colour. Everyone was marching. I was pa.s.sing different contingents.
Where the h.e.l.l had all these banners come from? Slogans bobbed overhead like flotsam. FOR PEACE, SOCIALISM AND CHRISTMAS; HANDS OFF OUR HOLIDAY SEASON!; PRIVATISE THIS.One placard was everywhere. It was very simple and spa.r.s.e: the letters TM in a red circle, with a line through them.
She'll be ok, I thought urgently. She said as much. I was looking around as I made my way Looking for Jake, By China Mieville toward the party, only a few streets away now. I was taking in the demo.
These people were crazy! It wasn't that I didn't think their hearts were in the right places, but this was no way to achieve things. All they were going to do was bring down trouble on everyone. The cops would get here any moment.
Still, I had to admire their creativity. With all the costumes and colours, it looked amazing. I have no idea how they'd smuggled this stuff through the streets, how they'd organised this. It must have been online, which means some pretty sophisticated encryption to fool the copware.
Each different section of the march seemed to be chanting something different, or singing songs I hadn't heard for years. I was walking through a winter wonderland.
I went by a contingent of Christians all carrying crosses, singing carols. Right in front of them was a group of badly dressed people selling copies of a left-wing newspaper and carrying placards with a photograph of Marx. They'd superimposed a Santa hat on him. ”I'm dreaming of a red Christmas,” they sang, not very well.
We were beside Selfridges now, and a knot of people had stopped by the windows full of the usual mix of perfume and shoes. The demonstrators were looking at each other, and back at the gla.s.s. Over on a side street, a few pa.s.sersby were staring at the extraordinary spectacle. It brought me up short to see ”regular” shoppers-it felt as if there was no one but the marchers on the streets.
I knew what the Selfridges-watchers were thinking: they were remembering (or remembering being told-some of them looked too young to recall life before the ChristmasAct) an old tradition.
”If they won't give us our Christmas windows,” one woman roared, ”we'll have to provide them ourselves.” And with that, they pulled out hammers. Oh G.o.d. They took out the gla.s.s.
”No!” I heard a man in a smart wool coat shouting at them. A contingent of the demo was looking horrified, laying down its banners, which read LABOUR FRIENDS OF CHRISTMAS.”We all want the same thing here,” the man shouted, ”but we can't support violence!”
But no one was paying him any attention. I waited for people to steal the goods, but they just shoved them out of the way along with the broken gla.s.s. They were putting things into the windows. From bags and pockets they were taking little creches, papier-mache Santas, gaudily wrapped presents, Holly, and Mistletoeand they were scattering them, making crude displays.
I moved on. A man stepped into my path. He was part of a group of sharp-dressed types at the edges of the crowd. He sneered and gave me a leaflet.
INSt.i.tUTE OF LIVING MARXIST IDEAS.
Why We Are Not Marching.
Looking for Jake, By China Mieville We view with disdain the pathetic attempts of the old Left to revive this Christian ceremony.
The notion that the government has ”stolen” ”our” Christmas is just part of the prevailing Fear Culture that we reject. It is time for a reevaluation beyond left and right, and for dynamic forces to reinvigorate society. Only last month, we at the ILMI organised a conference at the ICA on why strikes are boring and hunting is the new black . . .
I really couldn't make head or tail of it. I threw it away.
There was the thudding of a chopper. Oh s.h.i.+t, I thought. They're here.
”Attention, ” came the amplified voice from the sky. ”You are in breach of section 4 of theChristmas Code. Disperse immediately or you will be arrested.”
To my astonishment this was met with a raucous jeer. A chant started. At first I couldn't make out the words, but soon there was no mistaking them.
”Whose Christmas? Our Christmas! Whose Christmas? Our Christmas!”
It didn't scan very well.
I pa.s.sed a group I recognised from the news, radical feminist Christmasarians dressed in white, wearing carrots on their noses: the sNOwMEN. A little guy ran past me, glancing around, muttering, ”Too tall, too tall.” He started to shout: ”Anyone 5 foot 2 or under come smash some s.h.i.+t up with the Santa's Little Helpers!” Another shorter man started furiously remonstrating with him. I heard the words ”joke” and ”patronising.”
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