The Discharge

There was no sign of Mr Grant.  No sign of anyone as a matter of fact.  It was a miracle not to hear the TV blaring, to witness it in the state of off at all, but that it was.  Upon ingress, Oran noticed that Phyllis’ blue coat was missing from the hanger near the door.  It occurred to us then that she might have listened to her preternatural instincts telling her the threat was robust at The Martlet and so had opted to skidoo.

Oran hesitated to set the paintings down in the sitting room and dashed upstairs to hide them instead.  In my mind, he was thinking they might be safer there if someone came back to torch the place a second time but I am sure that if I had addressed that with him we would have got swept up debating the likelihood.  Yet again I was impressed by the Berrills’ propensity for safekeeping, the strategy and deep reasoning they brought to bear in defending the rights of inanimate objects to exist, and persist.  I couldn’t think of anything I owned personally that I held so much regard for I’d move heaven and earth to stash forever.  I didn’t even have a secret hiding place.  As I saw it, I owned nothing worth designating such a place for.  I could feel my tune changing, however.  

Once the Montescus were safe we discussed whether we should return to The Martlet to see what had come of Mr Grant and Phyllis.  Oran’s newborn nerve endured and he was up for us going back there directly but I was one for caution and said to him that if something had gone wrong and bloody mayhem was in the air then we should instead just sit down and watch an old video like Police Academy 5, which we hadn’t got to yet.  Police Academy 4 had been two weeks ago.  Which was a long time between Police Academys. 

‘Police Academy 5?’ he said.  ‘There’s no such thing in existence.’

And he was right.  That disc had burned in the fire. 

So we rushed back up the town, by the front this time, for everyone to see.  Once again, we passed normal citizens along the way, the unaffected and serene, the kind, unbiased and principled people of the town who didn’t even read our ridiculous paper as they were too busy tending to their gardens.   How I wished they might join us to defeat the menace of factions. 

We expected a riot to be in full swing when we got there but the business of the crowd had settled. The gathering remained but I couldn’t say if they had grown in number because I’d only seen them partially from within the building.  Earlier it looked like everyone was rushing the doors but now they appeared to be just standing around, stagnant – the lull after bedlam.  We moved like snails along the shop-fronts in the hope of evading attention and when nearer the front door we could see that people were huddled around someone on the ground.  Getting to Cronin’s Butchers, next door to The Martlet, we found Mr Grant on the pavement against the wall, his face wearied and red – not bloodied, thank God; still, the scene indicated a scuffle had lately unfolded.

‘What happened to you?’ 

‘I was knocked down,’ he said, his demeanour drowsy and abused.  ‘Thought it best to keep my head down.  They’re like the zombies up there.’

I began helping him up from the ground.  (For a diminutive thing, he wasn’t easy lifting.)  In doing so, I influenced a murmur from the crowd and I feared that whatever madness had enveloped Mr Grant in recent minutes was about to start up again.    Around us there were faces who I could confidently say were Gullivers.  And some I could tell had been guided to the fray by Gullivers.  Whether they belonged to a different faction last week, or were agnostic in the main, you could take it as read that they were all of them Gullivers now. 

Next thing there was a magnificent crash in the air above us and from the window of The Martlet a computer monitor shot out like a cannonball onto the street.  Luckily the crowd were nimble and they moved away to allow space for the falling contraption. Good thing nobody was killed with all that glass and broken plastic and steel bits.  I recognised it as Thomas Potter’s computer because of the Arsenal stickers on one of the separated panels. 

‘Jesus, who’s up there now?’ I asked Mr Grant.

‘I don’t know,’ he groaned.  ‘I saw his sister go up.  But don’t know the rest.  I don’t know any of you people.  I just want to go home with my paintings.  What’s the bloody matter with this town?’

A reasonable projection for the future would be that Mr Grant was unlikely to return to this Godforsaken kip – and understandable considering.  Not a minute had he been on his feet than the murmur around us had turned from that to a whisper and from there to a gasp before onto a yell.   

‘Berrills!’ came a voice from out in the middle of it all.  ‘And that prick!’

I imagined the prick in question was myself.  It wasn’t the first time someone in town had labelled me such.  But the way the word was articulated by that faceless voice among many – automatic and deliberate and meaningful – had me thinking that perhaps that’s how I’d come to be known broadly in the community.

The nearest ones to us immediately moved to confront us and Mr Grant returned to the ground for safety, wisely concluding a brawl was to commence.  I glanced up at Oran to get an idea of his current thinking.  His eyes were locked and intense, the anxiety I’d seen in him after the fire long gone.  He looked unafraid.  I think he was ready to take them all on.  And whatever was inside him came to intoxicate me also because when the melee began I acted in opposition to my cowardly nature.  It began with some pushing and shoving and when the fog of bodies was dense enough, the first unattributed rap landed across my face – a knock on the right mandible – which was not painful enough to floor me.  I raised my fists in defence and more punches came.  Then it all kicked off.    

There was not much else for the doing.  When surrounded and inundated with fists, your options were only to throw them back or get down on the ground like Mr Grant.  Against sager judgement, we threw them back.   Oran made it easier for me to survive in the skirmish being so huge in mass and with his arms so long he was able to swat more of them away than were able to reach either of us.

In a maelstrom one is at one’s most confused and instinctual.  Faces came before me thick and fast.  It was hard to make out who was punching me and who I was punching.  One of the people I did recognise as I punched was Stephen McGarry, my counterpart at the Democrat, probably the most respected subeditor in this neck of the woods.  He was the same age as me, but had been in the business much longer. 

‘Sorry, Stephen,’ I said to him. 

‘Alright.’

‘What are you doing here?  Are you reporting on this madness?’

‘No, I just joined in with everyone else.’

He hit me a good thump on the jaw.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

Although some punches I didn’t see coming, most were expected, except for one very surprising dig on the chest from (of all the people) Jasper Cudden who it appeared had come outside to join the mob since we had left him.

‘Jasper . . . why?’

‘It’s not worth it,’ he stated, sorrowfully, then withdrew to the throng.

I of course disagreed with him and would continue to fight alongside the Berrills.  To tell you the God’s honest truth, I was getting beaten down on so much by my neighbours that it emboldened me to stand strong and keep going, incoherent though the whole affair was.  The commotion was such that Oran and I accidentally punched one another – I with one to his belly, and he with a hard slap catching me on the ear – occurrences I was sure would give observers with an aerial view of proceedings a giggle and I subsequently prayed they would be done with their amusement quickly so as to pick up their phones and ring the guards.