He is with the others as usual, watching television and laughing.
He holds her tight, his girl, the newest addition to the squat. The rooms are always filled with people. A spliff is passed round and she tokes dutifully, aware of the glances of the others.
They’d met at a picket. He is tall, face pinched but handsome. He’d been leading the chants of Thatcher Out and Class War. Her friends left complaining of essay deadlines and cold hands.
His voice different to the one he uses when they are alone, like he is playing to a crowd. “They bring cameras now. Fascists,” he says. “Video cameras next.”
He squeezes her and she nods. She feels the others looking.
“No names in letters or diaries. No proper names on the phone.”
The walls are covered with pages from newspapers of riot police and stone throwers.
Their room is behind a sheet, a mattress on pallets. Finally alone she wants to say “I’m scared and frightened and sometimes I don't think what we’re doing is right” but it is only a curtain not a wall and he says in his private voice as he removes her jumper: “There’s no secrets here.”