When two good people...
by Kenny Wilson
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: Just about ordinary people.
Swearwords: One strong one only.
Description: Just about ordinary people.
The paint is dry. I check the staple connectors. Yes they should do. The banner looks great; ‘Stop the killings now’, painted letters in red. I check my text messages, the others should be here soon and we will be ready. We will drive to the RV point but park the car somewhere else. There might be trouble but we don’t want it.
We check our gear; belts, shields and sprays. I fasten my tunic, re- check my helmet visor is clean and working, make sure the strap is correctly adjusted. I sway to the left as the van takes another corner sharply. ‘Nearly there guys,’ shouts the Sarge. ‘If there is trouble today we can deal with it but we don’t start it. A good job done as long as there is no bother’.
We stand arms linked. It is raining but we barely notice. I have Ali on one side and Bill on the other. Hundreds of others are around us. ‘Stop the killings now’ chanted almost as a whisper but effective when repeated by 100s of protesters. We march forward towards the square, slowly chanting and resolute.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
Between them and the square is us. ‘They are not allowed onto the square.’ No explanation, ‘No exceptions.’ Some of the guys begin to rhythmically thump their shields. A lone voice behind me mutters, ‘Come on ya bastards let’s see what you’re made of’, most of us just stare silently into the crowd.
I see something go past my head, just above it. A brick? Then I see a policeman stumble for just a second before regaining his stance.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
Who is throwing the missiles? I hear voices asking people to stay calm, to stop throwing things, ‘Don’t give them an excuse.’
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
Someone near to me staggers then shouts, ‘I am ok, fucking wee bastards.’ The noise around me increases. What are we being told to do?
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
The missiles become more frequent, and the crowd surges towards the police line. Some of us want to slow it down but can’t. The police draw their batons.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
Someone must have told us to show our batons, the guys around me are waving theirs. I do the same. The crowd have speeded up and are still coming towards us.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
I hear a voice shout, ‘Hold boys, hold.’ I see someone strike out at a protestor. They are only inches from us but they have stopped.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
We manage to stop. Behind us, beside us I hear cursing and crying. Blood is everywhere.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
Right in front me is a policeman, I think anyways, hard to know in their gear, might be a policewoman. I can see his or her breath in the cold air. I can see the colour of their eyes.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
There is a guy right in front of me. He has his arms linked to the others beside him. Something from behind him hits him in the head. At the same time someone beside me goes to strike him with their baton. I try to stop the baton connecting. A protestor grabs my arm and pulls but I manage to wrestle my arm back.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
I feel a thud and time stops. Blood streams past my eyes and mixes with snot. I see the policeman with the coloured eyes. He looks at me as I look at him.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
I become dizzy, I begin to fall, I see our banner lying on the ground, trampled underfoot by everyone.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
We check our gear; belts, shields and sprays. I fasten my tunic, re- check my helmet visor is clean and working, make sure the strap is correctly adjusted. I sway to the left as the van takes another corner sharply. ‘Nearly there guys,’ shouts the Sarge. ‘If there is trouble today we can deal with it but we don’t start it. A good job done as long as there is no bother’.
We stand arms linked. It is raining but we barely notice. I have Ali on one side and Bill on the other. Hundreds of others are around us. ‘Stop the killings now’ chanted almost as a whisper but effective when repeated by 100s of protesters. We march forward towards the square, slowly chanting and resolute.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
Between them and the square is us. ‘They are not allowed onto the square.’ No explanation, ‘No exceptions.’ Some of the guys begin to rhythmically thump their shields. A lone voice behind me mutters, ‘Come on ya bastards let’s see what you’re made of’, most of us just stare silently into the crowd.
I see something go past my head, just above it. A brick? Then I see a policeman stumble for just a second before regaining his stance.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
Who is throwing the missiles? I hear voices asking people to stay calm, to stop throwing things, ‘Don’t give them an excuse.’
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
Someone near to me staggers then shouts, ‘I am ok, fucking wee bastards.’ The noise around me increases. What are we being told to do?
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
The missiles become more frequent, and the crowd surges towards the police line. Some of us want to slow it down but can’t. The police draw their batons.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
Someone must have told us to show our batons, the guys around me are waving theirs. I do the same. The crowd have speeded up and are still coming towards us.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
I hear a voice shout, ‘Hold boys, hold.’ I see someone strike out at a protestor. They are only inches from us but they have stopped.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
We manage to stop. Behind us, beside us I hear cursing and crying. Blood is everywhere.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
Right in front me is a policeman, I think anyways, hard to know in their gear, might be a policewoman. I can see his or her breath in the cold air. I can see the colour of their eyes.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
There is a guy right in front of me. He has his arms linked to the others beside him. Something from behind him hits him in the head. At the same time someone beside me goes to strike him with their baton. I try to stop the baton connecting. A protestor grabs my arm and pulls but I manage to wrestle my arm back.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
I feel a thud and time stops. Blood streams past my eyes and mixes with snot. I see the policeman with the coloured eyes. He looks at me as I look at him.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
I become dizzy, I begin to fall, I see our banner lying on the ground, trampled underfoot by everyone.
‘Stop, stop, stop the killings, stop the killings now.’
About the Author
Kenny Wilson was born and raised in Edinburgh’s Southside. Now in his sixtieth year, he describes himself as a writer, a dreamer and lucky.