He's saying the same kind of things I was saying just yesterday. But I've already begun to accept that I was wrong, and when I look at the TV screen tonight I'm even more sure that I'd misjudged the situation badly when I was rambling last night. The sheer scale of what's happening is really beginning to scare me now. They keep talking about small minorities but thousands, possibly even tens of thousands of people are involved in this violence. Hundreds of lives are affected by every incident in some way. Young, old, male, female… people from every section of society are involved. This is far more than just paranoia. This is more than the media stirring things up.
'I don't want to join any club,' I tell him, 'and no-one's put any ideas in my head. I haven't started any fights. I'm no more going to go out and attack anyone than you or Lizzie are.'
'I know that. We've got maturity and common-sense on our side though, haven't we? We know the difference between right and wrong. We know what's acceptable and what isn't.'
'Are you trying to say that everyone who's been affected by this is just immature? Come on, Harry, do you really think…'
'There are plenty of people out there who couldn't give a damn about right or wrong,' he continues, ignoring me. 'There are people who get a kick out of causing trouble, and putting it on the television like this has just made things worse. By showing it they're saying it's all right, that it's acceptable.'
'Bullshit! They're not saying that at all…'
'They're implying that because so many people are involved now, anyone left might as well join in.'
'Bullshit!' I say again.
'There's no need to swear at me,' he snaps.
'You're so wrong,' I try to explain. 'It's got nothing to do with…'
'And that's just the kind of thing I'm talking about,' he continues, raising his voice and still not listening to any of what I'm trying to say. 'Thirty years ago you'd never have used that kind of language in everyday conversation. Now every other word you hear is a curse. Standards have slipped and that is what's happening out there on the streets.'
For a moment I can't answer. The old man has suddenly become very agitated. His face is flushed red with anger and a terrifying thought flashes into my mind. Is he a Hater? Is he about to change? Is he going to become like those people we've seen on TV? Is he about to attack me? Should I attack him first before he has chance to get me? Is this how it begins…?
'No-one has any respect for anything or anyone else anymore,' he continues. 'It's a bloody disgrace. It's been coming for years. Before you know it we'll have total anarchy and you'll see…'
'I know what you're trying to say, Dad,' Lizzie interrupts, returning to the room, 'but I don't agree. Danny and I had this conversation last night, didn't we? I've never seen anything like the things I've seen over the last few days. I've seen plenty of trouble before, but never anything like this.'
I relax. Liz's sudden arrival seems to have calmed the situation. The anger in Harry's face has gone.
'What do you mean? What's different?' he asks. Liz stands in the doorway and thinks for a few seconds.
'Out there tonight, after they'd beaten that man, you could almost taste it in the air.'
'Taste what?' I wonder.
'The fear,' she replies. 'People are scared. People are already starting to expect trouble and they're tensing up ready for it. And when it happens they react, most of the time completely out of character from what I've seen. I don't know what's causing any of this, Dad, but I do know there has to be a definite, physical reason for it. People are bloody frightened and the situation's getting worse by the day.'
'Things will start to calm down…' Harry starts to say instinctively. Lizzie's shaking her head.
'No they won't,' she says, her voice trembling and unsteady. 'We watched a group of men lynch a Hater tonight. I don't know what he'd done, but it couldn't have been any worse than the way they retaliated. There was as much hate and anger coming from them as anyone else.'
WEDNESDAY
vii
Daryl Evans sat at the back of the top floor of the bus as it wound its way through the streets towards the city centre. He leant against the window and looked down as he headed towards the council offices where he worked and yet another day of grind and grief. He didn't feel like working today. Maybe he'd try and leave after a couple of hours, he thought. Maybe he'd tell Tina, his supervisor, that he didn't feel well and that he needed to go home. With everything that was happening right now he didn't think she'd try stopping him.
Evans wasn't particularly interested in the rest of the world. He didn't pay much attention to anything that happened outside his immediate circle of family and friends. He'd had a good night last night and that made it harder to motivate himself this morning. He'd spent some time with a friend he hadn't seen for a while. They'd spent the evening drinking beer and eating junk food. He still felt bloated and a little hung-over this morning. He'd slept through his alarm and then turned the flat upside down looking for his watch. He'd eventually found it under his bed but by then he was already late leaving for work. He just knew it was going to be one of those days where everything takes more effort than it should and nothing goes right.
Evans didn't have any time for news and current affairs. He didn't know why the streets were quiet this morning or why he'd had to wait twice as long as usual for a bus which was half-empty. He did notice that things felt different today, but he really couldn't be bothered to try and work out why.
There were seven other people on the top floor of the bus. Five of them sat alone, quiet and thoughtful, watching the grey and damp morning outside. A couple sat together towards the front, laughing and joking with each other and making more noise than the rest of the passengers combined. Evans sat right at the back and watched them all. The inside of the bus was steaming up with condensation. He wiped the window clean so that he could see how far he'd got left to travel. His sudden movement caught the attention of a pencil-thin, wiry-haired man sitting two rows of seats ahead who nervously turned round to see what was happening behind him.
Evans made eye contact with the other passenger and froze.
The man - quiet, unassuming and not wanting any trouble - quickly turned back and faced the front of the bus again, praying that nothing was going to happen. It was too late. Evans, filled with a sudden uncontrollable fear and compulsion, jumped up and pulled the other passenger out of his chair. He shoved him down into the aisle between the two rows of seats and he landed with a heavy thump which was loud enough to be heard by everyone on the lower floor. He looked down at the man who stared back up at him petrified, his shoulders wedged between the seats on either side. Evans raised his foot and stamped on his face, breaking his nose and splitting the skin under his right eye. Then he stamped again, then again and again, feeling any resistance almost immediately fade and then feeling the man's bones beginning to crack beneath the force of his relentless attack.
The driver looked up in her monitor but the rush of top floor passengers getting up from their seats and running down the steep staircase blocked her view. She brought her bus to a sudden halt in the middle of a usually busy dual carriageway road. A week ago many people would have tried to do something to help, but not today. Terrified and fearing for their own safety they ran as quickly as they could, spilling out onto the street and looking up at the occasional flashes of movement they could see from the bloody and violent attack which continued on the top floor.