They all thumped it out in unison: ‘NO, BOSS!’
‘They think we’re going to just let them run riot in our city. Are we?’
‘NO, BOSS!’
It was like electricity, crackling through the room, making all the hairs stand up on Tufty’s arms.
‘No we bloody well aren’t. Now get out there and make me proud!’
A cheer belted out. This was it. They were ready. And if Thannet and Menzies tried anything they were in for a nasty shock. Because North East Division was pumped up. Energised. Ready to rock.
Hell, yeah: bring it on!
‘Christ, I’m bored.’ Roberta sagged, but no’ very far. The stabproof vest squeezed her tight, as if she was an overfilled sausage, squooging her boobs and making every breath a struggle. Because the shrunken itchy trousers weren’t bad enough.
Even rubbing her legs against the waist-high metal barrier that held back the unwashed masses didn’t help. Swear to God they made these things out of ants, fleas and midge bites.
A massive seething mob filled the square outside Markie’s. Placards poked up above them, rehashing old arguments for and against everything from the last general election to farm subsidy payments. Those temporary metal barriers kept a clear patch in the middle of the square free, another two lines stopping them from spilling out onto Union Street, but the crowd stretched down past the Prince of Wales on one side, and all the way around to the Kirk on the other. There was even a crowd on the St Nicholas Centre’s roof terrace.
The organisers had set up a stage outside the Clydesdale Bank, blocking access to the cash machines, big enough to fit a dozen chairs, a lectern and a microphone stand. And last, but no’ least, about seventy-five percent of Aberdeen’s police officers making a solid black-and-fluorescent-yellow line between the various factions. Big Tony Campbell had even managed to call in a couple of horse-mounted plods from Strathclyde.
Roberta checked her watch again. ‘An hour we’ve been here. A whole hour, and no one’s so much as trodden on anyone’s toe.’
Lund smiled up at the blue sky. ‘Still, it’s nice to be out in the sunshine for a change.’
On the other side, Harmsworth grunted. Scowling. ‘Probably getting a massive melanoma just from standing here. And my trousers are itchy.’
Roberta peered around his bloated lump of a body. Tufty was chatting up that perky Wildlife Crime Officer again.
Horny wee sod that he was.
Lund stood on her tiptoes. ‘Ooh, I can see tractors. Here we go.’
Roberta had a squint, but the corner of the Royal Bank blocked off most of Union Street from here.
Pfff...
No’ that there was anything particularly exciting about tractors, but at least it’d be something to look at other than the motley collection of placards. And once you’d spotted the obligatory ‘DOWN WITH THIS SORT OF THING!’ and ‘I’M SO ANNOYED I MADE A SIGN!’ ones, there was nothing left to do but stand there in the blazing sunshine, dressed all in black, wearing a stone’s-worth of equipment — sweat trickling down your back and into your underwear.
Fun.
Harmsworth had another dig at his backside. ‘Itchy, itchy, itchy, itchy...’
Roberta thumped him. ‘I’m no’ telling you again: leave your arse alone.’
‘It’s itchy.’
‘We’re all itchy, Owen, that’s how life works: you’re born, you’re itchy, then you die.’
He went in for another howk.
‘Stop it!’ She pointed across the square, where the media had set up camp. A blonde weather-girl-type was primping her curly hair in the mirror of a cameraman’s lens. ‘You want to be on national TV mining for bum-nuggets?’
‘Oh that’s right, poor Owen just has to suffer in silence, as usual.’
‘Silence? You never stop moaning on about everything!’
Five people emerged from behind the Royal Bank, carrying a banner nearly as wide as Union Street: ‘DON’T LET THEM KILL OUR FARMING INDUSTRY!!!’ Waving at the crowds. Right behind them was a massive combine harvester, blades rotating slowly. Presumably as a warning to the banner carriers — don’t slow down or fall over, or else.
Blondie finished primping and stood back a couple of paces, microphone up and ready. No’ that she needed it — hers was the kind of voice that carried. A foghorn with a west-coast accent. ‘You ready, Chris?’
Anne twisted the microphone around in her hand, so the BBC logo was visible from the front. Here we go. Deep breath. Red leather, yellow leather. Red leather, yellow leather.
She flashed her warmest smile at the camera.
You can do this, Anne. You can!
Just don’t screw it up and everything will fall into place. They’ll see that you’re more than just a pretty face standing in front of a map blethering on about low pressure moving in from the west. That you’ve got what it takes to be a serious television journalist.
OK, so it’s just a local interest piece for the twenty-four-hour news channel, but maybe they’ll edit it down and put you on the six o’clock too? Maybe then someone will finally recognise all your untapped TV potential?
Maybe they’ll send you to exotic places to interview important people like the Dalai Lama? Maybe they’ll give you your own show? Then you’re on Strictly Come Dancing and there’s a massive book deal — not just a ghost-written autobiography either, a whole ghost-written series of bestselling children’s novels! An OBE for services to literature. A spot of charity work and BAM: Dame Anne Darlington, beloved by millions. I want to thank the Nobel Committee for this peace prize...
And it all started right here, outside the Aberdeen branch of Markie’s.
She pulled back her shoulders and sexied up her smile a bit.
Maybe that was too sexy? Approachable but serious, that was what to aim for.
She could do that.
Chris the cameraman looked out from behind his viewfinder. Even with the sun blazing down he still had his bobble hat on, stubbled face pulled into a smile. ‘Don’t sweat it: you’re going to be great.’
Yes. Yes she was.
He pursed his lips. ‘Just as long as that copper in the background stops scratching at his arse.’ Chris stuck his hand out to one side, counting her down one finger at a time. ‘And we’re live in five, four, three, two...’ He made a swooshing gesture and she put on her approachable-but-serious voice to go with the approachable-but-serious smile.
‘Tensions are running high in Aberdeen today as the local Farm Workers’, Food Producers’, and Livestock Handlers’ Union protest about the proposed post-Brexit financial settlement.’ She turned and gestured across the square at a bunch of officers in their high-viz bobby-on-the-beat costumes. ‘As you can see, there’s a significant police presence here, after rumours circulated on social media that a number of extremist organisations were planning to use the protest as an excuse for violent clashes.’
Bang on cue a vast combine harvester rumbled past, followed by a vintage tractor towing a trailer with an effigy of the Prime Minister being burnt at the stake on it — fake, tissue paper flames flickering in the breeze.
A tad sinister, but great television.
‘So far, the demonstration has remained peaceful.’
Bill’s voice sounded in her earpiece, all the way from the London studio. ‘And we understand the Cabinet Secretary for Rural Affairs has challenged Ronnie Wells to a debate.’