Itchcraft (18 page)

Mr Hampton found his map and, sweeping away glass and coffee beans, spread it out on the floor. ‘We are here,’ he said, pointing. ‘Paseo del Doctor Vallejo Nágera. We have to cross one of the bridges over the Rio Manzanares and make it back to the Plaza Lucenza, here . . .’ He stabbed his finger at a small square. ‘That’s maybe forty minutes’ walk – I don’t think we’ll find a bus now. I think we should go. It doesn’t feel safe here.’

They left the café, nodding their thanks to the manager, who was tending to one of the other customers.

‘
Buena suerte
,’ she said.

‘What’s that, sir?’ asked Jack.

‘Good luck,’ said Mr Hampton. ‘She said good luck.’

‘Where are the police?’ said Miss Coleman, a bloodied souvenir tea towel held to her head as she scanned the road. ‘You’d think they’d be here by now.’

‘Well, if the news was anything to go by, they’ll be busy,’ said Mr Hampton. ‘We can’t rely on them.’

‘Sir,’ said Itch, ‘why don’t I text that number we were given? I know it was just for keeping the police up to date with our movements, but—’

‘Yes. Do it,’ said Hampton. ‘In case any of them are watching their screens—’

He was interrupted by shouts from the looters leaving the shop, arms full of trainers.

‘They did all that for shoes?’ asked Chloe in amazement.

‘They’ve only just started,’ said Lucy. ‘Look, they’re all on their phones. There’ll be more coming.’

‘You know you said we should leave our phones at the hostel, sir,’ said Jack. ‘Well, what if we get separated, what do we do then?’ Itch could hear the tension in her voice as she watched the looters coordinate their next move.

‘We won’t get separated,’ said Hampton. ‘We stay together. We look like tourists – no one will think we’re looters – you’re too young, and Miss Coleman and I look too old. We’re going to the hostel – we’ll be safe. Let’s go.’

With Mr Hampton on one side and a patched up Miss Coleman on the other, they walked in a tight group down the middle of the road.

‘We’re being watched,’ said Chloe, looking up at the top windows of the buildings, where silhouetted faces could be seen staring down at them. Scooters buzzed backwards and forwards, some with passengers riding pillion. After a couple of drive-pasts, one pulled up alongside them; its rider had a scarf around his mouth, his hood pulled low, and he studied them one by one.

They all increased their pace and closed ranks, the girls linking arms.

‘What’s he want?’ wondered Chloe, not taking her eyes off the road ahead.

Itch shrugged. ‘Who knows? Money? Our passports? Your trainers maybe.’ His attempt at cheery humour didn’t register, and when two more scooters arrived alongside them, everyone tensed.

Miss Coleman removed the tea towel from her face. ‘
Soy inglesa
,’ she said. ‘
Habla inglés?
’ None of them acknowledged her question, but one by one they peeled away. ‘I asked if they spoke English. Guess the answer’s no.’

‘Fire ahead . . .’ said Itch. ‘At the crossroads.’ Flames had burst from a wall and a crowd had started to gather. As the CA students approached, they saw that the building was a bank; a cash point was on fire. A weird high-pitched whistle filled the air.

From every direction, more people were coming to see the spectacle. The crowd already numbered around fifty and almost all of them were filming the fire at the ATM. The two who weren’t, Itch noticed, were staring straight at him. They were standing in the doorway of a darkened newsstand; unnerved, he turned to attract Jack’s attention, but when he looked back, they had gone.

More flames burst from the cash point; more cries from the crowd.

‘No wonder these people are mad,’ said Jack. ‘That’s their money that’s burning in there.’

‘No, it isn’t . . .’ said Itch, still looking around. ‘It’s just money. I think they’re just mad at the banks. Mad at everyone. Did anyone see those guys at the newsstand just now?’

A bottle smashed above the cash point and some of the crowd cheered. Itch’s question went unanswered.

‘Come on,’ said Mr Hampton. ‘Let’s not hang about.’ He steered his group around the crowd and down a street called Paseo de las Acacias. ‘Did you send that text?’ he asked Itch.

‘Tried to,’ said Itch. ‘No signal. Maybe it’s the network. Everyone else seems to be using their phones, though.’

‘The police might have shut the phone networks down. I expect the demonstrators are using the BlackBerry messenger system. Can’t stop that without killing the internet.’

‘But what are they demonstrating about?’ said Chloe.

‘Everything,’ said Mr Hampton as they strode quickly past department stores; the remaining staff pulling down shutters as fast as they could. ‘Unemployment. The government. America. Poverty. All of it. If you haven’t got much money to start with, your euros catching fire is a disaster.’ Hampton pointed at the end of the street. ‘That’s the bridge ahead. Puente de Toledo, the Toledo bridge. We need to cross there.’

Ahead, the wail of a siren; behind them, the sound of breaking glass. Itch glanced over his shoulder just as a car went up in flames. The wave of heat caught them by surprise, and Natalie swallowed a scream. They paused to watch a Renault disappear in the inferno; within seconds the Fiat next to it was engulfed too. Scores of chanting rioters in scarves and balaclavas ran to join in. Brandishing stones and bricks, they attacked car after car; windscreens shattered, doors were stoved in, boots looted.

‘We seriously need to keep moving,’ Jack shouted above the din.

‘Too right,’ said Lucy. ‘Those guys look like they might do anything – like they’re high on something.’

They closed on the bridge entrance. As the riot gathered pace behind them, they moved faster, held on tighter. Even the boys linked arms, Itch hooked up with Chloe on his left and Jack on his right. Lucy had Jack and Tom. It might have been the dropping temperature or the rising tension but Itch was aware that they all seemed to be shaking.

The bridge was around fifty metres across, raised slightly in the middle, with ornate walls and carvings along its sides.

‘How far, sir?’ asked Debbie, her black knitted hat pulled down low over her wide eyes.

‘Not far,’ said Hampton, in a manner that did not invite further questioning. ‘Itch, any signal on your phone yet?’

Itch checked. ‘Nothing,’ he called.

Hampton glanced at Miss Coleman, who had been checking hers too, but she shook her head.

As they approached the bridge, they realized they had company: a few people were, like them, trying to get back to the city centre, but most were running towards the riot. And amongst them were TV crews with lights and cameras under their arms, ready for action. A man in a suit and with well-coiffed hair glanced at them as they ran past.

‘Spot the journalist,’ said Hampton.

‘How do they get their hair so it never moves?’ wondered Itch.

‘Wax and vanity,’ said Hampton. ‘A potent combination.’

Suddenly, behind them, they heard glass breaking, then loud cheers. They turned to see that flames were shooting out of the department store windows. The crowd stepped back from the inferno, but they were exultant, those at the front jumping up and down and chanting.

The arrival – ‘At last,’ said Hampton – of blue flashing lights and piercing sirens changed the mood instantly. Scores of the demonstrators turned and ran from the police and straight for the bridge.

‘They’re coming this way!’ shouted Lucy, and they all started to jog.

Itch tried to concentrate on keeping in step and holding onto Chloe but the volume of the crowd was increasing and he needed to see how close they were. What he saw made him cry out, ‘Faster! We need to go faster!’

The demonstrators were running at a speed that indicated they were being chased. Across the width of the bridge they came, some still with scarves on their faces, others waving them like flags. Behind them, Itch saw the police cars, herding them across the Toledo Bridge like sheep.

The shouting, the sirens and the sounds of rioting were beginning to create panic: in the school party Natalie tripped, Tom falling over her and crashing to the ground. They all stopped to help, but by the time everyone was up and moving again, the running crowd was nearly upon them.

It was a stampede.

Staying still wasn’t an option.

They ran.

The students and staff of the CA on the Toledo Bridge soon realized that you can’t sprint holding hands. With the fleeing demonstrators metres away and closing fast, they broke ranks. The Year Eleven boys were already sprinting away, while Mr Hampton and Miss Coleman frantically tried to keep track of the dispersing group.

‘Itch! Stay with me!’ yelled Chloe, already falling behind. He checked his stride and they ran together, but now they were barely keeping ahead of the demonstrators. Jack and Lucy were out in front and so were the first to brake; they stopped dead.

With a wall of noise and flashing lights, white vans with
POLICÍA
emblazoned on the side screeched to a halt, and lines of black-clad riot police ran to face them. They wore black helmets with visors pulled down, black padded jackets, and in gloved hands carried shields and batons.

The crowd struggled to stop, a few losing their footing and disappearing headlong into the crush. They backed up a few metres, but there were police cars behind them too. Shouts of rage and frustration erupted as they looked first one way, then the other. Itch thought Mr Hampton and Miss Coleman looked frozen, terrified. Natalie and Debbie started to cry.

‘Sir, we can’t stay here,’ shouted Itch. ‘We look like rioters. We’re with rioters. They’ll treat us like rioters.’

‘He’s right, Henry,’ said Miss Coleman. ‘They’re not going to bother sorting out the tourists from the rioters.’

‘And we go where?’ shouted Mr Hampton. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, we are being “kettled” – controlled, surrounded. They’ll keep us here for as long as they need to. No one’s going anywhere.’

‘But we need to tell them we’re not a part of all this!’ insisted Itch.

‘Do they look like they’re interested in chatting?’ Hampton turned to see lines of mounted police arriving behind the vans. A battery of camera flashes accompanied their arrival.

‘No, they don’t,’ admitted Itch. ‘They really don’t.’ He checked his phone again – still no signal.

‘Maybe try him,’ said Jack, pointing at the journalist with perfect hair. He was in the middle of the crowd, being jostled and pushed but still managing to speak into the camera.

Itch smiled briefly at Jack and pushed his way into the crowd. The demonstrators were so densely packed, it took five minutes to get anywhere near the TV reporter. But as everyone else was shouting, Itch couldn’t attract his attention.

Suddenly Lucy was by his side. She grabbed his arm and leaned in close. ‘What are you doing?’ she yelled.

‘I’m gonna talk to him,’ said Itch, indicating the reporter. ‘Someone needs to say we don’t want to be here and we aren’t rioters. That’s all.’

The man had started interviewing those around him, and Itch dived in, Lucy following close behind. He knew he was being sworn at as he shoved his way through, but it was in Spanish and he didn’t care.

The powerful TV light was shining at two young women with burning euros in their hands. Even though they’d seen it before, the watching crowd were clearly stunned: the spontaneous combustion illuminated shocked faces. Someone produced a T-shirt bearing the Spanish flag and, dangling it above the flames, set it alight. The cameras followed the blaze, and the reporter looked pleased, nodding at his cameraman.

He was about to move on to a woman with a Guy Fawkes mask when Itch shouted, ‘
Habla inglés?
’ It was what he had heard Miss Coleman say meant ‘Do you speak English?’ He knew his accent was terrible, but it worked: the reporter turned away from the demonstrator and raised his eyebrows at Itch.

‘
Si!
Yes. I speak some English. Why are you here? What is it you want?’ He pushed his microphone at him, and the powerful light made Itch squint.

‘We are on a science trip here from England and we want to get home,’ he shouted. ‘We got caught up in all this – our money started burning at a café and it got looted. We are not campaigning or marching or fighting . . .’ He looked around. ‘There’s a lot of scared people here who just want to get home!’

The reporter turned to the camera, speaking in Spanish, and Itch peeled away to find Lucy behind him.

‘You were great,’ she said. ‘Let’s hope he translates that.’

They had started to push their way back to the others when a man with a ponytail wearing an army-style camouflage shirt grabbed Itch by the arm. Itch winced.

‘You got a problem with this?’ he said, his English only slightly accented. He gestured to the demonstrators. ‘I heard what you said to the TV. We don’t need doubters and deniers. This is a battle. They’ve stolen our jobs and now they’re stealing our money.’ Others around them started watching and when the camouflaged man spoke to them in rapid Spanish, there were nods of approval for his words. When he reached for Itch’s other arm, Lucy pushed her way through in front of him.

‘Leave him alone! We are just on a school—’

Without warning the man head-butted Itch hard and, lights popping in his head, he dropped to his knees; someone pushed him over and a boot pressed down on his back. He felt strong arms wrap around his waist; two more took hold of his ankles.

What the hell is happening here?
thought Itch.
Someone’s trying to drag me away!
He twisted and kicked just as the crowd surged and the hands were torn away, releasing him. With hundreds of closely packed people and the possibility of a police charge, Itch knew that he had to get up fast. He tried to ignore his splitting headache, and he writhed and spun away from the legs around him. A sudden gap in the crowd appeared as a fight broke out, and he found Lucy helping him up.

‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ she said.

‘What happened?’ said Itch, his head ringing. The camouflaged man was now exchanging blows with two other men.