Demo Page 5

  … Everything’s gonna be alright …

  He sings over my head into the bright room.

  … Everything’s gonna be alright, now …

  Clare, he says. The front of his jeans is hard again.

  He dances me slow across to the bed, flings the duvet back and pulls me down onto the rumpled sheet. Then he reaches for the cover, tents it over our heads and kisses my mouth in the warm dark.

  This time I know it’ll be OK.

  When I wake up, Julian’s arm is heavy across me and his face is at the top of my head, blowin my hair when he breathes out. It’s nearly dark in the room. The sky at the window is a deep kinda mauvey blue. I lift my feet up under the duvet to let some air in. The cold makes me feel the wet between my legs. I get embarrassed even in the dark thinkin about Julian’s face there, me holdin on to his dreads with both hands. When he’s came back up, he says, Am I forgiven then? And his face is all shiny with slavers and like… my juice. He makes me laugh; he reminds me of my aunt Patsy’s big daft dog just out the sea at Helensburgh wae a stick. He says, Here, taste yourself… He kisses me and puts his tongue right in. And I think maybe I can taste me, mixed in with the tobacco and his own salty taste. And when he’s came into me again, it’s totally different. It’s so warm under the cover and he’s movin slow and his tongue’s in my mouth… I don’t remember now who’s fell asleep first.

  I pull my hand out fae under the duvet and look at my watch: four o’clock.

  Julian. I lift his arm off me and sit up. He says somethin in his sleep I canny make out. Julian. I shake his shoulder. He turns slow onto his back. His hair’s all over the pillow. Then he opens his eyes. I can see the whites of them sorta gleamin in the half-light in the room. He looks a bit creepy. I swing my legs out fae under the duvet and run with my bare feet on the cold marbly floor to the light switch beside the door. The light’s as bright as sunshine and the yellow room is there again. Julian squints in the sudden glare but his eyes are back to normal. He’s watchin me. I put my arm across my boobs and my other hand over my pubes and go back to the bed.

  He laughs, You can’t hide from me now; I know you inside out. His eyes are blue and I get that funny feelin again.

  Pass me my jacket, will you? Julian says, and points. It’s crumpled in the corner where he’s flung it. I feel him watchin me when I go over to get it. I try to imagine what he’s seein but I can’t. He’s lookin at me fae an angle I’ve never even saw mysel. Nobody has. Except when I was a wean. I hold the cold jacket in front of me when I go back to the bed. It smells of Julian. The metal buttons make wee burny-cold spots down my belly. I hold it out to Julian and he takes it from me and pulls me down beside him at the same time.

  Are we gonny go to the demo? Close up, his eyes have got wee violety flecks and a few gold ones, and the really really blue bits are round the edges.

  Do you want to? He’s took his tobacco out his pocket and he’s smoothin out a Rizla.

  My da’ll kill me if don’t.

  He laughs and takes a big pinch of tobacco out the pouch and sprinkles it slow and even along the paper. Some wee brown strands fall onto the duvet and he picks them up and rubs them off his fingers into the green packet.

  Sure, we’ll go. I promised I’d get you there, didn’t I? His hands are the only bit of him that’s no dead white; they’ve got some sun on the backs and gold hairs, and the fingers are stained with nicotine.

  Aye, but … when? It’ll be all over if we don’t go now.

  He starts to roll the fag, foldin the thin paper over careful, then workin it between his fingers till it’s closed over the tobacco.

  Soon… when I’ve had a smoke. He lifts the cigarette to his mouth and licks the edge of the Rizla, sticks it down. He fishes out a clear turquoise lighter and flicks the flame under the roll-up, narrows his eyes and takes a long draw. He clocks me watchin him.

  Would you like a drag? He holds out the roll-up like it’s one a they spliffs.

  No, you’re alright. I don’t smoke.

  What a good little girl you are. He takes his fag back and takes a deep draw. Why’s he sayin that? After what we’ve just been doin? Nobody in our house smokes – no even Danny. My da’s dead against it. Says he watched my granda cough hissel to death at the age of fifty-two.

  The stain on the duvet is dried now. It’s turned more a sorta browny-pink. The colour of Laetitia’s lipstick nearly.

  What we gonny do about that? I says.

  Nothing.

  Nothin?

  Not a thing.

  But —

  Clare, this is a hotel; there are people to do the washing. That’s what we pay for. He sounds annoyed.

  OK… Are you mad at me?

  Of course not.

  It’s just… you sound mad.

  He sighs out a big cloud of smoke. Well, I’m not. Come on. He nips the end of his roll-up and tosses it in the bin. Then he jumps out the bed. His prick’s smooth and kinda long and a bit red. But no hard. No wee and wrinkled either. I wonder if it’s on the way up or down. He goes into the bathroom and I hear him peein. When he comes out, it looks smaller again. I’ve no saw it lookin the same way twice.

  Right, let’s go, he says. And he starts pickin up his clothes off the floor.

  It’s funny how you can be dead close to somebody, then it’s like you don’t even know them.

  It’s no completely dark when we come out the B&B, but it’s gettin there. There’s still a few light silvery streaks in the sky.

  How will we know where to go? I says. Julian’s holdin my hand and his fingers are cold. He’s got the collar of his combat jacket up.

  We’ll find it. Trust me. He starts walkin in the same direction as l’Accademia. It feels like a week at least fae we came along here before. The big door of the gallery’s shut now and the windows are black. Julian is walkin faster and I’m kinda half runnin to keep up. He doesny look at the place. Funny to think of the David in there, gazin into the distance in the dark, his body all white and still. And the slaves strugglin, strugglin out the stone for ever.

  We start goin across a big square wae a church at one side and a statue in the middle. It’s dead quiet for a Saturday. Maybe everybody’s went to the demo. Then we go through some more narrow cobbled streets. Some of the shops have big planks of wood bolted across their windows. They’re all closed.

  Are the shops always shut like this on a Saturday? Even though he’s holdin my hand, Julian seems awful far away.

  What?

  The shops?

  Not sure. Think perhaps it’s the manifestazione.

  The what?

  That’s what the Italians call the demonstration. La manifestazione. Manifestation. See. He points to a notice on the dark red door of a ristorante : Chiuso per la manifestazione. Closed for the demonstration. Bastards.

  Why?

  Don’t want the riffraff of Europe coming into their nice clean restaurant.

  Maybe they’ve went to the demo theirsels and that’s how they’ve closed it. I think this might make Julian laugh, but he says nothin and just starts walkin faster again.

  We cross another wee square, this time wae trees round it. Some of the leaves have fell onto the street and they swish under our feet. They’re different fae the ones in Glasgow. More like old paper. No soakin wet or dry and crumbly like in the park at home. I wish Julian would say somethin.

  What kind a trees are they?

  Dunno. He’s lookin straight ahead and doesny even glance at them.

  Only the leaves are different fae in Glasgow.

  I don’t know, Clare. A tree is a tree is a tree. D’you want to make the demo or not?

  I don’t say nothin. The next street we come to has leaflets and streamers and things in among the leaves.

  Well, here’s where they started from, going by the evidence at our feet. He bends down and picks up a yellow leaflet with black writin. It seems to be all in Italian.

  So, I guess we just follow the paper trail. He lo
oks at me for the first time for ages and I remember when I first seen him standin in George Square and wondered who he was.

  Alright? he says. I nod my head and he starts off walkin fast again.

  It’s like there really is a paper trail. First it’s just leaflets and the odd placard wae a broken stick. But then we come to a bit where the road’s wider and there’s signs to different towns – Pisa, Bologna, Roma – and we’re out of the centre of Florence. There’s no old houses here; just modern flats. Concrete boxes for the masses, my da would say. And all over the road there’s hunners a wee bits of paper scattered, all different colours. A few of the flats have posters and banners hangin out the windows. I can see right into some a them where the light’s on. There’s this one… a young guy with a bare chest is dancin round the room hissel. He sorta boogies over to the window and looks out. Then a dark-haired girl comes up behind him and puts her arms round his waist and her cheek against his shoulder. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I look at Julian and I’m gonny say somethin, but his eyes are far away.

  A couple a guys and a lassie are walkin towards us. It looks like they could a been on the march by the style of them. Jeans and T-shirts, green jackets and coloured scarfs. The lassie has on a red and yellow stripy jumper and a floppy rainbow hat.

  Buon giorno, Julian says. La manifestazione? They look at each other, then start to talk dead slow in Italian and point the way they’ve came.

  Ah, American? Julian says. Hi.

  They smile and say, Hi, like it’s a big relief. Yeah, just keep right on along this road, then it’s on your left? You can’t miss it. It’s enor mous. Bigger’n any we’ve seen in the States.

  The girl with the hat holds her arms out wide and opens her eyes like she’s surprised.

  Yeah, one of the guys says, we sure would like to stay for the party, but we’re booked into Venice tonight, so we gotta go get the train.

  Venice is beautiful… a one-off … you’ll love it, Julian says. He’s smilin straight at the lassie. Maybe it’s just me he doesny want to talk to.

  Your dreadlocks are real cool, she says. I would just love to have locks, but my mom would go crazy.

  I’m sure your hair is much too pretty as it is, Julian says. Enjoy your trip. Ciao.

  Yeah, ciao, they all say. And Julian puts his arm round my shoulder and starts walkin again. I look back and the lassie’s between the two guys, lookin over her shoulder at Julian. I’m glad his arm’s round me.

  So, just along here and to the left… appropriately enough, Julian says.

  They were nice, I says.

  What, those guys? A bunch of Yanks playing politics while they do the Grand Tour of Europe. I move in closer to his side and press my face into the cold, smooth cloth of his combat jacket.

  Hear that? Julian says.

  What? I pull my head away from his side. There’s a noise like a concert with like music and drums and people shoutin. Is that it? I says.

  That’s it. The reason you came all the way to Florence from bonny Scotland. He says it in this kid-on Scottish accent, the way American actors do in films. Florrr-ence. Scoat-land.

  Oh, reh-ally? I says. And at least he looks at me. Even if he doesny crack a light. We walk along the road, shufflin through all the wee bits a paper in the direction of the music and shoutin.

  The next street we turn into, there it’s there. The noise! It pure hits me. And the amount of people. Thousands. The whole road’s filled fae side to side right up against the buildins. There’s a van wae a loudspeaker blarin out songs and there’s guys dancin around it. It’s movin dead slow. The folk in front are holdin up their banners and shoutin and chantin. An old guy is leanin out his window, givin water to some of the marchers and there’s folk at loads a windows up above throwin the wee bits of paper. They float down silver in the lights from the houses, but when they fall they’re just bits of newspaper and stuff.

  Christ, what a bottleneck! Julian says, and takes my hand. Let’s see if we can get a bit further along the column. I hate being at the end of a march; the interesting stuff’s at the front. The vanguard.

  He starts walkin and pullin me past the end of the road wae the demo, into the next street. It’s like he’s decided to be nice to me again. Or maybe he’s just excited to be here at last. I have to nearly run to keep up. In the distance I can see the marchers walkin past the far end of the road with red banners and yellow placards. It must a looked amazin in the daylight at the start.

  When we reach the end of the road and come into the side of the demo, it’s the noise that hits me again. Mental. There’s more space but, and Julian pulls me into the middle of the row in front of a guy with a placard he must a drew hissel wae BUSH, BLAIR E BERLUSCONI: TERRORISTI! in big red letters. I canny make out a word of what they’re shoutin. A lassie dressed in green wae a face tae match and wild curly hair is walkin backwards in front of another lassie, paintin a green CND sign on her face. When she clocks me watchin, she holds up the crayon and lifts her eyebrows. She’s even got green eyes! I look at Julian and shake my head. He’s pullin hissel up, cranin to see over the folk in front. The lassie shrugs her shoulders and pulls her mouth down at the corners. Then she smiles at me and moves on to the next person. She’s got a dead nice smile.

  Julian tugs at my hand, Come on, he shouts, see if we can find the Glasgow contingent. He pulls me out the line round the back of the green lassie, paintin a sunflower on a young guy’s face. On her rucksack she’s got badges and a wee placard stickin out the top that says: DIE GRUÜNEN.

  We get onto the pavement, but it’s quite narrow and hard to get by folk at first. I hold on tight to Julian’s hand. He’s goin, Scusi, scusi, and squeezin past folk. Just as well everybody’s in a good mood; they’re all singin and chantin and shoutin and hardly notice us. Eventually we get goin a bit faster. Most of the time you can just see folks’ backs and the backs of their banners. I would like to look at them but I’m scared to turn too often in case I lose Julian. He’s tall but, so at least his dreads would be flyin over the heads of maist of the crowd.

  At the end of this road, we turn into another one that slopes down a wee bit. The march goes right to the bottom and away on by. I don’t see how we’re ever goin to find Danny and them. I’ve never saw so many folk – no even at Celtic Park, when my da used to take me and I had to hold on tight to his hand and all I could see was legs and the bottoms of anoraks till he picked me up. And then all his pals would speak to me and smile and sometimes kiss me with their beery mouths. I’ve still got the scarf one of them gave us. I never told my da I didny like goin.

  We pass a line of guys with red T-shirts and black berets. I look back at them. One of them was at l’Accademia this morning posin like the David. I smile at him but he looks right through me. When I was wee I used to think it was terrible there was so many people in the world you would never know.

  There’s a big section next that looks like trade unions. They’ve got dead professional-lookin banners and official printed placards. At first I think it’s all in Spanish, but it isny.

  Must be Portuguese. Or maybe Catalan. No the kind I’ve learnt anyway. They’re about my da’s age, a lot of them, and they look a wee bit like him too. The style a them. They’re a lot quieter. One a them winks at me and I give him a smile in the passin. Julian’s no slowed down one bit. He’s on a mission. My hand’s sore where he’s grippin it tight, but I’m glad he is. If he let go and disappeared I don’t know what I would do. I would like to stop sometimes and see what it’s like at one bit of the demo, but in a way, it’s quite excitin leggin it down the side, past all the different kinds a folk and the colours and the noise and all the different songs.

  In front of the trade unionists there’s a funny wee group. I look over my shoulder at them. Julian, I says, here’s some English banners. He doesny hear me at first. Julian, wait, I shout louder. He turns and slows down a bit. Look, there’s some banners in English here. Julian looks. His face is hard and set. />
  Don’t tell me you want to stay with this lot, Clare.

  Shh, I says. They must have heard him. But I think they’re a good laugh. FAIRIES AGAINST THE WAR, the banner says in spidery writin, with pictures of fairies and elves all over it. The lassie nearest me is wearin white tights and big rainbow Docs with the laces undone; and a pink and white net tutu with a big green jumper on top. She’s carryin a tray with like, fairy cakes wae pink and white icing. And she’s got on a paper tiara with letters made out of purple sequins that says, Tinkerbell. Hangin fae her tray there’s a notice: MAKE CAKES, NOT BOMBS. She smiles at me and holds out the tray.

  Would you like a cake?

  Thanks, I say, and I take a pink one. Her tray’s held on round her neck with a ribbon and she’s got fingerless red gloves on. Did you make them?

  Yeah, she says, me and Milly. She points her tray at the lassie walkin beside her. Hi, Milly says. She’s wee and fat and she’s dressed in a floaty yellow and green nylon skirt wae a combat jacket on top and a big badge that says: FLOWER FAIRIES FIGHT FASCISM.

  We made them at my mother’s in London and brought them on the bus in a fridge box. Pretty cool, hey? This is the last of them. Would your friend like one? Milly’s cakes are green and yellow; she holds out her tray to Julian, but he just looks at her. I can see Milly’s face goin pink even though it’s quite dark now.

  I’ll have one, I says. Thanks. I’ve got to go. I’m lookin for my brother.

  Well, good luck in this mob, Milly says.

  Thanks. And thanks for the cakes. I walk closer to Julian. I’ve got baith the cakes sittin in my right hand in their crinkly paper cases and we’re walkin too fast for me to eat them. There’s more folk throwin the confetti stuff fae their windows, clappin and cheerin the march.

  Julian, stop a minute. What am I gonny do wae the cakes?

  Would you really like me to tell you? he says. He’s smilin, but. Come on, there’s a mere five hundred thousand demonstrators to get past yet. I’m glad he’s in a good mood again. I let go his hand for a minute and stick the two buns thegether by the pink and yellow icing, then stuff them in my pocket. I have a quick keek back at Milly and Tinkerbell, but they’re singing a song and ringin wee bells alang wae it. I lick my fingers and grab Julian’s hand. He turns and looks at me.