20 September 2004
Another idea for a story...
It's the final two weeks – editing, spell checking, word counting (cutting, replacing, cutting again). In ten days' time, I will deliver the final script of my novel Labyrinth to my UK publisher, Orion. So, forgive me, but rather than deflect my attention, here's a Labyrinth story from my husband Greg.
There were over 2000 people scattered around the terraces of the football stadium, but it seemed like fewer. The place was built for over 60,000 supporters. That said, in their earth-toned, dirty clothes and ragged or dreadlocked hair, they made a spectacle of a sort.
I looked down on them from the television commentary position. My legs were cramped and my elbows sore from leaning forwards onto the window ledge.Little damage had been done. The skeletons of the dugouts had been removed for some reason and a few of the seats. A couple of the advertising boards with their metal frames and stanchions had been dragged away down the players' tunnel.
On the terraces here and there, clumps of the people came together like eddying flotsam in an idle stream.
Several small fires were burning on the concrete stairways between the rows of plastic seats. I wondered for a moment if they had brought the food in with them, then remembered that tomorrow was match day.
Right on cue, a small group of four men and women and two ragged children under the age of 10 emerged from somewhere beneath me, out of sight. In struggling pairs they carted heavy catering packs of food from the kitchens.
They dropped the packages on the edge of the pitch and the small group, from my steep vantage point, seemed to break apart like a cup hitting a stone floor in slow motion. Each person - each fragment - carried a more manageable package to a different bonfire. As they handed over their prizes, I saw the tiny mouths move and open wide, flashes of teeth. They are laughing, I thought.
In the far corner of the ground there were sparks visible inside the players' tunnel. I wondered what they were doing and checked the battery bar of my mobile phone. I wondered why I hadn't charged it the previous night.
The bonfire nearest to me was burning quite fiercely now. Shreds of half-consumed paper rose on the hot up-draught and drifted surreally by the window of the commentary position. I could even see some of the words in larger type. It was the following day's match programme. There were 22,000 of them stored beneath the stands. The bonfires would continue for some time.
There were two technicians with me at the top of the stand. They weren't cameramen exactly. They were in the building to check the equipment set up for the next day. But they were quite capable of running the kit and broadcasting to the OB truck parked outside the ground.
Rather dull, unimaginative images of the protestors were being beamed to news channels live.
I leaned forward until my forehead was pressed against the glass. Fortunately the warm day prevented my breath from steaming up the double-glazed panel. I wished - not for the first time - that I could hear as well as see what was going on.
Three people emerged from the players' tunnel. They glanced up at the sky and I was reminded - I can't say why - of a farmer or a gardener looking up to see the direction the weather might come from.
One of them raised an arm to point into the sky. For a moment I thought they were looking at me, then realised they were looking higher. I craned my neck pointlessly to try and see what they could see. But of course whatever it was was coming from behind the stand.
I saw the three protestors on the pitch shouting, pacing this way and that, gathering the attention of the sparse crowd. They waved their arms in the air, then began clapping in time, encouraging the others to do the same. Soon every person I could see was clapping and chanting. A pale echo of their efforts penetrated the commentary position.
The regular rhythm of the chanting and clapping accelerated and, inevitably, fell apart. But the odd, attenuated racket became more piercing as shrieks, whistles and ululations joined in. The unmistakable silhouette of the TV blimp appeared directly above the pitch, a dark shadow against the bright sky.
The chanting and clapping and shrieking and whistling continued and one of the three protestors on the pitch beckoned to someone in the tunnel.
A group of around 30 protestors emerged, walking slowly in step. Their layered clothing looked for all the world like a bizarre camouflage uniform. As they struggled with the weight of whatever it was they were pulling, I struggled myself to see which were men and which were women. A dozen children emerged and scampered around.
The group trudged forward and the chanting and clapping resumed its regular rhythm, under the direction of the three on the pitch. Behind them they dragged a Heath Robinson structure made up of the metal stanchions and frames salvaged from the pitch side. I realised the sparks I had seen in the tunnel must have been from a welder. The Heath Robinson structure was fixed with some kind of tilting mechanism to the chassis of a mower they must have cannibalised beneath the stand.
The TV blimp hung lifelessly over the centre circle, relaying the images to the world, as the group of 30 protestors, encouraged by the 2000 members of their crowd, ploughed a complex pattern into the pitch.
The children ran singing behind them along the whorls …
… of their Labyrinth.
