A solitary young man sat at a table on the pavement outside Cafe La Marquise on the Edgware Road. Holding a small cube of sugar to the surface of his strong, syrupy Turkish coffee, he watched it turn brown before letting it drop it into the demitasse. Picking up his teaspoon, he began carefully stirring his coffee, eyeing the small band of anti-war protestors as he did so.
What a rabble, he thought. There were maybe seventy people taking part, at the very most, with almost as many police in attendance. All they were doing was holding up the traffic and preventing normal, law-abiding people from going about their business as they made their way slowly down the middle of the road, heading towards Hyde Park and a rally at Speakers’ Corner. All the usual banners that he’d become familiar with recently were there: Socialist Worker, Stop the War Coalition, Students for Justice, etc., etc., carried by sallow, ill-looking people you would cross the road to avoid; all in all, nothing more than a bunch of pathetic, disorganised, ego-crazed losers.
He took a sip of his coffee and let the sweetness soften his mood. Towards the back of the crowd, he saw the banner he had been waiting for, and the three women underneath it, two of them holding the poles and one handing out leaflets while trying to start the occasional chant that invariably petered out almost as quickly as it began:
‘ What do we want?
‘ Troops out!
‘ When do we want it?
‘ NOW! ’
The conversations at the tables had stopped as the other patrons watched the protestors go by. Those British and their passions! To foreigners living in London, they were an endless source of amusement. Catching the eye of a gawping waiter, he ordered another coffee as the semi-organised shouting started up again.
Get a life, he thought. As far as he could see, the three women leading the chants were virtually the whole organisation, yet they were trying to cause him so much trouble. He felt the familiar fury rising up inside him. It was ridiculous that he should have to waste his time on them; ridiculous but necessary — for his own sake and that of his comrades.
He fingered the leaflet that another protestor had dropped on his table as he had passed by. More slogans, more platitudes, more hopeless posturing:
‘ Justice for the victims of the Ishaqi massacre! ’
Like the victims care any more, he thought.
‘ STOP THE WAR! ’
I was there; you weren’t.
‘ END THE MERCENARY KILLINGS! ’
The anger blossomed in his chest. You don’t know what you’re talking about.
Leaning down, he grabbed an anti-war flyer from the pavement, carefully folding it in half and then folding it in half again, before dropping it into his jacket pocket. The waiter arrived with his fresh coffee. Downing it in one, he pulled out his wallet and fished out a five-pound note, which he placed under his saucer. Sitting back in his chair, he let the demonstration go past, accompanied by the hooting of angry motorists and some pointing and laughter from a group of Arab customers enjoying their shisha pipes at the table beside him.
Pulling a cigarette from the packet of Royal Crown Blue sitting on the table, he lit it with a match and stuck it between his lips, inhaling deeply. Dropping the match in the ashtray, he rose from the table, before starting slowly along the road, heading in the same direction as the protestors.
By the time he reached the park, the speeches were in full swing. Standing under a nearby tree, he smoked another cigarette, keeping a careful eye on the women as he tried to tune out the ritual denunciations of America, Britain and every other tool of imperialism that they could lay their hands on.
Mercifully, the speeches ended before his packet of smokes was empty. He watched the women pack up their banner and say their goodbyes, before heading off in different directions. After a moment’s thought, he decided to follow the older one. Once he knew where she lived, it would be time to begin.