The next instalment of Esha Ex, a novel-length work of new fiction, updated daily. For more details click here.
The policeman noticed Devika, touched his cap and said,
The policeman noticed Devika, touched his cap and said,
“Afternoon, Madam. Sorry about this.”
“Hullo Pak,” said Devika.
The promoter tensed his shoulders, looking furious at this subtle betrayal.
“Whose side are you one?” he snarled to the officers.
The policeman ignored him and said to his colleague,
“Devika Madam runs the community centre. She does a lot of good work in the neighbourhood.”
The second officer brightened in recognition, put her hands together and ducked her head in a traditional Mirian greeting.
“Officer Elifa Shima – I just transferred from the south. I’m Pak’s cousin.”
Devika nodded graciously. I noticed that she was careful not to bring me to notice. She and I subtly fell away from each other and I merged backwards into the crowd.
“Look,” sputtered the main promoter, uncertain about who exactly to address himself to. “I need you to disperse. I have every right, in accordance with the law – ”
“Ah! Mirian law!” shouted out someone behind me. “It has more loopholes than your great-grandmother’s crochet. It’s stingier than her weekly budget. It’s stiffer than her knees. It’s dumber than her deaf old parrot. It’s as crusty as her loaf. It’s as complicated as her goulash recipe.” And then everyone, even the police officers, came together for the sarcastic, dirge-like final line, “But just like our great-grandmother, we love it anyway.”
The Lotus project’s front door opened a fraction, the faces of Nushy and Kushy appeared, four arms reached out and pulled Devika inside. The door closed.
“Listen!” screamed the promoter, almost popping out of his suit. “I have every right to make a projection, for my employers, on the development plans that we have for this area, without fear of intimidation. If you stop me from doing my job, with protection, and with witnesses endorsed by the state,” there was a spontaneous jeer from the crowd, and the police officers shuffled awkwardly, “ as is my right, I will have every person who stands in my way arrested.”
Directly behind me I could hear urbane voices politely working their way through the crowd. More suits strode into the square. They were joined by one other man, who was instantly familiar to me from State TV. More than familiar. Notorious. He had a dirty shirt with a lot of chest hair frothing out of it, a bald head with a greasy comb over smelling of hair oil and a large moustache which was crisped and auburn at the ends from the smoke from his cigar. He was holding a red plastic beer crate. It was the mayor of Binar, Ali Mercator. He was constantly slithering out of court cases for corruption, pimping, receiving and offering bribes, ‘vice’ parties and a lot more, but somehow he always avoided prison.
The two police officers were instantly cowed.
“I hope you’re doing your duty to protect our friend,” said the mayor to them, putting the crate on the ground and getting up on it.
“Oh yes, sir, absolutely, he’ll – come to no harm,” said Officer Pak weakly
The promoters surrounded the Mayor’s crate. They all set their phones to Record and held them up reverently to film him.
“Your attention please,” cried the Mayor, and the locals who’d been slinking away stopped unwillingly. “I’m so glad I have you all here,” oozed Ali Mercator. “I’ve just had a very promising meeting with the Kader Dock Authority and we and our new friends at MIDAS, the Miriadh Industrial Design and Architecture Scheme, are delighted to confirm the signing of a new development deal: The Prince Raed Bridge! In honour of the state’s dearly cherished son on the year of his marriage to his adorable bride…” He couldn’t remember her name and simply moved on, “a project which will bring untold enrichment to the surrounding area.”
“Huh!” said every single person within earshot.
“This is a bridge that will revolutionise transport and radically improve visitors’ experience of this great capital city –”
“Just like all the other bridges did?” heckled someone.
The streetlights came on, a fuzzy, dirty orange that barely relieved the darkness. Immediately the air seemed ten times stickier and dustier.
“We have made a pledge to build two thousand units of safe and accessible social housing, a few miles from this site but I assure you still in Binar West, wonderful new homes with all sorts of payment schemes for you,” said Ali Mercator, his loud voice boxing our ears. “You start by renting at controlled rates, and after some time you may be able to upgrade to a rent-to-buy scheme, so, over time, you might be able – ”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said.
“Excuse me?” said the Mayor. I avoided his eye but felt it pick me out nonetheless. Everyone craned their heads to look at me.
“You know what he’s saying, don’t you?” I said. “The end of the bridge is going to fall exactly here, across this block. They’re going to knock it down, and all the houses and shops with it – ”
“And we’re going to make something better,” said Ali Mercator, “that’s going to create thousands of jobs and hundreds of new dwellings.”
“Not everyone wants to be a waiter in a tourist café or work a toll booth on a bridge,” I said. “Where are local people and their families supposed to live while you build the dwellings? What work are they supposed to do? Where are they supposed to buy food or visit the doctor?” I said.
Another man shouted,
“We’re not building site labourers. We don’t want short-term menial jobs destroying our own community.”
The Mayor had lost the crowd by now, even though he valiantly carried on talking. They were going to build a four lane bridge with traffic going in both directions. At this end of the bridge the lanes would tail off into a massive junction with exits bleeding out into the rest of the city, surrounding a pedestrianised ‘piazza’ with tourist shops and cafes on it. Knowing Ali Mercator I was sure a casino and gentlemen’s nightclub would spring up on it too before long.
I had managed to slide across until I was close to the Lotus project’s door.
“You’re proposing building this bridge, without even consulting us,” cried someone.
“I’m consulting you now!” said Ali Mercator.
“The area needs basic services, not tourist shops,” I said.
“I think we’ve heard enough from you,” said the Mayor.
“You’re going to knock down this block and drive cars through it!” I finished.
The Mayor gave me a very cold look and I realised, as usual a second too late, that he’d noted me down as a troublemaker. I realised that I was being filmed by the promoters.
“Get that camera out of my face,” I said.
“Or what?” said one.
I knocked his hand away and the crowd gave a hiss of released tension. The promoter recoiled, brushing his arm as though I’d given him fleas. A large group of local men holding bewildered-looking children by the hand burst into the square. My instinct told me the new arrivals were the same men who’d been fighting with the promoters earlier in the day. They had the same dark, square shape. The men thrust their children at the MIDAS men, shouting,
“You said it to our faces without a blush – now say it to our children! Tell my daughter that one day when she comes home, it won’t be there, there’ll be a bulldozer in its place and all her toys will be gone.”
One of the men pushed forward his daughter, who looked up at the Mayor with enormous eyes, her too-big school satchel hanging from her shoulder and her too-big white cone skirt dangling around her.
Instead of being elevated above the common man, the Mayor was now marooned on his crate.
“Now, now,” he panted while sweat gleamed on his cheeks, “let’s not get ahead of ourselves, nobody said anything about bulldozing children’s toys –”
“ARE YOU FILMING MY DAUGHTER?”
The father had caught one of the MIDAS young men filming him and the little girl as he confronted the mayor. The camera screen glowed in his frozen hand, still recording. The father puffed up until he seemed double his original size.
“I didn’t – I didn’t,” squeaked the promoter. He had been thoroughly abandoned by the other promoters, who had gone around the other side of the beer crate.
The man with the daughter stuck out both hands. One began throttling the promoter–this was immediately filmed by the other promoters – while the other snatched the phone and threw it on the ground, where it broke. The promoter had gone as limp as a rubber chicken. The man shook him, then let go. The promoter fell onto the ground, winded, ignored by everyone.
It was stifling in the square and many of the children were complaining about being hungry. Officers Pak and Elifa had been cornered by various people wanting to talk about neighbourhood matters.
The Mayor got off his crate.
“Well I think this has been very productive,” he boomed, dangling the crate from his hand. “So we want to thank you for that. We hear what you say and what we’re going to do is, we’re going to take it on board and incorporate it into our plans for the new Prince Raed Bridge road and retail space development plan. And you’re all invited to the launch, of course.”
But it wasn’t over. One of the children suddenly squealed,
“Grandma!”