Moss Green – a short story

Moss Green

It was the situation that every politician dreams of – the opportunity to impose repressive measures with the support of the voting public. After the UK wide riots and the escalating crime wave the incoming Government believed that it had a mandate from the people to stop the rot, to “make the trains run on time”. Options were reviewed and courses of action were discussed. An experiment was suggested and a plan decided on. Committees sat, documents were produced and the plan became a massive engine, churning round and round, generating paperwork and absorbing personnel and budgets. Soon it was unstoppable.
The Moss Green estate, described in Police circles as ZULU, meaning hostile, didn’t nestle it lurked. It was that kind of estate. It had been built in the eighties in a triangle formed by the embankments of three raised motorways with only one road on and off, under a bridge. It was an oblong of low rise blocks formed in weathered and stained concrete with uncovered walkways and with what was once a green, now a dumping ground for the detritus of estate life, in the centre. By virtue of its location and its populace it was deemed perfect by the planners.

THE FIRST DAY
Noise was an integral part of Moss Green life. Shoddy flats with thin walls, feet on the walkways at all hours, shouting, the occasional scream. This noise was different. It was disciplined, organised and purposeful. Hammering and the whine of power tools. Shouted commands. Joey rolled off the stained mattress in the half burnt out flat he had broken into several days previously. Occupation was ownership on The Green, where no council workers called to chase rent arrears and no milkman or postman dared venture. Police activity was normally confined to lightning raids in force, sometimes beaten back when the indigenous population banded together to hurl items from the walkways. Joey was coming down heavily and he shook slightly and sniffed continuously as he wandered out onto the walkway. Off to his left he could see the single access road where it disappeared between the embankments of the raised motorway. Something had changed. Where the road could normally be seen there were now two sturdy, full height metal gates. They were closed. His neighbour, Val, was leaning on the parapet nearby. She said that the gates had been put up that morning, she thought by soldiers, and no one was being allowed out. Joey’s muddled head immediately had two concerns. The first was his supply. There were dealers on The Green but they had to get out to get the stuff, and the second was benefits. Without benefits he couldn’t pay for the stuff. As they watched the gates opened and a coach entered at a walking pace, surrounded by soldiers in DPM combat uniforms and helmets carrying rifles. In drills perfected in Northern Ireland they changed position constantly so as not to provide a static target. As the soldiers performed their slow motion ballet round it the coach stopped and the side door opened. About twenty figures, both black and white, were herded off by uniforms, this time blue. As the figures looked around, bewildered, the blue uniforms climbed back inside and the coach reversed slowly through the gates which closed with a screech and a clatter. As Joey looked round he saw, on the motorway embankment, more figures. Some, holding rifles, were obviously sentries, while others were erecting spotlights on stands. It was all too much for him. Joey retreated to his mattress and wrapped a belt round his arm, preparing to shut out the world.
Joey lay on his mattress in fluffy cotton wool clouds of euphoria. He vaguely remembered presences in his room, sniffing in disgust and leaving. Some of the newcomers looking for homes but obviously his crash pad didn’t appeal. A new presence, large and shaven headed. Bad Kenny, the local street dealer, bent over him as Joey struggled to focus. Due the “unusual circumstances” he was extending lines of credit to regular customers. Did Joey need gear? Joey did. Since he couldn’t get out through the gates Bad Kenny was going to nip across the motorway later to get supplies. Be seeing Joey later. Joey drifted, coming down slowly. He didn’t hear the shots.

The Second Day
The zipped grey sack lay just inside the gates. A large white sign taped to it said DRUG DEALER. It was left for several hours, until the authorities judged that everyone had seen it, and then an army patrol entered and dragged it away. During the course of the day several more coaches entered, the estate became steadily more crowded and noisy and Joey came off his high and staggered outside. Val was in her customary position. She said a helicopter had been hovering and Moss Green was all over the news. All the muggers, dealers and other assorted scum from the surrounding area had been rounded up and dumped in The Green. It was an experiment in containment. Minimal food supplies would be delivered. Joey was more concerned about his supply and Val told him about the late and unlamented Bad Kenny. Joey felt the first surges of panic. His emergency supply was exhausted and in a few hours he would be Cold Turkeying. Down below on the central green a crowd was gathering and the mood was becoming progressively uglier. Suddenly it boiled over and the crowd, hurling abuse and whatever objects they could lay their hands on, surged towards the gates and the embankment. When they reached the killing zone at the base of the embankment the machine guns that had been mounted overnight opened fire, first over their heads and then into the front ranks of the crowd. The crowd uttered a collective scream and broke and ran, leaving several bodies behind. When it was judged safe the gates opened and a patrol entered and dragged them away. The gates closed. That day there was no food delivery.
The Third Day
Joey lay coiled on his mattress. He was hyperventilating and his nose was streaming. His body screamed at him, aching and cramping as the withdrawal bit. His whole being was focused on WANT, WANT, WANT. He had to get a supply. He had to get out.
He was heading towards the embankment, to get across the motorway. People were shouting but he paid no heed. WANT, WANT, WANT. He was climbing the embankment. Val was there, grabbing at him but he shrugged her off. A punch in the chest, then another. A kaleidoscope of grass and sky as he rolled down the embankment.
Val shouted at the soldiers until they pointed their rifles at her and then she retreated hastily. The soldiers who had fired lit cigarettes and watched the body but it didn’t move. A few minutes later the STAND DOWN code came over their Personal Radios and they began to pack up for an orderly withdrawal. Two hours later they were gone. Hysterical media reports and comments on social networking sites had screamed MISTAKE at the Government in large capital letters. It was time for U turns, denials and distancing.
Nobody bothered to move Joey’s body and he lay there as darkness fell. He was still dead.

The End