Stevie pulled his car up a block
and a half from the Royal Plaza Hotel in Heartsfield. The hotel was busy with
activity out the front with camera crews and curious onlookers jostling for
position on the sidewalk and threatening to spill out onto the main road and
interrupt the traffic. It would not have mattered too much as there was a
traffic jam from the inconveniently parked vans and two separate car crashes –
not to mention a slight majority of the onlookers appeared to be a rag-tag band
of protestors who saw interruption as their main objective.
“Hey look, The Strays are out
there,” Phil said brightly. He was seated in the passenger seat and craning his
neck to get a better view of the scene.
The pair had driven two straight
hours to arrive in Heartsfield shortly after seeing out the end of the Tony
Holdsworth special. They had hoped, rather foolishly in the end, to be able to
intercept Walter before he was taken away by Citadel Inc for what Stevie imagined
to be an unpleasant final chapter. On the way, however, they had heard the news
reports, that there was an altercation outside the hotel between two men and
Lucy Blues. Dr Blues reportedly claimed she was to escort Walter from the
premises and, after getting I her car with Walter she sped off down the street,
running red lights and causing the two major incidents.
“Who are The Strays?” Stevie
asked, though he had a good idea. Phil was a good kid – dirty, but kind at
heart. But he was at that age of romantic idealism, where the fate of all that
is beautiful rests upon the shoulders of a few dedicated individuals. They seek
to right the wrongs of society by reading old Russian literature, creating
inspired but terribly untrained artwork, and ceremoniously taking whatever drug
is available – all the while sleeping in 7 days a week and forgetting to vote
once every four years. But Stevie didn’t want to condescend – he had been like
that once.
“The Strays, man! We’re a band of
loners brought together by the necessity for change.”
“What instruments did you play?”
Stevie asked.
“Fuck off. I should introduce you
to my dad.” Phil said, before appending with a more cheerful sense of humour,
“Mainly just guitars. Acoustic.”
“And bongos, no doubt.” Stevie
said, trying not to laugh. Phil rolled his eyes. It was nice to have the point
blank target of Phil’s hippy agenda to take shots at. Phil was well spirited
about it and even got some of his own back, but age is rarely triumphed in
banter.
The practice helped Stevie from
facing the reality of the news about Mark. Every now and then he would slip
back into the negative swirl of thoughts and then have to jolt himself out of
it again. It was like falling asleep on the train, afraid to miss your stop. He
needed to keep his mind active because a deep sleep would be hard to wake up from.
“Let’s go.” Phil said suddenly,
“Let’s go talk to some of them, The Strays.”
Stevie was cautious to respond. It
was too risky to-
“And don’t give me one of your
Slow No’s, OK? What are we gonna do? Sit here and watch something we coulda
seen on the news or are we gonna investigate?”
Phil was already hopping out of
the car when Stevie agreed, “OK.” He said, stepping out and looking over the
roof of the vehicle, “but show some discretion. Who do you know and trust in
this group? Who might have been able to read into the situation?”
Phil paused and thought for
moment. “There should be one or two who could help,” he nodded.
He and Stevie crossed the road,
zig-zagging between the stationary cars as the driver’s leant on their horns in
vain. Some were even getting out their vehicles to see what was happening.
They made their way down the
sidewalk, approaching the thickening crowd of people. Stevie would have
preferred a lower profile but Phil was intent on striding into the fray like
the host arriving late to his own party. “Phil,” Stevie said sharply, “Phil!
Discretion. Phil! Fuck!” The crowd was becoming increasingly agitated. He had
lost sight of the top of Phil’s dreadlocked head, and worse still was the fact
that those dreads became less of a defining feature amid the scattered Strays.
Stevie continued to push through
the crowd towards the centre of the gathering. It opened up to a small
perimeter of police officers interviewing hotel staff and reporters who pushed
to have the best shot. Stevie saw that Phil had somehow managed to weave
through to the opposite side and was chatting openly with some of his kin. It
was then that Stevie’s heart tightened into the form of a golfball. He was
convinced for more than a moment that he was staring up into the face of the
agent who had almost killed him. The tall, well dressed man stared back at him
with a blank expression. Stevie was just waiting for recognition to dawn and
then he would be finished. He couldn’t survive another altercation.
The tension was broken by the splash
of a soda can across the agent’s face. There was a big cheer from within the
crowd.
“Get that into ya, ya fucken
wanka!” An aggressive laugh followed and Stevie tracked it back to a tattered
looking youth. He raised two fingers up to the agent, but not in the more
commonly associated gesture of hippy-folk. The agent swiped at him but the
youth was already melting back into the ruckus. Another drink whizzed past the
agent’s head and then a single sandal hit him square in the face. Another cheer
erupted.
The agent passed by Stevie which
gave him a clear look into the opening. The officer’s were aware of the growing
danger and moving the witnesses up the hotel stairs towards the entrance. One
tried to calm the crowd down but he thought better of it and made for his
radio, backing up the stairs as he called for support. It was then that
Stevie’s heart stalled for a second time. The media had been more than willing
to take up the vacated space and were filming the crowd in various angles. Right
at the centre was Phil talking with a reporter, lapping up the attention. He
had a small group of band members in his wings and as Stevie edged closer he
managed to catch a few words.
“I’m a wanted fucking man, but
they didn’t catch me. This whole business is a scam. It is Citadel fucking Inc
and Channel fucking 8, Tony Puppet-Fuck Holdsworth spinning this shit every
which way and we stared at it for so long that we’ve finally all been
hypnotised. Fuck what Doctor Wank says, Walter Wallace is a fucking hero for
even trying to do what he’s done and now we’re supposed to cut his balls off
and suck the happy juice like a fucking gobstopper.”
The reporter was fearless in
holding his mic out to the onslaught of fuck, but Stevie couldn’t argue that
this was compelling viewing. Phil had managed to start a chant with the help of
his backing vocals.
WAL-TER WALLACE! WAL-TER WALLACE!”
The chorus picked up throughout
and the crowd was almost a mosh pit – soon it would be a riot.
“UP THE FUCKING STRAYS!!” Phil
yelled. The crowd responded with a deafening cheer. The agent had picked up
Phil’s scent and he and his partner were working back towards him.
Stevie had almost reached Phil and
caught his eye. “Stevie!” Phil yelled.
“Phil.” Stevie replied and
gestured with his head towards the two agents.
Phil’s eyes lit up. In a flash he
had worked his way over to a parked black sedan on the street. He climbed onto
the roof and let out a piercing whistle. “Oi! There’s the fucking robots who
tried to kill me! Citadel Robots. Fucking get em!”
The crowd zeroed in on the agents
who retaliated violently. A couple Strays were dropped but eventually the
masses overcame the agents. Phil had dived back into the action, wanting to get
another piece but Stevie grabbed him and dragged him against the current
towards the edge of the mob. They made it out and ducked down the side alley
adjacent to the hotel. The alley was abandoned and no one seemed to follow
them.
“What the fuck?” Phil cried.
“Phil.” Stevie said with a
fatherly caution. He stared at Phil with a stern brow.
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