Dimitri Putin was not an easily spooked man. One did not grow up in the Soviet Union, even as a child, and not learn to guard one’s expressions, hold one’s tongue. And so he maintained a neutral face, even though he was actively revolted by what he witnessed.
One banner read “Jews are to people what fleas are to cats”, which was at least an Anti-Semitic slogan he hadn’t seen before. The photo-shop of the Prime Minister with a rat was recent, but it was one he’d seen on posters scattered around some of the less reputable parts of London, and on the Web. It wasn’t even a by-election, but Dimitri knew the reason for the march, and for the posters. He had his micro-portable, newly supplied by the Head Office, hooked up his forearm, connected by some bright young bio-tech who seemed all too eager to run the copper wires into his arm sockets.
The name they chanted was a familiar one “Di Lauren, our guide!” and “Di Lauren, our future!” along with “in the flames we shall be renewed!”, “We will arise purer and stronger”, and a sudden, almost screamed “ALL SHALL BURN, BUT ONLY SOME SHALL LIVE AGAIN!” They called themselves the Hyperwave Movement, part of the Coalition for National Renewal; one of the more extremist branches at that. He pulsed an activation to his recorder; his thoughts and emotions would now be recorded for later analysis and use.
The bluecoats stood, uniformed and ready to move in if needed. Less obvious, but still noticeable to the observant, were the plain clothed snatch squads. For all the fitted in, they were still fitter men and women than the average, who were trying too hard to be casual. If the march turned violent, they would move in to, well, snatch away the ring leaders. And considering what awaited at the other side of the Bridge, violence looked like an option.
Riot police blocked both sides of the bridges, water cannon and stinkers behind them. There was even an Army Microwave-Repeller parked in the middle. Dimitri had never seen one before, but he heard of their effectiveness in dispersing crowds. One the one side came the HM, approaching from the North. On the other were the British Socialist Party, from the South side of the Thames. The BSP had the numbers, the HM had the ruthlessness. All this he noticed, and noted.
A siren split the warm spring air, three horn blasts, and then the clear, ordered, measured tones of what Dimitri had come to call Official English.
“By order of the Metropolitan Police, with the consent of Judge Sharon Wilkons, all marchers are now to cease, desist and disperse.”
Then, in a slightly whimsy tone, came another voice, this time of a woman.
“Time to go home guys and gals. You’re done for today. You’re not getting over this bridge.”
Someone in one of the crowds, and Dimitri couldn’t tell which, shouted “plenty of bridges in London, mate!”
To which Mrs Whimsy replied “You’re not going over the other bridges. You get to go home, right now”
There was silence, before somebody shouted, and Dimitri was not sure who “Let’s smash these fuckers!”, and there was a response, shout, a cheer, from both crowds, as they both surged forward.
The women on the loudspeaker was now less whimsical. “Right then, don’t say you haven’t been warned.”
What happened next happened remarkably quickly. He was standing atop the bridge of the old Belfast to watch the march, and he didn’t get the full force of what was happening. What he got was enough. A cacophony of noise, an LSD induced light show, an a smell like the worse kind of curry induced spell on the toilet. Nowadays, riot control was as much a spectacle as it was anything else.
Eventually, even a riot grows boring. And Putin was left wondering if the riots and marches and street battles were something abnormal, something that shouldn’t be.