Pecking order, p.12
Pecking Order, page 12
Eric cast his mind back to his days as a social worker, and the many home visits where he watched as the district nurse trained a newly qualified student. 'First we'll practice inserting the needle. The key to a successful injection is puncturing the flesh with confidence.' He held up the needle so they could examine the tip. 'You see how the tip is cut away at an angle to form a sharp point?'
Squinting at the fine point of metal, Rubble nodded.
'That's called a chamfered edge. What you do is approach the arm at about this angle,' he held the needle at about 45 degrees to the chicken's thigh, 'and push the very tip in with a firm action like this.' He smoothly inserted the needle about one centimetre into the skin. 'You see how I didn't slide it in too slowly, but I didn't stab it either? Now, you try.'
Rubble held the syringe like it was made of gossamer.
'OK,' said Eric, 'now bring the tip of the needle towards the skin and press it in.'
Eric was surprised at the younger man's deftness of touch; despite his thick, gnarled fingers, he inserted the needle at precisely the right angle and to exactly the right depth.
'Excellent. Now slowly push some water in. That's right, good. Did you feel how you had to push to get the needle through the outer skin?'
Rubble nodded.
'That's just how it feels when you enter the vein on someone's arm. Veins are made up of three layers, so you have to press fairly hard to get the needle through. But once you've punctured it, the needle moves around more easily, so you know you're in.'
He let Rubble practice a few more times then rolled up his sleeve. 'OK, you're ready to try it on me.’ He exchanged the needle for a clean one and refilled the barrel with water. Then he laid his right forearm on the table, underside up. He pointed to the crook of his elbow. 'There's a good vein - easy to see, plump and straight. Run your finger over it. Can you feel it under the skin?'
Rubble cautiously placed a finger on the bluish line and nodded.
'Right, keep your finger there to stop the vein moving about and, with your other hand, insert the needle.'
His face intense with concentration, Rubble brought the needle up against Eric's skin and, a little too firmly, punctured the surface. He didn't stop pressing quite quickly enough and Eric felt the needle pass through the other side of the vein and enter the tissue beyond. A sharp pain shot down into his fingertips and he grimaced.
Rubble looked up and, seeing the pain in Eric's face, pulled the needle straight back out. Blood immediately welled up out of the tiny puncture and began spreading out beneath the flesh in the form of a livid, purple haematoma.
'Not to worry,' said Eric through gritted teeth, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at the wound. 'Let's try the other arm.'
They located the same vein on his left arm and this time Rubble completed the injection perfectly. 'Great. Now, you can tell if you're in properly by pulling the plunger out a tiny bit and seeing if any blood enters the barrel.'
Rubble pulled at the 't' shaped top of the plunger and a wisp of red was dragged up into the water. It slowly lost its shape and definition inside the syringe.
'There you are, that's perfect. Now push in a couple millilitres of water.'
Gently, Rubble pushed the plunger in and Eric felt a coldness entering his forearm.
'OK, that's enough. Now you can pull the needle out.'
The metal tip re-emerged from Eric's arm, followed by a tiny dot of blood.
'Well done. You, Agent White, are a natural,' Eric said encouragingly.
Once the man had gone, Rubble stood in the centre of his living room and took several deep breaths. He looked with wonder at the wire for the mobile phone leading unobtrusively into his cupboard. Crouching down, he opened the door and lifted up the handset, testing its weight in his hand, turning it over, smelling the new plastic. Everything was for real, he was actually a Government Agent. 'Hello, Agent White,' he said quietly into the mouthpiece.
He suddenly remembered something, sat down at the table and pulled his sketchpad and pens towards him. Then, selecting a new page, he drew from memory - and with almost perfect accuracy - the crest that had been at the top of the Official Secrets Act he'd signed earlier. Once it was finished, he examined the image of the pair of wings on the star-studded shield, puzzling over the Latin inscription curling on the banner below it, Per doctrinam ad astra.
Chapter 22
Clare was smoking a roll-up in the Entertainment Officer's study, nervously looking down on to the flag-stoned concourse leading up to the Union building's main doors. Students hurried in and out of the entrance below, laughing, slapping backs, hugging books: the end of term had given everyone a lift.
Eventually Clare said, 'There's a few people gathering - that crowd over there. Must be at least fifteen lads.'
The Entertainment Officer craned his head back to look out of the window. 'That's Castle Hall’s football team. They always meet there for twelve o'clock on a Saturday.'
‘Oh,' said Clare, suddenly nervous again. Then, to her relief, she spotted three or four people off her course sit down on one of the wooden benches lining the walkway. Clare scanned about for Adele. No sign of her.
Standing up, she jammed the roll-up out in the ashtray on his desk. 'There's some people I know, wish me luck.'
‘Yeah, go for it,' he said without enthusiasm, looking back down at his NME.
Clare picked up the clipboard and half a dozen placards she'd made the previous night and jogged lightly down the stone staircase. 'Excuse me, excuse me,' she called out, manoeuvring her way through the throng of people in the foyer.
As she squeezed past a couple of girls they spotted what she was carrying. 'Rent march?' one said, pointing at the signs under Clare's arm.
'Yeah! We're meeting up outside,' said Clare, carrying on through the doors, anxious that the others might give up and leave before she could get to them. She made her way over to the group on the bench. 'Hi there, it's a good day for it!' she exclaimed cheerily, propping the placards up at the edge of the bench so people could clearly read the bold message of, No Rent Increase!
Her fellow marchers nodded and agreed. One bloke got up to examine how she'd attached the cardboard squares to the lengths of dowelling. Clare recognised him from a previous march against proposals to extend a nearby stretch of motorway. 'Good work, Clare. Is that trenching tape?' he asked, running a finger over the lengths of black sticky plastic securing the signs.
'Um, I don't know Simon. It's just what the man in the shop recommended,' replied Clare, wrong-footed by the question.
The two girls from the Union foyer joined them, and a couple more drifted over from the opposite side of the concourse.
'Hi, thanks for coming,' Clare addressed each one in turn, clutching the clipboard to her chest. 'OK, it's a quarter-to-twelve. Let's put our names down now and it'll get the ball rolling. Er, has anyone got a pen?'
Simon quickly produced one from a pocket of his German Army issue coat. The clipboard was passed round and each person added their name to the printed grid. 'Great, now let's try and get as many people to sign the petition as possible. Then we set off at midday.' The group looked at her uncertainly and Clare realised with dismay that she would have to initiate the proceedings. She picked up one of the placards and holding it by her side, called out to the passing flow of people, 'Help stop the rent increases! Sign our petition now!'
Most suddenly appeared to be deaf, hurrying past with heads down. One or two looked questioningly at her, eyes flicking over the sign, before carrying on regardless. Praying some of the others would join in, she tried again, 'Don't let them rip you off! Stop the rent increases!' She felt herself beginning to flush.
Next to her Simon whispered, 'How much will the rent increase actually be?'
Clare looked at him, 'Oh - nearly ten quid,' she exaggerated.
'Save yourself a tenner! Stop the rent increases!' he shouted aggressively.
The mention of money caused a few people to slow their steps.
A couple stopped further down the concourse to watch.
Seeing the effect this latest cry had, the two girls from the foyer joined in, 'Save yourself a tenner! Stop the rent increases!'
More people slowed and someone said, 'Ten quid? Is that how much it will be?'
Clare tried to answer that it would probably be nearer five a month, but Simon cut in savagely, 'Ten fucking quid a week. A week! It's a piss-take!'
‘Ten quid?' said the person to his mate. 'Fucking outrageous!' He turned to Clare, 'Here, I'll sign.' He grabbed the clipboard and held up one knee for a platform. She saw with relief that the heading she'd typed out the previous night simply read, I oppose the scandalous rent increase in University accommodation.
There was no mention of money.
After scrawling his name and address, he handed the clipboard to his mate who did the same. 'Cheers guys,' said Clare, 'we're marching at twelve.'
All of a sudden they looked uncomfortable. 'We've got some stuff to sort out ...' one said edging away.
Simon shouted above their excuse, 'Save a tenner! Sign now!'
More people stopped to add their signatures and Clare took a thankful step back.
From her left a voice said, 'Looks like you're on a roll.'
She looked down and saw Patricia Du Rey smiling up at her, a silk scarf around her neck, expensive handbag over one shoulder. However often she saw Patricia, it never failed to amaze Clare how tiny her tutor was.
‘Pat! Hi - are you joining us then?'
She shook her head regretfully, 'I've got to get to the airport, Michel is flying in from Brussels at 12:45 and I only have him for the weekend.'
'Ah, that's nice,' replied Clare.
‘But I'll gladly sign.' She took a gold pen from her bag and Clare retrieved the clipboard from Simon. 'Thanks for your support,' she said.
'My pleasure Clare. It's good to see some students still taking an active involvement in issues.'
As she added her name to the petition, Clare noticed her newly-painted lilac coloured nails. 'That's a beautiful shade of polish.’
Patricia held up one hand. 'Do you think so? Thanks. I've just had them done in that new place by Tesco Metro.' She lowered her voice so only Clare could hear. 'If you go in this week, they'll also do your toenails for free.' She winked at Clare, then waved goodbye to the group, heels clicking on the slabs of stone as she walked away.
After another ten minutes passed they had collected seven or eight sheets of signatures. But no extra people for the march. Clare looked at her watch. 'OK people, we only have police clearance to be on Williams Street until 12:30. We'd better get going.'
They were just gathering together when a couple of lads from the football team sauntered over.
'What is it? Ten pound rent increase?' asked one with a broad estuary accent, lower lip hanging down.
'Yes,' replied Clare eagerly, holding out a clipboard. 'Do you want to sign?'
'Ten quid?' He looked down at his brand new trainers, then pulled a wadge of notes from his pocket. Voice full of derision, he said, 'That's fucking peanuts.' He waved the money in front of her face. 'If you're finding it hard to afford your place, you can always spend a few nights at mine, like.' He gave a slow lick of his lips.
Catcalls sounded from the rest of the team behind. Clare lowered the clipboard and held up a finger. 'In your dreams you loser.'
Both lads started laughing and began stalking back to their mates. Once they were a few steps away the one with the new trainers turned round and said, 'You're probably a lesbian anyway.'
Clare was about to shout something back when Eric stepped between them, satchel under his arm. 'Is this student using sexually abusive language against you?' he asked sharply, peering questioningly at Clare.
She looked beyond the professor's pointing finger at the crestfallen footballer, the rest of his team dissolving away behind him. Discriminatory language of a sexual, religious or racial nature broke Union rules; all she had to say was yes and he'd get an official warning from the university. Probably a decent fine, too.
'It's all right. I've got more important things to do than waste time with him.'
'Oh, it's no waste of time, Eric replied. ‘I'll happily deal with it.' He turned to the footballer. 'Your Student Union card, please.'
The student weighed up the option of running for it, but Simon had stepped behind him and was waiting within grabbing distance. Reluctantly, he pulled out his wallet and produced his Union card. Eric noted his name down. 'I'll refer this to the Executive. You will, no doubt, be contacted soon.'
The young man walked quickly away, catching up with his mates as they loitered at the corner of the building.
'Thanks Professor,' said Clare, setting off down the main concourse. At the top of steps leading down on to Williams Street she stopped, noticing the two police cars parked half on the pavement below. She turned to her fellow marchers. 'Excellent, the police are already here. Who wants a whistle? I've only got three.'
As they headed down the steps and on to the pavement a policeman got out of his patrol car. 'Is this it?' he asked flatly, looking at the small group before him. 'Nine of you?'
Clare tried to sound positive. 'Absolutely! Can we get going?'
The policeman took a deep sigh and bent down to the driver's window of the first car. 'You might as well head off. No point in using two patrol cars for this.’
'Right, Sarge,' answered the driver. The car slipped into the traffic and disappeared.
Shaking his head very slightly, the police sergeant walked to the car behind and said to the driver, 'OK, I'll lead them on foot; you follow in the car behind. They're only going a few hundred yards.'
The driver nodded wearily and the blue lights on top of the patrol car began to silently flash. The car slowly edged into the road, blocking the traffic behind.
'Go on then,' said the sergeant, holding out both hands to the empty road in front. ‘Off you go.’
Clare held up her placard, inhaled deeply, and was just about to shout out her slogan when a voice robbed the breath from her lungs.
'Spare any change?' a slurred voice said.
She looked down and saw a man sitting with his back against the litterbin by the bottom step. She recognised him from the small park area on the campus; usually he sat on a bench, maroon beret on his head, waving a bottle of cider around.
'Sorry mate.' A reflex reaction, accompanied by an explanatory pat of an empty pocket. Slightly embarrassed, the rest of the group looked anywhere but at the man.
Clare raised her placard again and stepped into the road. 'What do we want?' she screamed.
The chorus sounded behind her, 'No rent increases!'
'When do we want it?'
'Now!'
Someone began blowing a whistle and the gaggle set off down the road, attracting the occasional beep from motorists passing in the opposite direction. Shoppers stopped to watch the tiny procession, quizzical expressions on their faces. Occasional smirks. Shadowing them on the pavement was Eric. He'd undone the flap of his satchel and was thrusting Socialist Worker leaflets into the hands of anyone who would take them.
After five minutes Clare's voice was growing hoarse. She turned around and, seeing Simon directly behind her, said, 'Fancy taking over for a bit?'
Cheers!' he answered eagerly, and spun around. As he walked backwards he began clapping his hands, 'No ifs, no buts, no rent subsidy cuts!'
The group seemed relieved at having something else to shout about and joined in the chorus with renewed enthusiasm. Clare lifted the whistle hanging around her neck and began blowing quick blasts in time to Simon's clapping.
A short while later, they reached the east entrance to the university campus. The smell of food from a Louisiana Fried Chicken take-away hung in the air around them. They gathered on the pavement and the driver of the police car pulled up beside them so his colleague could climb back in.
As Clare thanked them, Eric handed out two leaflets to a couple of young men in suits coming out of the take-away joint. One, cheeks bulging with chicken burger, accepted Eric's leaflet and looked at the headlines of, Blair-faced liar! Government reneges on another key promise! Smash the capitalist con artists!
The police car quickly accelerated away, allowing the backlog of traffic to finally speed up. Someone pressed a car horn. Another joined in and the students turned to the road, a couple holding up thumbs to say thank you for the support. But the driver, with his hand hanging out of the window, had curled his fingers and thumb into a circle. Slowly he began shuffling his hand up and down, a look of contempt on his face.
A mini cab driver had wound down his window, and as he passed the huddled group, he shouted in a heavy local accent, 'I've just missed my fare you bunch of pricks!'
Clare looked uncertainly at her fellow protesters. 'I think we'd better get back on campus.'
As she went to try and lead them away, the suited man asked Eric very politely, 'Are you a student or a lecturer then?'
Eric nodded, 'A lecturer.'
‘Then what the fuck,' he went on, voice suddenly hostile, 'are you handing this shit out for? What are you paid, around thirty grand?'
Behind them the traffic was speeding up.
Someone yelled, 'Fucking student twats!'
Eric calmly said, 'It's hardly relevant what I earn.'
‘It is in my opinion,' answered the man. 'There you are, claiming a nice big salary off the Government - the capitalist Government that pays your wages from my fucking taxes.'
'But it needn't be this way,' said Eric, face reddening. 'The system could be so much better. Fairer.'
'I'm happy enough, mate,' said the man, holding up the burger. 'I'm free, I'm full and I'm off to get pissed. My only complaint about this system is parasites like you.'
Eric looked at the man; an office-worker, no doubt. Existing from Monday to Friday, living for the weekends. He saw the reconstituted chicken meat hanging from the bread-roll, grease staining the disposable napkin it was wrapped in. He didn't know where to start.
