‘It’s the perfect stage,’ Pierce says. ‘There are already all sorts of musicians, writers, and poets making use of it, y’know? Because there’s the iconic building of St Paul’s Cathedral, then the tents all around – clustered around. It makes for the perfect photo opportunity.’
‘Can I not just turn up, take a few snaps and fuck off again, then?’
‘No, no.’ He shakes his head. ‘We’re going for authenticity, Rob. This time it has to be more than just a visit. This time you’re going to become a native.’
Prick Price let himself into the hotel room early this morning – well before ten am – and started hammering a tin mug against a tin plate right beside the bed: clank, clank, clank. When I opened my eyes, he gave me this smug smile and called out, ‘Are you ready to get your camping badge, scout?’
I made a grab for the mug – thinking it might fit rather neatly up his arsehole – but he danced out of reach and gave a girly giggle.
‘What in the fuck is all this, Pierce?’
He held up a carrier bag. ‘Time to move to new accommodation,’ he said.
‘What does that mean?’
I felt a jolt of panic, because I’d grown fond of my hotel with its breakfast in bed, laundry left outside the door, room service, minibar. They’d even had a go at cleaning the frayed fabric of my trainers when I’d left them, skewed and whiffy, out in the hallway.
‘Great idea, I think,’ Price said, hopping from foot to foot like an excited toddler. ‘Just for a few nights, to try to drum up some publicity.’
‘What is the idea, though?’ I asked, resisting the urge to add ‘you knob’.
‘We move you into the tent city for a couple of nights.’ He grins. ‘Get you settled in, then invite some of the journos down, get some stories running and take some publicity shots for the launch.’
‘You’ve got to be joking – ’
‘I know, perfect timing, eh? A month until release.’
Of course I put up resistance to the idea. Staying the night is entirely different from making a tourist stop – ‘Here is St Paul’s Cathedral, note the disaffected youth circa 2012, next stop Madame Tussaud’s’ – because at night it’s not a hop-on, hop-off deal; you’re there for the duration. It quickly becomes apparent, though, that it’s not Pierce Price himself who’s come up with this pitch – it rarely fucking is – but Bower and the label’s marketing department. They’ve this angle they’ve been working on: ‘Actions speak louder with words. Rab Dylan, Measures Taken’. It’s a tag-line that paints me as an activist who uses music to spread my message, they say, and they’re anxious that it doesn’t come across vice versa. Solution: urban camping trip.
‘Besides,’ Pierce says, pushing his glasses up his nose, ‘and I’m not trying to tell you off here, but there have been concerns about how long your advance will support you… erm… financially.’
He holds out his hands in a gesture of appeasement.
‘Not that we don’t have faith that you’ll make it back – you will – but a more prudent lifestyle, just for a bit, might put less pressure on album sales.’
‘Concerns, eh?’ I say.
‘From higher up,’ he says, pointing at the ceiling.
‘We’re on the top floor.’
An hour later, I’m on the Central Line making my way to St Paul’s, with a rucksack on my back and my guitar balanced against my legs. I’ve dressed the part – grey hooded jumper, khaki three-quarter-length trousers and tattered trainers – but I’m a bit worried about the fact that my tent is entirely scuff-free and my rucksack still has the price label hanging from one of the straps. To grease the wheels – to endear myself to the ninety-nine per cent – I’ve packed ten pre-release copies of my album, a bottle of blended whisky, and some assorted merchandise that the label sent over for approval. I come bearing gifts.
As the Underground clatters me closer, I start to feel more positive about the whole enterprise. Maybe it wasn’t too good to be perched up in that hotel room, with no connection to the public. Perhaps I can play an open-air gig or two to give something back, to thank those in Occupy who inspired the songs on the album. I might even see Flick.
Emerging from the station, I sniff questioningly at the air. I’m expecting there to be a sourness, a fustiness – like clothes that have been folded away while still damp – but instead there’s a smell of freshly ground coffee that brings back memories of Cesare and my part-time job up in Glasgow. I listen intently, anticipating a folky campfire medley and the chatter of excited political debate. There is an off-key whistling and the distant sound of traffic. The tents around me look slumped and empty, but there’s a group of people gathered in a hollow over by the steps to St Paul’s. They sit on fold-away chairs and talk quietly among themselves. Above them a slung banner sags, so that I can only make out ‘Capitalism is…’ Maybe they’re running a caption competition – fill in the blank – with a guest spot on Newsnight for the winner.
When I walk over, they all look up but say nothing. ‘Hi there,’ I say. ‘I was wondering whether… if Flick is around at all?’
‘Flick?’ A girl with blonde hair, an Irish accent and a nose that seems to have been chiselled to a point speaks up. ‘Who, or what, is Flick?’
‘A performance poet. Spoken word. She lives here.’
‘Does she now?’
The group – five of them – look at one another. I count two shrugs and a shake of a head before a guy with dark hair tied back in a ponytail and metal braces on his teeth glints out a smile and reaches into his pocket. For a moment I think he’s reaching for a knife – a gun even – but he brings out a battered mobile phone and starts stabbing at the buttons.
‘I think I know her.’ His accent is northern. Not Manc or Geordie, but definitely northern. He is cocooned in a sleeping bag, against the February chill. ‘But she doesn’t stay here, mate. She’s up at Finsbury Square, I’m pretty sure – ’
‘I met her here,’ I say. ‘Before Christmas.’
‘I’ve maybe got her number, hang on…’
As I wait, I look down at the cobbles. There’s no conversation from the rest of them and I feel awkward and ill at ease. How the fuck do you make an introduction when there’s a group – a clique – and you turn up unannounced and uninvited? There should be a welcoming committee, I’m thinking, for Occupy. There should be someone to greet you and show you around, if they want to make it a truly inclusive movement. Not this wary silence.
‘I’ll give her a text,’ the northern guy says. ‘Tell her you’re looking for her. What’s your name?’
‘Rab.’ I see it as an opening and I seize it. Maybe my white knight imaginings of turning up and playing a benefit concert were a bit wide of the mark, but I can make an impression on these few folk, surely? ‘Do you mind if I wait with you guys?’
‘Of course,’ the Irish girl says, and for a second I’m uncertain whether she does or she doesn’t, but then she points at an empty plastic chair.
The two girls beside me seem to be quietly and methodically carrying out a war of attrition over a blue-checked blanket, with one pulling it slowly one way and the other responding with a tug or grab that reclaims the lost territory. Next to them an acne-scarred teenager lolls back in his deckchair, as though dozing on a beach, although he wears two jackets and a purple patterned bobble-hat to keep out the cold.
I sit down and fumble with the neck of my guitar through the case, as though picking out chords. If I were a different person – a ballsy busker – I’d unzip and actually play them a song or two. I’ve heard of comedians who stand at the side of the stage and introduce themselves in the third person, but I don’t have the brass neck to do that. I need someone with no shame – I need Pierce Price – to say, ‘Do you guys not know who the fuck this is? This is Rab Dylan – he’s going to be fucking huge.’
Then I remember the merchandise. I have key-rings, badges, stickers, T-shirts even…
‘I brought some stuff…’ I say, unbuckling my rucksack.
‘Oh, yeah?’ Bobble-hat leans forward and I see the glazed look in his eyes for the first time. There is a tremor to his fingers as he passes one hand restlessly over the other. ‘What you got?’
‘T-shirts, badges, key-rings, CDs…’ I trail off as I realise that key-rings might be a touch useless for tent-dwellers. And I’ve not seen a CD player – I’m not sure whether they even have electricity hooked up. Still, they could download the album taster from the label’s website, couldn’t they? On to their smartphones or whatever. ‘And whisky to share,’ I finish.
Bobble-hat rocks back into the deckchair, disappointed. The Irish girl, her sharp nose raised in the air, looks across at me. There is suspicion in her gaze that wasn’t there before. She folds her arms. ‘Most people bring food,’ she says. ‘Or books for the library.’
‘I’m a singer – ’ I begin.
‘And why are you offering us whisky mid-morning?’
‘It’ll keep if you’d rather – ’
‘What are you after?’ she asks.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I’m here to help.’
‘What’s with the bribery, then?’
‘It’s not bribery, I’m – ’
‘Are you a plant, is that it – an agent provocateur?’
I’m taken aback by her bluntness. I’m even more taken aback by the phrase I don’t recognise and the way she spits it at me like the worst of insults.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t know what one of those is.’
‘So you don’t work for the government or the police?’
I shake my head. Jesus, how fucking paranoid are these people? I just wanted to show up and camp with them for a couple of days, maybe play them a song or two, I didn’t know I’d need to prove myself. Reaching into my bag, I pull out a T-shirt and hand it to her. She unfolds it and inspects the front – it has the album cover, blown up large, across it.
‘I’m a singer,’ I say. ‘That’s all.’
‘Right.’ She hands the T-shirt back to me.
‘You can keep it, if you like.’
She waves it away.
‘I could play you a couple of – shit!’
A hand lands on my shoulder from behind, causing me to jump up from the seat and send it toppling to the ground. The guitar follows, sounding out like the toll of a bell as it hits the cobbles.
‘Bloody hell,’ Flick says. ‘You’re tightly strung.’
I stand for a moment with my fists clenched – more wedding dance than boxer’s stance – before relaxing and stepping forward to give her a hug. She’s (inexpertly) chopped her curled hair short, to just below her ears, and there’s a nose-ring that’s new. She’s looking good, though – and she’s also looking pleased to see me.
‘Have you come to join us, then?’ she asks.
‘Where do I sign up?’
She laughs and places a hand on my shoulder. ‘Why don’t we go somewhere and catch up?’
I agree eagerly, thinking that she means the pub or a coffee shop, but she leads me over to the cold concrete steps of St Paul’s instead. We climb up to a column and sit with our backs against it. Beneath us, to the right, the breeze moves through the tents as a rippling rustle. It carries with it a murmur of conversation and the faint aroma of cooking – cumin and garlic. People mill around, but most of them seem to be looking up at the cathedral – solid, austere, grey – rather than down at the tents – colourful, covered in sloganised ideas, and in danger of being lifted by the wind.
Carefully, delicately, Flick raises a hand to her mouth and begins biting the skin at the sides of her nails. ‘So what have you been up to?’ she asks.
‘This and that,’ I say. ‘Gigging, mostly.’
Over the festive period, I haunted some of the folk venues in Camden, Islington and Hackney. Trying to get my name out there. I was thinking I’d be the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come – ‘I saw him, yeah, just before he took off’ – so I queued with the floor singers for a turn on the open mic. The nights were always billed as ‘nu-folk’ or ‘folk-rock’ but ended up feeling more like something organised by my parents. I did them, though, for the sake of my future fans, who’ll come to see me in the proper venues – Bush Hall, the Union Chapel, King’s Place, Cecil Sharp House – and remember the time I appeared at some grotty little pub in Clerkenwell as a warmup act for a girl who played Coldplay covers on a ukulele.
‘Excellent,’ Flick says. ‘Anything big?’
I shrug, shake my head.
‘And what is it you’re doing here?’
‘You’ll like it, actually,’ I say, unscrewing the cap from the whisky bottle and taking the first searing sip. ‘It’s a publicity drive. The idea is that I spend a few nights here and really tap into – ’
‘Are you just passing through, then?’
‘Like I say, I’m here for a couple of nights.’ I smile across at her and offer her the whisky bottle. ‘I’m here to help.’
‘Rab…’ She takes the bottle and lets out this small sigh. ‘The people here have been around since October, more or less four months. It’s not easy, you know? Most of the time it’s a struggle just keeping people motivated, keeping them fed and warm, mediating disputes and, well – ’
‘I’m not trying to – ’
‘Let me finish.’ She holds out a hand. For some reason her eyes have closed, tightly, and she’s speaking tensely and deliberately, measuring each word before slotting it into her sentence. ‘I would hate to think that you would exploit that, Rab. I would hate to think that you would use all the hard work, all the struggle, to further your own career.’
‘My album,’ I say, ‘will shine a light on the Occupy movement, Flick – will be a mouthpiece for all these folk.’ I sweep an arm out to indicate the tents beneath us. ‘It’ll let them address their issues from a half-decent platform, rather than over a megaphone as a… because they’re only preaching to the choir here, isn’t it?’
My sentence unravels slightly at the end, because her accusation has stung me. There is a tone of disappointment and weariness about it that brings back memories of 3.17am and that phone call from Maddie. You can’t possibly understand, Rab, the tone says. You might try to, but you won’t be able to. Condescension, that’s the word for it. Not sneering, but pitying condescension.
‘Occupy London,’ Flick whispers.
‘What?’
‘It’s important that you realise that this is Occupy London, not simply Occupy. It’s part of a larger movement, certainly, and it’s tied to Occupy Wall Street and the violence at Occupy Oakland, and it is inspired by the Arab Spring to an extent, but it’s also local. It’s local as well as global.’
‘Well – ’ I take another drink of whisky ‘ – I’m intending my music to be both local and global as well. We’re already in discussions with a label in the States and – ’
‘What I mean…’ Flick places a hand on my arm. ‘What I mean is that Occupy is massive and diverse and full of contradictions. Even Occupy London is, never mind Occupy as a whole. There are activists here who see it as an extension of things like Climate Camp, and those who see it as a direct protest against the banks. What I mean is – ’
‘That’s the power of it,’ I say. ‘That it draws support from all these different places and ideas, that it speaks to issues that affect us all.’
‘Ye-es.’ She says this slowly. ‘But you can’t gloss the differences. And you can’t show up and presume to speak for all these different people with all these different agendas, making these grand statements while they struggle against eviction orders. If you haven’t been here – ’
‘If I haven’t been here I have no right, is that it?’ The whisky ignites my shortest fuse. ‘Why the fuck not, Flick? It’s all grist to the same mill, isn’t it? I release a song about Occupy London, folk pay attention to the arguments, we all fucking win.’
‘Ah!’ Flick raises a palm to her forehead. ‘Of course! Why didn’t we think of that? In fact, why didn’t we just put out a tweet: hashtag fix capitalism, smiley-face.’
‘At least people will listen to the songs, engage with them.’
‘But here’s the fucking point, Rab.’ She’s turned towards me, her eyes wide. ‘This is the point – would you be here if it wasn’t for the album? Honestly and truly? Would you?’
‘It’s a contemporary issue, Flick, and I write contemporary music.’
‘It’s a bandwagon.’ She lifts the whisky bottle and I note that her hand shakes as she takes a drink. ‘For you, at least, it’s just a bandwagon that you can piggy-back on and – ’
‘Which is it? Bandwagon or piggy-back? There’s a mixed metaphor in there, love, and you’re supposed to be a poet.’
‘You’re such a cunt.’ She shakes her head. ‘That first night I thought you were just naïve, and it was endearing, but you’re just a cunt.’
She rises and skip-trips down the steps in her hurry to get away from me. I watch her go, with angry words burning in my throat but refusing to form into something I can shout – something I can scream – after her. Better to let her go. I was hoping that the day would turn out differently, that I’d be able to play a few songs in the sunshine and then enjoy an evening under canvas with Flick, but the sky is overcast and my only groupie has renounced her sexual privileges. I decide that I’ll take the professional approach – see one night through and contact Price in the morning to arrange the publicity shots and then get me the fuck out of here.
What do I do in the meantime? How do I spend my day? Pierce told me to interact with people, maybe get myself in a working group or speak up at the General Assembly. Participate, he said, get yourself a profile within the movement. But boredom is already itching at my thoughts. Besides, it’s bloody cold. It’s not heated debate I need, just a bit of fucking heat. Using the whisky bottle as a crutch, I push myself upright and scan the tents spread out below. There’s bound to be a gap on the fringes where I can squeeze my tent in, later. For now, though, I’m going to go and find a pub that has the shadowed corners and hollow eyes I’m looking for. A quiet bar – a drinkers’ bar. If I talk to anyone, it won’t be from choice. On a telly in the corner the headlines will scroll, unread, across the bottom of the screen.
I make my way back down to the group at the foot of the steps. The Irish girl and the northern lad have gone, and the two warring girls have fallen asleep with the blue-checked blanket draped between them, covering one knee of each. Bobble-hat is still there, though. He’ll ask no questions, but he’ll answer if I show him my money and ask him where I can lay my hands on some coke. He’s the kind of company I’m looking for.
I sit down in a plastic chair and nudge him with my elbow, waiting for him to stir and fix me with that vacant stare.