Fed squatted naked in his bedsit, holding a penknife, staring at the orange jumpsuit on the coat rack. He flicked open the blade and took it to the crotch, delicately using the tip to unpick a line of thread. The material flopped open. He removed the travel toothbrush and a £50 note he’d stashed in that secret, sewn-in pocket above the groin. Emergency supplies. In case of arrest or abduction. He clamped the fifty between his teeth, chucked the toothbrush on the bedspread, and leaned in closer, inspecting the suit’s knees, flipping it around and eyeing up the seat.
It was disgusting. Covered in dried slime and bird shit. It was Pighead’s fault. Fed stripped the suit off the hanger and shoved it into a Sainsbury’s bag for life. Then he took the miniature chalkboard, hung on a lanyard, off the coat rack, and considered the words he’d written on it last week:
DEAR GOVERNMENTS IF YOU DONT WANT YOUR FILTH EXPOSED STOP ACTING LIKE RATS, SIMPLE.
It was a good line. A bit of a mouthful, perhaps. The ‘SIMPLE’ only just fitted, slammed up against the edge like an intrusive afterthought. Even still. It was a good line. Fed spat on the chalkboard and smudged it clean with his thumb. He tore open the curtains, let the early light stream in, and looked down the street. Things shone. Leaves glittered. He marvelled at the world. It was a special day. It was the day after the truth had been set free.
Several hours earlier, in a court in Saipan, Northern Mariana Islands, Julian Assange had pleaded guilty to a single count of conspiring to disclose U.S. national defence documents. It was the final act in a 14-year legal odyssey. 14 years years of persecution, torture and betrayal, capped off by this climactic magic trick, Julian’s coup de grâce, his victory: a plea deal that ensured he would be set free.
Yes. It was a beautiful day.
But Fed looked again at the dirty, balled-up jumpsuit. A wrinkle of unease moved across his face. Pighead. Fed snapped the penknife open-and-close, and replayed last week’s events. At the demo, Dan – whom he knew as Pighead, because he bore an uncanny likeness to the old sow at City Farm – had shoved him, and he fell into the fountain.
It had been an ordinary demo until that sudden act of violence: 5pm in the city centre. Speeches from Pighead and the ratbags at the Grassroots Action Group. A man in a trench coat stood on the edge of the crowd. Fed suspected he was a plant, an agitator-in-waiting, probably wearing an invisible earpiece, cameras in his coat buttons. Good luck to him, Fed thought. There was really nothing to agitate. That purple-haired woman read another poem about war and climate change, fattened with whole rhymes. Drones/bones. Flood/blood.
