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Chapter 1
Warm-Skinned Strangers
The crowd is growing—as is the noise—and my chest swells along with it. The protest is already by far the largest we had ever organized, and seeing the faces of my fellow activists chanting and singing makes my breath catch in my throat.
It’s an incredible feeling to see people who care—who really care about the climate crisis—take a stand against corporate greed. It feels so … I don’t know, life-affirming? To be in this sea of stamping and clapping bodies, like we are all small parts of a big, beautiful machine.
Jeff used to use the expression “peak experience” to describe times like this. Your body fizzes, your heart soars, and the day will be forever stamped into your memory. Jeff was a right fucker—the worst thing to ever happen to me—but I guess he was right about some things. You know what they say about broken clocks.
I’m relieved to see that, despite being one of the more prominent organizers, he isn’t in the crowd today—or if he is, I haven’t bumped into him. Seeing my ego-maniac ex is sure to put a severe dent in any experience, peak or non. Becks had assured me he wouldn’t attend, but you could never be certain with people like him. I push the idea out of my mind and re-focus on the incredible group of people who surround me.
The handsome glass skyscraper we‘re targeting reaches almost to the clouds; seamless and pristine apart from the bright green paint we had hurled at the base of it, temporarily vandalizing their finely crafted, expensive-looking logo—a stylized raven winging over neat metallic lettering.
RAVENSCROFT ENTERPRISES.
How we despise them. They‘re on our list of the top ten evil corporations we‘ve committed to disrupting, and here we are. The month before, we had camped out at a similar—but not so stylish—leviathan building of another mega-corp to demand they stop destroying the ocean bed with their incessant fracking.
FRACK OFF! and GET THE FRACK OUT OF OUR OCEANS placards had set the tone.
We had stayed for three exhausting, exhilarating days before they sent out a nervous-looking PA to tell us they had agreed to “meet our leader”—as if we were aliens instead of regular people just trying to do the right thing. The month before that, we’d chained ourselves to the warehouse of yet another firm, not allowing their delivery vans in or out. We had only been there for a few hours before we had come to an agreement. We were especially grateful for that, as the weather had turned. Early winter winds chapped my lips and made me worry about losing my fingertips to frostbite. I can still remember how cold the metal of the chains felt.
Being agents for change was only effective, we learned early on, if you threaten the company’s bottom line. They didn’t care if you asked politely, if you boycotted their products, if you defaced their billboards, or if you tried to take them on in court. They were Goliaths, but we had stones. Metaphorically speaking.
A woman near me has a strong Yorkshire accent. “Stop your mindless expansion!”
“Planet over profit!” yells another protester from behind me. “There is no Planet B!”
Ravenscroft are infamous for their lack of accountability and transparency. Sinister, nebulous, it’s like trying to catch a shadow.
Some of the folks around me have face paint on: bloody handprints on their cheeks, No Entry signs, symbols of green leaves on posters. The guy behind me just has the word “NO” written in black on his forehead. I can’t help but think it would come in handy in various social situations, like a snooty cocktail party, or when someone leers at you on the tube—or when you get catcalled on your way to buy a sandwich. To be honest, it might come in handy for folks just sitting at home trying to read a book without being interrupted. But mostly it was the leering and catcalling I hated.
The buggers can’t help it, Saint Ives, says my lifelong best friend, Becks, whenever I complain about it. I mean, look at you.
Which is totally ridiculous in every way. First of all, I’m no supermodel. I‘m fortunate enough to have good genes in some ways—long legs and adequate cheekbones—but I‘m hardly a showstopper. My hair and skin is decidedly average, and my thrifted wardrobe is substandard at best.
Bollocks, Becks likes to say, popping the gum she’s always chewing. You’ve got the total package. And the best tits in London, Lucky bitch. It’s a term of endearment.
But even if I did look like a supermodel—which I assure you again I don’t—horn-dog strangers should learn how to reel their tongues in.
If I’m going to be a hundred percent honest, I think I’ve gone off men a bit. My Chernobyl-grade toxic relationship with Jeff was an unmitigated disaster that I still haven’t managed to scrub from my life, and the boyfriend before him was a co-dependent mess with E.D. and addiction problems. And it’s not just the climate-conscious dudes that I can’t abide: the more I get to know of these corporate bosses—99.9% of them male—I realize I hate the rapacious nature of men in general, with their wolf-whistling and wandering hands and big fancy phallic buildings. Standing in their tailored suits, looking out onto the city and thinking they have the right to take whatever they want from people and from the planet.
In fact, I haven’t found a man attractive for a lo-o-ong time. Maybe I‘m destined to cut off my long hair and become one of those celibate asexual radicals who wear Fair Trade cotton tunics, eat non-GMO granola, and employ all their chi to the cause with no room or time for distractions like romantic relationships or sex.
“We won’t go!” yells a guy in a maroon hoodie, fist in the air. “We won’t go!”
Becks had called in a favor with one of her many friends-with-benefits and arranged an impressive sound system for the event. The speakers blared with the familiar music our parents loved. Resistance songs by Tracy Chapman, Bob Marley, Sam Cooke, Bob Dylan. People like Becks and I grew up in the movement. Both of our parents were hippies, but not the stoner kind. I mean, yes, they still smoke the occasional blunt, and I’m sure they tried their fair share of psychedelia, but it wasn’t about drugs and tie-dye for them. They were always fighting the system, resisting tyranny, standing up for what was right.
In their day, they protested against the Vietnam War, pollution, and racist policies. They were pro-civil rights and anti-authoritarianism. When they passed the baton to us, the most urgent issue on the agenda was the climate crisis, and Becks and I had taken up the cause, along with vague and impractical ideas of how to smash the patriarchy. Like long legs and average hair, fighting the good fight is in my DNA.
As if reading my mind, the guy next to me lights a joint. The pungent ribbon of smoke, sweet and bitter at the same time, reinforces my nostalgia for the 60s I never got to experience. What is it about fragrances and memories? Nothing brings back a memory like a specific smell.
There was a particular butterscotch sweet that my brother and I used to get as children at the beach when we went with our cousins. I'm pretty sure they were just cheap boiled candies in paper wrapping, but Jamie and I used to love them. Even now, twenty years later, when I catch a whiff of that scent, I am instantly transported back to those innocent beach days, wrapped tightly in a scratchy towel, feet buried in the warm sand, salt water still on my lips.
Thinking of Jamie, I look at the time on my phone. Despite the shattered screen—don’t ask—I can see it’s just after three o’clock. I’m due to visit my brother tomorrow, so I hope we won’t be here all night.
“You want some?” asks the smoker, dreadlocks swaying as he turns to me.
Embarrassed, I laugh and blush. Had I been staring at him while lost in thought? Had I turned into the leering stranger I so often wanted to high-five in the face?
