Iain Banks - Whit

I nodded as though I knew what he was talking about.

'What's in Dudgeon Magna?' one of the others asked.

'My cousin,' I told her. She was dressed like the others, in layers of holed, ragged but colourful clothes; she wore sensible-looking boots that had obviously seen a few fields in their time. The six young men all had dreadlocks - I'd asked Roadkill what they were called - and the four young women all had part or all of their heads shaved. I wondered if perhaps they were part of some Order.

'Shouldn't that be Dudgeon Alto or something?' another lass asked, passing me a can of cider.

I smiled. 'I suppose it should be really, shouldn't it?' I said, tasting the drink in the can.

'Oh fuck,' said our driver. 'What are they doing here ?'

'Roadblock,' the fellow in the passenger seat said. 'Bastards.' Various of the others got up and crowded round the area just behind the seats, making noises of disappointment and annoyance.

'It's the pigs,' somebody muttered back to those of us still sitting as the van slowed to a stop. The girl across from me, who'd passed me the cider, rolled her eyes and sighed loudly. The driver wound down his window.

'What's the matter?'

'… reason to believe…' I heard a deep male voice say; the others started speaking and I only caught snatches of the rest.

'But-'

'… way to a trespassory assembly…'

'Aw, come on, man-'

'… serious disruption to a community…'

'… not doing anything, we're not harming anybody.'

'… justice act that you may be…'

'… mean, what're we supposed to have done ?'

'Why aren't you out catching rapists or something?'

'… back the way you came…'

'Look, we're just going to visit friends, for fuck's sake!'

'… hereby deemed to be…'

'… unfair; I mean, it's just so un fair .'

At that point the van's back doors were hauled open by two policemen wearing overalls and crash helmets carrying long batons. 'Right, come on; out!' one of them said.

I got out with the others, amongst much complaining.

'What appears to be the problem, officer?' I asked one of the men.

'Stand over there,' we were told.

Ahead on the road was a police van with blue lights flashing; we had been pulled in to a lay-by where other worn-looking vans, a couple of old cars and a decrepit coach had also been stopped. There were more police vans and cars perched on verges nearby and lots of police moving around, some dressed in ordinary uniforms, some in overalls.

We stood on a grass verge while the van was briefly searched and the police checked its tyres and lights; our driver had to show some documents. Some of the vans and cars which had been stopped were made to turn round and head back the way they had come. Others seemed to be the objects of disputes between their occupants and the police; a few small groups of people, some of them in tears, tramped back up the road carrying sleeping bags, back packs and plastic bags. Meanwhile another tired-looking old minibus was stopped and more people forced to get out and stand on the grass. Smartish looking cars and other types of traffic were allowed to carry on past the roadblock.

'Right; back the way you came,' we were told by a policeman after the police left our van and went on to the minibus. 'But look,' the man who'd been driving protested. 'We're just-'

'You've got one very borderline tyre, son,' the policeman interrupted, pointing his finger in the young man's face. 'Want us to check the spare? If it's there? You got a jack? Yes? No? want us to check that tyre again? Very borderline, it was. You understand what I'm saying?'

'Look-'

'Fuckin' police state,' somebody muttered.

'Get in the van, get out of here, get out of Avon. Understand?' the policeman said, poking the driver in the chest. 'And if I see you again, you're nicked.' He turned and walked away. This one's goin' back, Harry!' he shouted to another policeman, who nodded and then read the van's licence number into a hand-held radio.

'Shit,' somebody said as we trooped back to the van.

'I'm still going; we're still going, aren't we?'

''Snot far.'

'Fuckin' is! Good ten miles.'

'Bastards.'

'Na; we'll get a bit closer. Cross the fields job.'

I got my kit-bag out of the back of the van. 'Why exactly are they stopping everybody?' I asked.

'They're the fucking pigs, man; it's their fucking job.'

'The fucking Fascist Anti-Fun Police.'

'Bastards!' somebody said from inside the van. 'They've spilled all the drink.' There were groans as people watched rivulets of pale yellow liquid trickle out the rear doors.

'You not coming with us?' the girl who'd given me the cider asked.

'Dudgeon Magna,' I said, pointing.

'You'll be lucky,' one of the young men said.

'Thank you. Go with God,' I said. They closed the doors. The van started up and turned round, heading back towards Wells. I waved to the people looking out the back windows and set my face to the west again.

'And where do you think you're going?' asked an overalled, crash-helmeted police officer, standing directly in front of me.

'The village of Dudgeon Magna,' I said. 'To see my cousin Morag Whit at Clissold's Health Farm and Country Club.'

The officer looked me down and up. 'No you're not,' he said.

'Yes I am,' I said, trying not to sound too indignant.

'No,' he said, pressing me in the chest with his truncheon, 'you're not.'

I looked down at the truncheon and put one of my feet out behind the other so I could better control my centre of balance. I leaned into the truncheon. 'Where I come from,' I said slowly, 'we treat guests with a little more courtesy than this.'

'You're not a guest, love; you're just a fucking nuisance as far as we're concerned. Now fuck off back to Scotland or wherever it is you come from.' He pushed at me with the truncheon. My chest was hurting where he was pushing, but I was standing my ground.

'Sir,' I said, looking him in the eyes beneath the pushed-up visor of the crash helmet. 'I'm not entirely clear why you're intercepting all these young people, but whatever it is you think they are going to do, I am not interested in it. I am going to visit my cousin at Clissold's Health Farm and Country Club.'

The officer took the weight off the truncheon, then started tapping me in the chest with it in time to his words. 'And, I, just, told, you, you're, not,' he said, finally pushing me hard and forcing me to take a step backwards. 'Now do you want to turn round and fuck off or do you want to get into serious fucking trouble? Because I've just about fucking had it with you people.'

I glared at him through narrowed eyes. I raised my head. 'I want to speak to your superior officer,' I said frostily.

He looked at me for a moment. 'Right,' he said, standing to one side and motioning with his baton. 'This way.'

'Thank you,' I said, taking a step past him.

I think he tripped me to get me off balance; the next thing I knew he had me on the ground, my cheek ground into the damp, gritty tarmac of the lay-by, his knee in the small of my back and one of my arms pushed so far up my back I let out an involuntary shriek of pain; it felt like my arm was going to break. 'All right!' I screamed.

'Dave,' he said calmly. 'Search this bag, will you?'

I saw boots appear to one side and my kit-bag, lying on the ground beside me, was wrenched from my hand.

'You're going to break my arm!' I shouted. The pressure eased a little until it was merely very uncomfortable. I felt my face flush as I realised how easily I'd been first fooled and then brought down. Any self-satisfaction I'd felt at my exploits in Essex two days earlier was being wrung out of me now.

'What's that?' my attacker asked.