Just Another Angel by Mike Ripley

There were about 20 tents and makeshift lean-tos in a semicircle spanning about 40 yards of the fence. Through the wire was an overgrown, obviously unused concrete runway and, far in the distance, the outlying buildings of the base. As far as the military were concerned, this was a good site for the camp, out of sight and far enough away from anything important.
    As I eased the Transit over some of the more violent ruts in the track, I noticed that one of the lean-tos was in fact an old, single-decker bus from which the wheels had been removed. It lay tilted to one side, its bodywork rusting into the ground. Its windows had been spray-painted in blues and reds, so that from a distance it looked as if the bus had curtains on the outside. Most the remaining paintwork was covered in CND symbols, as were most of the T-shirts, jeans, smock tops and even a couple of nappies that hung on a clothes line stretched between the bus and the fence. There seemed to be no sign of any transport that actually worked.
    About 50 feet from the first tent, I turned the van around and pulled it slightly off the track. I could see in the wing mirror that my arrival had provoked some interest. About half a dozen women and children had appeared and were standing, holding hands, watching me. I felt like the cops arriving in the hippie camp in Electra Glide in Blue (the right-winger’s Easy Rider .)
    They were all dressed in about three sets of clothing, each of which they probably slept in, and all had the ingrained-grimy faces of people living without running water. I was glad I hadn’t shaved that morning.
    The eldest of the group who moved towards me as I jumped out of the van was no more than 30. She had thin, straggly, dirty-blonde rats-tail hair and wore wellingtons, faded pink jeans and a baggy knitted pullover with a row of pink pigs across the bosom. In her left hand she held the hand of a small child dressed in a raincoat at least eight sizes too big. In her right hand she weighed something that made a strange, metallic click-click sound.
    It was a sound I hadn’t heard since Manchester United played West Ham at Upton Park: ball-bearings – totally vicious and very effective at close range. These girls had learned a lot from their peace camp.
    Rats-Tail stopped the group ten feet away, and they fanned out in a semi-circle. I had the nasty feeling they’d done this before. The only other male in sight was about four years old and hadn’t been potty-trained.
    â€˜It’s too late now,’ said Rats-Tail.
    â€˜Surely, it never is.’ I turned on the smile. I have good teeth and they’ve been known to blind at five yards in strong sunlight. No response.
    â€˜It’s too late,’ said Rats-Tail again, with more hostility than petulance. ‘So you might as well go.’
    â€˜Too late for what?’ I took an involuntary step backwards nearer the van.
    â€˜To sign on,’ said Rats-Tail, shaking her head in exasperation. ‘Bloody woman!’
    The others said nothing. One woman drifted away with a couple of the children as if she’d heard it all before.
    â€˜Bloody Carol!’ spat Rats-Tail.
    â€˜Carol Flaxman?’
    â€˜Yes.’ Suspicion now, but vitriol won out over loyalty. ‘That selfish cow can’t get anything right.’
    â€˜What’s she done now?’ I asked in a you-don’t-have-to-tell-me-anything-about-Carol voice, with an I’m-on-your-side sort of sigh.
    â€˜That dopey mare left about five hours ago to find us some transport so we could all go into Ipswich and sign on. It’s too late now, the DHSS will be shut and there’s naff-all to eat in the camp except lentils.’
    No wonder they were upset, relying on Flaxperson for their next social security Giro when down to their last lentil.
    â€˜I haven’t seen her,’ I said. ‘But I want to; that’s why I came. My name’s Dave.’
    The ball-bearings stopped