Despite the state’s curb on cultural activity, deeming it non-contributory to the growth agenda, a cluster of arts organisations had managed to survive. In an effort to boost morale, the volunteers approached the Authority with a proposal for a music festival. They sold it as a fundraiser, with the proceeds to be invested in the restoration of Glade Park. After months of lobbying, the Authority finally agreed, on the condition that it would manage the funds raised from the event.
Wallace also insisted that the state had control over security. A curfew of nine o’clock was imposed; people had to be fit for work the next day, after all. State police would be positioned around the perimeter of the venue, under the command of the newly appointed Chief of Police, Commissioner Estel Blix.
The festival was to be held in an open-air sports stadium near Glade Park, on the edge of Spire Wells. The once-thriving music scene had all but disappeared. However, a handful of bands had persevered, playing low-key shows in taverns and cafés. Headlining the event were two groups among the most popular in the scene. Their names were Saltire and Bend Sinister.
The day of the festival was particularly hot and humid. The open stadium afforded little shade for the tens of thousands gathered for the event. Some citizens loitered under the awnings of food stalls and Tramways Brewery tents that were dotted around the perimeter. Most, however, paid no attention to the heat. Life had been hard under Wallace. The promise of the festival had felt like a holiday. Spirits were high.
Families flocked into the stadium, waving streamers bought from street traders. Children darted between the crowds or sat on the shoulders of their parents. Smiling couples loitered, hand in hand. An eighteen-year-old Naylor Hammett laughed with a group of fellow apprentice miners, faces glowing, relishing the taste of freedom.
Fans of the two headline acts held aloft flags and banners, parading their allegiance to either Saltire or Bend Sinister. The flags bore bold emblems – symbols of proud patronage, unchanged in their design for over 150 years. These followers filtered through the crowd, pushing headlong towards the front of the stage.
The first few bands on the bill were met with cheers and applause. Those in the crowd who didn’t know the music probably knew one of the band members – a friend, perhaps, or a work colleague. It was community cohesion at its most powerful; this was what it meant to belong. The hardships of the last eight years were forgotten. People fell in love with Wydeye once more. This was their city, their home.
By the time Saltire took to the stage, the stadium was full to capacity. Loyal fans surged to the front, leaving the rest of the audience staring in eager anticipation. From the opening riff on an electric guitar, the crowd fell silent. Gnarling bass reverberated around the stadium. Pounding drums thumped from the PA into the chests of everyone present. Saltire herself commanded centre stage – a Titaness appraising her faithful.
As Saltire played their unique blend of rock and metal, the crowd slipped into a warm enchantment. Those still sheltering under the shadow of an awning, stepped forward and joined the throng. Eyes were either transfixed on the stage or closed as bodies swayed. Some people cheered, others sang along. Most remained silent, absorbing the energy that emanated from the stage. Even the police officers succumbed to the lure. First one, then another, broke a cardinal rule of duty and removed their helmets. They stood enraptured, faces beaming, marvelling at the music.
The duty Superior regained control of his senses and roared to his unit to put their helmets back on. His voice drowned out by music, they remained staring at the stage, gaping at the sonic assault. Sensing the start of something he was at a loss to control, he shouted into his radio. Receiving or, more likely, hearing no reply, he barked orders at his oblivious unit and hurried away through one of the tunnels that led out of the stadium.
In his absence, Saltire disappeared from the stage and Bend Sinister emerged. The players were dressed in black, wielding their instruments like tridents. Bend Sinister raised his guitar over his head and roared into the microphone. The crowd responded in kind, arms in the air, hands reaching forward, chanting his name. With barely a break in the music, Bend Sinister filled the stadium with their sound: heavy, dense and complex. Utterly captivating. The crowd were ecstatic, swept up in an irresistible reverie.
By the time the duty Superior returned, the energy in the crowd was palpable. On his heels marched Commissioner Blix, surveying the unprecedented scene. Ignoring the stage, she scanned the perimeter, clocking the police officers standing dumbfounded, helmets hanging empty by their sides. The Chief of Police wasted no time; she spun around and stormed out of the tunnel, the Superior trotting clueless behind her.
Meanwhile, the atmosphere within the bowel of the stadium was reaching fever pitch. Bend Sinister’s vocals mesmerised the crowd. The players’ performance intensified. Nothing could break the spell.
No one heard the thud of combat boots or the thunder of hooves approach. No one noticed the troopers pour through the tunnels and take up position around the edge of the stadium, ear defenders straddling their Forces-issue helmets. No one turned to see the unit of horse-mounted soldiers arrive. Even when the power was cut and the PA fell silent, the crowd remained staring forward, shouting for more. They continued to cheer and applaud, staring at the empty stage.
Bend Sinister and his players had disappeared.
–
The first shot was fired into the air. No one reacted; they barely seemed to notice. The second shot was fired just over the heads of the crowd.
Then the horses charged.
People screamed. The stadium was packed; there was nowhere to run. The crowd surged in waves – a tidal swell of
