Rain spittled through a grey shroud. The residents of Kendi Estate poured into the local park and festered around its pavilion. Kasia risked her employer’s passive aggression and took another day off. After all, a memorial was too legitimate an excuse even for her bosses.

If only she could hit them with the full truth: she was joining Revolution Britannia afterwards. No doubt there was an HR form for that too.

The nearest park sat on Southwark’s border like a chink in its armour. The council usually gated it off to Lambeth, employing wardens to politely usher the poor away and, if necessary, back their words up with tasers. But for big events anyone could request the pavilion, as regulars jealously quibbled over their mindfulness space being shared with, and stained by, those too feckless to improve their lives.

Today the parkgoers scampered; the orange-bibbed running club marshalled itself down a detour route; the Kendi crowd squished under the pavilion’s planked roof. In its centre, on a flat slab of lacquered tree trunk, two chrome urns rested. Selen took her place by the ashes of her daughter and grandson and beckoned Sermon forward. He placed a tablet on the plinth. A famous streamer appeared onscreen, throned on a high gaming chair in a room festooned with sponsor merchandise. To the locals complete shock, he faced the camera and addressed them.

“Hey what’s up guys; we're gonna spent a minute for Misha and Joey in… London England what’s happenin’ guys?”

Misha’s favourite influencer had directed his stream to her memorial. KSI modelled himself on an influencer from the early century, after his team had the original man, and any AI imitations, deleted from the cloud. The new KSI kept his American accent and values, true to the nation who, despite their isolation, remained the masters of filching the heritage of other cultures.

He was big news, and somehow Sermon had got him. Messages of condolence and mean-spirited humour cascaded down his chat channel. He spent a minute reading the nicer comments of those who had paid to highlight them. Selen filmed herself watching, sniffling and with wet eyes.

“Well guys uh... I never spoke Misha or her kid personally but... she’s been supportin’ me for a long time and I’m really grateful for that. Checkin’ out her profile and man... she seemed like a decent girl. Much love to her friends and family, what happened was a tragedy man... I ain’t sayin’ I’m for any side or nothin’, but... we in America wishin’ y’all an end to the conflict soon. Chat, if y’all could donate to their crowdfund I’d greatly appreciate it. Her mom’s donatin’ it to the abuse shelter Misha worked at - great cause, we need more of that here. I’ll link it in chat. England! Stay strong!”

He kissed his hand, held it to the camera, and returned to his gaming schedule. The buzzing Kendi crowd, unable to fit around the tablet, feverishly poked at their devices to read his chat channel. Others made additions to the memorial table. First Chanel, who ripped a bunch of daffodils from the nearby flower bed. Selen waited for the coughing woman to leave and hid them behind the tabletop Turkish flag.

Then the children, Eva included, propped up a mural - a collage of sights in Cyprus, the Chinese naval base covered in glitter. Misha’s friends had clubbed together to spread the ashes traditionally: for those who had tried to emigrate, the urns were sent to their desired home and there scattered. Everyone took photos of the display, paid their respects to Selen, and dispersed.

Kasia found Sermon vaping on the lawn outside. She traipsed over to him, briefly enjoying the novel experience of grass under her feet.

“Go on then, tell us how you managed to wrangle KSI."

“Went through the Panther circuit didn't I,” he held his fist up, “the American chapter might have the wrong idea about what our skin’s sayin’, but anyone stuck with their situation is on the same page as us right?”

“Yea! It was a nice gesture of him.”

Sermon tutted and held his arms out, “but it is just that, ain’t it!? Yet another gesture... none of it means shit without results. We lost, Kash.”

“We did better than anyone else...” Kasia pouted in protest, “better than the police. And the Reds only showed up after we did, right?”

“Yea... Yea! I reckon you're right sista,” Sermon looked around and nodded. He found himself perking up, and saw a small figure running towards him.

“Uh oh! Here she comes look!”

Eva had ducked around Selen, not wanting to speak to her, and ran straight for Sermon.

“Uncle Serms! Introduce me to you new mate then! I’ll throw him some photos and get a ticket to ‘Murica.”

“You’ll be coming right back when they find out your background!” Kasia prodded Eva’s shoulder, “you should travel east moja córka!”

“Ah they’ll let her in,” Sermon brushed Kasia off with a hand wave and fist bumped Eva, “who could say no to a cute little singer with a sob story like yours ey?”

“Dayum straight! I just need Imany to coach me. Oi imagine if I had her voice and mamusia’s looks, I'd never leave the charts!”

Kasia laughed and swatted Eva’s shoulder, but Sermon was looking around them, his brow raised with concern.

“Yea where is the old bird anyway?”

Imany had used her old tricks well, slipping past the wardens despite reeking of alcohol and cigarettes, and watching the memorial from afar. Only when the crowd left did she sway over to the pavilion, after snapping a white lily out of the duck pond. Selen's nose wrinkled as Imany arrived, and she left her alone at the plinth.

It suited her. When they'd last spoken, Misha's mother had been contacting directors to make a film of the tragedy, minutes after Imany had killed a vagrant herself, over the bodies of two children that were not hers. It was costing her energy to resist tearing Selen apart here and now.

She placed the lily on the table, covering the tablet’s camera with its petal, and faced the urns with clenched fists. Footsteps, awkward and hesitant, shuffled toward her. She recognised them as Kasia's. Together they pondered in silence what might have been. Imany, if she had not fallen into the social trough, glued to the General’s speech as her community was ravaged. Kasia, if she had cared sooner; if she had connected to another single mother so close to her, beyond the superficial world of friendship.

“I tried to join up last night...” Imany’s voice croaked. Kasia frowned.

“You tried to join the Revolution?”

“No Kasia, not them. Something even more stupid than that. I learnt long ago that violence leads to violence; I shoulda known after you lot went in the tunnels it would come back to us…”

“We all missed it. It’s not your job alone to watch the whole estate.”

“Since when did you become such a therapist?” Imany scowled, “I got my medication. I saw the terrorist attack and I thought 'good on them'. Reds tryin’a rule the country but it’s the Vijis who put villains in the ground. I tried to contact them. No luck of course.”

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“I’m sure you’d make a great terrorist,” Kasia shrugged, “it woulda been nicer to have you on my side.”

“You’re goin’ red then?”

Kasia went to deny it, but she was fed up of doing so. She looked at the floor and nodded.

“Dear girl...” she gripped Kasia’s shoulder, “they’re gonna take everything from you.”

“No more than anyone else, and I might leaving something for Eva other than debt. Perhaps, for once, a reason to be proud.”

“Perhaps… I see your point... What a shame we’ve been given the choices we have.”

She took in the view of the surrounding park. Two characters headed towards them, blue and well dressed. Detectives. She pulled Kasia away with her, linking their arms. Kasia tried to pull free.

“I don’t think we should do that at a memorial-”

“Oh be quiet you frigid little cow... help a tipsy lady steady herself,” she shushed Kasia and led her to the exit where Selen wasn't, “no one in your damn generation touches each other, what do you think I have COVID?”

“No one in any generation touches. You just have no boundaries. Must be autistic or something...”

Imany growled.

“And I am not frigid,” said Kasia, “kurwa macz I get it whenever I want.”

“Pissin’ about in them nightclubs doesn’t count. When was the last time someone really romanced you?” she nuzzled her head into Kasia’s neck, “Katarzyna, my love-”

“Literally don’t start.”

They headed home, bickering about their rotten lives, enjoying each other’s company despite it.

Selen began boxing everything up. The turnout had been touching, and famous! It was more intimacy than she was used to. She was certain this was a story worth telling. Even the detectives were sincere, far removed from the corrupt mercenaries she saw online, both wracked with disappointment.

Now dusk had fallen, and she was alone. Left with the remains of her only family. It all hit her. Memories of her daughter, the sweet child whose energy earned cautionary but affectionate school reports; the earnest teen who chose a job of service over a chance for security; the social worker who allowed a user to take her, and for her naivete, leave her abandoned and pregnant. Selen had distanced herself to teach Misha a lesson: in this world, she would need to play it smarter and tough it out on her own.

All Selen’s lessons had given her were ashes. She had a list of people to blame - intended to go after them - but the finger was starting to point at herself.

Her lip trembled.

“I’m sorry Ms Abbas. Am I too late?”

She spun around. A striking figure watched her, patient, with hands gently clasped in front.

“Not at all!” she welcomed him into the pavilion, “Call me Selen.”

“Andrez,” he bowed his head. His face disarmed her, androgyne and ivory white, with coiffed black hair. Several social classes above anyone she met today. She bowed deeply.

“Oh goodness… Were you a friend of Misha’s?”

“I was at the scene of the crime. Medical response,” He stepped into the pavilion and swept his gaze around it, as if looking for something, “I’m deeply sorry for what occurred. To be left alone like this… People in your position, I find, start to question the choices they made. Perhaps they seek others to blame. I recommend you instead turn whatever you’ve done in the past towards good for others. What happened to Misha and Joey doesn’t need to happen to anyone else.”

His words left her stumped. Guilt churned inside until she choked on it. She needed to change the subject.

“Would you like a photo with them?”

“Thank you but no. ‘Professional boundaries’ is the term I get remind of.”

“Oh sure, the detectives said the same thing! I guess you spoke to them when… well, when everything happened.”

His eyes narrowed. A flicker of a smile.

“I like to check in on them now and then, they’re a good pair. As far as police go you might consider them a rare treat.”

His silver eyes searched Selen’s face, making her splutter into a giggle. She offered to give him a minute and stepped out of the pavilion.

Andrez ran a finger along the tablet and disabled it. His hands came to rest on the urns. His eyes drooped down until they closed.

This had never been his intention. And ever since, his nights had been full of anger. Surveillance always insisted on leaving vagrants be, always monitoring them for chances to exploit, but these Goldsmiths were due to push too far. He had a spy placed among them. As soon as the children were found it was time to go in - he would neither use traffickers nor leave them unmolested. A company of revolution soldiers - who were perfectly fine to exploit - happened to be nearby.

But they were sloppy and crude. They left the job incomplete. An amateur mistake, easy to expose and unworthy of a military force. Open for a revenge move. By the time the spy could warn him it was too late. He failed, and now the spy was revealed under his command too.

His head angled. His nails clawed the urns. His face darkened with pure contempt.

Time to move. He took a Lira from his suit pocket and flicked it onto the plinth. Checking the pavilion one final time, he stepped away.

Selen waited for him at the entrance with expectant eyes.

“So… how long have you been a paramedic?”

“Not a paramedic Ms Abbas,” he held his hand out, “I was the doctor.”

“Oh a handshake…” Selen took his hand and beamed, “god I can tell you’re not from round here. Or should that be ‘rand ‘ere’?.”

He gave her a closed but warm smile and left. Selen thought of offering him a friend request, but thought better of it.

Andrez thought of all the vagrants he had incinerated, and thought nothing was more appropriate.

* * *

Back on the estate, the residents moved on to the next concern: clearing up their ruined and powerless homes, still wrecked by the vagrant attack. They caught someone they weren’t expecting. The Landlord, expecting them to be away, was in inspecting their homes behind their backs. Only extreme circumstances brought her out in person, forever escorted by growling, petrol-fuelled 4x4’s.

In the grimy plaza of Kendi estate, Ali Hogarth practically glowed. Her body was surgically tuned to the molecular level, as the vicious cycle of wealth and beauty pushed the par for both upwards. And if the status quo changed, the Ali's of society changed their biology to meet it. Mixed-race was currently on top, as researchers found the Germanic ethnicities of the native English to be the least attractive demographic. Ali thus tempered her Western looks with just the right amount of melanin, brought her height down, and her curves out. It took a second for most to see in her something they’d never reach, and her social life was packed with adoration, resentment, and the pleasure of playing with someone who felt both. She knew to meet inferiority with security, and in a place like Brixton, surrounded herself with muscle.

Maintenance workers were clearing out the damaged properties when the locals came back. Before they could get to their landlord, Ali clicked her fingers at the suited middle manager and locked herself in the car. The crowd formed around the convoy, forcing the wary man to address them.

“We’ve cleared out the debris. Your properties are now habitable,” he pointed to the cables, “we weren’t entirely sure why this needed to happen? The power grid is the responsibility of the local council regardless, you will need to appoint legal aid to petition them on your behalf.”

“And ‘ow much will that cost?” Jason pressed into to the manager, who stepped back.

“Pricing tends to be discussed with the solicitors. I’m sorry, but it’s beyond my remit to advise there. For now it’s best you clear these cables, for your own safety.”

“You wan’ us ‘andlin them wires!?” said Chanel, “we pay service charge for the square, ain’t ‘ad nuffin’ don’ to it for years!”

The manager squinted to understand Chanel as her neighbours chattered in agreement. He adjusted his glasses.

“Regular flooding makes renovation to the garden and playground unfeasible, if you’d refer to our previous response on the matter. To make matters worse, we are under greater strain than ever given recent events. If the Revolution hadn’t-”

“Always blamin’ someone else!” Chanel stabbed his chest with a yellowed finger, “revolution this, viji tha’. You lot ‘ad excuses well before then - 'risin' costs' - why don’ you get tha’ silicon tart to come out o' and an’ remind us!?”

“Ms Hogarth appoints us managers to-”

“Gwarn’ den lav! Come ou’ ‘ere an’ ‘elp us clear up then!” Chanel pounded her fist on on the car’s tinted window - albeit the wrong one - and turned to the locals, “ahm gonna put one’a them wires up ‘er cun’.”

The crowd cheered and began filming in case she followed through with her threat. Security men packed around the car. The manager inched to its door.

“I think it would be best if we stop for today. For those of you with lost possessions, if you could email us proof of purchase by tomorrow midday, we’ll begin with insurance proceedings,” he smiled mechanically and closed himself away.

The convoy left the plaza spewing exhaust fumes. Emails to the affected residents declared their flats legally habitable, which they understood to mean liable for rent and service charge. They stood around the cables, fighting over who should deal with reconnecting them.

Kasia and Sermon left them to it. They had somewhere else to be.