The Piano Man Project Page 0,39

anything they could find. Mimi stood at one end, handcuffed to the bars with Nell’s pink fluffy cuffs, with Billy Bobbysocks on the other end of the line, lashed to the railings by various bras Honey recognised as stock from the lingerie bin in the charity shop. At least eight other residents were strung out along the footpath in-between Mimi and Bill, including Lucille, who’d chosen women’s support tights for her restraints, and Old Don, who’d fastened his wheelchair to the railings with his prized collection of men’s neckties and sat eating a cheese and onion sandwich out of tinfoil with a blanket over his knees.

There was nothing for it. She needed to go outside, this was likely to get nasty. Turning quickly, Honey made for the door, followed hotly by Patrick and the rest of the staff from the meeting.

Christopher emerged onto the pavement as Old Don’s son from the newspaper pulled up with his photographer buddy in tow.

‘No press!’ he shouted, waving his arms frantically at the car.

‘There’s nothing to see here, gentlemen. Kindly move along.’ Christopher adopted the tone of a community police support officer and tried to push the photographer’s door closed even though the guy already had one leg out of the car.

‘Out of my way, lanky,’ the photographer grinned, pushing the door wide and sending Christopher barrelling backwards onto his backside, much to the amusement of the quickly assembling crowd. He snapped off a quick shot before holding out a hand to help the other man up.

‘No hard feelings,’ he said jovially as Christopher ignored the proffered hand, brushed himself down and glared at him.

Honey stood beside Mimi, who was nearest to her, and leaned close.

‘You okay?’ she said, because after all, Mimi was in her eighties and currently handcuffed to the railings.

‘Never better!’ Mimi hooted, clearly in her element. She, along with all of the other protesters, wore long white t-shirts on which they’d written bright red slogans: ‘Save Our Home!’ or ‘Help! Homeless and Ninety!’ Old Don, still serenely eating his lunch, had his medals pinned proudly to his t-shirt.

‘When did you make all these?’ Honey gestured at their shirts, and the painted placards placed between the residents along the railings.

‘Oh, we’ve known this day was coming for a while, Honey. My generation lived through the war. We know a thing or two about preparing for the worst.’

At the far end of the line, Billy Bobbysocks had teamed his t-shirt with electric blue drainpipes and a bum-bag, and he’d rolled the sleeves of his shirt up until it resembled a vest, veteran rock star-style. His silver grey quiff stood prouder than ever as he led the group in a rousing rendition of ‘We Shall Not Be Moved’.

Christopher pranced along the pavement, every now and then trying his luck by attempting to unleash one of the residents from the railings, only to be met with a swift kick from a wooden leg or a feigned cry of ‘you’re hurting me!’ from one of the ladies before he’d so much as laid a finger on them.

Glowering, he puffed his chest out and tried a different approach. Beside the railings stood a large, low stone block bearing a plaque engraved with the name of the home, and he stepped up onto it to give himself an air of authority. For a few seconds it had the desired effect, and a hush fell over the now not-insubstantial gathering.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Christopher called, his back turned rudely towards the chained residents, holding his comb-over in place in the breeze. ‘I’m sorry for the disruption to all of your days, I realise how inconvenient this is for everyone,’ he said, gesturing towards the queue of traffic that had developed on the road. ‘The combined age of this group of people is over eight hundred. It’s a terrible shame, but I’m afraid they don’t know what they’re doing.’

A cacophony of boos and hisses followed his words, and Honey felt her blood start to boil at his dismissive tone.

‘Ms Jones,’ Christopher’s eyes picked her out in the crowd. ‘Kindly help me to unfasten these poor people at once. They’re confused, and lunch is on the table inside for them.’

‘Not while I’m oot here, laddy!’ shouted Patrick, his tomato-stained chef’s apron belted around his girth. The photographer snapped shots of the scene as Christopher carried on.

‘We’re not confused,’ Billy shouted. ‘We’re angry! This place is our home, and no one seems to care that we’re being thrown out!’

Christopher’s grin turned into