Walking Alone: Free Liverpool and the Second British Civil War

3: Home

From the sky it seemed nothing had changed. We flew in over the Wirral peninsula – home to me – and it was as drizzly and patchwork green as the south had been. It was only when we banked over the Mersey estuary and Liverpool itself that I noticed anything different. There were plumes of smoke rising up from the city, right out to the hazy sea horizon, and there were grey gunships on the river itself, vectoring misty wakes.

Nobody said anything as we came in low over the houses and touched ground. The airport seemed normal enough and there were no announcements, certainly no clapping or good wishes for our onward journey. As we taxied in to the stand a man at the front stood up and, without a microphone, addressed us in a teacherly way.

"All right, I want you all to stay in your seats until you're told to move. We've arrived in Liverpool now but this is a disputed border. That means you'll be taken first through the UK border controls before being admitted to the disputed area. This might take some time so you're advised to be patient."

Through the window I suddenly noticed snarls of barbed wire, triangles, pyramids of the stuff, left on the edges of the nearest runways. Police and army vans were lined up on my side of our plane and uniformed, armed, masked soldiers were standing at the bottom of the steps as we drew in.

"All right, the front two rows, on your feet, please."

The doors were opened and the familiar, salty smell of earth and home blew into the cabin. It was cooler and more blustery outside than it looked from the cabin. Looking out again I saw some of the terminal windows were broken. There was an independence flag flying, torn and sad and wet, on the highest point of the building. Red and blue triangles.

"Next two rows, then, please."

Gradually they got down to where I was sitting and, when instructed to, I stood and made my way down the aisle. As I stood in the doorway, the estuary silver ahead of me, Wirral and home somewhere beyond in the rain, a firework or flare came fizzing down onto the tarmac where the passengers ahead of me were ducking into the wind on the way to the terminal. A second later there was a crack and a small explosion. We were all doused in smoke and as it rose up and over me I couldn't see anything. Almost immediately my eyes stung and my nose began to bleed and I felt as though I were choking. It was all so sudden and unexpected I could do little but fall down onto the wet, dirty silver steps and cover my face.

It was tear gas or pepper gas, I suppose. From who and aimed at who I don't know.

A policeman or soldier in a mask lifted me forcefully and dragged me, my legs kicking like a toddler's, to the terminal building where I was thrown inside. I landed on someone else, who screamed, but I couldn't even apologise. My mouth and throat didn't work. I felt like I was being choked, like my windpipe was constricting.

"That's the welcome you get from your own fucking kind!" I heard someone shout, a gruff London voice. "Remember that, you fucking idiots!"

Gradually, crawling on hands and knees, I could see again, see other people around me, recognise some of them from the flight. "What the fuck is going on?" I croaked.

Men and women were crying. The children looked terrified, pale and grey. I saw the man who'd been butted back in London and in his eyes I could see he had no real memory of what had happened. He must have been suffering the worst hangover of his life; a nightmare he couldn't wake up from.

"All right, move through 'ere, please, ladies and gents. Move, please!"

In another room we sat against the walls – there were no seats, just a rough felt floor, green – until we were called by name. My throat was burnt raw but I could breath, and I spent my time sniffing and wiping my nose with my sleeve. Red Cross workers had been allowed in and were treating people. My hearing came back slowly. When I closed my eyes I could see the red explosion on the steps – the Mersey glowing a moment lurid scarlet – hear again the outside poom and the inside my head whine. Now there was a faint buzzing in my ears. One was bleeding but had stopped. I blinked. Took water when it was offered. Spring water from the Welsh hills, the bottle said.