“Bring me that report you stupid, fat bitch.”
The office falls silent, bar the noise of the printer churning out papers. Pete looks like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have, which in fairness, he has. Yelling abuse across the open-plan is generally frowned upon, and Pete tends to be mild-mannered. Rachel, the object of his apparent ire, is trying not to cry. No-one knows what to do next; office etiquette teaches you to deal with requests for information you’ve already sent or a short discussion about the weather. Someone calling someone a stupid, fat bitch is uncharted territory.
People start to rally and Pete is told in no uncertain terms by multiple people that he’s out of order. Someone tells him he’s a misogynistic prick, and two people give him a sly pat on the back when they think no-one is looking. Rachel ignores everyone and returns to her desk.
People do seem to be acting weirdly today. I think back to my bus journey this morning. A commuter was playing something loudly through his phone and a passenger behind proclaimed, “it does my head in when people play videos out loud on their phone, it’s so rude.” She looked mortified, everyone voiced their agreement and the man turned his phone off. It was the first time I’d seen someone call out the behaviour in real life and I relished it, all the more so because it actually worked.
In the coffee queue, someone enthusiastically shouted “YES RED CUPS!” and that was weird but also, people get really into those red cups.
I try to get back to the report I was writing before Pete started breaking social conventions but there’s a weird hum of noise in the office that I hadn’t noticed earlier. The occasional word breaks through; ‘racist’ and ‘pathetic’ and ‘miserable’. It isn’t a happy hum.
My phone lights up with a news alert just as a Mexican wave of people murmuring “all eyes on Rafah” sweeps across the office. It’s like a switch has been flicked as people start to realise what’s going on.
“Why is everyone talking like they’re on social media?” My colleague Amy looks baffled. I look around the office as I realise she’s right. I haven’t been able to say a single useful thing all day, every word weighed and measured for fear of offending literally anyone; mostly I’ve spent the morning thrusting photos of my dog into people’s faces without really understanding why I’ve felt such a need.
Someone turns up the volume on their computer, the sombre tones of a BBC newsreader cutting through the hum.
“Officials have refused to comment this morning on reports of a form of mass hysteria that appears to be spreading across the globe. News agencies in countries including the UK, the United States, Australia, India and South Africa have reported sudden and widespread outbursts of aggression, leading in many places to violent disorder.”
The screen cuts to images in city centres not unlike the same scenes you’d see in the same centres at 2am on a Saturday, except it’s broad daylight, people are carrying cups of coffee and briefcases and backpacks, and those involved largely look like they haven’t had a 2am bar brawl in 30 years.
A reporter speaks to the camera, trying to ignore those behind her commenting on her clothes, her hair, her face, her body, her accent.
“The disturbances began this morning around 8am, with people reporting that they or those around them appeared unable to control their own words. Many have posed the theory that the issue is somehow linked to social media use, with some of those most heavily involved confirmed to be prolific social media users. The companies behind the largest social media channels have denied any involvement. The Government has refused to comment on what’s causing the issue, though they did say to us, “there is no place for violence or abusive language on our streets, and those who break the law will face serious consequences.””
We look around at each other, everyone looking as confused and incredulous as each other.
“It can’t actually be to do with social media though, can it?” Amy picks up her phone as she speaks to me, googling frantically. “I don’t even know how that would work. ALTHOUGH I have always said there is something very dangerous about a few rich men having that much access to everyone’s inner lives.”
Amy has always sworn off social media, beyond the obligatory Facebook account set up in the early days when it still looked like social media would be the great leveller. I haven’t seen her post anything on there for years.
I, meanwhile, threw myself in with great enthusiasm, but am with each passing second increasingly grateful that my various government jobs mean that my output has been limited to carefully balanced (some might say incredibly bland) opinions and pictures of dogs and sandwiches.
“You should see some of these theories.” Amy is scrolling through her phone, pausing here and there as things catch her attention. “Obviously loads of people think there were microchips in the covid jabs, and there’s a lot of stuff about 5G masts as well. Imagine if the conspiracy theorists were right and we should have been building bunkers this whole time.”
I can’t listen to the babble in the office anymore and escape outside where the hum of the office becomes more of a din. People narrate their lunch orders to no-one on the pavement, looking confusedly at their sandwiches as they do so. Others are shouting into their phones, a heady mix of passive aggression and actual aggression.
The atmosphere feels charged; you can feel how close things are to imploding as people try to balance their desire to keep on as normal with the panic of knowing that they and those around them are apparently incapable of keeping their thoughts to themselves.
A huge crash behind me breaks through the tension as everyone whirls around to see what’s happening. Two bodies lie in the road, while smoke rolls off a car now wedged partway into a Costa. A crowd is forming rapidly around them, phones held high in the air trying to film everything. A man jostles through for a better look, his face grotesquely satisfied as he surveys the scene.
“Good riddance” he smirks, jerking his head towards the young woman in a hijab in the road. “Probably planning to blow us all up anyway.”
The punch comes from nowhere, flattening the man who scrabbles around frantically looking for the culprit. Before he has a chance though, all hell breaks loose. It’s hard to tell who’s fighting who and for what but everyone is apparently a racist or a facist or a snowflake or trying to stop free speech, and those who aren’t punching each other are begging people to Be Kind, and trying to protect the bodies on the floor and pull people from the still-smouldering car, and and those who aren’t doing either of those things are filming everything on their phones or standing watching but resolutely Not Getting Involved.
I want to help but I’m scared of getting dragged into the fighting. I don’t like this about myself; I want to be one of those people fighting loudly and bravely for what they believe to be right. Instead I join those pleading from the sidelines for calm, saying enough to be clear I don’t approve of the abuse but not so much as to be accused of being part of any particular camp.
The police arrive and I move away rather than add to the circus that continues to build. But my walk back to work suggests that circus wasn’t the only one. The scenes from the news earlier have apparently been spreading, with fights and arguments spilling out of cafes and offices. It’s terrifying, as though everything we’ve all learned about coexisting has gone completely out of the window. Sirens wail from every direction and people either scurry around skirmishes trying to keep hidden, or throw themselves into the middle of them without pausing to find out what’s going on.
Back at the office, everyone is packing their things.
‘The Prime Minister’s called a state of emergency; apparently there are riots everywhere and there just aren’t enough police. They’re bringing in the army.” Amy fills me in on what I’ve missed in the last half hour.
“Because of how people are talking?!” I’ve seen what’s happening with my own eyes, but it still seems insane.
“I know. It doesn’t make sense though, why is it happening?! Maybe it is the 5G thing? Do they just need to turn off the towers? I have no idea how it works. Anyway, I’m going to try to get home before they shut everything down, or before everyone burns it down. Be safe ok?” Amy gives me a brief hug before leaving, her face grim.
I bring up the news coverage on my laptop. The Prime Minister stands in the House of Commons, Prime Minister’s Questions taken over by the emergency playing out around him. He’s trying to explain what’s happening but the jeering and heckling from the opposition is deafening, only matched by the wild support from his own side. The Speaker is trying to call order but her admonishments go unheard. Suddenly a bell starts clanging through the room and everyone falls silent. The Speaker takes her chance.
“I don’t know what’s happening, but it appears most of us in this room are incapable of listening to each other. I want everyone to leave; return to your offices, or your homes if it’s safe to do so. The Prime Minister and his Cabinet will remain here to give their statement for those at home looking to their Government for reassurance, the rest of us will do whatever is needed to help our constituents and get through whatever this is. Thank you colleagues.”
There is a stampede for the exit in the Commons while cabinet members crowd the PM. Advisors scurry around, passing memos and dashing off with their instructions. The PM nods at his deputy and steps up to the despatch box, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“It is clear that something unprecedented is taking place around the world today. I have been as shocked and appalled as everybody else watching these scenes play out, as cruel words lead to mindless violence. It goes without saying that I condemn all of those taking part in today’s disruption, and give my full support to our police forces in making sure that they feel the full force of the law.
“The same goes for those making violent threats, and those spewing racism, homophobia, transphobia and ableist slurs. Such behaviour has no place in our society.
“Our security and health services are working as I speak to identify the cause for what we’re seeing happen today. We are confident that it is affecting only those with certain social media accounts, and that it is linked to the content of those accounts. We have yet to ascertain how this is affecting behaviour, but I’m pleased to report that we have the full support of those who run our social media platforms.
“In the meantime, the state of emergency declared for the entirety of the United Kingdom means members of our armed forces will be deployed to support our police officers to keep the peace. Secondary schools and colleges will be closed at the end of the day, and all air, train and ferry journeys will stop as of 5pm. Those that do run until then will be supported by the armed forces. All hospitality will also close by 5pm. You should stay at home where you can, and we will do everything in our power to get things back to normal as quickly as possible.
“I understand that this feels extreme, and I agree. However, we have seen a complete breakdown in social norms over the last few hours, and violence is turning to rioting. Our emergency services are already stretched to capacity, and if we don’t get ahead of this, this Government has significant concerns for the safety and security of the entire country.”
I mute my laptop and sit back. The covid lockdowns at least came with some forewarning, and I can understand a virus. What even is this?
Pete walks past on the way to the door, shouting as he goes that this is government control and he’s going to burn the whole place to the ground. He at least has the decency to look like he knows I’m not the right audience as he barges out.
I shove my laptop in my bag as I try to check my route home. I have no idea if it’s even safe to get the bus home - my brain is wrestling with what was normal a few hours ago and the madness that’s unfolding. Not for the first time, I wonder if I am in fact in my own version of The Truman Show, and this is all a weird set up to drive ratings. I wonder if my reactions are interesting enough to keep people tuned in.
I decide to walk home; it’s a long way, but the idea of being stuck on a bus with a load of people who can’t restrain themselves feels terrifying. I spend the next 2 hours navigating my way around increasingly apocalyptic scenes, as those who are only ever waiting for an excuse take the opportunity to break all hell loose. The fist fights of the morning have become brawls and riots. Smouldering bikes are abandoned in broken piles next to flaming cars as their riders stagger, injured, nearby or run towards the chaos holding chains and iron bars aloft. I find myself ducking into doorways or crouching behind bins as fighting spills out in my path; I feel like I'm cosplaying a video game character, conscious this would be ridiculous if it wasn’t so urgent. How quickly you get used to keeping your eyes wide open, your steps quick, your route decisive. How quickly you stop trying to help the bodies in your path, and become absolutely single minded in your goal.
The world feels split between those of us trying to get out of the way and hoping for it all to blow over, and those speeding full throttle towards the brave new world they’ve been hoping for. Is this what revolution feels like?
I always assumed I’d be part of the revolution; I always assumed my version of ‘right’ would win. Those sewing division and hatred were loud online, but that’s where they stayed, in their echo chambers. Most people, when it comes down to it, are nice, or at least tolerant (aren’t they?) - even the ones who are outright racist online would only ever be polite to someone of another race in person. People’s online personas were never meant to make it offline.
I step around the gate, hanging from its hinges, to my building. The car park under the building is ablaze, and I’m thrown to the ground as it explodes, car after car bursting into pieces scattering flaming hot metal around me. My leg is skewered by an enormous shard, pinning me to the ground as I watch my building go up in flames.
I remember reading a quote a while ago that at the time felt encouraging. A Russian anarchist had said something about revolution not being carried out by the hopeless, because revolution itself was an act of hope. I remember thinking that that was exciting, that a revolution would take us out of the increasing division and misery and into something more loving and joyful. It never occurred to me that the other side had a different kind of hope, one that would let them take off their masks and bring their true selves into the real world.
Maybe this is how it was always going to go. Societies exist entirely on stories; once that story has splintered too many times, you’re only ever on borrowed time before a new story takes over.
My flatmates come running towards me, prising me from the ground as the shard sticking out of my leg twists agonisingly into my thigh. The last thing I see before I pass out is the face of my best friend, dragging me out of harm’s way (for now), and swearing blind that we will all fight the fascist bastards. I’m glad to hear it. It’s what I needed to hear.