I used to work on the LIFFE floor, broking the FTSE future, though a mate of mine used to say I was breaking it. It made her laugh. Probably the strangest memory I’ve got of those times was not long before it all finished and we went to screens.

The May Day riots, they used to call them, though God knows why. I suppose there’s no point coming on a bank holiday to STOP THE CITY, but this particular demo happened on June 18^th. First we knew about it was the papers, saying a bunch of organised anarchists were targeting the City. You’ve got to giggle at that. Organised ones? I met Jase for breakfast that morning. He spat coffee everywhere and laughed so hard when he read this headline, and showed me. It was a Friday, dress-down day, and we both wondered how easy it’d be to tell the terrorists from the City traders.

Jase headed to his office and I went up towards Cannon Bridge. It was early, but I could tell even then that something was going to happen. I could smell trouble. I’d moved company not long before, and was working for a small French brokers. I didn’t like my new boss nearly as much as I’d liked my old one but I’d fucked that up and there was not much to be said about it, really. The new guy was called Philippe, and there was nothing wrong with him, he was just a bit dull. He was animated this morning though. Lots of oo-la-las and Gallic shrugs.

It was quiet that day. Fridays often were. The anarchists livened it up a bit, though. I went out mid-afternoon for a coffee, and people were dancing in the street. It was sunny, and there was a lot of music and smiling; it looked like my kind of scene and I was tempted to join them instead of going back to work.

When I came back in, Philippe sent me up to the office to do some admin. No wonder I didn’t like him. Our office was high in the building, and I watched the protestors having the time of their lives outside. Things started to get interesting. Two hippy types broke the fire hydrant in the street, then took their clothes off and were dancing around in the fountain it made. By now, colleagues of mine were piling into the offices around me to admire the view. They clamoured to get a look from the windows. I was leaning out and could see four or five police vans sat at the end of Cannon Bridge, looking menacing.

Nick was there, a bloke I’d worked with at UBF who we nicknamed Leeson after another rogue trader. He’d photocopied some twenty pound notes and was throwing them out of the window. Some people threw obscenities up at us and they got them right back. I noticed a couple of people lobbing bottles, and someone shouted that they were trying to get into our building, but I couldn't see that.

When I turned back towards the other end of the street, police in riot gear were emerging from the vans like ants, and heading up the road towards the crowd of hippies. The street below seemed to explode. I noticed an element I hadn’t seen before, louder, nastier. There were a bunch of skinheads throwing things and breaking windows. It was like they came out from hidey holes when they saw the police coming, ripe and ready and up for a fight. The street was filled with shouting now, and the rushing of the broken hydrant and glass being thrown and broken.

People around me were getting twitchy. Someone sent word up that the protestors had got into the building, but I don’t think any of us believed it. Most of the men headed downstairs, telling us to stay put. I ignored that, and walked with Nick back down to the trading floor. I wasn’t missing the action.

When you open the door and walk into the trading floor, usually, you’re hit by a boom of sound. Today it was different; there wasn’t much trading going on, though there was still a deal of noise. Locals and brokers were stood in groups, chatting. There was the smell I associate with the place, at its worse times, during nasty crashes that leave our screens sprayed red with the numbers that have gone down, so that it looks like there’s blood all over the room. It’s not an easy scent to pin down; sweat, tears, adrenaline, the smell of bodies under stress.

A couple of security guards came rushing into the room, shouting at us to stay back. Of course, they were ignored, and people ran past to find out what was happening. There were protestors coming up the escalators, waving sticks and bottles in the air. A couple of the projectiles came our way, but most of the invaders kept hold of their weapons. The Essex boys from the floor were baying for a fight, taking it turns to lose it and get ready to get stuck in, and holding back their mates saying ‘it’s not worth it’ and suggesting that our visitors ought to buy some soap. Close up, the anarchists did look unwashed, jagged at the edges.

Just as they made it to the turnstiles and were climbing over, a barrier started coming down. It was like the metal shutters they pull over shop windows at night. Most of the protesters were trapped the other side, though one or two had come through, and there was one poor guy trapped under the thing and trying to wriggle free. Anarchy suddenly didn’t seem such a good idea to the ones left on our side and they quietened right down and looked at the floor. There was lots of ribbing from the traders then, and one or two who walked right up to the unwashed blokes, menacing, but nothing proper kicked off.

The building was cleared of anarchists and we all went back to work. But not for long. The water from the burst hydrant was flooding the basement so trading was suspended. Stop the City, that’d been their plan. An early finish would normally be a bonus, but we weren’t allowed out of the building. We were barricaded in until nearly six O’clock.

When they finally let us out into the street, the scene looked like a bomb had gone off. Loads of broken windows. A car on the forecourt of the Mercedes Garage had been trashed and there was graffiti screaming CAPITALIST PIGS and FAT BASTARD CATS from every angle. There was this young lad with blond dreads pulling down a banner, tidying up. Jase had come to meet me, and he walked over to him.

‘What the fuck was this all about, then?’ he said.

The boy shrugged but Jase pressed him.

‘Well it’s about capitalism and all that, how it’s bleeding this country dry,’ Dreads told us. His voice was bought and paid for, Eton or Harrow, I’m guessing.

Jase grimaced at him. ‘Yeah, that’s about right. Keep hold-a mum and dad’s cash, eh?’ He looked like he might do something then, so I wrapped my hand under the crook of his elbow, gave him a gentle tug to move on. He stood giving the boy a hard stare first, though.

We were back in work Monday as usual. The windows were mended, there was a new Mercedes on the forecourt. All the graffiti had been cleaned away. They hadn’t stopped the City, they hadn’t dented it. They hadn’t even left a mark.  

Starfishing, published by Chatto & Windus, is out now, priced £11.99

www.nicolamonaghan.co.uk

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