Beer bottles rained from the sky and exploded like grenades on the concrete. I clung to the courtyard walls, edging towards the exit. I wanted to get out before the police came. I was in Brixton and in the building above me raged an eviction party; squatters were being forced out by the council and in retaliation, the building was being ripped limb from limb; trashing it was the only thing left they could do. The fight to stay in Clifton Mansions had been lost.
Four years later, I stand outside the same building which has since been turned into flats. The same courtyard is segregated from the street by metal gates, they are always closed and painted in a colour that’s not-quite-black, not-quite-grey. You would never guess this building was once a battleground, where squatters barricaded the entrance to keep out the police.
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