Four Degrees More

“
My bedroom fell into the sea last year. … That’s
my
bedroom. Reduced to an
Oops!
moment on an environmental disaster DVD.

Still, there’s nothing we can do about something as big as global warming, is there? We might as well just sit back and enjoy the sunshine – and the clip – one more time.

Wrong. I
can
do something.
”

East Anglia Reporter: Collapse of the house on the edge

BBC News: The real cost of global warming

My bedroom fell into the sea last year. I was watching on a safe part of the cliff, when the bit under my room gave way and ripped my house apart. A zigzag gash in the
brickwork opened wider and wider. Wood splintered like breaking bones and my bedroom separated from the rest. Strips of wallpaper flapped around, plaster cracked into pieces, and the whole lot tumbled down the cliff. By the time it splashed into the North Sea, it looked like a smashed bird’s nest. I remember my wardrobe door bobbing around on the waves, before I stomped away in a strop and kicked the four-by-four parked in the lay-by.

I wasn’t the only one who saw my home break up. Someone filmed it on a mobile phone and sold the footage to the television people. It got played over and over again on the news. One moment, my room was perched on the edge of the cliff. The next, some of it was floating and the rest was sinking in an angry sea. I suppose that made my bedroom the most famous room in
the country for a while.

I was thirteen at the time, and how did it make me feel? Never mind the sea being angry. It wasn’t as angry as me. Angry is too small a word for how I felt. My brain boiled. I blamed the sea for being too rough. I blamed the wind and tide for turning each wave into a battering ram. I blamed the East Anglia cliffs for being too crumbly. But the telly news called it the real cost of global warming.

I did an environmental project at school. A few minutes on the internet told me that the TV got it right. It told me global warming was to blame for rising sea levels, stronger storms and coastal erosion. It also told me
who
to blame: oil and power companies, big business, the government, car drivers and air travellers, anybody with central heating and light bulbs and TVs
and computers and every sort of plug-in electrical gadget. It was a very long list of anyone who uses energy. Really, it’s people who are to blame for my bedroom taking that dive. But particularly, people in transport and power, who burn fuel and pump out carbon dioxide like there’s no tomorrow. Made me glad I’d put a dent in that four-by-four.

It wasn’t just a house that broke up. My family fell to pieces as well. I’m not blaming climate change for Dad walking out on us. That’d be silly. I guess it was the stress of living on the edge. By the time we had to move away from Happisburgh, Mum and Dad were at each other’s throats all the time. Another gash had opened wider and wider.

Now, a year later, I live in Ipswich with
Mum and my old bedroom’s not so famous. I still see it collapse sometimes, though. I can close my eyes and replay every detail, but that’s not what I mean. Documentaries on global warming give it an airing now and again. Usually, it’s a slow-motion replay – a slow slide into the sea. It’s on the GreenWatch website as well.

I’m never mentioned. No one ever says, ‘Poor Leyton Curry. There goes his bedroom.’ No one ever says, ‘I wonder what Leyton thinks about his personal space becoming a public display.’ To them, it’s just bricks, mortar and wood tumbling down. It’s funny. Maybe scary as well. No one ever asked my permission to use my room as proof that the country’s changing in a big way.

It’s like when a goalkeeper makes a howler and the goal gets shown again and
again. It gets lots of hits on YouTube and appears on a DVD of the most embarrassing things ever in football. That’s my bedroom. Reduced to an
Oops!
moment on an environmental disaster DVD.

Still, there’s nothing we can do about something as big as global warming, is there? We might as well just sit back and enjoy the sunshine – and the clip – one more time.

Wrong. I can do something.

ITV News: Terrorist threat causes Stansted chaos

East Anglia Reporter: The Cooler strikes again

I’m a one-person campaign. I can’t walk past a four-by-four or a dirty great lorry without letting its tyres down. One in the back of the net for the environment. And it
was me who did the graffiti at the airport, power plant and petrol station. I phoned a bomb threat to Stansted airport as well. ‘Stop polluting the skies or the bomb goes off.’ That worked a treat. The place went into meltdown for twenty-four hours.

When I was little, I always said I was going to be famous. Well, I was right. I’m headline news now. It’s a bit much for the telly to call me a terrorist, though. I’m one of the good guys, trying to save the planet. That makes me the opposite of a terrorist. The local newspaper gets it right. They call me the Cooler. Get it? Someone who fights warming is a cooler. Not bad. And definitely not a terrorist.

I let rip about carbon dioxide and climate change at school, but no one knew I was the Cooler. I didn’t let on until I couldn’t keep it to myself any more. When I told my
mate Keir, he looked at me with his mouth open.

‘You? The Cooler?’

‘Yes. Because of my bedroom. Because some whole islands are going to go underwater. They’ll be wiped off the map.’

Keir shook his head.

‘They’re miles away. Nothing to do with us. Anyhow, I’ve said this before. You can’t prove anything. Global warming might be down to cows farting and belching. And the sun getting hotter.’

‘No chance,’ I replied. ‘It’s us. I mean, adults. It’s the way we live. Burning too much petrol and stuff.’

‘But the Cooler’s going a bit far. What does your mum say?’

‘She doesn’t know. But she’d be up for it. She went on all sorts of protests when she was young. Still does. Nuclear weapons,
animal rights and stuff. She’s always out marching for this and that. Tonight it’s poverty, I think.’

‘There’s a bloke on a bike over there, watching you,’ said Keir.

‘What? Where?’

The man was on the other side of the road, outside the shops. Probably in his twenties. And, yes, he might’ve been looking at me. But he might not. Just in case, I gave him the finger and walked away.

Keir followed me, laughing.

‘Even if you’re right about the planet warming up, one boy with a spray-can doesn’t add up to anything.’

‘I know. But someone’s got to take a lead and show the way. That’s my job.’ I flexed my muscles and puffed out my chest. ‘The Cooler. But I’m not the only one really. 

There’s the GreenWatch people. They chained themselves to the gates of the oil refinery. And some of them were camped outside the power plant when I gave it a fresh coat of paint.’

‘Big deal,’ Keir muttered. ‘The cops took them away.’

I looked behind me, but couldn’t see the strange cyclist. ‘I’m thinking of doing the oil refinery myself.’

‘Doing? What do you mean?’

I tapped the side of my nose. ‘That would be telling.’

Mum was out at one of her endless protest meetings. I changed into black clothes, waited until after midnight, and then sneaked out of the house. Grabbing the wire-cutters from the garage, I set out on the Cooler’s next mission.

It couldn’t be that difficult to avoid the oil refinery’s security cameras and snip a way into the works through the wire fence. I knew what the place was like on the inside, because I’d seen it on telly. It was a tangle of pipes and tanks – like a climbing frame for giants. The oil in the pipes was controlled by those big valves with steering wheels on top. I reckoned I could screw the whole thing up if I closed a few taps that were open and opened a few that were closed. Simple.

Our housing estate was right at the edge of the massive oil refinery. Not a great view and not a nice smell for people like me, Keir and plenty more from school. Good cover for the Cooler, though. Peering round one house, I checked out the road. It was quiet and empty. But not dark. The factory’s floodlights made the place look like a
football stadium in winter. But I didn’t want an audience for my little game. I’d be in deep trouble if someone spotted me. I carried on creeping through the estate.

I found what I wanted about half a mile further on. Thanks to a broken light bulb or whatever, one floodlight wasn’t working. Below it, the wire fence was in the dark. It wasn’t completely black, but that was okay because I had to see what I was doing. Hoping that any CCTV cameras wouldn’t be able to make me out in the shadows, I dashed across the road and up the sloping verge. Kneeling by the fence, I grasped the wire-cutters in a sweaty right hand. I was about to snip the first diamond-shape when it struck me that the fence could be electrified.

No. Surely not. I’d never seen signs warning people to keep their dogs and babies away.

Squeezing the handle, the cutters made a satisfying click as the wire at the bottom snapped. And I wasn’t electrocuted. Far from stopping my heart, my vandalism was making it pound like crazy. Great stuff.

Another few seconds and two more snips. I reckoned I’d have to clip away for a minute before I could make a gap big enough to crawl through. I was concentrating on what I was doing, but I was also listening for cars, voices or alarms going off. There was nothing.

I wasn’t going to chop out a complete hole. That wouldn’t have been clever. I just needed to cut enough to bend the wire back to make a door. Then, after I’d got through, I could fold it back into place. Anyone passing would’ve probably seen a hole but I doubted that they’d notice a slit.

When I thought I’d cut far enough up
from the ground, I started going across. Only a few more snips and I’d be able to bend the netting inwards. But I wasn’t quick enough.

I don’t know exactly what told me – maybe a footstep, or the sound of a breath – but I knew someone was behind me. Spinning round, I saw two men. They didn’t look like security or police. No uniform.

The one on the right looked familiar. He whispered, ‘That’s not a good idea right now.’

‘What?’ I exclaimed.

‘Keep your voice down. Come on. Come with us.’

‘What?’ I repeated, this time in a hush.

‘Forget what you’re about to do.’

‘You’ve got to be – Who are you?’

‘WHOOP.’

‘What?’ I said for the third time, getting
up off my knees and holding the wire-cutters out like a knife.

The man sighed impatiently. ‘It stands for We Have Only One Planet. We’re the people who run the GreenWatch website.’

‘How did you know I was – ’

Interrupting, he said, ‘We were protesting at the power plant when you did your bit of graffiti. Ever since, we’ve been … keeping an eye on you.’

‘Following me!’ Lowering my voice again, I muttered, ‘You’re the bloke on the bike.’

‘My name’s Robin.’ He glanced up and down the road. ‘It’s time to go.’

‘Are you going to bundle me into the back of a car?’

Robin smiled.

‘We wouldn’t be very green if we went around in cars kidnapping people, would we? We just want you to come and have a
chat with Beth.’

‘Beth?’

He nodded.

‘We admire what you’re doing here, but it’s just a prank really.’

‘How do you know what I’m going to do?’

‘Look. We’re planning something much bigger, and what you’re doing will mess it up. There’s a good time to use your hole in the fence, but it’s not now. Come and talk to Beth.’

At last, the second man spoke.

‘This way,’ he said quietly, turning his back and making for downtown.