by Leo McNeir
“Can you read what’s on the sticker?” said Estelle.
“Not from here.”
The cars began rolling forward, bringing them closer to the Mondeo. Marnie strained against the seatbelt, her chin over the steering wheel. Breathing out audibly with relief, she settled back in the seat.
“False alarm. It reads: Cricket – watch Yorkshire.”
“They’ve probably driven down from Bradford or somewhere for the match,” Estelle said.
They were now rolling steadily but slowly. There were crowds of people thronging the pavements on both sides, heading towards the town centre, nearly all of them men. It reminded her of the time she had ill-advisedly driven across north London on Cup Final day, through streets clogged by battalions of Arsenal and Manchester United fans. Staring at the cars beside her, she was aware that her interest was being returned. The passengers, white men this time, in a Peugeot that was slowly edging past them were smiling up at her. In normal circumstances she would have ignored their attentions, but wanting to create a friendlier atmosphere than she had managed so far in the town traffic, she smiled back briefly before returning to watching the road ahead.
“Did you see those men smiling at you, Marnie?” Anne asked from behind her.
“Yes. I thought it was an improvement on the drivers back at the traffic lights.”
“Take another look. They’re going past now.”
The Peugeot was picking up speed. Marnie glanced sideways. It looked clean and shiny, fairly new. Her gaze fell on the number-plate; sure enough, it was that year’s model. Then she spotted the rear bumper. In the middle, positioned with care and pride, was a sticker, the flag of the Confederate States of America, much loved by segregationists and the Ku Klux Klan.
“Great. So now I’m big buddies with the redneck right.”
At the next set of traffic lights Marnie made sure she did not over-run and rolled obediently to a stop in the front rank. The Peugeot had sped on its way, to her relief. Estelle closed her eyes again and leaned back. In the rear-view mirror Marnie could see Anne observing their surroundings with intense interest, her head turning from side to side.
”What is it, Anne?”
“Just looking.”
She was not just looking. Marnie followed her example, closely watching the people crossing the road. There was something about them. They were mostly walking in small groups, many with bags over their shoulders as if carrying provisions for a picnic. But this was no holiday crowd. The lights changed to red and amber, and Marnie eased forward. Initially the marchers showed no inclination to stop walking. Suddenly men were holding back the tide, spreading their arms at the kerbside, stopping others from continuing against the pedestrian red light.
“Oh God,” Marnie murmured.
In her mind she saw another crowd of pedestrians in another city, black leather jackets, black jeans, heavy boots, the banners of an army on the move. She remembered Leicester all those weeks ago on the day of the riots, the first time she had encountered the massed ranks of New Force heading into action.
Behind her, a horn sounded impatiently.
*
“There’s a parking space over there …” DCI Bartlett shifted in his seat. “If we can ever get round this corner.”
“Where, sir?” Cathy Lamb was at the wheel of the grey Cavalier. They had opted to travel together in one car.
“Where that van pulled out, behind the white estate car.”
“I see it. We’re stuck for the moment, sir, until the traffic moves forward.”
“This is where they were all coming,” Marriner observed. “Look at them. There must be hundreds.”
“Quite a few are families come for the fete,” said Lamb. “They’re not all troublemakers. I can see children in amongst them.”
Bartlett pointed. “I hope to God we’ve got reinforcements here. There are clusters of black youths down there. It’s only a matter of time before they make contact with the far-right mob.”
Even from their position at the end of the road, they could see that the main school site was already full to overflowing, with crowds extending into the side streets, and more and more people arriving by the second.
“Oh damn!” Marriner was shaking his head. “Just our luck. There’s another car coming up the road. It’s going to get that parking space.”
“I’ll pull up onto the pavement when we get off the main road, sarge. No-one’s going to give us a ticket.”
Bartlett groaned. “Typical.”
“What is, sir?” said Marriner.
“Don’t you recognise the car that’s pinching our space, dark blue Discovery? Haven’t you seen it somewhere before? Marnie Walker … I might’ve known it.”
*
Dorothy Vane-Henderson was telling her team of acolytes that she thought the turnout was encouraging. Serena, who had noted the large number of young white males on one side of the grounds and young blacks on the other, wondered if Mrs V-H inhabited a parallel universe. In her role as ‘prominent person’ she had just emerged from the school where she had changed, refreshed make-up and tidied her hair in the staff cloakroom in readiness for appearing at the microphone to perform the official opening.
Her concession to the informal ethos of modern times was that she was not wearing a hat or gloves. Serena had urged her to follow the dress code appropriate to the occasion, which she described as ‘cool casual’. Mrs V-H stood ready for action in a pale blue summer dress with a Liberty floral pattern and a single row of pearls. Beside her, Serena waited wearing a loose silk tunic comprising a scooped top and flared trousers in the shade of cream that made her skin glow.
Marnie, Estelle and Anne pushed their way through the crowd and were admitted into the cordoned-off enclosure by the scouts who required no official badges to recognise the trio.
“It’s going to be a big success.” Dorothy beamed at them. Her eyes fell on Estelle, and she touched her arm. “So brave of you to be here, my dear. Stiff upper lip.”
Serena was studying the crowd. “It’s certainly a big turn-out. Let’s just hope they’re holidaymakers out for some harmless fun. We could do with a break.”
“Something else gone wrong?” asked Marnie.
Serena rolled her eyes discreetly towards Dorothy. “We’ve had a slight altercation with some of our younger friends. They weren’t allowed to install a DJ with reggae music, so they walked out in a huff.”
Marnie pulled a face. “No chance of getting them back?”
“It was all my fault,” Dorothy interjected. “I was too bound up in sorting out the last-minute details. I wish we could persuade them somehow to return to the fold.”
Anne suddenly stood up on tip-toe, staring into the distance. “I can see Otis and Louis. They’re over there near the shop. There’s a bunch of them.”
“Is Winston there?” said Dorothy.
“Yes, and Rodney, and a few others.”
Dorothy sighed, looking at her watch.
“When do you open the fete?” said Marnie.
“At noon. Ten minutes.”
“Otis has got his ghetto-blaster, “said Anne. “I bet he’d do his stuff if we asked him. Shall I go and see?”
“What do you think, Marnie?” Dorothy took her arm. “I always think a band goes down well at the start, creates the right sort of atmosphere. Perhaps we could have the, er, reggae music, is it called? … once the fete is in full swing, to jazz it up a little. Wouldn’t that be a good compromise?”
“I suppose so, especially as you’ve got the band in place now.”
Marnie turned to Anne. But Anne had gone, threading her way through the crowd, that was growing increasingly impatient and uncomfortable in the hot sun.
Marnie felt uneasy. “Estelle, did you see where Anne went? She was standing beside you a moment ago.”
Estelle looked as if she was finding it hard to focus. “What? Oh, I think she muttered something and went off to see somebody.” She breathed in deeply. “Lo
ok, is there anywhere I can go for a breather? I’m feeling a bit –”
“Have a seat over there, dear,” said Dorothy. “Jackie, take Estelle and sit her down by the information desk.” She lowered her voice. “She’s a bit peaky, hardly surprising. She’s putting up a very brave front.”
Meanwhile, Marnie was scanning the multitude and thought she caught sight of Anne’s blonde head in the distance, making slow progress towards the black boys. Unaware of her approach, they were moving along the pavement away from her. Marnie was far from reassured at locating Anne, who was nearing a group of young white men with closely shaven heads and black T-shirts.
*
Cathy Lamb made the turn into the side street and eased the Cavalier between the pedestrians walking on the road. Like everyone else, she was only inching forward and trying to contain her impatience.
“Try not to kill more than about a dozen, Cathy,” Marriner said cheerily. “It looks bad when you file your report, spoils the Chief Constable’s statistics.”
“Women and children first, sarge?” Cathy replied.
“Just park the bloody car.” Bartlett was fuming in the back. “We can save the double act for the Christmas party, assuming we survive that long.”
“Yes, sir.” Cathy would have rolled her eyes, but she knew Bartlett could see them in the rear-view mirror.
Trying not to alarm the crowd, she opened the window, attached the blue lamp to the roof and signalled her intention to ease the car onto the pavement. The throng parted at the sight of the flashing police lamp, and she was able to bump up the kerb to bring the car to a halt with two wheels on the edge.
“Good thinking,” said Bartlett. “But don’t leave the lamp on the roof. Some yob’s bound to pinch it as a trophy.”
When they were out of the car, Bartlett decided they would stay together as a group, working their way to the back of the crowd so as to gain the best view of the whole proceedings. Initially they made good progress, with people knowing they were police officers giving them room to pass. But within a minute they were absorbed into the mass and had to fend for themselves, each of them wishing they were wearing lighter clothing.
*
Anne had the impression that the further she penetrated into the crowd, the further away the black boys were going. Otis had the ghetto-blaster on his shoulder, and it was a good marker to aim at, but it seemed to be receding at a quicker rate than she could manage. Desperate measures, she decided. The aim was to get to the boys, not make friends with the crowd. There was nothing for it but to put her head down and barge through. For the first few steps it worked well and the mass parted. But when she raised her head to check on range and bearings, she had a surprise. It was like wading into a pack of alligators. On lunch break. The faces glaring at her showed real hatred, that turned to curiosity and finally recognition.
“Goin’ somewhere? In a hurry are yer?”
They closed ranks around her. Too terrified to speak, she looked from one to another. Skinheads all, in black T-shirts and heavy boots. She could smell their sweat and wondered if they could smell her fear. She had butted her way into the centre of a New Force gang.
“Where’s your boyfriend, nigger-lover?” A low, ugly growl.
“I don’t know what you mean.” It was a lame reply, but the best she could do.
“We done ’im in, din’t we?” Another snarling voice.
“Shut up!” the first one snapped.
Anne tried arrogance. “Excuse me, I want to get past.”
Arrogance was obviously not flavour of the month. Two of the thugs grabbed her elbows, their fingers digging into the bones so that she gasped in agony. Why wasn’t anybody helping her out of this mess? The people nearest to the group were pressing forward, no-one paying attention to the undesirables who had formed into a bunch at the back of the crowd. Anne took a deep breath to scream blue bloody murder, but a hand clamped itself over her mouth, an odour like engine grease filling her nostrils, rough fingers tightly pinching her narrow jaw. All her upper body was contorted with pain. She wanted to bite the hand, but moving her mouth was impossible. Tears came into her eyes. Her head was going to explode.
*
Marnie was feeling highly uneasy. Anne had been gone for several minutes and had not been seen since she plunged into the crowd. Greg Roberts was showing Dorothy Vane-Henderson which button to press on the microphone to make it work. Behind them, Estelle was sitting by the information desk looking blank and desolate. Serena was twitching with impatience, her breath a series of short audible exhalations. She took Mrs V-H by the elbow.
“Dorothy, why don’t we get started now? It’s near enough time. What are you waiting for, the noonday gun?”
Dorothy looked at her watch and sighed. “Oh well, yes, I suppose it is almost time.”
“And it is very hot,” Serena added.
Dorothy turned to the scout master. “Everything clear, Greg? When I finish my speech of welcome, I’ll nod in your direction and you’ll get the band to strike up. Okay?”
“Fine.”
“Good. Then let’s get started.”
Dorothy stepped up to the microphone. There was a short whistle from the loudspeakers that quietened the spectators. Heads craned forward to see who was going to speak. A rumour had been running through the crowd that the fete was to be opened by a star from a television soap opera, and a frisson of disappointment rippled across the playground as Dorothy stood at the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, and children of course, welcome to the Garfield summer fete. It is a pleasure to see you all here on this beautiful day. Thank you so much for coming. Before I declare the fete open, I would like to thank my fellow committee-members for all their …”
Dorothy droned on in predictable fashion. Serena nudged Marnie and spoke softly into her ear.
“Did you see that? Right over there at the back near the corner shop, some sort of disturbance. Police were involved.”
A police van was parked near the corner, and Marnie could see blue uniforms around it. Beyond the sound from the loudspeakers she thought she could hear the wail of an ambulance approaching. Her stomach turned over in panic. Where the hell was Anne?
Dorothy was in full swing.
“… and without their tireless dedication, none of this would have been possible …”
Serena stood on tip-toe. “Look, Marnie, over there.”
“Is it Anne?”
“No, but I can see that ghetto-blaster. That’s where she was going, right? To get the boys back.”
Marnie frowned. “But they weren’t right over there. Oh God.”
“What?”
“She was heading towards the back where the police are.”
*
They began dragging her away, and still no-one seemed to take the slightest notice. In the middle of the gang she was probably invisible to the outside world.
“You’re not gettin’ away this time, bitch. We got plans for you.”
Anne knew that round the corner was an alleyway. Once they got her into it, she had no chance of getting out in one piece. She made a huge effort to wrench herself free. Result: the hand squeezed tighter round her face, the fingers dug deeper into her arms, a fist crashed into her stomach. She almost gagged as the breath was knocked out of her body.
For a second the grip over her mouth loosened as reflexes made her double up, retching and gasping, vision blurred, her head spinning. Close to collapse, instinct told her to fight for survival. She yelled, but the sound was cut off by the hand tightening again. She was certain that to feel more pain was impossible. She was wrong. From behind, a hand gripped the back of her neck like the pincers of a giant crab. It squeezed. Her whole body went rigid. A bolt of lightning flashed up and down her spine, and blinding lights exploded in her head. She was on the brink of passing out, all resistance crushed. Whatever they had in mind for her, it was going to happen.
Bizarrely she saw the face of Donovan floating in the air, he
ard the crack of a pistol, smelled cordite, saw blood spurting. But she knew it was an illusion, knew for certain that he had suffered the same fate they were planning for her. Probably with one slight difference; being a girl offered an extra dimension. She did not care any more, no longer inhabited her body but was merely a spectator. Vision returned. They had almost reached the corner. Two minutes at most and they would be in the alleyway. At the turning they stopped. Some kind of blockage was barring the way. For a millisecond Anne hoped for an intervention that would save her. Too bad. She heard a woman’s voice somewhere in another world.
“Stop that!”
“Sod off!” A hand brushed the woman aside as if swotting a fly. Light reflected from a knife blade.
Anne prayed the woman would have the sense to get out of their way. It was too late to help her now. Over the shoulders of the gang she could see the top of her head. The grip on Anne’s mouth and arms eased at this new distraction. The ringleader turned his attention on the woman, who was trying to help when everyone else passed by. The situation called for a do-or-die effort. Anne arched her back and kicked out with both feet, trying to hit the ringleader in the back and at least give the woman time to get away. She missed. But one foot caught him in the back of the knee, and he went down off balance, listing to one side, performing a strange bob-curtsy. At that moment the woman raised her arm in a curious Nazi-style salute. But the hand kept moving, rigid and fast, straight fingers flying like a rocket till they connected with the gang leader’s exposed throat. His eyes bulged, mouth opened and his tongue spilled out with a croaking sound. He pitched forward and fell to his knees out of Anne’s sight. There was an ominous crack as his head struck the pavement.
“Police!” yelled the woman.
“Where?” said the thug nearest to her, releasing Anne’s mouth to grab at the attacker.
