by Leo McNeir
The situation was growing uglier by the minute, but Bartlett feared further escalation. It was not long in coming. They had seen it all before, and no-one was surprised.
New Force retreated from the police line and this time as they turned, more missiles arced through the air. Marnie gripped Anne round the shoulders and held her close as if worried that she might slip away again and never return. Serena raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, tracking the new missiles on their flight path. These ones looked distinct from the others. They had a different shape and seemed to flicker in their trajectory.
“Oh no.” Marnie recognised them at once.
“What are they?” said Serena.
“Molotov cocktails,” Marnie muttered. “Petrol bombs.”
The crowd on the anti-Nazi side cried out in fear, and there was a rush to avoid the new threat, like crops blown about by a sudden storm. Petrol bombs landed among them, with a sound of breaking glass, exploding into flame. People stumbled and fell in their haste to get clear. The smell of burning fuel drifted on the air.
“Chief Inspector!” Dorothy Vane-Henderson, punctilious as ever. “Chief Inspector, where are your reinforcements?”
Bartlett’s eyes strayed to the small band of late arrivals who were joining the wall with the rest of their colleagues. Dorothy’s outrage subsided.
“That’s it?” she said in disbelief. “Those skinny boys?”
Bartlett nodded.
Mrs V-H glared at him. “Should I speak to the Chief Constable?”
“He knows.”
Serena grabbed Bartlett’s sleeve. “The loudspeaker system’s still working. I could appeal to our side to withdraw before it’s too late.”
Bartlett wondered briefly who our side were. Meanwhile more petrol bombs were in flight. The reply was a volley of bricks and stones from, presumably, our side.
“You don’t think it’s too late already?” he said.
*
The TV camera operator zoomed out. Having missed a shot of the petrol bombs flying through the air, she went for a wide angle to give the general picture. It made spectacular viewing: multiple fires, the surging crowd, flames and smoke, shouts and screams. And all the while, the menacing low chanting from the aggressors.
The anti-Nazi side – BAN – were impressive. They had expected fire bombs and dodged them without panicking. The operator zoomed in through the flames, group shots with the telephoto lens, making it appear that they were practically engulfed in the fire.
New Force were impressive too. She had seen riots before, but this bunch, for all their rag-tag appearance, knew what they were doing. Football hooligans just charged about at random. New Force were different. They had a guiding vision, moving from one tactic to another. At that point they were raising the stakes, no longer charging the police cordon, leaving just enough in the front line to maintain position, while the petrol bombers lobbed over their heads from the rear.
The radio reporter was giving a continuous commentary from the shelter of the raised camera platform. The operator pulled smoothly out to wide angle, locked it there and looked down at her assistant, standing behind her holding the cables. She signalled a question: could they get closer in on the action? He looked horrified and raised his middle finger. A petrol bomb exploded barely five metres from their position. The assistant tapped his forehead. She had to agree.
Returning to the job in hand, she bent towards the viewfinder and panned across the whole scene, hunting for the best images. Away over by the school entrance there seemed to be an animated discussion involving the police and the fete organisers. She lingered on the group for about ten seconds before focusing on one solitary figure, a woman she did not recognise, who had been standing with her back to the wall and who, while the camera was trained in that direction, slid down the wall to the ground. The operator twisted the grip and zoomed in, carefully keeping the woman in focus, sitting with head bent to her knees, a picture of defeat and dejection. The editor would use that. The human angle.
*
From the corner of her eye Marnie saw that Estelle had slumped to the ground. She went over and knelt beside her, putting an arm on her shoulder. That image would be seen in a million homes in the evening’s regional news programme. It would feature in newspaper reports all over the country. Compassion in the midst of conflict.
Anne knelt on the other side, her mind filled with anxiety. She turned to look towards the riot and had the first inkling of what was going to happen. It was inevitable. Only two people at the scene of the battle knew how it was going to end, and she was one of them.
*
The sound engineer had set up a microphone to catch wild sound, background to the recorded images. The camera operator was enjoying the freedom to select the pictures and the angles and was sending a continuous stream of clear steady images. Because of the deaths of Brandon and Luther the event was going out live like a major sporting occasion.
As another clutch of petrol bombs rained down on the anti-Nazi ranks, an angry cry went up. The operator panned slowly across the scene. She had been concentrating for some minutes on New Force, capturing the group at the rear preparing the incendiary missiles – petrol-filled milk bottles – using lighters to ignite fuel-soaked rags tied round the neck, the classic Molotov cocktail, that could knock out a tank at close quarters.
The scene gradually changed as the operator slowly brought the panning shot to a halt. Pleased that there had been no juddering to spoil the image, she snatched a glance over the top of the camera to select her next view like a gunner looking for a new target. The best prospect was where two or three ‘bombs’ had fallen close together. This new tactic had caused near-panic among their opponents, who stumbled into one another trying to avoid the flames. What next? the camera operator asked herself.
Pulling in to give a closer grouping, she looked for a reaction shot from the crowd. One man tripped and went down, rising a moment later with blood pouring from a gashed hand. By now there was broken glass from the bottles all over the ground. The injured man was hustled away by his comrades, tracked by the watchful camera.
The operator wanted a smooth transition to a new subject, and a movement beyond the wounded man caught her attention. At first she was disappointed. The response to the latest assault seemed to be nothing more than the unfurling of new banners. But as she studied the action, she looked again. Could it be? She zoomed in tighter, but too many bodies were blocking her view. Although the picture was not as good as she would have wished, she kept the camera aimed at the same part of the crowd, just in case.
She wanted to be sure her eyes had not deceived her.
*
“I am not going to give in to intimidation!” Dorothy was defiant. “It would be the worst possible signal to those … barbarians.”
Bartlett was trying to persuade the organisers to leave the scene and take refuge in the school with the families. Dorothy was appealing for someone with a motor-cycle to take her to see the Chief Constable at once.
“Mrs Frightfully-Frightfully is back in Winston Churchill mode again,” Anne observed neutrally.
Marnie glanced up from Estelle. “God help us.”
“I wish He would.”
“Don’t count on it.”
In an effort to appease Mrs V-H, Bartlett took out his mobile and pressed the buttons to redial the last caller. He asked for the Chief Constable, which at least succeeded in getting Dorothy’s full attention. While he waited to be connected, a group of scouts arrived with the man whose hand was bleeding profusely. On Greg’s instructions they took him into the school for treatment.
Dorothy gave them the name of the W.I. member trained in first aid, but would not leave Bartlett’s side. He half expected her to make a grab at the phone.
When he was finally put through, Bartlett began by telling his chief he feared a bloodbath. It was a good start. Dorothy clearly approved. She hovered over him while he rattled off his assessment of the situati
on. As he spoke, more bombs were bursting in the playground and in the street. Bartlett’s report was brief, pithy and relied heavily on Anglo-Saxon. He ended with: “It’s only a matter of time before we’ll have people frying down here.” Dorothy liked that.
Bartlett listened to the Chief Constable’s reply, raised his eyebrows and disconnected.
“Well?” said Dorothy. Her tone made it clear that backing down was not an option.
Bartlett looked bemused.
“Well?” she repeated, more loudly.
“Well,” he began. “I’ve never heard the Chief Constable blaspheme before, him, a Methodist lay preacher and all.”
“Hardly surprising,” said Dorothy.
“Really?”
“I don’t suppose he’s ever had one of his subordinates tell him to get off his arse and do something before.”
Bartlett blinked. He had surprised himself.
Marnie came over and joined them, leaving Anne with Estelle. “So when does the Seventh Cavalry arrive?”
“That depends,” said Bartlett, “on how keen they are to reach the Little Big Horn, assuming they can get through.”
More petrol bombs. The prospect of more casualties.
Bartlett grimaced. “It looks like Enoch Powell could be proved right, after all.”
*
It was a few minutes later when they noticed the music had stopped abruptly. Anne leapt to her feet and scanned the crowd. She was still craning her neck when Otis was carried into their midst. He had been hit by a brick and was barely conscious. His clothes showed signs of burning.
“Oh you silly boy,” she said as gently as she could. “I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen to me.”
He attempted to focus on her. “My ghetto-blaster …” he murmured.
Anne wiped blood from his eyebrows and shook her head wearily. Greg moved in.
“He needs attention, Anne. You can talk to him later.”
She touched Otis lightly on the cheek and stepped aside.
“Your lads are going to be busy,” she said.
Greg pointed the way, and the scouts took Otis off to be patched up. “Yes, well, we’re not equipped to cope with a full-scale battle. This is a shambles, and it’s going to get worse, I reckon.”
At that moment Marnie’s mobile rang. It was Ralph. Anne watched her while she spoke.
“Where are you? … Roadblocks? … So you’re stuck on the by-pass? … Don’t worry, there’s nothing you – or anybody – can do here … No, we’re okay, for now at any rate … No, no-one’s been seriously hurt … I wouldn’t put money on it, Ralph. Things aren’t looking good … The fete? It’s more like a battleground … How do you know? … On the radio? Well, it’s true.”
A sudden noise made her snap round. “What on earth? What the devil’s going on?” Even Ralph heard it. “I’m not sure. Look, Ralph, I think I’d better hang up … Sure, yes I promise I’ll keep you posted.”
Anne was at her side. “Was that what I think it was?”
“What else could it be?” said Dorothy.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. I’ve lived in the country all my life. I know a gunshot when I hear it.”
Slowly, Estelle looked up.
*
The operator jerked the camera and swore under her breath. The shot had taken her by surprise. She had seen what looked like a banner being unfurled, but an odd shape had aroused her suspicions. Then she had lost it in the crowd. Could it have been a rifle of some kind?
The surging of the demonstrators made it hard to relocate that particular group through the viewfinder, and she was sweeping their ranks when the shot rang out. A moment’s silence from the rioters, while the noise echoed off the buildings. Shouts from the police. A snarl from New Force. A cheer from the other side.
The operator felt a tap on her leg. Her assistant was pointing. And there it was. As quickly as she could without wobbling, she homed in on the weapon. A man was waving it in the air. A double-barrelled shotgun. Even as she sharpened the focus, the gun disappeared into the crowd
*
“Christ!” Bartlett raced to the information desk and jumped up. He knew he had seen something, but it had vanished in an instant. He shielded his eyes from the sun and peered into the anti-Nazi crowd but banners were waving defiantly in the smoke, obscuring his view.
Marriner ran towards him. “Sir! For God’s sake!”
“Did you spot it, Ted?” Bartlett shouted.
“Somewhere in the middle. Sir, please, for Chrissake get down from there!”
Bartlett jumped from the table but not for his own safety. He was hitting buttons on the phone before his feet touched the ground, demanding the Chief Constable again.
What happened next was as horrifying as it was sudden. New Force retaliated. One of their bombers hurled a missile high into the air. It mesmerised the onlookers as it sped skywards, but not everyone was taken by surprise. It was still on its upward trajectory when the second shot was fired. Whoever had the gun was an experienced marksman. The petrol-filled bottle shattered like a clay pigeon at a snap-shoot. Glass flew in all directions. A fireball erupted sending blazing fuel back and down into the packed ranks below it.
The incident lasted only a few seconds, but in that moment the tide turned. New Force had lost the initiative. They had taken the main impact of the blast. Looking up to cheer their missile on its way, many of them had been hit in the face and eyes by pieces of the disintegrated bottle. Others were caught in the spray of ignited petrol. Everywhere on their side was panic, yelling and screaming.
A roar went up from their enemies. The banners of the anti-Nazis were raised on high as they surged forward against the police line. A new chant filled the air.
“Lu-ther! Lu-ther! Lu-ther!”
New Force were trying to fall back but there were too many of them in the confined space. The police were faltering in their battle to hold off the advance. The noise from the anti-Nazis was swelling.
“Lu-ther! Lu-ther! Lu-ther!”
The TV crew had hit the ground when the missile exploded. The operator, knocked off balance, had fallen from her position, but she scrambled back to her feet and seized the camera, widening the angle over the battlefield. The opposing forces were restricted in the confined space in front of the school and its grounds. There was nowhere to run. It would be a fight to the end.
“Lu-ther!” The chant went on. “Lu-ther!” Ever louder. “Lu-ther!”
At the school entrance the fete organisers had frozen, powerless to influence the disaster that was unfolding before their eyes. Marnie was wracking her brain for an idea, any step they could take to halt the impending carnage. Anne moved beside Marnie who put an arm round her. Greg was staring, his mouth open. Recovering his presence of mind, he signalled to the scouts to withdraw into the school. Even Dorothy looked resigned to the inevitability of the outcome.
“Lu-ther!” The anti-Nazis were surging forward again. “Lu-ther! Lu-ther!”
Serena moved quickly, grabbing Bartlett’s arm.
“I could speak to them.” Her voice was urgent but trembling “… get our side to hold back, if your officers could push against that lot.”
Bartlett shook his head. “No-one’s going to listen. All we can do is hold on and hope for reinforcements.”
“But I could plead with them to back off while there’s still time.”
“Listen to them! They wouldn’t even hear you.”
“I can use the microphone,” she yelled.
“You’d be wasting your time.”
Serena put her hands to her face. “I can’t bear this. People are going to get killed out there, and we’re just standing by doing nothing.”
“Listen to me, woman!” Bartlett shouted in her face and spoke through clenched teeth. “I am trying to get back-up here. That is not doing nothing. We can’t work miracles, but we are professionals. Leave things to us and don’t interfere.”
Serena stagger
ed back as if he had struck her. Marnie removed her arm from Anne and went to Serena, taking her by the shoulders. Serena collapsed sobbing into her arms.
Another push from the crowd. “Lu-ther! Lu-ther! Lu-ther!”
There were no more fire bombs from New Force, the risk being too great, but bricks and stones had begun flying again, albeit haphazardly. Without the mass of New Force to bolster them from behind, the police were buckling under the pressure.
“It’s just a matter of time now.” Dorothy spoke as if from far off.
“This is a nightmare,” said Marnie. “We’re helpless.”
She looked over her shoulder, still cradling Serena, to check that Anne was safe. For her part, Anne was worrying about the effect of the battle on Estelle. She was turning to go to her when Estelle picked herself up from the ground. Her languor had gone. For the first time since her return she looked as if she knew where she was and what she was doing. She took a step forward, stopped and saw Anne staring at her. Their eyes met. A grim smile crossed Estelle’s face. Anne was suddenly desolate, knowing what was to come.
Estelle began walking rapidly towards the battle. With an expression of bewilderment, Marnie released Serena and moved to intercept her.
“Estelle!” She tried to take her arm, but Estelle twisted away. “What are you doing?”
Estelle raised a hand as if to ward Marnie off. “Don’t try and stop me.”
“You don’t realise what’s happening. It’s dangerous here. Come on, let me take you into the school. It’s safer there.”
“Nowhere’s safe for me, Marnie. Not any more.”
Marnie had the firm impression that Estelle had become deranged. “I don’t understand you.”
Estelle turned her head. “Anne will explain. She knows.”
