Backlash

by Nick Oldham

  ‘No, I have a plan.’ Henry tapped his nose. ‘Not a very cunning one, but a plan nonetheless.’

  A section van, one armoured personnel carrier and two patrol cars were already at the RV point when Henry arrived with Byrne. The occupants were putting on their riot overalls.

  Throughout the journey Henry had been glued to Roscoe’s commentary of events unfolding in and around Khan’s shop. The confidence in her voice began to waver as the situation grew worse. Fear crept into her words. Henry did not blame her for being afraid. In the same circumstances he would have been terrified.

  Roscoe, the badly injured and now unconscious Seymour, and the Khan family were effectively pinned down in the shop and its living accommodation. To flee was not an option. The whole building was surrounded and leaving would have meant running straight into the mouth of the lion. To stay put and wait for help was only marginally the lesser of two evils. So far they had been lucky. The petrol bombs hadn’t taken hold of the building properly, the sprinkler system in the shop was now working after a false start, but it was only a matter of time before fire beat water. She needed help – fast.

  It was tempting for Henry and his troops to wade in, but he knew this could be a bad idea, making a crap situation worse because of lack of thought.

  He was out of the car before the wheels stopped turning, gesturing for the officers – eight of them, including Constable Taylor, whom he had seen writing reports earlier – to gather quickly round him. They were eager to do something. Crack some heads. Save some lives.

  The force helicopter, two minutes after he had asked for it, radioed to say it was en route from its base in nearby Warton. Henry gave them instructions, then concentrated on what he was going to say to Scale D for Death.

  ‘You all know the situation: two of our colleagues are trapped by a mob in Mo Khan’s shop. The Khan family are trapped in there too. It sounds like a very organised, big, nasty, orchestrated situation. That is why we’re not just going to plough in without a plan and get the shite kicked out of us. We need to work as a unit: go in, effect a rescue, then get the hell out and take as little flak as possible. Nothing fancy. No confrontations. These people are dangerous and there’s a good chance they’ll be expecting us – so we need to be wary.’ Henry drew breath.

  Over the radio Jane Roscoe announced the arrival of yet another petrol bomb in the shop.

  ‘Better get a move on, boss,’ one of the PCs said agitatedly.

  Henry nodded. ‘You’re not wrong. Now listen up – this is how it’s going to be. I don’t want any deviations, don’t want any heroes. Now, what equipment do we have?’

  The armoured personnel carrier crept onto the estate. Henry’s guts tightened. His mouth went dry and popped open. ‘Fuck,’ he whispered to no one but himself. Every street light had now been smashed. Apart from house lights, the place was shrouded in absolute darkness. Most houses had their curtains drawn but in some windows, Henry could see terrified faces.

  Anarchy had taken over the streets. It was his job to restore law and order.

  The only time Henry had known anything remotely similar had been during the miners’ strike of 1984. He had vivid memories of driving through mining villages at the dead of night, always in fear of being attacked.

  He glanced at Byrne, driving the carrier; then over his shoulder at the eight constables, all in their public-order gear: helmets on, visors down, all grim-faced and serious. No banter. At the rear of the van, the six-foot-high riot shields were stacked up like dominoes, ready for rapid deployment. In the footwell in front of him, Henry had a short shield ready.

  Henry, too, was now in his public-order gear, having hopped and pulled himself into it after briefing his officers.

  The heavy overalls were making him sweat. The flame-retardant material was as thick as cardboard and the garment, pulled on over his normal uniform, was not designed for comfort. Beads of sweat trundled one after the other down his forehead and dripped into his eyes, making him blink.

  ‘You’ll need to keep your wits about you,’ Henry shouted back to the officers. ‘It’ll be loud and disorientating – so be ready and keep your cool.’

  He was about to say more as Byrne turned a corner to find the road immediately ahead of them blocked by two cars which had been rolled onto their sides. Behind the cars was a bunch of youths, all wearing ski-masks or balaclavas. Henry quickly estimated there were a dozen of them. All youngsters, some as young as ten years old.

  ‘Back out of here now,’ he said quickly to Byrne, who was already ahead of him – but could not seem to be able to ram the gear lever into reverse.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ said the sergeant, with each word trying to hit the gear.

  ‘Come on,’ Henry encouraged him. Then he shouted: ‘Missiles!’

  A wave of lighted petrol bombs flashed over from the line of youths and smashed on and around the carrier.

  Henry ducked instinctively when one of the milk bottles burst against the metal grille pulled down over the windscreen petrol erupted in flames. The intense heat was immediate and breathtaking.

  ‘Get us out of here!’ Henry growled to Byrne.

  The sergeant’s face was grim as he tried repeatedly to get reverse.

  ‘Try using the clutch,’ one of the PCs in the back quipped. This brought nervous laughter.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ Byrne said. With an ear-crunching grating of metal on metal, the syncromesh yielded and the gear went in.

  A cheer went up from the rear.

  Using only his side mirrors as a guide, Byrne gunned the carrier backwards, unconcerned that anyone could be behind. If they were, it was tough. They wouldn’t be innocent bystanders. The big bus slewed from side to side as a hail of stones, bricks, bottles and lumps of wood and metal followed the petrol bombs, clattering on the bonnet and roof like debris from a twister. Inside the carrier, the sound reverberated, amplified a hundred times.

  Shouts of fear and excitement came from the officers. Henry remained silent, gripping the dashboard to steady himself.

  Byrne reversed expertly around the corner, out of the line of fire, trying desperately to keep control of the vehicle which pitched and swayed alarmingly at speed in reverse. The lighted petrol on the windscreen burned out quickly.

  Byrne whipped the steering wheel down and executed a one-eighty-degree turn, completely about-facing the carrier, crashing up onto the kerb as he did so, miraculously keeping the engine going, revving it to screaming point. He accelerated away from the ambush site. In his rear-view mirror he saw the small gang of rioters spill out, throwing anything they could get their grubby hands on at the retreating police van.

  ‘Well done,’ Henry said. He asked everyone if they were all right. No one said they weren’t. ‘Right – fuck this for a game of soldiers. I think we’ve pissed about long enough,’ he said so everyone could hear. ‘We need to get to that shop now, otherwise it’ll be too late – everyone agree?’

  The response was emphatic – if muted by the visors in front of everybody’s faces. Yes, they agreed.

  ‘OK, Dermot – swing this beast round and let’s cut through Osmond Avenue. No caution this time. Blue lights just as we get there, sirens too.’

  ‘Right,’ Byrne said through his tightly clenched jaw.

  Henry put his radio near his mouth. ‘Oscar November 21 receiving? Inspector to Oscar November 21, are you in position?’

  It would have to be done very quickly. No messing. No delays. Because if it went wrong there would be hell to pay, maybe lives lost.

  Henry deleted all negative thoughts from his mind. This was going to work. He would make damned sure it would.

  The carrier veered into sight of Khan’s shop.

  Henry took in the crowd surrounding the place. There seemed to be hundreds there at first glance – maybe not at second, but still a lot. A car burned brightly outside the shop. It was the CID car.

  ‘Oscar November 21 – go now,’ Henry said, his voice cool and controlled
reflecting his inner self. He had moved on from fear and from excitement. He was tense, of that there was no doubt, the adrenaline was rushing into his system like fuel injection into a sports car – just the right amount for perfect performance. But what he felt now was cold controlled anger.

  ‘Oscar November 21 – we’re there now,’ came the response from the force helicopter.

  Henry received the message. He flicked the switch for the blue lights and the two-tones.

  Above them, from out of the black night sky, like some massive avenging insect, the helicopter swooped down, deceptively low and ear-shatteringly loud. It did an impressive fly past just feet above the heads of the rioters, spiralled spectacularly through a tight circle and came back to hover over Khan’s shop. The powerful night-sun searchlight slung underneath the helicopter came on, swathing the scene below with incredible brightness.

  ‘Foot down,’ Henry commanded Byrne. The carrier hurtled towards the backs of the rioters, horns blaring and Henry shouting through the public-address system, volume turned up high, deliberately distorted, adding to the clatter of the helicopter. ‘Clear the streets,’ he hollered. ‘This is the police. You are requested to clear the streets. Anyone remaining will be arrested. I repeat, if you do not disperse, you will be arrested.’

  He was going for the psychological upper hand which he knew, if successful, would only be short lived. He was hoping this assault on the senses of the rioters would give him the window of opportunity he needed to achieve his goal.

  It worked.

  Overawed and disorientated by the helicopter above, threatened by the reckless approach of the personnel carrier at ground level, the rioters ran like rats down a sewer. They scrambled away from the lights, shocked and surprised, maybe frightened, by the approach. Suddenly there was a way through for the carrier to the shop front. Byrne, gripping the steering wheel tightly, concentrating hard, powered the heavy machine through the clearing. He mounted the pavement with a back-jarring, head-thumping thud, and skidded to a halt at an angle across the shop entrance.

  ‘Out now,’ Henry roared. ‘Move it, move it.’ He slammed down his visor.

  The side door of the van sprang open. The first officer leapt out. He was handed one of the riot shields which he hooked onto his left forearm. He ran to the back of the van and took up his position. He was immediately joined by three more of his colleagues who slammed their shields down – smack-smack-smack – next to his, all edge to edge. The idea was to provide some protection to the officers who had been detailed to enter the shop.

  Henry was using his short shield which was designed to give more manoeuvrability in his supervisory role. He ensured the long-shield party were deployed to best advantage – shouting muffled orders at them through his visor and checking to ensure they all understood their role. Making himself heard was extremely difficult with the helicopter directly above. He knew this was one of the drawbacks to his plan. When satisfied, he turned to the four others left in the van and beckoned them to follow him into the shop.

  Inside was a blackened, smoky mess, but no flames were burning seriously. Thick smoke clung to the ceiling like a thunder cloud and all the officers had to keep their heads low in order to see anything. Even then it was difficult because all the lighting in the shop had blown. Two of the officers were equipped with dragon lights – big, powerful torches. The beams criss-crossed each other like Second World War searchlights in the night sky.

  ‘Jane? Where are you? It’s me, Henry.’

  ‘Here – over here,’ she called out.

  Henry moved towards the origin of the sound and with his merry band of four ran down the aisle to her. They found her kneeling with Dave Seymour’s head resting in her lap, her hands gently holding him. The dragon lights shone briefly into her face, making her squint.

  Henry dropped onto one knee beside Seymour. He pushed his visor up. Seymour did not look good.

  ‘He needs a hospital – now,’ Roscoe said urgently.

  ‘There’s an ambulance waiting on the edge of the estate,’ Henry told her. His eyes surveyed her face. It was smoke-blackened. ‘But we’ve got to get him there first. Are you OK?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘Smoke damaged, otherwise saleable.’ She managed a grin.

  He nodded. ‘Right,’ he addressed his troops, ‘you two without torches help me lift Dave into the carrier. Jane – you’ll have to give us a hand too,’ he said apologetically. ‘He’s not exactly a featherweight.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Once he’s in the carrier we’re going to have to get the Khans out to safety as well.’ Henry’s voice was bleak. ‘And we’re gonna have to move like shit off a shovel – ’cos they’ll be back for more very soon and we’re a nice new target.’ Henry laid his shield down and wondered which bit of Dave Seymour he was going to have to lift.

  Following behind the two torch-bearing cops, Henry, Roscoe and the other two lifted and half-dragged Seymour through the shop. The process wasn’t doing him much good, but under the circumstances it was the best they could do. He was immensely heavy: twenty stones if he was a pound, Henry guessed, twenty stones of virtually, but not quite, dead weight.

  At the shop door they eased him down and paused to take a breath.

  Henry checked outside. Byrne was still at the wheel of the carrier. He gave Henry a thumbs-up. The four shields were still in position, the helicopter hovering nearby. It seemed to be flushing out some miscreants hiding behind some wheelie-bins. A tinge of annoyance pricked Henry. He had previously told the crew that he wanted them to stay right over the shop, not go away doing their own thing. Still, he shrugged mentally, no harm done and there was no time to remonstrate. With a ‘One, two, three – lift’, they heaved Seymour fairly smoothly from the shop and deposited him in the back of the carrier, laying him out between the seats. His breathing was laboured.

  ‘Hold on there, pal,’ Henry told him before jumping out of the van and leading his officers back into the shop to liberate the Khan family from their burnt-out shop and home.

  This went smoothly and without argument until only Rafiq was left. He stopped at the shop doorway. ‘I need to lock up,’ he insisted. He turned to Henry. ‘And I expect you to keep it protected.’

  Henry did not respond but could not keep an expression of annoyance off his face and he and Rafiq locked eyes for a few tense moments as they had often done at past encounters.

  Rafiq turned to the door and inserted the key.

  ‘Boss!’ one of the PCs shouted at Henry from the shield line. ‘They’re coming out of the woodwork.’

  Henry went up onto his toes and peered over the shields. He could see indistinct shapes moving in the darkness. It was like a camp surrounded by a pack of lions. ‘OK, we’ll be out of this in a minute.’

  Rafiq finished locking the door. He dived into the carrier.

  Henry yelled at the shield party. ‘Back in the van – now!’

  With relief they lifted their shields, peeled back from their line and began to load themselves into the carrier, handing their shields in ahead of themselves until there was just one officer and Henry to climb in. Henry was not going to board until the last man was safe.

  Then – wham! Something fell from above and the last officer went down with a scream as a microwave oven slammed down onto his shoulder.

  ‘Jesus!’ Henry cowered down, raising his short shield over himself and the fallen man. Up on the edge of the roof of the shop he could see figures moving about. While the helicopter had been distracted away from the shop, other rioters had sneaked around the back of the shop and climbed onto the low roof armed with various missiles and got into a position over the front door from where they could bombard the police below.

  Several empty plastic crates were hurled down. Henry fended them off, surprised at how heavy they were. ‘November 21,’ he bellowed into his radio, ‘get back over the shop. Get the roof cleared. We’re under attack.’

  He saw a beer barrel being raised. Empty
or not, this was going to hurt – or kill.

  ‘Christ – my fucking shoulder,’ the injured officer moaned.

  Henry braced himself for the impact, his left arm holding the shield above him and the prostrate man. He knew it offered little real protection.

  The helicopter swung back and lit up the whole area, swooping down over the roof. The rioters dropped the barrel over the edge and it bounced harmlessly two feet away from Henry. Moments later he and the injured officer had been grabbed and yanked into the carrier. Byrne gunned the vehicle away before the side door was closed properly.

  Henry got his breath, steadying himself. He eased his helmet off and ran his sleeve over his dirty, sweat-streaked forehead, blowing out his cheeks. He looked round at everyone crammed in there: eight constables who had worked together superbly; the Khan family, no doubt ungrateful but safe; Dave Seymour and Jane Roscoe.

  He wanted to have a little victorious smile, but events ensured he was not allowed to savour the moment.

  ‘I think he’s stopped breathing,’ Roscoe said.

  ‘You do the heart,’ he said to Roscoe and, bravely, ‘I’ll do the lungs.’

  He held out his helmet for someone to take, then stepped over Seymour and squeezed down between some seats so that he was at right angles to the man’s head. He glanced at Roscoe. She was almost directly opposite him, but had skewed her body so that she was in a position to start pumping Seymour’s chest. Both of them were in very tight, restricted positions with little or no room to move.

  Henry felt for a pulse in Seymour’s chubby neck. God, it was hard to tell in the circumstances. His fingers pressed to the side of the windpipe did not detect anything.

  ‘No pulse.’ He shook his head at Roscoe.

  The carrier rolled sideways wildly as Byrne took it round a sharp corner and crunched the gears again. Henry lost his balance and fell forwards, the crown of his head clashing with Roscoe’s cheek.

  ‘Shit!’ he yelled in Byrne’s direction, a sore head now compounding the situation.

  ‘Soreee,’ Byrne apologised.