Ten Days (13 page)

They had blocked the road further up so that there was no longer any traffic. A good thing too. The pavement and street were crammed with people either escaping the trouble to the north, heading straight for it, or just loitering about swapping the stories they'd heard. ‘They ran over a baby in a buggy' was one and ‘they beat up a teenage girl because she was slow to move' another. Despite these apocryphal tales, the people in this part of the High Street seemed pretty relaxed. A troupe of drummers had settled at the pavement's edge and were beating out a rhythm. Another group had laid blankets on the pavement and were sharing a picnic as a familiar figure who bore the nickname Alf-the-Armageddonist scattered his handwritten leaflets warning of the imminent end of world.

No sign of Jayden. As Cathy pushed northwards, she kept bumping into people she knew, some of whom she hadn't seen for quite a while. All around her, other members of the crowd were exchanging greetings and catching up with each other. So much cheerful normality, it was like being at a carnival except without the usual police presence because the police were concentrated further down the road.

First off there was a queue of stationary fire engines and ambulances, waiting for she knew not what. Beyond them were the dark forms of police lines pushing against a barrier she couldn't yet see except when something flared on its way down. Flaming bottles filled with petrol: were they, she wondered, the source of the smell that was stronger as she moved closer to the trouble?

‘Lyndall's not still out in this, is she?' Reverend Pius, who was pushing a young woman in a wheelchair, came up to Cathy.

‘No, she's at home,' Cathy said. ‘Did you get Ruben's parents back safely?'

‘Yes. Poor things. They were terribly distressed at the way their vigil has been hijacked. None of this,' he pointed back towards the police station, ‘is what they would have wanted. What any of us would have wanted. I don't know what the police were thinking of, not containing what was a peaceful demonstration. And because they didn't, we've now got anarchy. They're breaking into shops further up. I even saw some of them in a McDonald's cooking chips. Can you believe it? I mean, if you're going to loot, loot; don't stop and make yourself something to eat.' He said this with a smile, which was almost immediately wiped off. ‘Seriously, though, this is the last thing we need. Marcus is out there trying to talk sense into them, but you know what an optimist Marcus is. It's already gone too far for sense, and it hasn't even peaked. I'd go home if I were you.'

‘I'm looking for Jayden. Have you seen him?'

‘At the demonstration, yes. Not since.' Pius sighed. ‘I hope you find him soon. He should be indoors. We all should. I'm only out because Marsha here,' he glanced down at the woman he was pushing, ‘has run out of some of her medication. I said I'd escort her to the all-night pharmacy. Otherwise I would come with you.'

‘It's fine.' Cathy smiled. ‘I'm fine,' and smiled again, although the truth was she really did not feel fine.

Jayden was not in the section of the High Street that was still peaceful. He could be somewhere in the area ahead where the trouble was. The smell of burning was even stronger. She thought about turning back, but the prospect of Lyndall's reaction if she failed to even venture into the territory where Jayden might be trapped drove her forward.

She threaded her way past the fire engines and ambulances, whose crews were standing by their vehicles and staring into the place where she was headed.

‘You sure you want to go there, love?'

No. She wasn't sure. But she had to.

Soon she was close enough to see that in front of the ordinary bobbies was a line of riot police. They were like medieval warriors in their black body armour, blue steel helmets and transparent visors, and their high transparent shields.

The crowd was thicker now. On the sidelines: sightseers. In the road: a gang of youths. There were, by her estimation, about thirty of them and they were working, wordlessly, as one. First, they picked up objects – stones, and what looked like pieces of paving, and bottles that were piled up by the roadside. Then they formed a ragged line before running, again as one and full pelt, at the police, throwing their missiles and still running, stopping just short of touching distance of the police. Then they stood, closer than they had been before, jeering.

It was a ritualised encounter in which the police also played their part. Their first move was to make a protective wall of shields. After the missiles had landed, they banged these shields on the ground in a stunning cacophony of restrained aggression. Then, at a word from one of their number, they lifted their shields and marched forward in straight lines, driving the young men back.

The men armed themselves again, ready for the next onslaught. The police stepped back to their original position.

An eerie sight, almost hypnotic. She was tempted to keep watching. But Jayden would never have joined these hooded and handkerchiefed youths. She must get on.

There was no way of passing in front of the police station without risking injury. She turned down a side road that led around the back.

How strange. The road she had slipped into curved away from the High Street before doubling back to meet it further on. Because of this it should have been a shortcut to further trouble, but instead it was quiet. She passed a group of riot police guarding the back of the station. Beyond this line, and inside the gates, was a crowd of more policemen in ordinary uniforms. Caged, she guessed, and forbidden to go out. They watched in silence as she walked by.

Soon she was beyond the police station and in a road devoid of rioters or police. Or anybody else for that matter. As if a bomb had landed, she thought.

There must have been people here once, because they'd dug up and removed the paving stones. Since there was no traffic, she walked down the middle of the road. It was strangely quiet, so much so that she could hear the padding of her own footsteps. Could the battle she'd just witnessed have come to an abrupt end?

Wishful thinking. As she walked on, sounds began to intrude. There was the loud buzzing of a helicopter passing overhead. Then voices, jagged in the night. She rounded the curve of the road, knowing that she would soon be back on the High Street. The shouting had increased in volume, but now there was a different sound, like the tearing of something metallic. Were they pulling down the railings, she wondered.

If that was what they were doing, it was going to get very bad indeed. As an inner voice instructed her to turn round, go back, her feet kept on, taking her closer to the crossroads.

She had forgotten that this corner of the High Street had a wider pavement on which was sited a set of high, bright-green metallic lockers bearing the legend: ‘You order at home, we deliver here'. It was new to the area.

It no longer looked new. A group of young men had seen to that by using crowbars to wrench open the lockers and pull out the contents. She made to cross the road to avoid them, but before she could one of the men must have sensed that she was there. He turned abruptly, crowbar raised. He had a blue spotted bandana tied around the back of his head in such a way that it covered the whole area of his face below eyes that glared at her.

Is this how it was going to end? Downed by someone not much older than her daughter? She should run.

If she ran, he would catch her. She stood her ground.

His hand dropped. He reached into the drawer he had just opened and pulled something out. He thrust it her way. ‘Fancy this?'

She looked down at a square parcel made of cardboard. A book, she guessed. She shook her head: no.

He shrugged and let the parcel drop before applying himself to opening the next.

‘You know they've got CCTV on that building over there,' she said. ‘And it's pointed at you.'

He indicated his bandana. ‘We'll hit the camera next. Bastards, watching us like we're animals in the zoo. They deserve everything we're gonna give them.'

She was on the brink of telling him that what he was doing was going to harm his community not the police, but Pius was right: this had all gone too far for reason. She turned away.

In that moment, everything changed. A man came running from the north. Abreast of them, he yelled, ‘They've torched the fabric shop. The building's going to go up and there's people still in the flats.'

When Lyndall was younger, Cathy used to play a game which they had called ‘Would you?' A repetitive game. Mother to daughter: ‘Would you eat green vegetables if you were starving?' Or: ‘Would you take a spider out of the bath if no one else was around?' Daughter to mother: ‘Would you stop trying to make me eat cabbage if I was allergic to it?' Or: ‘Would you run into a burning building to save me?' Answers in order: ‘No', ‘No,' ‘But you aren't,' and ‘Yes, of course, darling, I would do anything to save you.' And now, as she ran down the road with the men who had been attacking the storage lockers, Cathy was contemplating going into a burning building to save not her daughter but some strangers who might not even be in there.

Not that the building was yet burning. The shop beside and below it was: smoke poured through the front where the glass was already smashed. Above and to the side of the shop front was a set of flats. A side door would have given them access, but it was closed and locked.

A man was already trying to kick it down. He kicked. It shuddered but did not break. He kicked again. Another man was jabbing at the intercom even though a wire trailing down from its base suggested that none of the doorbells had worked for some time.

‘Move.' Two of Cathy's companions yanked the men from the doorway before going to work on it. They hit at the gap between door and doorjamb, opening up spaces top and bottom. As the helicopter hovered, drowning out all other sound, the men inserted their crowbars into the spaces they had created. That done, they beckoned two of their fellows forward and together all four pushed against the lever of the crowbars. The door did not budge. More gesticulation and the four dropped their crowbars, moved away from the door, held hands and ran at it, and kicked. They did this three times until at last the door caved in.

They went into the building, Cathy following. There was smoke visibly leaking through the edges of a blocked-up door that must once have led into the shop. Someone was taking charge, pointing each of them to different floors. Cathy was allocated the first floor along with the man who had tried to present her with the book. As she made for the stairs, he took the bandanna off his face and tied it around hers.

‘What about you?' She was shouting over the noise of the helicopter.

‘I'm cool,' came his reply. ‘Come on now, lady, let's roll.'

There were two flats on the first floor. Cathy banged on the door nearest to the stairs. No answer. The man pushed her out of the way and kicked the door. Either he was a pro or else the door was not as robust as the one downstairs, because it crashed open. In they went, running from room to room. The place looked like it had been hurriedly abandoned with half-filled cups and unwashed plates littering a kitchen counter. Great: whoever had been here had gone.

The smoke was thicker now and darker than it had been. Her eyes were smarting and her throat felt as if somebody was sticking it with pins. She ran to the second flat and banged on that door. Waited. And banged again.

‘They're gone.' With every breath, more smoke was clogging her lungs. ‘Let's get out of here.'

He shook his head, pushed her out of the way and launched himself, shoulder-first, at the door. Which fell. He was there and then he was gone, running into the flat. The smoke was now so thick it was as if it had swallowed him. She called out as she came to what must be the living room. He was next to her and she hadn't seen him. ‘Go to the left,' he shouted in her ear, pushing her in that direction, ‘I'll go right.'

She went left and found herself in a small room. It wasn't yet as badly affected as the rest of the flat, so she was able to see, through the smoke that was drifting in, the outline of a single bed and a chest of drawers – the only furniture there. She heard him calling, ‘Nobody here.'

They'd done their best. They could leave. They had to before the fire felled them.

She was on her way out when a movement at the peripheral edge of her vision brought her to a halt. She turned.

In the short space of time that she'd been in the room, it had got worse. A blanket of grey fog was beginning to obscure her vision; she must have mistaken it for movement. Nobody there.

A cough.

Someone. But where?

Under the bed?

‘Help! Here!' Her shouting made her cough. She doubled over, calling, ‘Here!' as loudly as she could.

He was already in the room. She felt him pass her by. He must be going to the bed. She heard a creaking of metal. ‘Give me a hand.'

She stumbled over to his side. Crouched. Two figures under the tilted bed. She could just make out their shapes: a woman and a small child who were cowering against the wall.

She stretched out a hand.

The woman pulled her child closer and inched away.

The bandanna. It must be scaring her. Cathy ripped it off. ‘Fire,' she gasped. ‘Come.'

This time when Cathy reached for the child, the woman handed her over before scrambling out herself.

‘We've got to get out of here.' Grabbing the child, the man made for the door.

Cathy was about to follow him when the woman said something she didn't understand.

‘We've got to go,' Cathy said.

The woman turned away.

‘We have to.'

The woman darted off and across the room to the chest of drawers. She snatched a gilt-framed photograph and a pack of baby's nappies that had been on top.

‘Come on.' Smoke so black and thick it felt as if they might have to carve a passage through it.