Revenger

24

Random was well pleased with the scenes he was getting on his head cam. It was more like a party than anything. Everyone was loaded. They went charging into shops and takeaways shouting at the top of their voices, waving knives and crowbars above their heads, some of them pulling faces for the camera. They’d grab whatever they wanted and scare the shit out of everyone in the place. Nothing heavy — just aim a kick or a punch at people as they ran away, maybe cop a feel of the girls’ arses and tits. A few of the lads had guns, but they were just firing them in the air, mostly, blowing holes in ceilings and smashing plate-glass windows. It was all a big laugh, really. Even when they were setting places on fire it seemed like a bit of a lark.

Then they got to this curry house called the Khyber Star. In they went, kicking over tables, sending plates of chicken tikka and pints of beer flying. There were only half a dozen punters in here, and they were bricking it. The women were screaming. The men were dragging them to the door, trying to make them shut up. One of the men slipped on the curry sauce lying on the floor, fell over and got a good kicking before he managed to crawl away. All the waiters had gone behind the bar, trying to get out of the way. But then Random saw one of them, this skinny little Bangladeshi geezer, reach down below the bar and pull something out. It took Random a second to work out what it was because it was the last thing he expected to see. A sawn-off shotgun — what the fuck was that all about?

The Bangladeshi didn’t even know how to use the gun. He just waved it in the general direction of the mob piling into his restaurant, pulled the trigger, and was almost knocked off his feet by the unexpected power of the recoil. The deafening noise of the gun going off was still echoing round the cramped dining-room as a shriek cut through the ringing in everyone’s ears. Random turned his head and saw one of the rioters, a teenage girl, screaming incoherently and pointing to something on the floor. He pushed through the crowd, knocking tables and chairs out of the way to get a better view, and then wished he hadn’t because the thing the girl was pointing at was the mashed-up bloody remains of a lad’s face. The full force of the blast had hit him and blown his eyes, his nose, his mouth — every single recognizable feature — to pulp. They just weren’t there any more.

And suddenly it was like a switch had been flicked. All the positive, high-spirited energy turned nasty in the blink of an eye. Forget the orders to keep violence to a minimum. The people wanted revenge. They wanted blood.

The crowd surged towards the bar. The Bangladeshi threw the gun away, as if he was trying to pretend it had nothing to do with him. But it was too late. People were grabbing the Khyber Star staff and hacking at them with their knives, butchering them where they stood. A couple of the cooks made a run for it. They got to the door and were a few paces out on to the street by the time they were caught and chopped to pieces.

People who’d not been in the Khyber Star saw that, and somehow it infected them with the same bloodlust. Some of them started running towards the pub, the Dutchman’s Head, and there was a new air of menace about their charge. The old man they’d picked up in the truck, Bakunin, was trying to stop them but they were ignoring him. Another, smaller posse was heading in another direction, towards a small car that had crashed broadsides into one of the garbage trucks. A woman was trying to get out of the car.

Random decided to follow the lads who were making for the car. He had the feeling he’d get some more great pictures there.