Revenger

26

A much older man was leading the rioters coming towards the gate. The hood of his duffle coat was down, enabling Carver to see his painfully thin, sunken face, topped by a few unbrushed tufts of grey hair, the eyes hidden behind rain-spattered, metal-framed glasses. Physically, he was less imposing than any of the people around him, and yet he was unquestionably their leader. ‘Hey, you!’ he shouted out, looking at Carver and the others. ‘What happened in the pub?’

‘Fuckin’ ’ell,’ Schultz hissed. ‘He thinks we’re on his side.’

‘Better not disappoint him.’

‘No worries.’ Schultz raised his voice and called out: ‘Just moppin’ up the bastards now.’

To Carver’s surprise the older man seemed bothered by the news. ‘That wasn’t meant to happen,’ he snapped crossly. He turned his head towards one of the other rioters next to him, a Rasta with his locks piled up inside a knitted tam cap. ‘Open the gates.’

The Rasta stepped forward. He was carrying a heavy-duty, 760mm bolt-cutter. It snapped through the chain like scissors through ribbon. Bakunin called out. ‘We need that rubbish bin. Bring it here. Now!’

‘Posh fucker, isn’t he?’ Schultz said to Carver as they started pushing again.

‘Maybe, but he’s getting us out of here.’

Schultz turned his head towards the barmaid. ‘Oi, Chrystal, give us a hand!’

As she joined them, Schultz told her, ‘Don’t say nothing, yeah? Just do whatever we do and we’ll get you out of here. All right?’

She nodded, her expression wide-eyed and fearful.

As they pushed the bin out into the side street, the grey-haired man directed them to turn right. A barricade was being erected about twenty metres away, blocking off the road and preventing any access to Netherton Street. The bin was taken from them and shoved between an overturned Transit van and the side of a parked BMW 5 Series. Carver saw Schultz wincing as the bin scraped along the BMW’s glossy flanks, leaving a trail of dents and scratches in its wake until it was finally jammed solid. More rioters followed, bringing the second bin and a trolley piled with beer kegs.

The massive shadowy figure of a man was perched halfway up the barricade. His back was turned, but something about him sent an apprehensive chill through Carver. A woman who’d been walking beside the trolley called out, ‘Curtis!’ The man stopped what he was doing, turned around and looked at her. ‘What do you want us to do with these?’ she asked.

Carver took in the leather jacket, beanie hat and rugby-player’s face. Curtis was the big man he’d encountered less than half an hour earlier in the abandoned council estate. He hadn’t spotted Carver yet. He was too busy dealing with the woman’s question. He walked over to the trolley, picked up an eleven-gallon keg as easily as if it were a pint of milk and threw it on to the barricade.

Now he spotted Carver, walked right up close and growled, ‘Thought I told you not to come here.’

Carver said nothing.

Curtis looked at him and very quietly said, ‘And now I’m telling you to get the fuck out. All right?’

Carver nodded and started walking away.

‘What was all that about?’ Schultz asked as they headed back up the road.

‘He thought he knew me. Right… Time to get back up to Netherton Street. We need to be out of here before this place really kicks off.’

‘Bit late for that,’ said Chrystal, pointedly.

‘So we need to get out even faster, then, don’t we?’