Revenger

27

They had reached the junction with Netherton Street. The Dutchman’s Head was right beside them. Someone had torn down the pub sign, which was lying on the pavement being stamped on by a rioter in construction boots. A wisp of smoke seemed to be seeping out through one of the upstairs windows. On the ground floor the windows facing the street had been broken and they heard the sound of someone inside, a man, begging for mercy.

The pitiful sound of his pleading caught Carver off-guard and he felt a stabbing pain in his guts at the unwanted memories it brought back: all the times when he had been battered and helpless, down on his knees, or bound and gagged waiting for the end to come.

‘I’m not listening to that,’ said Schultz, pulling his knife out of his belt and stepping towards the broken windows.

Schultz was as impetuous as he was courageous. He never stopped to consider the odds against him when he went into battle. Carver had always been more calculating. He was only willing to risk his neck when he knew what he was up against, had worked out his plan of attack, and possessed the equipment needed to do the job. None of those conditions applied now. He came up behind Schultz, swung his right arm and wrapped it tight around Schultz’s neck, gripping him in a chokehold. ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing we can do.’

Carver could feel the energy coursing through Schultz’s body. He was fired-up, breathing heavily, the knuckles of his right hand white with tension around the handle of his knife. Carver readied himself. Schultz might just be so angry he’d try to fight his way out of the hold. He wouldn’t take kindly to being shown up in front of Chrystal, who was watching the two men anxiously. She’d trusted her safety to these two. The last thing she needed was them starting on each other.

‘Stop it!’ she cried out. ‘Stop fighting!’

For a second or two they stayed locked together, then Carver felt the tension ease a fraction from Schultz’s body and heard a grunt of grudging assent. He let his arm drop from the other man’s neck. They stepped apart. Neither man said a word, but when Carver turned round and walked out into Netherton Street itself Schultz and Chrystal both followed him.

And walked right into a vision of total, unrestrained anarchy.

Fires had broken out everywhere: parked cars were ablaze, and searing orange and yellow flames billowed from the scorched windows of looted shops. The rioters had trapped several cars in Netherton Street, cutting off their attempts at escape. One was slewed across the road. Its driver’s door was open and a man’s body was hanging half out of it, suspended from his safety belt. A group of kids who barely even looked in their teens were clustered around another car. An elderly woman was lying motionless on the ground beside it, but they were ignoring her completely as they squabbled amongst themselves, fighting for the right to get in and drive. Small groups of rioters were running to and fro aimlessly, looking for something to do, some new target to attack.

Carver looked up the street and saw a blue alarm light flashing outside the Lion Market. The shutters were half-down, evidently blocked by some obstruction, though he could not see what it was: the dozen or so people gathered outside, shouting and throwing things, were in the way. One of them made a dart for the shopfront and dived under the shutter. A few seconds later he rolled out again, clutching his head. Blood was streaming through his fingers. Carver thought of the big lad he’d seen putting out the fruit and veg. It looked like he was holding the fort. The other one, behind the counter, had been no one’s idea of a fighter.

He looked around for a means of escape and his spirits fell even further. Both ends of the road were completely blocked by garbage trucks, and both trucks had people by them. It would be next to impossible to sneak past undetected.

A car had skidded to a halt by one of the trucks. Another scrum of people was gathered round it. They’d pulled open the door and were dragging out a woman. She was long-limbed and slender as a gazelle, and about as defenceless, too, as she writhed frantically, trying to wriggle out of her attackers’ grasp and evade the punches they were raining down on her, and making futile attempts to hit or scratch them back. Some of the men around her had hunting knives or machetes in their hands, their blades glinting in the firelight.

This time Schultz didn’t give Carver the chance to stop him. He just started running towards the car.

‘Shit!’ muttered Carver. He looked at his old sergeant. It was one thing being calculating enough to stop him doing something stupid. It was quite another standing by and watching him go to his death. ‘Stay here,’ he said to Chrystal. ‘Do nothing. I’ll be back.’

And then he sprinted after Schultz, his baton in his hand, straight towards the mob and the screaming, desperate woman.